Yet Maggie, Paul’s new bride, seemed to see things differently. Stretched out on a chaise longue, she stirred the air with a Chinese fan, since the one on the ceiling failed dismally to mitigate the heat. A monsoon seemed to be announcing its imminent arrival. The air was incredibly humid—exactly the right weather for someone suffering from skin problems, but hell on earth for his wife, who felt at her best in cool London parlors and refused to go without a corset beneath her clothing even in the tropics.
“I could tell from the ship that it’s really beautiful here,” Maggie replied with a forced little smile. “But I’d prefer it if we were still in the cabin on board. This heat is unbearable. I’d have to abandon all sense of propriety to make it more bearable.”
Paul laughed. “Oh, darling, you’ll soon get used to the climate here. After a couple of weeks you’ll not want to leave, I assure you. How can gray England compare to this sparkling jewel? Have you seen the colorful garb of the people around the harbor? The merchants? A rainbow of color as far as the eye can see! An oriental bazaar couldn’t be more magnificent.”
Maggie smiled affectionately at him, but Paul knew she was anything other than delighted that he had accepted the invitation of the governor here. The ball season was just beginning in London, and she must feel completely cut off from the society in which she shone.
But Paul had been unable to turn down Governor van Swieten, not only because he was a friend of his father’s but also because he had offered him the prospect of some extremely lucrative business. Sumatra was famous for its sugar and tobacco plantations, over which the Dutch still had a monopoly. Van Swieten’s offer of a share in a thriving sugar plantation whose owner had a tendency to let money slip through his fingers sounded extremely attractive.
Of course he had told Maggie nothing about the proposal, since it annoyed her when he burdened her with a journey she did not want to make, for the sake of business. Granted, he could have left her behind in England, but van Swieten had insisted on meeting the new Lady Havenden.
She had appreciated this, and in order to persuade her to agree to the possibility of a longer stay, he had told her that he was seeking inspiration for a book, a travelogue, that he wanted to write. This had delighted Maggie, as there was hardly anything London society valued more than stories from distant lands.
But the prospect of having to wait long hours in the hotel for Paul, of having no entertainment to look forward to, no tea with society ladies, had caused Maggie’s spirits to flag since their arrival. Suddenly the heat, which had been manageable on board the ship, became unbearable, and she lost all interest in this place that had such wonderful sights to offer.
“At least gray England is a place of culture,” Maggie replied. “And it’s a place where there are things to do. You could at least find me a guidebook to read so I could discover whether there’s anything worth visiting here.”
“I’ll get one for you as soon as I can,” Paul said kindly. “And I promise that, until the governor gets in touch, I’ll take you anywhere you want. How about a trip inland to the jungle?”
“Jungle?” Maggie’s eyes widened with indignation. “You must be joking. You’re pulling my leg.”
“Not at all. I’m sure there are ways of seeing the jungle in safety and comfort. Perhaps an elephant ride, like in India?”
“You know I’m afraid of such heights!”
“Then we can sit you on a buffalo,” Paul said, laughing.
The thought of Maggie allowing herself to be placed on a water buffalo was hilarious to Paul, but his wife was not amused by his attempt at humor.
“Paul Havenden!” she scolded. “I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve being the butt of such a ridiculous joke.”
“I’m sorry, darling—I didn’t mean to offend you. But perhaps you really should think about seeing the jungle. You’ll certainly have an adventure to report back to your ladies.”
A bell rang, interrupting their conversation.
“That will be the governor’s lad,” Paul said as he hurried to the door.
He saw a dark-skinned boy in white baggy pants and a short, dark red jacket standing there. As soon as the boy set eyes on Paul, he took his hands and touched them to his forehead. Paul knew this was a gesture of courtesy used by children to show their respect toward adults.
“What brings you here?” Paul asked in Dutch, the language of his mother, who was the daughter of a wealthy Dutch merchant. She had gone to considerable pains to ensure that he was equally fluent in both languages, which she insisted were the languages of world trade.
He could tell from the boy’s expression that he had understood him.
“Mijnheer van Swieten has sent me to give you this,” the boy said, using the Dutch word for Mister. He held out a thick envelope marked with a few stains here and there. Clearly the messenger had made a small detour via a market on the way.
Paul slipped a few coins to the lad, who bowed and swiftly vanished.
“What was that about?” asked Maggie, who was now sitting upright on the chaise longue.
“The governor has sent us a message,” Paul replied after closing the door. With the knife he always carried in his boot when traveling, he carefully slit the envelope open. Polite as ever, van Swieten had written the text in English.
“We’ve been sent an invitation. Mijnheer van Swieten is asking us to attend a formal dinner at his residence, Welkom, this weekend.”
“He calls his house Welcome?” Maggie asked, amazed.
“Yes, the Dutch are very hospitable; he must want to emphasize that.”
Maggie became visibly more animated. The prospect of spending an evening with cultured people made her eyes shine. “Who do you think will be there? Any notables from the local area?”
Paul could see Maggie’s mind working. She was probably wondering how to find a good dressmaker here to sew her a dress in five days that would cause the other women to go pale with envy.
“It’ll probably be friends of the governor’s—and of course a couple of sugar and tobacco plantation owners.”
“English?”
“Certainly. Dutch and German, too. And they’ll all have their wives with them, so you’ve no need to fear being bored.”
“Indeed I won’t,” Maggie protested, rising from her seat. “I simply fail to find the idea of spending weeks among monkeys and palm trees particularly appealing.”
“But you haven’t seen anything of those monkeys and palm trees yet.” Paul suddenly had a brilliant idea. “How about a little stroll around town? I’m sure there will be plenty of shops here to take your fancy. You must want to look for some new jewelry, or even a new dress, for a reception at the governor’s.”
The light now shining in his better half’s eyes told him he’d hit the mark.
“Oh yes, a new dress would be wonderful. And I’ve heard that Sumatra is supposed to be the island of gold. Perhaps I’ll find some really gorgeous jewelry here.”
“All right, go and freshen up. We’ll head into the city and find you the perfect dress for the reception.”
Maggie disappeared into the bathroom, and Paul returned to the window to observe the comings and goings on the street below. His attention was drawn by a group of women clothed in gleaming white. Among all the bright colors they looked like daisies in a bed of roses, but that was what made them so attractive. As was usual in Muslim countries, their hair was bound beneath long head scarves, but their faces were beautifully radiant.
His father had always enthused about the Balinese dancers he had seen during visits to van Swieten’s house. Did the governor plan to put on a similar entertainment for them? With an indefinable yearning in his breast he gazed after the women until Maggie emerged from the bathroom.
The promise of the imminent company of other foreigners made her a little more gracious. Neither the traders at the sides of the road nor the gaggles of children who would suddenly appear before them and beg with their customary respect seemed
to bother her. When the muezzin from a nearby mosque called the Muslims to prayer, Maggie remarked, “It’s almost like being in Egypt, except it’s not so dry and dusty here.”
When she had been a very young woman, Paul knew, she and her mother had accompanied her father on a research trip. He had been the financer of an archaeological excavation in the Valley of the Kings, which had unfortunately not proved a particular success. They had spent most of the time in tents, and Maggie would often enthuse about the wonderful desert sunsets or complain of the cold of the nights.
The call to prayer meant that within a few moments they were caught up in a dense crowd of people and could do nothing but allow themselves to be swept along until they were able to extricate themselves from the throng into a small side street. Maggie gripped Paul’s arm tightly the whole time, looking around with fear in her eyes.
The quarter in which they now found themselves seemed to be a preserve of the locals, as many of the houses were built in the traditional style, on stilts. Palm trees rose above the houses, and washing lines stretched between a few close-standing trunks. It was prayer time and there were no men to be seen, only women who were either sitting with their children on their verandas or busy with housework.
They all stared at Paul and Maggie. Some of the women put their heads together, talking in a language Paul did not understand. He noticed that at that moment they were the only Europeans on the street, and moreover their clothes were slightly different from those of the Dutch. Their fashionable dress made it clear that they were only visitors.
“I think we should turn back,” Maggie murmured, but Paul stroked her hand reassuringly.
“There’s no need to fear these people. They’re only curious. My father was never harmed on the streets of Padang. Especially not by women.”
Maggie did not seem to doubt him, yet she did not trust these women an inch. They seemed to sense it, too, as any children that were eager to run up to them were held back by the hands of wary mothers.
Paul gave them an apologetic smile and led Maggie on.
After they had followed the street for a while, a familiar scent reached his nostrils. It was not long before Paul recognized the source.
“Look, darling, there are cinnamon trees growing over there.”
There was a kind of cinnamon-tree plantation behind one of the larger stilt houses. Beyond it rose rice paddies in terraces, with the jungle crowding up against them.
“That’s the Padang cinnamon my father used to go into raptures about,” he said to Maggie, indicating the trees. “He always said it was better than the cinnamon from Ceylon. And beyond them you can see the rice paddies. Rice is the staple here.”
Maggie still seemed as if she would prefer to flee, but Paul was fascinated by the way Padang fit seamlessly into the surrounding natural world. It was unlike any other capital city he had ever seen. The rich green of the paddy fields filled his vision, and the scent, which seemed to get stronger with every step, was intoxicating. He understood now what had led his father to return here again and again. After only a few hours this country was addictive. Perhaps Maggie just needed a little more time.
At last they came to an alleyway where they saw only a few scattered houses. Between them were numerous palm trees, their crowns rustling mysteriously and strange cries emanating from them.
“Why haven’t the Dutch settled in this district?” Maggie wondered, looking around a little anxiously.
“I’m sure it’s not because this place is dangerous,” Paul said. “A lot of Dutchmen and Germans have plantations here, and a few Englishmen, too. Their houses are outside the city. I bet the cinnamon trees belong to one of the plantations.”
Something suddenly shot out of the bush in front of them. Paul saw only reddish-brown fur before the animal disappeared from view again. Maggie started with a brief shriek.
“Can we go, please, Paul?” she said as she pressed up against him.
Paul laughed. “Darling, I can’t understand why you’re so afraid. It was only a monkey. Look up in that palm—there he is!”
Maggie was paralyzed.
“You’ve traveled with your father—why are you so timid here?” Paul kept on. “There are monkeys in Egypt, after all.”
“It’s not because of the monkeys,” she replied finally. “I simply don’t feel right. And I’ve heard there are supposed to be tigers here.”
“There are indeed, but they wouldn’t dare come to places where there are people. Since they’re hunted here, like they are everywhere, I’d venture to suggest they’re more afraid of us than we are of them.”
Paul’s words did nothing to pacify Maggie, as all desire to continue their walk seemed to have abandoned her.
“All right, we’ll head back to the city center,” Paul said, turning her around. “We’re sure to find a boutique or dressmaker’s, and I’m sure there’ll be no tigers there.”
“Please don’t be cross with me,” Maggie said in a small voice. “I . . . It just makes me nervous, all these animals and strange people . . . It was the same in Egypt. I had to spend some time getting used to it all. I hope you can understand.”
Paul took her hand and kissed it. “Of course, my love. Perhaps I’d feel similarly if my father hadn’t told me so much about this country. I loved his stories—maybe that’s why so much of it feels familiar.”
As they walked back down the street, the people stared at them again. Maggie was visibly trying to ignore them—a shame, Paul thought, as the looks were not at all hostile. The women seemed curious and were probably whispering about them in their language, but they did not appear derogatory or unpleasant. Maggie only relaxed once they had found a dressmaker’s shop. The window display was truly impressive, and inside they found a helpful young Chinese woman. When one of the women present remarked that this shop was a favorite of the plantation owner’s wife, Maggie seemed appeased.
Paul whiled away the wait by watching the activity out on the street, smiling as he recalled his father’s tales. What a shame that he was no longer alive! Paul realized how much it would have meant to have accompanied him on his travels while he was alive.
Surabaja, 1902
Dressed only in a corset, chemise, and long drawers, Rose Gallway sat, legs apart, on a chair. The croaking voice of Mrs. Faraday, her old music teacher in London, was ringing in her ears. “A lady just doesn’t do that kind of thing! It’s utterly indecent!”
Rose could see nothing indecent about it, as she thought it the most comfortable position for fitting new strings to her violin and tuning them. She had left Mrs. Faraday’s Music School behind, and although she was haunted every so often by the memory of her exhortations, she now merely smiled at them.
For a few years now Rose had been on course to become one of the best violinists in the country, perhaps even the world. Her career had been remarkable. Despite her English name, she was originally from Padang, the daughter of a warehouse supervisor who had taken a native woman for his wife.
Although her father was a very parsimonious man, he had set his own rules aside when it became clear that his daughter possessed a special musical talent. One of the Dutch teachers at her school in Padang, Mejuffrouw Dalebreek, had visited her parents in a frenzied state after a music lesson and begged them to let their daughter learn an instrument.
Her father had given Rose a violin, the instrument she had secretly craved for a long time. From that day on, her life changed, and the lessons with Anna Dalebreek had ultimately been followed by an invitation to Mrs. Faraday’s Music School.
Rose remembered well how her cheeks had glowed with excitement—and her stomach had cramped with fear.
At first her father had not wanted to allow her to go, since his wife was pregnant again after a long gap and needed help around the house. Yet it had been her gentle but strong-willed mother who had made every effort to change his mind. She could not have known that she would suffer a miscarriage three months later.
On the ship
to England, Rose had cried herself dry, and more tears followed when she found out that the conservatory was populated with over-ambitious pupils and over-strict teachers. Eventually she grew accustomed to it all—to the cold, to the gray weather, to the taunts of her fellow pupils, and to the malicious remarks of Mrs. Faraday. She ended up as the school’s best pupil and became a firm favorite in the English concert halls.
The lessons in Mrs. Faraday’s conservatory had taught Rose a lot, but even her strict teacher had been unable to scrub her clean of all her idiosyncrasies. This was something she was proud of—she was not one of those English dolls who were likely to hang up their violins as soon as they got married.
Once she had finished her tuning, she drew the bow lightly over the strings. She was still not happy with the sound, so she reached for a tuning fork and tapped it. With a few turns of the pegs she was satisfied. She was about to position the violin under her chin when the dressing room door flew open.
“Miss!” Mai, her Chinese assistant, waved a piece of paper excitedly. “I’ve just been given this from Mijnheer Colderup. He said I should pass it on to you immediately.”
With a deep breath, Rose took the letter and threw a loaded look at the girl. “Next time, I’d rather you entered the dressing room more quietly, or do you want me to drop my violin?”
“No, miss, but I . . . ” Mai blushed. She was actually a very quiet servant who worshipped her mistress beyond all measure, but every now and then she forgot herself.
“No buts, Mai. This violin earns not only my living but also yours. Without my instrument I can’t play; if I don’t play I have no money; and without money I can’t afford a dresser, so remember: pianissimo, not forte!”
Mai nodded eagerly, but Rose doubted she had any idea what the words meant. Her annoyance subsided immediately when she read the name of the letter’s sender.
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