CHAPTER IV
The Assistant and the Nautilus
The whitewashed buildings of the government headquarters reflect the sunlight with an intolerable glare as we swing up the path from the road. At the door of the assistant’s office we are greeted by an obsequious Ambonese in regulation white. His trousers are very short, though whether by design or because of repeated shrinkings, I am not prepared to say. On his head he wears a batik turban one corner of which seems to flirt with us in feminine coquettishness as he bows and scrapes. The “Residentee” is awaiting our pleasure, he informs us. From the cool semi-darkness of the office comes a voice in soft Malay telling the man to show the Tuans in, and forthwith we enter. After the terrific glare of out-of-doors we grope momentarily, but our eyes soon accommodate themselves to the grateful dimness and we see before us a little brown-skinned man of some forty years, with bristling mustachios, extending a friendly hand.
He is filled with the importance of the occasion. Are we well? Do we like Merauke? Are we sufficiently comfortable in the passangrahan? Have we recovered from the ennui of our long voyage? He showers us with solicitation as to our welfare and immediately we feel that we are among friends. It is a habit that these foreign officials have, to make one at home upon the instant.
Greetings over and assurance given that all is as it should be, we, running true to American form, get down to business. This is distinctly painful to the “Residentee,” for as yet we are not really acquainted. He lifts his hands in remonstrance and exclaims, “Ah, these Americans!” and shakes his head as though nonplussed at our bustling impetuosity. “Hurry, hurry, hurry!” he remarks audibly, but really to himself; then to us: “You must slow down over here or you will not last; the heat, it is too much.” He tells us this with a sage-like shake of his head.
His desire to please, however, outweighs his scruples against talking business in the first ten minutes of an acquaintance and he asks us what he can do for us, in the manner of one who will give anything yet secretly fears that he may be asked the impossible. These Americans, you know, think that just anything can be done. A wave of the hand and presto, it is!
What we want is really a good deal, so, taking a fresh grip on our nerve and with a deep breath to go on, we request in a low, dulcet voice: “The loan of the government schooner and crew for a few weeks. We are very much interested in the Kia Kias and should like to study them in their homes, far away from outside influences. Will you be so kind as to let us have the schooner for a trip around the western end of the island, where the really wild tribes live?”
The Assistant heaves a sigh of relief. “What could be easier!” he exclaims. His slim brown hand taps a bell on the desk before him and a “boy” of fifty slides into adamantine immobility beside the doorway of the sanctum. In a few terse words the captain of the Nautilus is summoned. It seems that our little Assistant is something of a martinet with his men. When within range of his eye they straighten up with ramrod stiffness. In his domain his word is law; rather, he is the law.
Ula, skipper of the Nautilus, has been lounging in the shade of the Chinese toko, or general store, near the dock. The toko is but a few rods from the Assistant’s office, and the man sent for the skipper readily finds him. The two enter together and stand at attention while the Assistant delivers himself of a long harangue in Malay that flows in so rapid a stream that our unaccustomed ears catch only a small part of it.
Ula does not seem inordinately happy over the prospect. From the mention of prampoen and the assistant’s angry tone as Ula utters the word, we gather that he has a new sweetheart who is occupying his time at present. The conversation dies away in a moment, and the Assistant later tells us that Ula wanted to know whether he might take the girl with him to finish his courting.
Ula departs disconsolately for the schooner. The Assistant has ordered it made ready for us to-morrow morning. He waves a deprecating hand at our effusive thanks and says that he is only sorry that he cannot do more for us. He asks us about America, meaning the United States, and we chat for an hour. As the time for his siesta draws near we rise to go, for in the islands one must never interfere with another’s midday sleep; it isn’t done.