The Shallow Seas (14 page)

He walked, shakily, to the desk in the corner of the room and took out the letter.

It had come to his warehouse in the Kota a week before. A letter addressed to Charlotte at the Manouk offices. He would not have known; the writing was in Chinese. It had come via one of the Chinese sugar trading houses with her name and his written in alphabet on the front. He had no idea what it said or who had passed it to him. He had looked at it for a long time. Then he had put it away for two days. Then he had called his office chief and asked him to find a man who could translate from Chinese to Dutch or English or Malay and who was discreet. Two days after that a translation had arrived in excellent Dutch. He felt absolutely no guilt at reading the letter. Charlotte was betrothed to him, and it was his duty to protect her from harm.

Now he opened it again.
You are my heart. I am dying every day from missing you
.

Tigran looked up and out of the window. The evening was drawing in rapidly, and the hills had become indistinct, lying like dark, hump-backed giants against the violet sky.

You are my heart. I am dying every day from missing you
. These were his own feelings. He had known instantly who had written the letter and looked down to the end, but there was no name. She would know, this man knew very well, she would know who the letter was from. This was the man whose name she had called, but he had forgotten it. He searched his memory, but it would not come. Chinese names were all so alike and unmemorable.

He looked down.

Lao Tzu said, “to be loved deeply gives you strength, to love deeply gives you courage.” We have strength and courage. Our love is deep. You live in my skin
.”

Tigran frowned and stared at the letter. His first thought was how on earth this man had imagined it would ever reach Charlotte. Then he realised the man did not know Charlotte would be married, knew only she was alone and far away. He felt the truth of the words trying to reach out over the dark ocean, through the mist of unshared language to a woman he loved, wanted to reassure, give peace in separation. He was certain the Chinese man did not know she was pregnant.

You live in my skin
. He curled the letter in his hand into a tiny ball and threw it into the fire, watching, eyes narrowed, as flames consumed it.

He sat at the desk and began to write to Robert, Charlotte's brother. Tigran knew that Charlotte had written to her brother when she arrived in Batavia. He had made sure he read the letter before it was sent. He had felt a momentary hesitation, but his need to know had overcome everything. It contained nothing more than reassurances of her safe arrival, her affection for him. She had not mentioned his proposal.

Now he gave Robert news of their forthcoming marriage, inviting him to the wedding if at all possible, though he knew Robert would not be able to come. He sent news of her health, of her well-being, of the inheritance he had settled on her. He was not sure if Robert knew she was pregnant and did not mention this. It would be better if everybody thought this child was his. He intended the birth to be here in the hills. The society of Batavia might do their sums on their fingers, but they would imagine only that he had been unable to resist the temptation of sleeping with his beautiful wife before the wedding. Then he added a final sentence.

Charlotte is much improved and slowly forgetting her past experiences in Singapore. I think you understand my meaning. However, should she seek news of the person she has left it might be best not to lend encouragement to her enquiries. I leave it up to you, of course, but we both have her best interest in our hearts. I'm sure Charlotte joins me in sending good wishes and news of our coming nuptials to all her acquaintance in Singapore
.

He sealed the letter. He was annoyed he had not written when he was in Batavia, but she distracted him there. He would send it by the first ship to Singapore. At the same time he would make an announcement in the newspaper.

He dropped into a chair before the fire and contemplated the flames.

At the same moment in Brieswijk, Charlotte, too, sat composing a letter to her brother. The time had come, she realised, to announce her wedding. She sent news of her health, Takouhi and Tigran, the splendid house he owned, of which she would soon be mistress. She asked for news of her acquaintance. She described the society of Batavia, told him of the ball with the Governor-General, the French shops and the prospect of visiting the French Opera. Now she sat, contemplating the page, wondering if she dared ask about Zhen. On a separate page she began a few lines:
it would ease my heart to have news … to know he is well. Robert, I should be happy to have news … Please, Robert, when you see Zhen give him my fondest regards
. This last she crossed out vehemently. Perhaps later she would dare to raise this subject. At the moment, it made her head whirl. And to ask for news of him in a letter announcing her marriage … She shook her head and finished the letter with words of affection.

From the drawer of her bedside table, she took out the simple box. The necklace from Zhen lay on a bed of old wizened nutmegs, and she inhaled the odour of the sweet spice. It took her back to the old orchard where he had first kissed her, that kiss like an alchemist's potion, altering her in an unknown and profound way. She fastened it around her neck. A small white pearl, round like the moon, in a silver mount of filigree shaped like the upturned eaves of a Chinese temple, on intricately braided and thickly entwined red silk threads. It was not expensive like the diamonds that Tigran offered her, but Zhen had given it to her when she knew he had nothing. It was as if it had some magical power, for as it lay on her skin she saw him, in the mirror, behind her, so real she gasped and turned. But no one was there. She put her head in her hands. She wanted so desperately to see him. Surely they would meet again. When would this subside?

Charlotte took up a book of poetry. Her eyes stopped on Byron.

Still Hope, breathing peace through the grief-swollen breast
,

Will whisper, Our meeting we yet may renew:

With this dream of deceit, half our sorrow's represt
,

Nor taste we the poison, of Love's last adieu!

She threw the book onto the bed. A dream of deceit. Love's last adieu. She took the pearl in her hand. Would they never meet again? Was it impossible even to have news of him, to know he was well? She crawled onto the bed and began to cry.

9

Charlotte put the finishing touches to her toilette. The maid had overfussed with her hair, and she pulled it out, tying it more loosely. Charlotte was a little afraid of the maids and rarely dared complain or change anything they did. She was not used to servants and she found herself altered. Somehow she had lost a certain confidence in herself. She recognised it but could do little about it. When she talked of this to Takouhi, her friend just waved her hand and told her to do as she liked with the maids. With Tigran away and Takouhi so engrossed in the wedding plans and other business of her own, Charlotte found herself alone and lonely.

She had wandered down to the river in the early morning. It took half an hour to reach the bank, but the heat was not yet up. She enjoyed meandering along the road lined with the spreading crowns and nomadic roots of these mighty
saman
trees. She knew this type of tree as a “rain tree” and had discovered it was the goddess Liberalitas of the jungle. It shaded man, beast and plants from the burning sun, but on cloudy days and from dusk to dawn its leaves curled into tight little wads, allowing rain to fall to the ground below and nourish the earth. Birds, small lizards and tiny creatures nested in its capacious nooks and harvested its bounty. In every cranny its body was benevolent host to dozens of sprouting thick green leaves living off the watery bark. Orchids and spidery ferns lovingly hugged its every limb. It oozed a sweet honeydew for sap-loving insects, made into nectar honey by the villagers. In flower it was covered in thousands of fragrant pink and scarlet blooms like small fan-shaped feather dusters standing up from the leaves in a crown, beauteous to the eye and nose, food for monkeys which ran about its height and nectar for moths and bees. The fruit, in long black lumpy pods, was bursting with sticky pulp which was sweet and edible and tasted like licorice. The children sucked the pods, and the villagers made a tea from them. From the infused bark they brewed a medicine for the stomach. The beautiful wood was used for boats, furniture and carvings. Small rodents and the deer in the park feasted on its fallen pods, and its green leaves and seeds were nutritious fodder for the other domestic animals. To walk beneath these trees was to know in some small way the infinite gift of the forest to all creatures who dwelt within its life-giving compass.

They seemed to give her succour too, and the sickness Charlotte felt when she rose had abated. At the river bank she turned to look for the orchard which Riejmsdijk had laid out for his wife. The bathing pavilion was much further up the bank, surrounded by the Arjuna trees. Near the Japanese bridge, however, she found signs of the garden. A grove of gnarled trees stood back from the river, and underneath them a broken and tumble-down wooden hut, its thatch gone, only clinging in places to the corners of the roof, like whispery hairs on an old man's head. The trees must have tried to flower, for though now full of leaves, the ground was covered in a mat of fading white blossom. Bamboo poles supported the leaning branches of these trees, now straggling and parched. Charlotte presumed that these were trees from Japan which had not grown well, so far from their native soil.

Like them, Charlotte thought, reflecting on the early deaths of Riejmsdijk's wife and children. A stone lantern covered in creepers and moss stood, just visible, to one side of the hut. She cleared it a little and saw its distinctive roof shape, like the Chinese temples in Singapore, like the silver mount on her pearl necklace. She saw a stone bench and sat down, overcome with momentary sorrow: for herself, for Zhen, for this Japanese girl who had been transplanted to another soil and failed to thrive. She felt tears welling, and shook her head angrily.

“Stop crying, Kitt,” she said to herself. “I am so sick of this endless crying, so tired of feeling sick.”

Charlotte knew that this sickness should go away in a few weeks, but at the moment it seemed interminable.

She looked into the mirror. She was pale, and there were dark circles under her eyes. She applied a little whitening, a touch of rouge, then rose and made her way downstairs to where the carriage was waiting. This evening she and Takouhi were going to the Shouwberg to see the French theatre troupe perform
Hernani, ou L'honneur Castillan
, the famous play by Victor Hugo which had caused riots in Paris.

As they drew up at the theatre, Charlotte peered at this building, with its Empire architecture, a sense of excitement building. She had never been to a theatre before. It was thrilling; the sight of ladies and gentlemen dressed in their finery climbing the marble steps, the buzz of conversation about this play which had become notorious, the faint sounds of an orchestra tuning instruments. Exuberant baroque mirrors lined the walls of the entrance hall, reflecting the crowd endlessly around the room. Nathanial Fox hailed them and picked his way through the throng. They left the crush and made their way to the red-velvet-lined seats to one side, set away and slightly above the rest. Wilhelmina Merkus had lent them the Governor-General's booth for the evening.

The room was hot, and every fan was in motion, like the incessant wings of hovering moths. Oil lights at the foot and to the sides of the stage threw brightness onto the dark blue curtain, but the rest of the room was in semi-darkness. Ushers with lamps showed couples to their seats. Charlotte was impatient for the play to begin, fanning herself rapidly. She watched the audience buzzing with conversation and then, suddenly, the orchestra fell silent. Three loud raps resounded from the stage. A hush fell on the crowd.

The curtain rose, and Charlotte held her breath. A room appeared, a bedroom. Near the bed, in the middle of the room stood a table with a lamp. An ancient crone dressed in black had risen from a chair and begun to pull crimson curtains across a window when a knock was heard at a concealed door. It sounded loud in the hushed theatre, and Charlotte jumped. The crone stopped and listened.

A second knock, louder than the first.

“
Serait-ce déjà lui
,” the old crone muttered, surprised

A third knock, then a fourth,

“
Vite, ouvrons
.

She went to the door, opened it and a tall man entered, a hat shading his eyes, his coat collar masking his face. He threw off his coat and hat and stood revealed in a rich Castillian costume of velvet and silk.

The old woman gasped and took a step back. “
Quoi, seigneur Hernani, ce n'est pas vous
?
Au feu!
”

Charlotte was spellbound. This was Don Carlos, the King, who had come to seduce Doña Sol, though she was betrothed to Ruy Gomez, her old uncle. She was expecting not Don Carlos but the man she truly loved, the bandit Hernani. The king bribed the crone to hide him in a cupboard, and as the door closed a young woman entered from the left of the stage, dressed in white. Charlotte gasped; she was incredibly beautiful, her voice plaintive.

“
Ah je crains quelque malheur

Hernani devrait être ici
.”

Then a knock came at the door, and Hernani entered, wearing a great hat and coat, a cuirasse of leather, a sword and a knife in his broad belt. He was a figure of romance, young and vigorous, though Charlotte thought him not nearly handsome enough.

Doña Sol ran to him, her love evident in the way she said his name. His love obvious in the poetry he whispered to her

From that moment Charlotte was utterly caught up in the play. Star-crossed lovers: Romeo and Juliet, Charlotte and Zhen. Hernani came into the power of Ruy Gomez, who spared his life but extracted a pledge that Hernani must take his own life on hearing the sound of Ruy Gomez's hunting horn. Hernani was found to be a noble, and his rank restored by the king, who had abandoned his ardour for Doña Sol and given her to her beloved. The audience breathed a sigh of relief. The lovers were married and came into each other's arms. Joy was all around, when suddenly the fatal hunting horn sounded. Ruy Gomez, thwarted, was implacable and demanded Hernani's death, placed before him a poisoned cup. The audience gasped, and tears sprang to Charlotte's eyes. Her thoughts flew to Zhen. Surely he would not obey. But honour was at stake, and he took up the fatal chalice. Doña Sol threw herself at his feet.