Reading time approx. 20 min.
'My name is Anika Bonnema. I am looking for information about my father Hendrik Jan Bonnema. Raised in the Dutch East Indies, he served in the KNIL, the Royal Dutch East Indies Army, probably as a sergeant major, under Captain de Leeuw in the years 1946-1949. He was married there to my mother, Riekje van Dorp. In 1949 he sent his family ahead to the Netherlands on the ship "De Nautilus". After that, contact was lost. Who can inform me about his current whereabouts or his possible death?'
In an almost empty room, Anika sits behind her computer with the feeling that a noose is being tightened around her neck. The conversation via webcam becomes more unpleasant by the minute. Not for the first time, she wishes she had never met Laura. If only she had never put that call on the internet. But up until now the woman is the only connection to her father. Anika knows nothing more about her father than that he disappeared around the time of the repatriation and her mother has never wanted to answer her questions. There was no reference to an Indies past at home; no kris above the mantelpiece, no old gramophone record with krontjong music, no batik on the wall. As a result, Anika had always suspected that an incident in the Indies was the cause of her father's disappearance.
Laura confirms her suspicion. Where her revelations initially had a mild character, they have recently acquired a vicious undertone. At first it was about a sympathetic man that Laura records from her memories, now it is increasingly about the war. Anika tries to steer the conversation to a more pleasant subject, but Laura is in a melancholy mode and keeps on talking about melting toys and twisted steel. What kind of horror is she referring to? This cannot be about father Bonnema, Anika thinks. Yet she is drawn into an atmosphere of unease. Laura's remarks take on a malicious edge and Anika resists.
'In a war, every soldier has dirty hands,' she types quickly. 'Who decides who is on the right side and who is on the wrong side?'
But Laura has no time for such generalities. 'It's about facts, Anika. Which facts are the truth? I'll tell you. Your father, then a young sergeant major, is now a dangerous criminal.'
The words hit Anika like a whiplash. 'You're talking nonsense, you old witch!'
She would like to freeze the images on the webcam. The now familiar face, the wrinkles around the dark eyes, the silver lock in the pulled-back black hair, she would like to freeze it like a photo on her desktop and take the time to gather her thoughts about the new mysteries surrounding her father. But Laura will not be frozen. Laura determines the rules of the game. The images keep moving: on to the next inning.
'Facts, I have more facts for you. Your father has always had a weakness for everything oriental. I danced for him as Mata Hari, I enchanted him with a make-believe world of mysticism. Mata Hari was just a woman from Friesland, nothing exotic about her, but she mastered the game of imagination to perfection. She performed a masquerade and no man could see through her. She was a nursery school teacher at home, just like you, but she made a career as a dancer and courtesan. You, with your prudishness, will not be able to imagine how her life could take that unexpected turn. I myself can imagine that more than enough. That is the difference between you and me: you, the colorless schoolteacher in your wheelchair, frantically searching for the truth; and I, the exotic imitatio of Mata Hari, who hides the truth under suggestive waves of transparent robes. The truth is often just a fraction out of reach, just outside your field of vision. And that is a good thing because the truth, dear child, is just as disconcerting as a dancer who has thrown off her last veil. Do you still want the truth? The truth walks across my flat roof to the illuminated square of the skylight and peers through the plexiglass dome into my bedroom. The truth is close by, crouching down like a Javanese tiger in attack position, calculating its leap… Stay online, Anika. Do not be deterred. You have searched for your father for so long. Here he is. Since my role is played out, I can afford to drop my veils.'
Anika sees Laura lift her face upwards, but the webcam only records the images straight ahead and she cannot follow her gaze. She sees the desk where Laura is sitting, with the fairytale four-poster bed in the background, a dream from the Arabian Nights: transparent curtains, satin cushions, gold-embroidered ribbons and brocade bows. What is Laura planning? Who is the mysterious visitor walking across the roof? Anika can see from a slight undulation in the draperies around the bed that there is a draft blowing through the boudoir. The skylight must be open. Something black falls from above, something alive and immediately springs into action. It jumps onto the bed and Anika sees that it is a huge cat, hissing at Laura with an arched back and a thick tail. Laura is half turned away from the image, but Anika does not need to see her face to know that she is startled. Her transparent blue dress hangs ridiculously around her body, which seems to have shrunk from the shock. But she quickly recovers. Anika can see from the waving of her arms that she is chasing the cat away; although her back is now in the picture, Anika imagines her screaming loudly. She disappears from view for a moment, and when she sits back down at her desk, a vein throbs under her right eye.
'Is that all?' Anika types. 'Was that your Javanese tiger? You could have made it a bit more exciting. Or was that cat a surprise to you too, did it not belong in that bizarre game of yours?'
Laura straightens her dress and strokes her thick, black hair back, the gray lock like a bolt of lightning over her head.
'You are not taking this seriously, Anika! You should though, because dark forces have been unleashed. But anyway. As you can see, my death has been postponed. You are not being nice to me. Why are you being so spiteful? I know it is not nice what I told you about your father. I also know that you tell yourself that I lied, but I have no reason to. I once had warm feelings for your father – although not for him more than for others – so why should I tell lies about him? He had a beautiful body, he looked great in his KNIL uniform. Strong and yet – almost in a feminine way – sensitive. His muscles were hard, but I could see from the curved line around the corner of his mouth that he was sensitive. He was an excellent dancer and we swung around in each other's arms in the club many an evening, while your mother sat at home, exhausted by the heat, tired and pregnant with your eldest brother. You were shocked that your father behaved like that. Perhaps you always imagined that your father had an impeccable character, but dear child, he was a bon vivant and in the Indies morals were looser than in Holland. Obviously your mother didn't like it and I can understand that she wanted to keep this episode from her children.'
'Old news, Laura,' Anika types. 'You've told me all this before. Come up with something concrete. And don't keep calling me "sweet child", I'm a woman of forty-nine.'
'It's good that you reminded me of that, Anika. You're a grown woman and you'll need the wisdom of your years to absorb the shock that I'm about to deliver. I've told you before that you're doing the wrong thing when you insist on searching for your roots. You think your children have a right to know their history, but you must realize that it's an unsavory history. Anyway, you want facts…'
Laura pauses and Anika is irritated by the artificial way in which the older woman lets the tension hang in the air. When no encouragement is forthcoming, Laura sighs as if she's reluctant to continue her story.
'My husband was out on patrol and the sultry evenings lured me outside. I could not bear the loneliness of the quiet house and the submissive presence of the servants for reasons I will not go into now. So I sought entertainment in the club. Just like your father. Later he visited me at home and I danced for him. I already had the breastplates and bracelets of Mata Hari. The exotic fabrics for the flashy dresses that your father loved so much – this blue organdy was his favorite – were easy to obtain in that country. I completely charmed your father, he lost all interest in his wife, your mother. Of course that could not end well. My husband returned from his patrol so that my house became taboo for your father. He tirelessly sought opportunities to meet me anyway, but that was no longer possible. I had to turn him down, just like the other gentlemen who visited my house. For a long time he had no idea that he was not my only adventure. When that fact dawned on him, he was deeply shocked. He couldn't stomach it and at the time of the Second Police Action he completely lost it. "Mata gelap" they called it over there. He overpowered a young woman in a kampong near Telaga Warna, and then wiped out her entire family with a klewang. Children, parents, grandparents, no one escaped his machete. Only out of frustration. That, dear Anika, is the secret that your mother wanted to keep from you. It would have been better to leave this story where it belongs: at the bottom of the Telaga Warna lake, but you yourself have dug up all this shit with that little advertisement on the internet.'
Anika sees a vision of long black hair on the wooden floor of a veranda. Chilled to the core, she stares at the screen. There. There it is in black and white, the denouement, the apotheosis that Laura has been carefully working towards for the past few months. Anika realises that Laura has played her, like a dalang who makes his wayang puppets nod and bend to his will, always keeping the truth out of her reach. Laura has deliberately broken down bit by bit the ideal image of her father that she had in mind.
'Where everything is possible, only a fool searches for the truth,' Laura wrote earlier. Have I been a fool, Anika wonders, for getting so caught up in the search for my father? I have been fishing in murky waters and have fished up a stinking family history, in a state of decomposition.
There is no more movement on the screen, but the webcam is still on because Anika sees Laura's eyes blinking every now and then. Then a few more sentences appear.
'You remain silent. Maybe that is for the best. Don't react, just keep watching.'
Apparently Laura's morbid game is not over yet.
'I don't know what will happen next, the direction has been taken out of my hands. Instead of that black cat, I expected your father to burst in, but events are unfolding differently than I arranged them. I'll wait and see. It's not clear when he will come, but that he will come is certain. By the way, that little private act of your father was hushed up at the time, but of course you already understood that. They were only blacks he slaughtered, what of it, so many of them died those days.'
Once again, the image of long black hair in a pool of blood forces itself upon Anika's eyes. The image, which flashes through her mind for only a moment, slides away along the contours of her conscience. She doesn't allow it, the horror comes too close. She deliberately limits her thoughts to Mata Hari, the nude dancer who managed to extract state secrets from high-ranking gentlemen in uniforms with epaulettes. Over the vision of the pool of blood, she slides the photo she found on the internet, of a woman with little more on her body than breastplates and bracelets, decorated with precious stones. She thinks of the imitation jewellery, the fake pearls and diamonds that Laura showed her. Did she win over her father with that kitsch? He can't have been that naive, can he? She imagines a handsome young man in the typical thirties pose that was popular in photography studios at that time.
Since her mother's passing, she finally feels free to search for answers. When clearing out her mother's personal belongings, a few old photos came to light, brief information in short lines on the back, written in a strange handwriting. A group photo of laughing soldiers under palm trees. Her father with a broad smile on his face, his shirt sleeves casually rolled up above his elbows.
After placing the ad, there were some vague responses from people who thought they had known her father, but on closer inspection it always turned out to be Johan Bonnema, not Jan. Only one response came that gave her some hope.
'Tell me more about your father,' Laura emailed. 'I'm almost certain I knew him quite well in those years. What exactly did your father do?'
Anika knew nothing about her father. All the more seemed to bubble up inside Laura. Only after some emailing back and forth did Laura come with the shocking news that Hendrik Jan Bonnema was staying in the Netherlands and that she had been in touch with him for some time. She invited Anika for tea. Against her better judgment, Anika hoped to find her father at Laura's house, although Laura had already warned her not to count on it.
'Your father wants to meet you, but not yet. He is not ready for it yet. You have to understand well... it will be a painful confrontation with a past that he wants to forget.'
'What exactly happened in that past?'
'That is not for me to tell you. Your father will do that himself when he is ready.'
She seemed so discreet, and she won Anika over. At one of their next meetings, Laura showed her - she said at the request of Anika's father - the well-known dance for Shiva. Her father wanted to show her why he had lost his heart to this woman, but Anika found it an embarrassing display. It was painful to watch the woman with her decayed body try to evoke a suggestion of sensuality.
Anika is startled by a small piece of text suddenly appearing on her screen.
'A dangerous idealist, Anika. I told you that your father is a man of extreme convictions. He justifies his existence with a new goal, a life-threatening mission.'
Suddenly decisive, Anika turns off the computer. She has had more than enough. What is Laura trying to suggest? Is her father about to commit another major crime? A coup d'état, genocide, a bomb under Schiphol? Or is it the threat Laura alluded to at the beginning of their session: that he will come looking for her, perhaps to kill her? Is that what Laura wants to prove with her webcam? Anika presses her fists against her eyes. Her cheeks are burning from staring at the screen for so long. Her back has become stiff and her weak legs feel cold. She pulls a blanket over her knees. She no longer knows whether she can believe Laura. Is the woman trying to involve her in an unclear – perhaps dangerous – intrigue or is she merely dealing with the fantasies of an old person? Does her father know anything about the gossip Laura is spreading about him? In that case, he must hate her. Perhaps even so much that he wants to take her life, because, senile or not, Laura is playing a dirty game. The email from a few weeks ago comes back to Anika.
'I've been fooling you, Anika. Your father does want to meet you. He longs to see you again, but everything in my time. I make the rules. First I want to enjoy having him in my power. Having you both in my power. I want to find out how far you are prepared to go for each other.'
Anika went further than she herself had ever thought possible, that one afternoon in Laura's bedroom. Under Laura's relentless direction, she wrapped herself in the robes of a courtesan and danced for Shiva, the deity of whom, flanked by incense sticks, stood a plaster statue on the altar opposite the four-poster bed. The provocative choreography that Laura had shown her degenerated into a hideous stumbling in which she had to grab onto anything that could keep her upright: the pillars around the bed, the back of the desk chair; she even had to grab Laura's arm for support because the old witch had more strength in her body than she did. She drank the poisoned chalice down to the last drop. Everything, everything to persuade Laura to finally bring her into contact with her father. She let one veil after the other slide to the floor until she fell naked into her wheelchair. The old woman caressed her, tried to guide her gently to the bed, but at that moment Anika regained control of the situation. She would not go that far.
But her refusal does not go unpunished. Laura does not let herself be thwarted. She threatens to keep Anika on a string until she meets her conditions.
Is she pressuring my father in the same way? Anika wonders. Has she discovered his weak spot and is she mocking it? She must hate us for some reason. Her careful arranging is evidence of that, the way she has manipulated us both into the right position to deliver the devastating blow: this revelation about the massacre. A grotesque triumph.
Anika logs in again. She can't stop now. Now that Laura has played her last trump card, there must be a breakthrough, although she herself does not know what she is still hoping for. She sees Laura's unaffected face appear on the screen. Laura smiles. A serene smile without fear.
'Ha, there you are again, Anika. You see, I am still here. But I am waiting. My murderer will enter the room in a moment. I have unlocked the outer door. Nonsense to let that old man come through the skylight, he might break his legs. And fate is inevitable anyway, I have resigned myself to it. I am completely ready. I will die as Mata Hari died: a violent death. My nightmares are over, I am freed from my delusions now that the moment of truth has arrived. Look carefully, Anika. Look, and know who your father is.'
Anika sobs. She mourns the inglorious death of a father who only existed in her dreams. She has no desire to get to know the new, brutal version of a father that Laura paints for her. Once again her hands grab the computer as if she can control events by plucking the lines from the screen.
'Kill her!' She shouts it out loud to a man she does not know, who has not even appeared on screen yet. 'Maybe I will do it myself. This woman is a monster. Why couldn't she just keep her mouth shut?'
Anika sees Laura stand up in her boudoir. She dances. The transparent blue organdy dress swirls around her body, occasionally revealing a glimpse of Mata Hari’s jeweled breastplates beneath. On her arms she wears bracelets, gleaming earrings delicately touch her neck. The slightly blurred view of the webcam restores the beauty of the dance in jerky images like an old film and conceals the decline of the decaying body. Laura is still a charming woman. But why so cruel?
Laura spreads her arms, turns around. Anika thinks the tulle curtains around the canopy bed moving in a current of air. Is someone coming in? Through a haze of tears she sees Laura freeze in her movement. The woman stands still, still with her arms spread out, her profile to the camera. Anika suddenly sees that she has a kitchen knife in her hand and she realizes with a shock that the 'Grand Finale' of Laura's game is about to unfold on her screen. With a sense of drama Laura circles around her axis a few more times, her eyes closed, the knife glistening every time the light falls on it. Then she thrusts the weapon forcefully into her chest and sinks down, out of range of the webcam.
'Laura?'
Nothing else is visible except the slight undulation of the curtains.
'The case is closed, ma'am.' The detective stands stiffly in her living room. 'It was of course horrible that you had to witness these shocking images. After your phone call we went to the apartment immediately, we called a doctor and he confirmed the death by her own hand. There were no signs of forced entry. Nevertheless, an investigation was of course started in response to your suspicion of threats, but we found no evidence of a cause of death other than the one confirmed.'
Then the man drops his formality and leans forward confidentially. 'We spoke to Mrs. van den Berg's neighbor, among others. She told us that the woman suffered from unbearable persecution delusions. She was always convinced that an intruder was hiding somewhere in her house. These fears probably stemmed from her past in Indonesia, the former Dutch East Indies. She lost her two children in a Japanese camp. Later her husband went berserk. Apparently he murdered an entire family. I'm not really allowed to tell you this, but Mrs. van den Berg was known to us because a complaint had been filed against her a few times. Invasion of privacy. She had a habit of scrutinizing through advertisements from people who were looking for relatives from the Dutch East Indies. She would contact them and then come up with all sorts of horrible stories. That those relatives were guilty of war crimes. That sort of thing. She has been to the office for an interview once, but what do you do with such a troubled old woman?'
Anika logs in. Nothing. No image. No illusion. No father.
©marian puijk