The Stamp

A Short Story by Mochtar Lubis (1950)

Silence has fallen over the office for some time. People whisper in corners, small groups are gathered around tables speaking softly, as if danger broods nearby. If the office workers pass the front of the secretary’s office, they tiptoe, slowly, holding their breath.

From time to time the door of the secretary’s office swings open and a person emerges, pale-faced and anxious. And if their eyes meet the eyes of a colleague, they shake their head. Each time a person leaves the secretary’s office, the officials standing waiting lift their heads and turn, faces full of hope, only to lower them again in disappointment upon seeing the drawn expressions of those who have just emerged.

Inside the office, the secretary sits behind a large desk. He is middle aged. His temples are graying. If he was not in the habit of dyeing his hair, there would be even more gray. His cap sits on the desk. The drawers of his desk have been opened, drawn out, and are sitting scattered across the floor. Papers and letters are piled up near his desk, the contents of the drawers. A number of people are sitting in chairs next to him, and a young woman squats on the floor, rummaging through the piles of papers and letters.

“Well, I have taken everything out of the draws, but I haven’t found it!” the secretary exclaims. Who would guess that all those large piles of paper come from those drawers? The young woman is crying softly. It is unusual for her to be scolded by the secretary.

“Right, sir, I clearly remember putting it in your case!” she says.

“Right, but it is not in my bag. Where has it gone?” the secretary replies. “How can we work if the stamp is missing?” he adds.

No one replies. What are they going to say? The secretary is right! With that statement he has summed up the unfortunate fate in which their office finds itself! The office stamp is missing!

“And today is payday. We need to withdraw the money from the State Bank,” says someone, apparently the head of the finance department. “The payroll list is finished.”

“And I need to pick up gasoline for the office today,” says someone else. “We are out of gas. And the minister wants to go out.”

“And I have to collect rice, salt, and cooking oil from the Food Distribution Office!” chimes in another.

“Be quiet! Shut up! How many times have you said that since this morning? I have ears too. I haven’t forgotten what day it is!” he shouts, turning to glare at the poor young woman with an accusing look. “Young lady, look at what’s become of us because of your negligence!” This makes the woman cry even harder, tears starting to soak the secretary’s papers.

The secretary slams his cap onto the desk, tugs at his hair, sweat dripping from his forehead. He stands up, paces back and forward around the office. Suddenly, the phone rings. He steps toward it but after two steps, he freezes.

“No,” he says. “That’s probably the minister. Stop crying, miss, and answer the phone!” He turns and stands by the window, looking outside. Though he is too scared to listen in to hear the phone conversation, his ears are perked up.

“Good morning, Minister!” the young woman says. “Oh, just one moment, excellency!” She turns to signal that the minister wants to speak with the secretary. He replies instructing her to say he is not in the office. She nods.

“The secretary has just stepped out, excellency. Oh, very well, excellency. The car must be ready by noon. Very well, excellency. Yes, I understand, excellency. Merdeka, excellency!”

She turns back. “The minister requests that his car be ready by noon.” The secretary groans and sinks back into his chair, tugging at his hair.

Then he stands up again, pacing the room like a lion in a cage, but the secretary is more like a frightened lion, completely bewildered.

The head of the finance department rubs his neck and clears his throat.

“Ahem,” he says, “would it not be better if you sit down and be a little patient? Perhaps they will still accept the letters you sign without the stamp. Wouldn’t it be better to wait for them to return?”

The secretary turns to glare at the speaker. At first, it seems he is about to say something, but then he holds his tongue and sits back down again.

Before long, there is a knock at his office door.

“Come in!” shouts the secretary and a man enters. “Ah, it’s Mahmud!” says the head of finance, full of hopeful anticipation. The newcomer is carrying a large burlap sack.

“Did you get it?” asks the head of finance.

In response, the man tosses the empty sack onto the floor. “They wouldn’t provide the money without the stamp. I told them our office stamp is missing, but they just laughed. One even accused me of trying to scam them. As if an office could have lost its stamp,” he says. The secretary takes a deep breath, sighs, and rests his head on his hands on the desk. “Go away,” he says curtly.

A moment later there is another knock at the door. The man sent to collect the gasoline with a letter sans stamp reports that he was only laughed at at the gasoline distribution office because his letter did not have a stamp. Then arrives the person sent to collect the rice, salt, and cooking oil. He too has failed. Stamp, stamp, stamp—everywhere they ask, “Where is the stamp?” “Without the stamp, it’s not valid.”

Silence hangs in the secretary’s office. Every now and then the secretary lifts his head to glance at the clock on the wall. It is nearly half past eleven. At noon, the minister has to leave. If there is no gasoline, the minister can not leave. If he can not leave, who knows what disaster might follow? Perhaps the nation will in danger. And if the employees are not paid their wages and do not receive their food rations, they might strike and complain to their union, and their union may complain to the Central All-Indonesia Workers Organization, and it might take action, possibly creating a political crisis. The office workers’ union has demanded a raise several times, and if their wages are delayed, they would have an excuse to strike. Cold sweat trickles down the secretary’s back as he contemplates the possibilities that could happen, all because of a missing stamp. It irritates him to think that a small rubber stamp and a piece of wood hold more power than his own signature.

The clock chimes! A quarter to twelve. At noon the minister has to leave. His head rests heavily on his hands on the desk. The heads of the departments sit watching him, waiting for orders. The secretary’s assistant is busily sorting the papers back into their drawers, still sobbing quietly.

Hearing the sound of the chime, the secretary lifts his head slightly, and suddenly his eyes fell upon the gold signet ring on his middle finger. The ring is large, made long ago when he was still courting his wife, before they had married. In a moment of tender affection for his beloved he had gone to a goldsmith and commissioned the ring, round, slightly smaller than a dime, engraved with the initials of his and his wife’s names, adorned with flowers and swirls, so that only he could decipher the letters etched into it. For half a minute, he stares at the ring—and suddenly he leaps from his chair, shouting. The heads of the different departments jump to their feet, and the young woman lets out a small yelp from surprise.

“Where are they? Where are the letters to collect the money, gasoline, and rice?” he yells, bouncing like a child and sliding the signet ring from his finger.

“Look,” he says hurriedly, “this is my signet ring. We’ll use it to stamp the letters, just to satisfy the bureaucratic dogs of the finance, gasoline, and food offices. Where’s the wax?” he asks the young woman, who fetches the wax. She melts it, and drips it onto the letters. Then the secretary stamps them with his signet ring. Next to the seal, he writes “NEW MINISTRY STAMP, Secretary…” and signs it. The three letters looked more impressive and official than if they had been stamped in the usual way. Thanks to the wax.

“It’s better if you all go and fetch them yourselves,” he says to the department heads. “And call me quickly when you’ve got it.”

They leave. Not long after, the phone rings three times in quick succession. The department heads report that the new seal has been a success.

“Good, good!” says the secretary, rubbing his hands together with a grin that can only be described as gleeful. “Number one, organize the gas for the minister’s car!”

“Miss,” he continues, “bring me today’s incoming letters. I need to review them.” He sets to work. The once fearful lion’s face has vanished, replaced by the visage of a competent, capable, and respectful secretary of a ministry. He flips through a particular letter.

“Ahem, ahem, ahem, what’s this?” he mutters to himself.

“Miss,” he says after a moment, “reply to this letter from our branch office in Kediri. They’re requesting permission to add two more staff members. Tell them that a request like that has to be sent in triplicate and stamped!”

The young lady takes the letter from his hands.

“Not valid, they haven’t used a stamp,” the secretary grumbles to himself.

---

Source: Setempel (The Stamp) is a story from the short story collection of Lubis, Mochtar. Si Djamal : dan tjerita2 lain [Young Djamal : and other stories] / oleh Mochtar Lubis Gapura Djakarta 1950, p. 62.

Featured image credit: Netherlands National Archives Collection: Photo Collection Spaarnestad, Description: “Tumultuous welcome by 300 pro-government demonstrators for the Indonesian delegation that had failed to reach an agreement at the Dutch-Indonesian Ministerial Conference in Geneva. Finance Minister Sumitro Djojohadikusumo (center) .. shortly before being hoisted into the back of a truck for a tour of the city. The banner above the demonstrators demanded “Bung Mitro” (Comrade Mirtro) to immediately end all financial, economic, and cultural privileges of the Netherlands. February 16, 1956″; Fotograaf: Associated Press, Auteursrechthebbende: © Associated Press. http://hdl.handle.net/10648/02105d46-0fc4-bf66-c94f-4818522f16cc