If one ever takes a walk down south from Stadhuis – the old statehouse now known as Fatahillah – and follows the canal making a turn on the corner of the street, he might recall the mansion where this story took place. It had been a governor’s residence in the old days and its touch of renaissance breathed life into the crowded street. The pillars in front maintained its elegance, despite the narrow alley on which it was located. The alley was so dense, you could find another building just a few step across the road, but that did not matter to the guests. Guests were lured in by Batavia Hotel’s reputation. The proprietor bought the building from the governor’s son who struggled to pay his debt. I have heard many old stories about the hotel, when the mansion was quiet and reserved only for the governor’s friends and family. These days, people talk of the hotel as a place where happiness could be found. But these tales serve to disguise what really happened inside the hotel.
To become a guest at the hotel, one would need only courage. At the grand entrance, a clown would fastidiously attend to every new arrival. After greeting the guest he would engage them in entertaining conversations. Rumor had it that the clown was funny. I noticed, on our first encounter, his face was made up with sullen lips that in no way resembled a smile. The Clown escorted the hotel’s regulars to a velvet room where the gentlemen socialized with their gin and cigars; while fair ladies who had been grooming all day long, amused the men throughout the night. Like every other night, Harlequin was there. A Casanova by reputation, he used to be a young man who passed by the hotel and wished to visit. He worked first as the bell boy and climbed his way up with his charm to finally be in the main cast of the Hotel’s drama. His impeccable manners and natural wit helped him to get the position. His evenings were spent discussing new projects with the mayor or of conversing with philanthropists. He kissed every lady gently and swiftly on her cheek, and some often asked for a little more than just a kiss. Harlequin was the only person who always arrived solo, yet never left alone.
On the other hand, Colombine regularly entered with a circus-like entourage. She was once a Nyonyah of the late general who ruled over the district of South Batavia. She was a woman of distinction who always got what she wanted. Her smooth skin, deep eyes, and pointy nose resembled most women from her social circle. They all would have looked exactly the same had it not been Colombine’s bold and seductive smile. With a lace gown that effortlessly wrapped her body, she lit up the room with a smile that killed every man’s heart. She was bursting with tales of previous governors and gossip of the bourgeois from back then. It was captivating to watch her and to listen to her stories. Her youthful facade played tricks on the mind. No one knew her true age or her full story. Yet, no one cared.
It was luck that allowed me to witness their embrace that particular night. Colombine was very selective in accepting a dance invitation. There had always been a handful of high-ranking gentlemen, waiting for their turn to own her on the dance floor. Yet, it was common knowledge that in the presence of Harlequin, no man could even offer her a single drink. That night, the spellbound Harlequin kissed Colombine’s slender hand and stunned everyone with their elegant courtship. They waltzed, shared intimate laughter, and kissed. The room was filled with their passion for each other. As he put his hand around her waist, I tried to hold back my tears.
I had been there all along, entertaining those who could not find the confidence or attention for themselves that night. For two hours, I had been under the spotlight performing my acrobatic routine, but no one really cared if I fell or even flew. Those dames who wished to get Harlequin’s attention raised their voices with artificial laughter, calling to the Clown for another glass of wine. He would secretly receive envelopes from their pretty hands, while they continued to caress the lords who invested in their luxury. Playing along with this conspiracy, the Clown slipped these envelopes into Harlequin’s pocket.
From the stool where I was standing, I saw Harlequin’s hand holding one of the balloons I gave out to every visitor. Most guests ignored them, while others reluctantly took one and eventually lost it. However, he always took one and kept it with him the whole night like he did when we were growing up together in the orphanage just a few blocks away. He was my ground and he was my sky. He was a free spirit who chose his life, but the cast that Harlequin took was a mold sprung from a vulnerable society. The very role he took to salvage his life was also the one that gradually ate the human inside of him. As I reminisced on our childhood, the Clown approached and I could see a grin underneath the sullen lips. With the fortune he made by doing those favors he was probably the only one with true happiness that night. The smile-drawn lips on my face served the same function as the Clown’s – to hide true feelings. Everyone continued to believe that I was smiling even as hot tears ran down my cheeks. To avoid these painful thoughts, I concentrated on keeping my one foot balanced with the help of my umbrella.
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