Footsteps Read Online Free PDF Page A

got on are his only Javanese clothes,” someone noticed.
    “Perhaps he’s legally Dutch, a
londo godong
.” Someone else offered his opinion.
    “He owns only European clothes!”
    I pretended not to hear. Now out came my papers and books.
    I put the empty suitcase and bag on top of the wardrobe.
    “Ahai!” came a high-pitched shout.
    I wheeled around. My painting had emerged into public view. And it quickly traveled from hand to hand to the person farthest away.
    “Flower of the Century’s End!”
somebody read from underneath the picture.
    My blood boiled as I saw my painting handled by these people who had not asked my permission. I took the dagger from the wardrobe, drew it out of its sheath, and cried: “Put it back!”
    Everyone went on discussing the painting in the far corner of the room.
    “Or shall I let this fly?”
    “That’s enough, everyone, put it back,” came an order.
    The noise ceased. They all turned to me, and to the dagger in my hand.
    “I’ll count to three,” I threatened. “If the picture isn’t put back I’ll let this fly; I don’t care who it hits.”
    One pupil, short and skinny, came across and put the picture back in its cover. He frowned: “Yes,
Mas
, they always go too far. I myself can hardly take it here anymore.”
    And I knew from that moment that the two of us would be allies. I watched him as I put the dagger away. He straightened up the picture’s cover, flicking off some flecks of dirt. “Let me introduce myself, Mas; my name is Partotenojo. But they call me Partokleooo,” he said in very bad Dutch, with a heavy Javanese accent. “Mas Partotenojo.”
    “They pick on you?” I asked.
    “I can’t stand it, I say.”
    “Where do you sleep?”
    “In the corner over there.”
    “Are there rules about where people must sleep?”
    “No.”
    “Good. You’ll move over here next to me,” I suggested.
    “But this bed is taken.”
    “He’ll have to move. Tell him.”
    Partotenojo, alias Partokleooo, went and fetched the person concerned. He came across, his eyes full of suspicion. “You’re ordering me to change places with Partokleooo?”
    “That’s right.”
    “You want to be the big shot here?”
    “If you and the others want that, yes, I can become the big shot. Any objections? I’ll help you carry across your things. You like picking on Partokleooo too? All that must stop—starting now.”
    All the others gathered round again. He complained to them all. Everyone was discussing my instructions. The European-dressed Indo wasn’t there. Perhaps he was taking care of his gums.
    “Look, it’s not because I want to be the big shot here that I’ve asked you to move—except if you force me. I don’t like people who play around with other people’s rights.”
    They talked things over among themselves. Then, all together, they helped move his and Partokleooo’s things. The lunch bell rang. They all raced off. Only Partokleooo and I were left.
    “It’s true what you said, Mas—they’re only intellectuals if compared to village folk. A bunch of barbarians!” He swore. His Dutch was really bad, with a very thick Javanese accent. His accent was both wrong and exaggerated.
    “You’re not a graduate?”
    “I’m from a teachers’ school, Mas.” He gazed at me, seemingly longing for protection. “Come on, let’s eat.” Seeing I wasn’t ready yet, he asked, “Where did you get that painting, Mas?”
    “I got someone to paint it.”
    “It’s a beautiful painting. Did you ever meet her?”
    “Yes.”
    “Did you know her?”
    “I knew her well.”
    I didn’t understand why he seemed so moved. His eyes seemed to be fixed on some spot far away. His lips trembled almost imperceptibly; then the words came out, slow and broken: “I followed the reports about her. I didn’t see all the reports, but enough. It was a terrible story.”
    “Yes.”
    “You haven’t told me your name yet, Mas.”
    “My name is Minke. Let’s eat now.”
    He looked