The Shallow Seas (13 page)

Leaving the shop, they called next at the Maison de Rouffignac, who Takouhi assured her was the best tailor in Batavia. For men, Oger Frères, but for ladies Rouffignac. He showed the ladies some silks and satins, some plain, some figured. From a pattern book Charlotte selected a dress with a tight-fitting bodice and a deep V into the skirt, which was gathered and fell in smooth sweeps to her feet. She could not decide on the material and wondered aloud if M. de Rouffignac had oriental silks. Unexpectedly, he rose with a “
Oui, oui
” and presented a bolt of white silk crêpe, which carried the faintest design of waves. Japanese silk, he told her, and she felt its heavy delicacy. How fitting, she thought as her mind went to Reimsdijk's wife. Seed pearls, he suggested, to be sewn along the neckline and into the waist.

“Now,” Takouhi said when measurements had been completed, “Tomorrow we shall choose the pearls for your hair, a string arranged Grecian style, à la Josephine, so nice I think. And for the shoes we go to Maison Seuffert.”

Charlotte said nothing. I shall be covered in pearls, she thought, but not the one I truly want to wear.

As they drew up at the Hotel Place Royale, Charlotte recalled that this had been Raffles's own property, his residence when he was in Batavia. She knew that most of the time he stayed at the Palace at Buitenzorg in the cool hills, south of the city. Her thoughts strayed momentarily to Tigran.

Now it was an elegant hotel. As they crossed the threshold into the tiled inner hall, she imagined Olivia Raffles here, perhaps feeling as out of place as herself, though this house had been hers. It seemed odd to be walking through the halls of Olivia's home. After proceeding down a long corridor, they emerged onto a verandah giving onto a vast garden, which Charlotte knew ran down to Koningsplein.

Charlotte had never before experienced such an elegant hotel. The mere idea was somewhat intriguing. In Singapore the only hotel she had entered was on Commercial Square; it was a rather plain and practical place, meant for the sailors who passed through the town. Here, Takouhi had told her, the chef was French, a student of Beauvilliers, the famous gastronome. Takouhi lowered her voice and confided to Charlotte the rumour that he had come to Batavia because of some scandal. He had been in service with Van der Cappellen and Du Bus de Gisignies, but, so the story went, quickly got tired of the Dutch palate of his employers and had been engaged by the Hotel Place Royale with the understanding that he would be in charge of the restaurant. Here food was served
à la russe
, one dish after the other. Charlotte had not heard of this man, but marvelled somewhat at the number of the French who seemed to so thoroughly dominate the couture, cuisine and arts of Batavia.

They were shown to a table at the edge of the terrace by the maître d'hotel, a middle-aged Javanese dressed in a dark-patterned sarong, a white jacket and batik cap. Charlotte was somewhat amused to note that his feet were bare. The owner of the hotel, knowing that Charlotte would soon be married to one of the wealthiest men in Batavia, had immediately paid his respects to both ladies. He was a small man with an impeccable moustache and slightly yellowing teeth. He smelled of lavender water and had the disconcerting habit of sniffing at the end of every sentence. He offered to bring them some wine, with his compliments, but they declined. Charlotte did not wish to see a glass of wine for a long time to come.

The menu arrived, they made their choices, and Charlotte looked around her at this house of Olivia and Thomas Raffles. The other diners threw glances in their direction, and some of the men made no effort at all to contain their stares.

“Takouhi, did you know Olivia Raffles at all?” Charlotte asked as a basket of small hot rolls arrived, followed rapidly by their first course, a soupe à la purée de pois.

“Yes, not well. She spend most time at Buitenzorg or travelling with Thomas. Often sick. Sometimes she come here to this house and wives have to come to see her. I come too because Indies women scared of her. Thomas very kind man to me, very, umm, how to say, gracious.”

“What was she like?”

Takouhi finished her soup. “Quite beautiful, lovely skin, white and pink, like that. Eyes very lovely. Dark, thick hair. Good figure. She like to wear colourful clothes. She speak good Malay, clever. Kind, not bad person I think. We have, how you say, no same experience.”

“Nothing in common?” Charlotte offered.

“Yes, nothing in common, right. English want to change us. I not mind, I think some changes nice, but many hate this. She often with friend, Flora Nightingall, wife of second military commander. When she talk with Flora, very easy. My English not good like now but I see that.”

A grilled white fish arrived with a delicate sauce, and a dish of asparagus. A second waiter spread a quantity of small side dishes around the table.
Sambal
, chilli, fish sauce, small raw vegetables with peanut sauce,
pembek, tempeh
, tall cones of rice arranged in fresh green banana leaves, preserved fruit. The Indies table, it seemed, could never be abandoned, even in a French restaurant.

As they finished their meal, a man walked over and bowed.

Takouhi looked up and smiled. “Oh, Captain Palmer, hello.” she said.

Captain Palmer took her hand gallantly and raised it to his lips. “Miss Manouk, how lovely to see you.”

He turned his gaze to Charlotte. He was entirely charmed. There was no doubt, he thought to himself, the dusky maidens served their purpose, but the skin of a lovely young white woman was heaven to behold. Her creamy bosom was exposed just enough to excite admiration, and her hair was as black as midnight. But her eyes were her feature, blue as Boston skies. Sometimes he missed America, but not, of course, enough to go back. Besides, this creature was beyond anything he had ever seen in America or anywhere else. He felt a dangerous pull, even as she was introduced as Tigran Manouk's fiancée.

After the presentations were made and the exchange of civilities completed, he took his leave with obvious reluctance. Takouhi watched him depart.

Palmer was a ruggedly good-looking man, tall with broad shoulders and grey eyes. Takouhi sensed something dangerous in him that she could not put her finger on. She knew little about him. He had been recommended to her as a tenant for her house in Nordwijk by Gillean Maclaine, with whom he was in business, provisioning the American ships which were often in port.

They departed, with compliments to the chef. He was one of a number, Takouhi told her, French, Chinese and Malay, who would prepare the food for the European reception at the Harmonie Club. Charlotte had begun to realise the stir that this wedding was having on the town.

The heat was now oppressive, and the skies growing heavy. Rain was in the air, and they turned for home, abandoning other plans. As they alighted from the barouche, a wind whipped up quickly. Within seconds, the trees were tossing their heads, and servants rushed around the house, closing windows and doors with rapid clacks. Charlotte knew that once the wind got up, it could whirl vegetation into the air and whisk papers in the house into a dance. Lashing rain would follow in minutes.

8

Tigran caressed the girl's face, motioned her to dress and go. She was pretty and pliant, as the hill girls were, but he had been unable to arouse a single ounce of passion for her. She was probably amazed—disappointed perhaps—but it was not important. For as long as he wanted her, she would stay in the house. He would send her home tomorrow. She was not a slave; she was Sundanese, and she had asked to come to him. They always asked to come to him. To be with the white master was a mark of prestige over all the other girls in the village. But any child of these village girls he would not legitimise. He would see them cared for but nothing more.

He examined his conscience. Charlotte had awakened thoughts he would rather not examine. How many children of his or even his father's were in the villages on the plantation? He had once wondered if he were sometimes sleeping with a half sister and made sure to choose only the darkest girls. It was kinder to leave the children to the
kampong
life than rip them from their mother's arms to a bizarre life in limbo. Everyone accepted this. Most men were happy to marry the women, for they came with dowries from him and could never go back. Village women in Java were not subservient or restricted. Divorce and multiple husbands were not unusual. The women understood before they came to him. And in the villages he was known as a kind man. The women were curious about him. He discouraged pregnancy, made sure Madi, the woman who had helped give birth to him and all his children, always instructed them. If they became pregnant, they told her. If they wished to keep the child he did not argue, and sometimes they stayed with him until they gave birth. Tigran was aroused by pregnancy, the rounding of the belly, the aura a woman had when she was carrying her child, and was happy for them to stay. But he never took them back. Once they had a child with him, they could not return, they knew that. Mia had never come here, nor Surya. When he was here, he was always alone. How many had there been?

With Surya he had been utterly faithful. Surya … his mind fell softly on her. Charlotte was like the very reincarnation of her that the Hindoos believed in. The same slenderness and grace. Only their eyes differed: hers violet blue, Surya's deep black.

He shook his head. He had returned to Mia, briefly, out of loyalty, and there had been no other women. But he had quickly grown tired of her. In the years he had stayed away, her looks had suffered, and he now found repugnant the breath she exhaled from continuous chewing of the betel and the greasy oiliness of her hair. When she became pregnant with their last son, he never went to her again, turning instead to these casual liaisons with the village girls. After Surya, he didn't want another constant in his life to care about, fall in love with, grieve for. Since then there had been dozens of women. And, for a while, there had been Petra.

He thought about her, their words at the ball. They had come together after her old, third husband had died. Two of her husbands had married her virtually on their deathbeds.

He had thought theirs was a love affair, and it had been for him, for a while. He had courted her. She was as lovely as dusk on a river, but elegant, too, and clever. She was one of the many women who had benefited from the brief English rule. Educated and sociable, she was so different to the older Indies women or the native women, with whom he could not share a conversation. They rode together; she was a wonderful horsewoman, full of adventure and fire. He had never met a woman like her. She had cast a spell over him, he saw it now. He had been warned that she was too dangerous, but he had liked her danger. He had not touched her other than to kiss her, and that was enough. She had kisses of fire, full of endless promise. She had the same feelings for him, he had been sure. He had contemplated marriage—the idea of her companionship in his house was a pleasure, and the prospect of her in his bed every night filled him with lust.

Then he had called on her one day, unexpectedly. The maid had gone off, and he had wandered out into her garden. He had heard sounds and gone down one of the alleyways where a pavilion stood in a grove of trees. Two big black men, former African soldiers of the Dutch Army, now her guards, were with her. Her dress lay in wild folds about her waist. One was holding her legs as the other … even now he could not put the words in his mind. Her head was flung back in abandon, her eyes half closed. Her voice was making animal grunts. As the men saw a white man, they froze, and she turned her head momentarily and saw him. He had left immediately. He would not see her, and for months she stayed away. Then gradually, he knew, she had begun to have regrets. When they met finally, she accused him of hypocrisy; she was only doing what every man in Java did with native women. She was sorry he had seen it, but it meant as much to her as Tigran's own liaisons.

But he could not forgive her. A woman did not act like a man. The image stayed with him, and the spell was broken. Now, even as he announced his marriage, she wanted him back, in her bed, she said. She would be his mistress. But everything had changed, he had told her. I love Charlotte; I will never want another woman. Not you Petra, not any more.

And everything
had
changed. Love changed everything; it was as simple as that. He had submitted to its power as a knight submits to his queen. He would wait for Charlotte to be his wife. He looked at the ring on his hand. His vows in the church would be sacred. He could hardly wait to make them.

His thoughts flew to her. He felt her absence as a shadowy space, a physical void which she filled with light. But he knew he had to be out of her life for a while, especially whilst the wedding preparations were underway. He had left everything in Takouhi's hands.

He went to the window. How much should he tell her? Would she think him a monster? It had all seemed so normal, so natural before he had thought of taking a wife. Every man in the Indies had the same life. Now he saw how it might look in her eyes. She was European. She had accepted Mia and his concubines in Batavia. What would she think of this? But why should she know? It was over.

He dressed, for the room was growing cold. He threw some logs onto the pile of glowing embers, moving it with the iron until it blazed into life, crackling and throwing starry sparks into the air.

Charlotte would surely grow to love life in the hills. As soon as they were married he would bring her here, to the cool air, away from the sweltering plains. After the baby was born, he would teach her to ride. He had just the pony for her, gentle and sweet-natured. They would walk on the high slopes where the flowers were like stars. And the views over the volcanoes, wreathed in threads of cloud, would bewitch her. A sentiment of the utmost tenderness flooded him, occupied his entire body, and he suddenly felt a moment of weakness, as if love could melt bones, and threw out his hand to grip the bedpost.