The Two Hearts of Kwasi Boachi: A Novel (46 page)

The day after Cornelius had confided such painful memories to me he would seize every opportunity to demean me in public. But I must admit that I was not always well disposed myself. Our twisted relationship brought out a streak of malice in me that even I found surprising. If he became too hostile in the presence of others, I would seek revenge. I knew him well after so many years, and his confidences had shown me his weaknesses. In his work, too, I knew exactly where his faults lay. So the next time he lost track of his argument and fell silent in mid-sentence during a meeting with his superiors, I would ask him loudly to sum up his statement so I could enter it in the minutes. Or I would embarrass him in a gathering with high officials—preferably in the presence of a native prince—by suddenly inquiring after his father, “Baron Charon,” which would make him sweat profusely. When a native family came to us complaining of food shortages in the kampung, I would reassure them that Cornelius himself had known poverty and would find it very difficult to refuse assistance. In the company of Hollanders I could cause him considerable distress by mentioning his place of birth; there would always be someone who took up the subject, so that de Groot would end up floundering in his own web of lies. It was childish of me I know, but for a long time my acts of rebellion kept our relationship, although strained, on an even keel. Indeed, for a whole year and a half we managed to avoid coming to blows.

On the way from the harbour of Amboina to Tanah Tinggi I rode behind my master in silence. The cut on the back of my hand was so painful that I had difficulty holding the reins. At one point de Groot slowed down and glanced at my bloodstained handkerchief. I groaned and cringed quite dramatically, but he had no intention of offering an apology.

After crossing a district of the town where many buildings had suffered serious damage during one of Amboina’s frequent earthquakes, we continued along the river until we came upon a house constructed out of solid material except for the roof, which was thatched. The veranda looked out over the road and the grassed area on the other side. Our arrival at the assistant resident’s home went unnoticed. We had to call out several times before a shuffling servant appeared. His master was out, he said, and his mistress had left in the carriage to fetch some guests from the harbour. We were shown into the parlour, where we were served glasses of sugar-water. I tipped some of the cool liquid on to my bandage demonstratively. Cornelius pressed his glass against his forehead and shut his eyes, as if to say that after all his travails he was now suffering a bout of migraine.

Half an hour later we heard the clatter of a vehicle crossing the bridge. Next to the driver, under the leather hood of the open landau, we spotted a somewhat bedraggled figure, who waved at us cheerfully. The space behind the lady passenger was filled with our suitcases and packages, on top of which sat the young servant boy from the jetty, dripping wet but triumphant. Catching sight of us as we came out on to the veranda he grinned from ear to ear. He mimicked his mistress and waved cheekily, with both arms, as though unaware that he had been the cause of our dispute. I felt a niggling regret that I had come between him and Cornelius.

The assistant resident’s wife alighted briskly. She did not seem to notice the mud and hurried to welcome us, shaking the raindrops from her head. Cornelius whispered that she was Mrs. Douwes Dekker and a baroness to boot—the proximity of aristocracy always excited him—but social niceties were evidently unimportant to her. She unbuttoned her cape and extended her hand warmly.

“Mr. de Groot! What a muddle! We had not expected you today, I must confess, because of the weather. When the rains get as heavy as this the locals tend to avoid going out in their boats.”

“You know how it is, madam. For the natives it is of no consequence whether they go fishing today or tomorrow. Each day is the same to them. But for us it is different. We are on an extended tour, and therefore make every effort to adhere to our schedule as closely as possible.”

Our hostess inspected the mud on her boots and wiped her heels on the grass. “Actually, my husband and I have always found it rewarding to observe the native customs as much as we can,” she said casually. “We benefit from their experience. And besides, it saves us from inadvertently giving offence, and also from peril during stormy weather. But thank goodness you have arrived safely. And who is your friend?”

She turned to face me. I hid my left hand behind my back, thinking it unwise to draw attention to my injury.

Before I had time to say my name, Cornelius broke in with: “This gentleman here, madam, is my secretary. He will not inconvenience you, have no fear.”

“Indeed, I see no reason why he should,” she said, ignoring Cornelius’s imperious tone and keeping her gaze fixed on me. “And how did you fare on your journey, Mr. . . . ?”

“Boachi,” Cornelius said gruffly, “Aquasi Boachi.”

“I have survived all my travels this far, madam.”

“Then you will have plenty of stories to entertain us with this evening. We have been living here for some months now, and are sorely lacking in diversion. I am sorry that my husband is unable to be here to welcome you. He had urgent business to discuss with the governor at Batu Gadja.” She indicated a large house on the slope of a hill nearby.

“Not anything serious I hope?”

“I shouldn’t think so.” She took my arm, saying: “Come, I will show you your rooms.”

“Mr. Boachi will sleep with the servants.”

“Nonsense.” She hesitated, thinking Cornelius might be joking.

“And he will eat with them too. That is our custom,” de Groot continued.

“Well sir, if we were to observe all the colonial conventions here, then . . .”

“Surely you do not allow native customs to overrule those of your fellow countrymen?”

“We keep an open mind, Mr. de Groot, so that we may act sensibly.” Her smile was so charming that Cornelius let the matter rest for the time being. He glanced at his boots and scraped the mud off his heels.

“All my life,” he said with a note of vexation in his voice, “I have known that each man has his rightful place in the world. Maintaining rank is essential in the colonies. It makes life so much easier.”

“Our lives maybe, but what about our souls?”

In the meantime our luggage had been dragged to the veranda by the servant-boy. The latter resumed his guard duty by perching cross-legged on top of a suitcase. Cornelius motioned him to get off his property. When the boy did not respond de Groot stepped forward to chase him away.

Our hostess took the opportunity to draw me aside, saying: “Come along, Mr. Boachi, you shall have the room in which François Valentijn stayed. Have you ever met him? A man of great scholarship. My husband will tell you all about him . . . Are you familiar with our seventeenth century at all?”

That evening Mrs. Douwes Dekker herself came to my room to call me for dinner, as though she was afraid I would not dare come. Together we entered the small dining room, where Cornelius was chatting to her husband. The appearance of the hostess obliged Cornelius to rise from his seat. My presence did not please him, I could see that, but he wished me good evening nonetheless. The rain had stopped at last and a welcome breeze came in through the screen door, refreshing us all.

“Does your religion permit you to raise a glass with us?”

“I was baptized a Christian, madam,” I replied.

“Indeed,” she said, and signalled to a servant to bring me a glass, which her husband filled with cool claret. Cornelius accepted every offer of more wine, which the assistant resident poured generously although he drank little himself.

Douwes Dekker was friendly but taciturn, as if his thoughts were elsewhere. He did not look very strong, and his melancholy air suggested that he was languishing. He mentioned that his health, already undermined by his years in the tropics, had deteriorated further in the short time he had been in office at Amboina. Moreover, in the same period he had been bereaved of his parents, sister and brother and other loved ones. He was homesick and had been trying for some time to obtain a furlough.

“Thirteen years in the tropics,” his wife went on, “signifies recurrent bouts of fever. Infections. Sleep disturbances. Constant worries.”

On that very day, however, Douwes Dekker had received encouraging news. He revealed that he had just been granted three months’ leave to plead his cause in Batavia. His wife was greatly relieved, and sat beside him quietly holding his hand for a long while. It pleased me to see them thus. In those days I had grown unaccustomed to domestic happiness.

Douwes Dekker asked me where I came from. I gave him a brief explanation of the motive for my removal to Holland, which astonished him. He remembered meeting two Africans several years before, when he was serving as commissioner to the resident of Bagelen. They said they had come from West Africa, and seemed quite proud to have served in the Dutch colonial army. However, when their term ended they chose to live out their days as civilians. They had settled at the mouth of the river Progo, where they eked out a living with the production of salt. I agreed that these men must have been among the recruits procured by my father.

Dinner was served. We took our seats at table and as I was obliged to eat with cutlery I could no longer hide my injured hand. I had applied a fresh bandage and tried to cover it with my sleeve, but the wound ached and I had difficulty holding my fork.

“It is nothing serious,” I said, but my hostess insisted on inspecting my hand.

“What a dreadful cut, how did that happen?”

“How now, Prince Aquasi,” Cornelius slurred. “Been clumsy again?”

“It is nothing, really.” To prove my point I grabbed my fork and speared a morsel of food.

“So why make a fuss? Our host was telling us such an interesting story,” Cornelius said, after which he dominated the conversation for the next half hour, boring us all with his account of our findings in the wilds of Madura, where the Dutch had long been prospecting for minerals without success.

Mrs. Douwes Dekker turned to address me. “This morning I had no idea that we would be dining with a prince. Cook has done her best, but as you see, we have nothing special on our menu. Come, tell me some more about your people.”

I was embarrassed by her attention, and watched Cornelius out of the corner of my eye. He had no intention of ending his monologue, but the table was large and he continued unperturbed. I told her my story and she listened attentively. She straightened her shoulders and interrupted me only once, when her husband ordered another bottle to be opened to replenish Cornelius’s glass yet again.

“I must advise you all,” she said with a smile, so that no one would take offence, “that drink goes to the head faster here than elsewhere.”

The truth of her words was proved almost immediately by Cornelius, whose drunken rambling had unleashed one of his favourite anecdotes about Madura. I had heard him tell the story on several occasions, although never in the presence of a lady.

He recounted the following experience. Impressed by the interest Cornelius had shown in his lands, the chief of Bunbungan had sought to draw the Dutchman’s attention to his eldest daughter, in the hope of marrying her off in exchange for certain privileges pertaining to the administration of the region. Cornelius had not broken off negotiations forthwith, but played for time so that the young lady would be sent to his rooms for approval. As usual, he paused at this point, in order to whet his listeners’ appetite. I felt the blood rush to my cheeks and did not dare meet the eyes of our hostess.

“Next morning,” Cornelius went on, throwing a meaningful look at Douwes Dekker, as though they were alone and united in spirit, “I sent her back to her father with the message that I could not see why the Madura maiden was so highly esteemed. That I had received a better love massage in the slums of Batavia, and that a Dutchman does not exchange his integrity for a few spasms.”

He was so pleased with himself that it took a while for him to notice that no one was laughing. Douwes Dekker rang for the servant.

“May I remind you,” he said, “that you are our guest. We are not accustomed to barrack-room talk.”

When it finally dawned on Cornelius that he had committed a grave social offence he looked so crestfallen that our hostess tried to rescue him by broaching another subject, but she soon ran out of things to say.

“I only mentioned the incident,” Cornelius floundered on, “by way of illustration—how to nip corruption in the bud, what?” No one spoke.

“Hardly respectful,” I hissed. Cornelius turned his eyes on me.

“Not respectful?” he echoed, in a low menacing voice. “If anyone lacks respect it is you.” He jumped to his feet, spoiling for a fight. I did the same, whereupon our hostess came into action. She rose from the table as if dinner were over and took my arm.

“My dear Prince,” she said, “we must do something about your poor hand. Come along, we’ll get the house-boy to give you a fresh bandage.”

She drew back my chair and swept me out of the room. “One cannot be too careful. The climate is most inflammatory.”

Her house-boy turned out to be the lad who had been the cause of our altercation on the jetty. He brought clean water and a small chest containing assorted herbs. I eyed him suspiciously. He squatted on the ground before me and resolutely pulled the handkerchief off the wound.