Child of All Nations by Pramoedya Ananta Toer

about to climb down from the buggy, I opened up the box and handed her the doll. She jumped up and down in excitement. She kissed me over and over again. She kissed the plump, pretty doll too.
    “Climb down, May. I have to go straight on.”
    “No, I don’t want to climb down!” she rebelled.
    “Ah, you’re being naughty. I’ve still got a lot of work to do.”
    “Everyone’s got a lot of work to do. Me too. Come on, come in.”
    “No, May.”
    She went silent. Her eyes moistened, then she cried in French: “Here’s your doll. I’m giving it back. Uncle doesn’t like Papa anymore.”
    “You’re getting more and more spoiled, May,” I said, but the words kneaded my heart. How great was this child’s love for herfather; she didn’t want to see her father lose a friend. “All right then, I’ll take you inside.”
    I climbed down ahead of her, carrying her schoolbag. She carried the doll herself. She ran inside. “Papa!” she shouted. “May was given a doll by Uncle Minke. Isn’t Uncle Minke kind, Papa?”
    I came in and saw the child cuddle up to her father. I heard Jean Marais answer, “Very kind, May.”
    I avoided looking at the paintings. My heart was troubled by the girl’s behavior, which had thrown my feelings into confusion. In a flurry she brought in some drinks. After putting the glasses on the table she gave me a long look, then those big eyes of hers gazed at her father.
    “Why doesn’t Papa talk to Uncle Minke?” she demanded.
    “That painting is finished now, Minke.”
    The child observed her father, then me.
    “Are there other things that you want to paint, Jean?”
    “Yes, there are many more.”
    “Why isn’t Uncle laughing, or smiling and grinning as you usually do?” May demanded.
    So I laughed and laughed until I felt my jaw would drop off. Seeing all this, Jean Marais also laughed boisterously. May was the only one who didn’t laugh. All of a sudden she embraced her father, and wouldn’t let go.
    Jean Marais and I went silent on seeing the child’s strange behavior.
    “What is it, May?” She let go of her papa and ran into her room. We heard her howling; it seemed she would never stop.
    I ran into her room. She was hiding her face under her pillow and her arms were hugging the edges of the mattress of the small wooden divan.
    “May, May, what’s the matter?”
    I took the pillow from her face and caressed her head. Slowly the crying faded. I sat her up; she didn’t resist.
    “Don’t cry, May. Don’t make Papa and Uncle Minke sad.” She didn’t want to look at me. Jean Marais came in, limping, and sat on the divan.
    “The two of us don’t understand, May. What is it?” I asked. Still she wouldn’t look at either of us.
    “Do you love your papa?” I asked.
    She nodded.
    “Do you love Uncle Minke?”
    She nodded again.
    “We both love you very, very much. Don’t cry!”
    But she started howling again. Between her sobs she protested: “You’re lying to me. You’ve become enemies.”
    Later in the evening, having convinced May that the two of us hadn’t become enemies, I was able to go home.
    Soerabaiaasch Nieuws van den Dag
hadn’t yet published my interview with Khouw.
    The next afternoon the much-awaited report finally appeared. It wasn’t a headline, but it was placed in a prominent corner with an attention-getting title: “A Meeting with a Member of the Chinese Young Generation.” I was tremendously pleased that my first work in English was good enough to be used by Nijman. I would enjoy it after dinner.
    After dinner I sat with Mama in the front room. Seeing her so busy with all kinds of calculations, I quickly said: “It’s late, Ma. Give them here; let me do them.”
    “No, this is very personal. That wolf wants fifteen percent. I’m only prepared to let him have five.”
    I knew the wolf was Mijnheer Dalmeyer, an accountant. There was no need for me to interfere. Why bargain over percentages? But my curiosity was aroused and I asked