Dalima’s wants were but few. A couple of pence for her lodging, some twenty, or five and twenty cents for her food—that was all she required. Instead of leaving Karang Anjer, she continued to wander about the neighbourhood. She questioned, she inquired, she managed to penetrate everywhere. She could do what van Nerekool, as a European, and in his position as judge, was not able to do. She would, for instance, sit down at every small fruit and coffee stall she found on her way. At one place she would sit down and eat some rice, flavoured with red pepper; at another place again she would purchase some rasped cocoa-nut sweetened with the syrup of goela-areng; at another little stall again she would sip a cup of coffee or eat a bunch of ramboetans. These delicacies she could purchase for a very few cents, sometimes they cost her nothing at all; for the woman who kept the stall would look strangely at her, and when she produced her money would quietly put it back, and say: “Never mind, keep that for your baby, and take another cup of coffee, you are welcome to it.”
But Dalima did not sit down at these stalls to enjoy herself—she did so because it gave her an opportunity of asking questions and making inquiries. But, alas, all her perseverance and all her endeavours were, for a considerable time, fruitless. During the first few days of her wandering, she learned absolutely nothing. She was beginning to despair, and to give up all hope of success. She was, however, soon to have her reward; for on a certain day, as she was slowly walking through the dessa Prembanan, which is situated about three miles to the southwest of Karang Anjer, she obtained some information which seemed to point in the right direction.
A woman told her that, on a certain day, about two months ago, one of the poles of a light litter suddenly snapped, and a fresh pole had to be procured. The bearers put down the litter and, as a bamboo of sufficient length and strength was not very easily found, some considerable delay ensued. During this time of waiting, a nonna had stepped out of the litter, and had taken a seat at the stall, and called for a cup of coffee.
“A nonna, you say?” cried Dalima breathless with excitement: “are you sure of that?”
“Oh, yes, quite sure,” replied the woman. “She was dressed exactly like all Javanese girls, in a very simple sarong and a plain cotton kabaja, and she had sandals on her feet. But those feet had evidently been but little exposed to the sun, they were very small, very white, and not at all flattened out as our feet are. I fancy that not even the princesses at Sălă have fairer and tinier feet; but for that matter she might perhaps have been a princess.”
“Why do you think so?” asked Dalima.
“Well, she spoke Javanese; but entirely with the ă sound so that I had some difficulty in catching what she said.”
“You spoke to her then, ma?”
“Yes, I did,” replied the stall-keeper, “she spoke with something of your accent.”
“But what did she say to you, ma?”