The Shallow Seas (8 page)

Tigran explained that this was the headman, grandfather of his childhood friend, who was nicknamed Petruk after one of Arjuna's wise and loyal servants in the
wayang
stories. Petruk's great-great grandmother had been brought from Bali, they thought, but this history was lost in the mists of time. They were not Mohammedans, Tigran added; they still kept to the Balinese ways. Petruk and Tigran had grown up together at Brieswijk. His mother had been Tigran's wet nurse and had taken care of him. Petruk was out now, he said, probably in the fields.

Actually, Tigran was relatively sure that his friend was engaged in a cockfight somewhere out of sight. Petruk loved his pretty brown-and-white fighting cock more than he loved his wife. Cockfighting was farmed out to the Chinese as part of their monopoly on gambling taxes, but Tigran closed his eyes to the practice on his lands. Petruk and his family, he added, had been freed long ago and chose to stay and live here. Petruk's father was long dead, and when his grandfather passed on, Petruk would be the headman.

Charlotte was rather lost in all these explanations, but she could not ask questions as the headman ushered them to a highly ornate pavillion built out over the river on fat teak stilts. The headman appeared flustered. Tigran was calming him; he explained to Charlotte that their visit had been unexpected. It was quite naughty of him, for the headman was unprepared.

Charlotte tried hurriedly to inspect this lovely building, but before she could take a long look, Tigran touched her arm and whispered for her to take off her shoes. As they stepped onto the highly polished floor, Charlotte saw a large number of instruments gathered on a raised dais to one side. This, she knew from Takouhi's instructions, was the
gamelan
, the Javanese orchestra. Today it was silent, but she knew now that she had heard the strains of the
gamelan
from here as they had set out from the house.

Chairs were rushed in from somewhere in the village—heaven knew where, Charlotte thought—and placed in the verandah. Two tiny young women, pretty and gaily dressed in tight-fitting bodices and batik sarongs, brought tea and a silver and brass
sireh
set. Kneeling, they deftly took the leaf of the betel tree in their long, supple fingers, cut a slice of areca nut, added lime paste and condiments from the little containers on the tray, rolled the quids expertly and handed one, first to Tigran, then to Charlotte. Both girls wore hibiscus flowers in their hair and cast deep, coquettish glances at Tigran. Charlotte, remembering Takouhi's words about the village girls' liking for the white master, could not quite dismiss this as fancy.

Tigran hardly appeared to notice them. Their lips were stained a pinkish red, from the
sireh
, Charlotte knew, with a mounting apprehension. Tigran took the quid of
sireh
and placed it in his cheek, holding it there and nodded to Charlotte to do the same. She had seen the Indian money-lenders in Singapore chew on this
sireh
, noticed the reddened lips and teeth of the Chinese Nonyas and the Malays but had never thought of trying it herself. Truthfully, she thought it quite disgusting: the red mouth, the red spittle. Now she was expected to put it in her mouth! Tigran saw her hesitation and murmured to her,

“Put it inside the cheek only, do not chew. After the visit we can get rid of it, but not to accept is an insult. Sorry, Charlotte; I should have warned you.”

Tigran looked so crestfallen that Charlotte screwed up her courage and quickly, without allowing another thought to enter her head, put the quid inside her cheek.

The headman was squatting in front of them, chewing his own wad with obvious pleasure. A period of silence ensued as tea was offered. Charlotte thought she might choke. The taste was everything at once; bitter and sweet, fizzingly hot, peppery and yet tangy with tinges of chocolate mixed with what she could only imagine would be the taste of soil after rain. Even though she was not chewing, she could feel the wad become a grainy mash, sticking to her teeth and gums. She had begun to salivate and swallow, breaking out into a sweat. As Tigran and the headman chatted amiably, she thought she might gag and put her hand on his arm. He turned and saw her face, rose and brought a brass spittoon to her. She looked at him, distressed, and spat out the mixture as delicately as was possible under the circumstances, wiping her mouth with her handkerchief. He, seeing her embarrassment, shielded her from the prying eyes of the villagers who were seated on the ground in front of the pavilion. Then, turning back to the headman, he spat out his wad, noisily, distracting the attention from her.

Tigran handed Charlotte the tea and she drank, clearing her mouth. When he saw her relief, he sighed and rose, taking his leave quickly.

Regaining their shoes, Tigran looked so serious that Charlotte said, “I am well, Tigran, but perhaps I should not try that again.”

“I am sorry, Charlotte. I don't enjoy this
makan sireh
, either, but I am used to it. If you live here, it cannot be avoided. But there is no need for you to do it again. We have done our duty to the
kampong
. I have invited them to our wedding celebrations. They have had a look at this white madam who I intend to marry and now can gossip for weeks. The headman will inform all the other villages on the estate.”

He looked shyly down.

“I hope you do not mind me showing you off.”

Charlotte took his hand as she climbed back into the carriage. “Tigran, I do not mind anything you do, other than offer me another betel quid! I, too, want to feel at home here.”

Her words affected him like a heady wine, and he repaid her with a smile of delight. Tigran climbed into the carriage and took the reins. He hesitated slightly, then turned to her.

“Can you drive, Charlotte?” he asked.

She was taken aback. Actually she had never driven a carriage, was somewhat afraid of the horses. Tigran put the reins in her hands and covered them with his.

“Together, yes?”

He clucked softly and shook the reins. The ponies moved gently away, and Charlotte drew a nervous breath. Within a few minutes he had taught her how to guide them, slow them, urge them on. She had not thought it so easy and laughed with delight. Tigran withdrew his hands from hers, and with an increasing confidence Charlotte drove the ponies on the path to the chapel, which led along the edge of the forest and ascended gently in a long sweep to the white building which gradually came into sight over the rise. Though she laughingly begged him to help her pull the ponies to a halt, he refused, smiling, and when she mastered this little skill and the ponies stopped, she gave a little cry of triumph and turned to him. The sight of her face flushed with delight pulled at Tigran's heart, and he itched to take her into his arms, but he quickly leapt down from the carriage.

The chapel was a perfect jewel of simplicity and elegance: a white building with a Dutch gable and two stout teak doors. On one door was carved the image of the Virgin and Child, Mary's cloak wrapping the baby Jesus. On the other stood St. Gregory the Illuminator, first Primate of Armenia, bedecked in flowing robes and wearing his mitre of office. Charlotte could see that these images had been carved by Javanese craftsmen, for they had the elongated features of the elegant heroes of the
wayang
. This merely added to their charm.

Seeing her run her fingers lightly over the carvings, he said, “The Javanese carvers, as Mohammedans, are forbidden to create the human image. It is an offence against Tuan Allah, who created man in perfection. I understand little of the subject, but have been told that when the Mohammedan faith came to Java it found stubborn resistance from ancient Hindoo traditions. With time and a little wisdom, the religion was subtly altered to allow the Javanese their traditional arts, the music of the
gamelan
and the shadow world of the
wayang
in particular. Thus were created the elongated, grotesque features of the
wayang
, which resemble but little the true features of humans but which stand as their shadowy spirits. I cannot speak to the truth of this, but that is what I have been told.”

They entered the church. Through the windows of lead and clear glass in the chancel and the nave shone a soft light on the teak wood pews and the cool tiled floor. On the altar stood a cross inlaid with gold and lapis lazuli, on the wall a painting of the Ark sitting atop a mountain.

“We are the descendants of Noah,” Tigran said. “This picture reminds us that Mount Ararat lies at the heart of our country, that we were the first Christian nation on earth.”

Charlotte recalled the Armenian church in Singapore and wondered aloud if George had visited here.

“Yes, of course,” said Tigran, “but I think George's building is much finer than this. He had more authoritative guides among the priests in Singapore. My father built this simple chapel when he moved here, for the Armenian community. He kept to the Dutch style of the house, for he was, in almost everything but religion, a Dutchman. We are few, no more than fifty in Batavia. But the Armenians are a people used to hardship.
A small tribe whose wars are fought and lost, whose structures have crumbled and whose prayers are no more answered
. My father used to say that nothing can destroy them utterly, however, for when two of them meet anywhere in the world, they create a new Armenia. This chapel was a centre for this ‘new Armenia'. There is another church south of Koningsplein now, built by Miriam's husband, but we shall be married here.”

Charlotte was touched by this poetic articulation of his people's troubles, their stoical survival against all odds. She viewed with renewed eyes the church and the motives behind its construction. It was a tiny bulwark against annihilation standing in the distant East, so far from the mother land, keeping a candle burning in this dark history.

Tigran led her to the graves of his father and mother, of three babies lost to them very young and of his father's concubine, Miriam's mother, who had been baptised and laid to rest here. Charlotte was curious why Takouhi's mother was not buried there. Tigran explained that Takouhi's mother had been Javanese, of the Mohammedan faith. Really their father should not have married her, for she never converted. He finished and began to turn away, but Charlotte put her hand on his arm, silently requesting to know more. Tigran smiled at her curiosity, glad that she was showing an interest in his family.

“She was a Javanese princess from the Kraton in Surakarta in the eastern part of the island who was given to my father. As I understand, this should not have happened. Takouhi knows the whole story. You will have to ask her. In any case, when she died, the court took her back to be buried in the royal cemetery.”

He led Charlotte to a corner of the graveyard where thick gardenia bushes grew in profusion and filled the air with a heady scent. He showed her a little carved stone shrine which stood on a plinth just outside the fence, wound about with a faded, chequered black–and-white cloth. Flowers and woven grasses adorned it. Charlotte looked up at him.

“This is for Surya and the children,” he said. “They are not buried here,” he told her, reading her mind. “Surya was Balinese; it is not Java, it is an island, an island unlike any other in the archipelago. It has kept to its ancient traditions of the Hindoo and the Boodha, driven there by the spread of the Mohammedan faith which moved slowly through Java hundreds of years ago. Every week, someone from the
kampong
comes to put flowers,” he said. “Many former slaves are Balinese. A great number of slaves in Batavia have always been Balinese. I think they like this little piece of Bali. My father would not have allowed it, but I am happy it is here.”

Tigran plucked a gardenia bloom and placed it gently on the little shrine.

“Everything I loved about her was in her Balinese ways, her looks, her grace. I didn't want to change any of that. The Hindoo burial is by fire. So she was cremated together with the babies in her arms, and I put their ashes into the sea.”

Charlotte felt a sob rise and controlled herself with difficulty. The way he had said this, so simply, the way he had silently placed the flower on the shrine, spoke of the deepness of his feelings for this young girl, dead at twenty, the same age as herself.

Tigran moved quickly away. He did not want Charlotte to grieve over this. He had spent three years doing that, filled with desolation and quiet madness. As he watched their funeral pyre, he had thought he might lose his mind, and when he had placed their ashes on the ocean he had wanted to slip over the side with them, quietly sink down into that deep dark watery place, forget Surya's flowing hair and dark eyes, forget the gurgling laughter of his little girls, drown love. Only restraining hands had prevented him, the hands of Petruk, his friend and Takouhi's Balinese manservant. Takouhi had come, but he had not wanted to share this moment with anyone else. When the grief had finally, slowly, lessened, and he could breathe, he had sworn never to feel like that again. But here was Charlotte, so like Surya, though he would never say it: light-skinned, dark-haired, lovely and young, filled with promise and light.

They moved to the stone of Miriam's daughter, Maria, who had lived but three short years, next to Meda's grave. Fresh leaves and flowers adorned all the graves, but the greatest number had been spread over these. Charlotte saw, half covered by grass and earth, a rope chain connecting all the children's gravestones, joining them, it seemed, so that they would have companions in the afterlife. Charlotte knew that Takouhi came here almost every day. They stood looking down at these little mounds, and Charlotte felt her heart in her throat, remembering Meda, her pretty face, her lovely voice. It wasn't fair. This lovely child. Her thoughts fled to George, alone, lonely, travelling in Europe, missing Takouhi and grieving for Meda, wanting desperately for him to come home. Tigran moved behind Charlotte and put his arms around her, laying his hand on her waist.