Ama (25 page)

All this time De Bruyn was talking to her in his language, but Ama understood no word of what he was saying and paid no attention to him.

“Now my little princess,” he said, “you are really very beautiful. You must surely be of royal blood? Most definitely a princess. And that is what I shall call you, Princess. No, no, on second thoughts I shall call you Pamela.”

“Now Pamela,” he continued, “I am going to give you a bath.”

In anticipation of the pleasure of cupping Ama's breasts in his soapy hands, lathering her cunt hairs, massaging her lips, inserting a soapy index finger into her pussy, De Bruyn felt his penis struggling against his tight trousers. Quickly, he pulled off his boots and socks, stripped off his coat, shirt and trousers and threw them onto the bed. Now he was wearing only his drawers. Pausing for no more than a moment, he let them drop to his feet. Now they were equal in their nakedness.
As God made us
, he thought. Ama saw his erect penis reflected in the mirror and braced herself for what was to come.

De Bruyn took a cake of soap and washed and lathered his hands. Standing behind Ama, he placed his left hand on her left shoulder and took her right breast in his soapy hand. Ama panicked. Twice before she had been taken by force. Instinctively she swung round. Thrown off balance, De Bruyn took a step back, placing his foot on the edge of the basin, tipping it over and flooding the floor boards. At the same time Ama's outstretched arm swung round and her clenched fist struck him. Already off balance, De Bruyn toppled over backwards. As he fell, the back of his head hit the corner of a table, drawing blood and causing him to cry out in surprise and pain.

Outside the door, the guards, hearing his cry, stood up, uncertain what to do. A moment later, they heard De Bruyn calling, “Guards, guards!”

No sooner had the words escaped his lips than De Bruyn became aware of the ludicrous nature of his situation. He lay there stark naked, the black woman, equally naked, standing there immobile staring at him. The blood had left his engorged penis and it had shrivelled to its normal size. He stretched out to grab his drawers and threw the garment over his organ.

The guards opened the door.

“Wait,” called De Bruyn, but it was too late. Pausing only for a moment to assess the situation, Kobina rushed to De Bruyn, lifted him to his feet and helped him to a chair, De Bruyn all the time clutching his shame cloth.

“Oh my God,” cried De Bruyn.

Kofi Kakraba spun Ama around and for the second time that day grabbed her wrists and pinned her arms behind her back. He began to run her out of the room.

“Wait!” commanded De Bruyn.

He had lifted a hand to the wound in his scalp. Now he lowered it to look at the blood.

“Pass me that towel,” he said to Kobina. “Now dip it in the water.”

There was a little water left in the basin.

“Now pass it to me. Pass it to me,” he repeated.

Keeping his drawers in position with one hand, he wiped the wound on his scalp with the wet towel. It stung a little, but he realised that the damage was superficial.

“Now get out! Both of you, get out,” he screamed at the two guards.

They scurried for the door and closed it noisily behind them.

Ama remained standing where Kofi Kakraba had released her. She had struck this old white man who seemed to be the chief of the castle. Surely now he would kill her. She wanted to run. But where to? The guards were outside the door. There appeared to be no escape. And how far could she get in her nakedness?

Ama got down on her knees and, cupping her right hand in her left, blurted out hysterically,

“Nana, grandfather. My lord, my master. Forgive me. It was a mistake. I didn't mean to harm you. You startled me and it was in my surprise that I swung round. Do not kill me, I beg you. It was a mistake. It was a mistake. I didn't do it on purpose.”

Her words were swallowed by her crying. She sank her head upon her knees and sat there, unable to decide what to do next and unable to control her sobbing.

De Bruyn, guessing the general import of her plea, pulled on his drawers and rose gingerly to his feet.

“Get up, you stupid baggage,” he said as he picked up the basin and took it to the door.

“More water,” he ordered as he passed it to the guards. “And mind, if one single word about this incident gets abroad, you will both be on the next ship leaving for Guyana. Do you savvy? Not a single word,” and he drew a finger across his throat.

When Kobina returned with the basin, De Bruyn had donned a gown and had persuaded Ama to get up and wrap her cloth around her. He directed the basin to the alcove he used for his weekly bath.

“I suppose you know how to bath yourself?” he said to Ama wryly and handed her the cake of soap, a loofah and a towel and pushed her gently into the alcove. Then he drew the curtain to allow her to bath in privacy.

Ama's mind was still in a turmoil but she didn't need a second invitation to scrub off the filth of the dungeon. As she lathered herself, she slowly recovered her self-control. She concentrated her mind on Itsho and when she succeeded in summoning up an image of his face, he was laughing. Then she began to see the ridiculous side of what had happened and smiled involuntarily to herself. The soap was mildly perfumed and the water was warm. Enjoying the luxury and in no hurry for whatever was to come next, she took her time.

“What are you doing in there woman? Hurry up, I also want to take my bath,” called De Bruyn.

“Here, take this and put it on,” he continued and hung upon the curtain rail a piece of Ijebu cloth which he had taken from his wooden chest.

They had no single word in common but were somehow managing to communicate. Ama dried herself and wrapped the blue cloth around her. She drew the curtain and came out, not quite sure whether that is what he had intended.

“Yes, very pretty,” he said in response to her questioning look.

“Come now, Pamela,” he continued, taking her hand firmly in his.

“This is our marriage bed,” he said, chuckling at his own joke. “Lie on it and I will join you shortly.”

All her life, Ama had slept on a mat on the floor. She had seen Konadu Yaadom's ornately carved bed in Kumase, indeed Nana had taught her how to arrange the bedclothes. But this massive four-poster was something different. She climbed onto the white cotton sheets and lay there stiffly, unable to relax. De Bruyn went to take his bath, delicately drawing the curtain behind him.

Ama had only a short time to consider her next move. The man would reappear soon and there was no doubt he would try to climb on her. What should she do? She thought of Tabitsha, her mother. Tears came to her eyes and she began to sob quietly, considering her predicament. She had seen De Bruyn's penis. It seemed to be no different from any other she had seen, in spite of its peculiar pink colour. There was no doubt what he wanted of her. But what then? Surely when he had squirted his semen into her and had his little sleep, he would send her back to the dungeon of the female slaves, to the darkness, the fetid smell of stale piss and septic shit, the damp, the shared misery of a hundred women without hope. What if she were to resist him, to fight? She knew that she could not succeed. She could not match his strength and anyway, the guards were at his beck and call. He seemed to have forgiven her for what she had done to him, but would he do so a second time? What if she were to succumb to his wishes? She knew how to please a man and, unless white men's sex was very different from that of blacks, she was confident she could persuade him of her own excitement, even though she felt only repugnance and pain. She propped herself up on one elbow and looking through the open window saw the broad blue expanse of the ocean. She recalled the walk along the beach on the way to the castle. How she would like to go and touch it. She had no doubt that it was water, but it looked so different from the rivers and lakes she knew. Perhaps she could swim in it as she had learned to do as a child in the flood lakes of the Oti and seen the little naked boys doing not three days ago?

De Bruyn's call from behind the curtain, “Well, are you ready for me?” brought her back to reality. Then she knew what she would do. She would not resist, but neither would she co-operate. She would lie there limp and let him do what he had to do, but she would not help him and she would not encourage him. If he wanted her to give him real pleasure, he would have to earn it. And even if he sent her away in disgust, back to the dungeon, at least she would have kept her self-respect.

“Ah, Pamela, “ said De Bruyn, as he drew the curtain. “There you are. Now we shall see,” and he licked his dry lips.

CHAPTER 14

Ama was startled by the sound of a cannon.

“Oh, shit,” said De Bruyn and went to the window.

“Pamela,” he said, starting to put on his uniform, “Please accept my most abject apologies. That cannon shot signals the arrival of a ship. I shall have to go and meet the captain. I would much prefer to spend an afternoon of pleasure with you. However, young Jensen has caused me enough trouble already with our noble Assembly of Ten, and I cannot afford to give him another opportunity to undermine me. Mr. Jensen, I must tell you, my dear Pamela, is after my job.”

Ama wondered what he was jabbering about. She lay where she was on the bed. De Bruyn leant over her, looked into her eyes for a moment and then kissed her on her forehead.

“Until this evening then.”

“I shall look forward to it,” he called back as he left the room.

Ama heard the key turn in the lock. She rose from the bed and went to the window. All was quiet now. The ship had rounded the outcrop on which the castle was built and was out of sight. Wisps of smoke rose from Edina. She thought she heard voices drifting up from the thatched roofs which lay amongst the coconut palms but she could see no sign of human life.

She wandered around the room, examining the furniture. Four old elm armchairs stood in one corner. She ran her fingers over the brass buttons which secured the elaborately brocaded upholstery. Then she knelt to feel the carved hooves at the ends of the cabriole legs.
Strange
, she thought,
chairs with feet like those of a deer
.

Suddenly she felt overcome by exhaustion. The stress of the past three days in the female dungeon and of the afternoon's events had drained her. She went back to the bed and within moments she was asleep.

It was dark when she awoke but the room was lit by candles. A small dining table had been laid. De Bruyn had ordered a light meal for two. He had shared a brandy with the captain of the Dutch ship and, making his excuses, had delegated Jensen to entertain the visitor.

He took Ama by the hand and drew her to the table.

“I am sorry that I had to abandon you, my dear Pamela.” he said. “However, business before pleasure, as they say. I have left our guest in the capable hands of that young scoundrel, Jensen.”

Ama let him ramble on.
What can he be talking about?
she wondered, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. De Bruyn pulled a chair for her and guided her into position.

“When a gentleman pulls a chair for you, my lady Pamela,” he said, “You must move in front of it, so, and as he slides the chair forward, you sit your pretty rump on the seat, like this. Are you comfortable? A little further forward, perhaps?”

Mellowed by the brandy and anticipating the pleasures of the night ahead, De Bruyn was in a genial mood, amused at the pantomime he had set up.

“Now, my love,” he continued, knowing full well that Ama did not understand a single word, “you must learn to use a knife and fork like a Dutch lady.”

The words
Dutch lady
reminded him of his late wife, Elizabeth De Bruyn, but he resolutely erased the image. Elizabeth would certainly not have approved of this tête-à-tête. He carved the duck and served a portion onto Ama's plate, humming tunelessly as he did so. Then he tasted the warm Rhenish wine and poured a full glass for Ama.

“That will relax you, my darling,” he said.

Ama watched him use his knife and fork.

“Eat, eat,” he told her, his mouth full, noticing her hesitation. He rose and moved to stand behind her and taking her hands, showed her how to hold the implements and cut the breast of duck which he had served her. The contact with her bare arms and shoulders excited him but he controlled himself and returned to his seat.

Ama cut a piece of the duck, impaled it on her fork and, watching De Bruyn for approval, put it in her mouth.

“Excellent,” he said. “And now,” raising his glass and indicating to her that she should do the same, “A toast.”

Looking her straight in the eyes and touching his glass against hers, he said, “To a long and
intimate
friendship.”

Ama returned his gaze for a brief moment and then, puzzled, dropped her eyes.

“Drink, drink,” he urged her as he put the glass to his lips and sipped the wine.

Ama was thirsty and drained her glass as if it were water. De Bruyn was amused.

“Slowly,” he said, chuckling and chucking her chin. “A lady drinks her wine like this,” and he demonstrated.

Relaxed by De Bruyn's evident good humour, Ama smiled.

“Oh, that is beautiful,” he said. “Please smile like that again, for me.”

He bared his ugly stained teeth at her and, feeling the glow of the wine, Ama could not help laughing at his expression.

“This conversation is too one-sided,” said De Bruyn. “You haven't opened your mouth once to speak. And, come to think of it, we have not been properly introduced. My name is Pieter. Pieter De Bruyn. But it wouldn't do for people to hear you calling me by my name. You should call me
Mijn Heer
.”

He pointed to his chest and repeated, “Mijn Heer.”

Then he pointed to her and said, “Pamela.”

Ama pointed to herself and said, “Ama.”

Her name had already been changed once and once was enough for her.