Free Footsteps by Pramoedya Ananta Toer Page A

more than eleven hours a day. The highest my salary would ever reach, after thirty years of service, would be eighty-four guilders. And that was only if it was thought I had given good service.
    But at the moment, yes, now, with pocket money of ten guilders a month, food and board provided by the school, a young man could do whatever he liked to his full satisfaction. He could pay off the most expensive bicycle, or send home five guilders a month to his family, or send his younger brother to school, or marry and set up a household in Betawi. And even without the money he could already begin to attract prospective wives—he was a medical school student! A position was already impatiently awaiting him. A house with all its furniture, and transportation and servants. There would be no need to hunt out work. No need to end up in an office. He was one of the cleverest of people. He had spent six years just studying! Just studying, mind you! Eight years, if you counted the two years of preparatory classes. Only the chosen few could survive such a long time. Eight whole years!
    But neither was it unusual for many of the students to spend all their money before the month was up. And so we would all go off (sometimes I too would go) to Waterloo Park to listen to the military band and to look over, with wild and lecherous eyes, the
nyai
who were taking their children out for walks.
    All the students at the medical school had a basic knowledge of the character of the concubines. They could be coaxed and cajoled easily. They opened their hearts easily. Indeed, they made it easy to be coaxed and cajoled and they gladly would invite you home if their master was away. They were lonely people in the middle of a civilization that was not their own. They needed theattentions of the young Native men, like they needed chili and salad.
    And everyone boasted about their experiences with this or that nyai and whatever it was that they had got.
    These were all stories that worried me inside. This was all the opposite of what Mother had taught me—never trust a woman who is not your wife, who is willing to accept what you can give her. And now, all around me, dashing young men, with the trappings of education, free individuals, with ten guilders in their pockets, were all chasing after what it is that the nyai can give them! Would Mother think that they too, these men, could not be trusted? Mother said such women were basically prostitutes. And perhaps men such as that were also prostitutes.
    My respect for Mother grew even greater. I did not know whether Mother had ever faced temptation and yet had remained true to her word. And my respect for Nyai Ontosoroh in Surabaya also grew greater—she who had stood straight and firm in the face of the great tests that stormed down upon her.
    But was I better than my friends? Were my moral principles better or stronger? When I recalled again my own experiences in love and passion, they were so crystal clear in my mind, unsullied by any material desires. Now those memories were a source of strength for me. But once you used your lover’s money, that time you were in B—–! Fifteen guilders! Huh! That was to pay for a telegram I sent to her, and even that I later paid back.
    And my friends were buying and selling love with the concubines! Perhaps it was just that they were playing around and were able to get both pleasure and money at the same time. But what they did was such a serious thing, even if it was not accompanied by feelings of the heart. Not with their hearts? Could you in fact put your heart away in a cupboard?
    But I never felt superior to them. I was not something so special. Everyone is born equal. Isn’t that what Rousseau had said—the father of the French Revolution? The real problem was how to lead and be led, how to carry yourself and be carried.
    Aha, you say that everyone is equal. Then why do you still use your title, Raden Mas? That’s a legal matter. Should I leave myself open