Ama

by Manu Herbstein

  “Remove it, remove it,” said De Bruyn and when she didn't understand, lifted the skirt and tugged the cloth until it fell around her feet.

  “Ah that is better,” said De Bruyn, admiring the swell of her breasts which was now visible in the décolletage.

  “Not too loose?” he asked, squeezing her waist, and buttoning her up. “If it is, we shall just have to fatten you up. You are a bit lean. Now let me have a good look.”

  “Amazing,” he said as he took her hand and turned her round. “But your bald head!”

  He rubbed the stubble which was beginning to emerge upon her scalp.

  “I am sorry we had to shave you like this, my love. If only I had known. What cruelties you have suffered at my hands.”

  These thoughts were uncomfortable and unwelcome to him so he changed the subject of his conversation.

  “Let me see if Elizabeth has a bonnet which would fit you,” he said and bent to search the contents of the trunk.

  Speaking his late wife’s name aloud set his thoughts off on another disturbing track, but they had not travelled far when they were interrupted by a knock on the door. It was the steward to take the order for dinner.

  * * *

  An hour later, there was another knock. When Hendrik Van Schalkwyk, Minister of the Dutch Reformed Church, Preacher and Chaplain of Elmina Castle, entered, the candles had been lit and the table had been laid for three.

  Ama was sitting in a high backed armchair near a window, looking out over Edina and the ocean. The moon had risen early and over the shoulder of the massive castle it shone on the town.

  “You have another guest this evening, Director?” Van Schalkwyk asked, pointing to the table and raising his eyebrows just a little.

  “What, has the Castle Intelligence failed?” De Bruyn asked with a chuckle.

  There wasn’t much that happened in the small European male society of Elmina Castle that did not come to the Chaplain’s attention. Besides rehashing old sermons for the twice weekly compulsory church services he had little else to do but collect idle gossip.

  “Well, I must admit I have heard rumours. Unconfirmed, mind you,” Van Schalkwyk replied with mild embarrassment, “but they certainly did not lead me to expect . . .?”

  “Expect what, my good Minister?”

  Apart from Jensen, De Bruyn and Van Schalkwyk were the only educated men in the Castle. For years the two of them had been meeting every Monday evening to dine, drink, smoke and indulge in the civilised pleasure of conversation. They invariably spoke their native Dutch but their talk was liberally laced with Latin, French, German and English. They had heard each other’s stock of anecdotes and witticisms time without number but, since neither had any alternative, they exercised a mutual tolerance of repetition. When the conversation ran dry, as it usually did after some time, they would suck their pipes and settle down to a leisurely game of chess.

  “Ah, Director, you have me in a corner,” replied Van Schalkwyk. “I concede defeat.”

  “What will you drink, Hennie?” asked De Bruyn, knowing well what the answer would be, but asking all the same. In private, he called the Minister by his first name. Since his childhood, no one, except Elizabeth, had called De Bruyn Pieter. He had considered extending that privilege to Van Schalkwyk but had never got round to making the suggestion. After all these years, it would be a little strange.

  When they were comfortably settled, with drinks and pipes lit, Van Schalkwyk returned to the subject.

  “Where . . . ?”

  He hesitated and made another attempt.

  “Where is the . . .?” but was again unable to complete his sentence.

  “You are singularly inarticulate this evening, Hendrik,” said De Bruyn. “What was the word you were looking for: wench? woman? lady? Wife, perhaps?”

  Without waiting for a reply, he indicated the back of Ama's chair with a nod of his head.

  “Miss Pamela,” he said, “Is contemplating the beauty of the African moonlight shining on the noble city of Edina and on the Atlantic Ocean beyond.”

  Ama heard her name, the name De Bruyn had given her. They must be discussing her. How am I going to manage this meal? she wondered. Eating alone with one white man had been difficult enough; eating with two promised to be infinitely more complicated. They would surely talk about her in her presence and she would not understand a word. She would guess what they were saying, of course. But what would they say? Would Mijn Heer describe their afternoon's lovemaking to his friend? Or would they just ignore her presence? She wished she could eat apart, but De Bruyn had made it quite clear, with the assistance of the Fanti steward who had laid the table, that he insisted on her presence.

  She looked out. Cooking fires twinkled dimly in the town. Flickering shadows played on the mud walls. Dark figures went about their business. A woman sang. Another shouted an admonition to a child. Indistinct conversations floated up over the roar of the surf. All over the land black people were preparing and eating their evening meals in similar manner. So it had been in Yendi and Kafaba and Kumase and in all the small villages where she had spent a night on her long journey to the coast. So it was in her father Tigen's hamlet and all over the Bekpokpam country.

  She had been thinking in Asante but when she thought of Tabitsha, she began to think in her mother tongue. I will forget my own language, she thought. It will die in my mind from disuse.

  “Pamela,” called De Bruyn, “Will you not come and join us?”

  Ama rose slowly. She had rejected the bonnet which De Bruyn had offered her and instead tied a silk doek which they had found in the trunk to cover her shaven scalp. The dead woman’s dress (for such she took it to be) smelled slightly of mould and naphtha, but the smell was obscured by the civet he had sprinkled on her. Several visits to the looking glass had left her feeling more at ease with her new appearance. De Bruyn had tried to fit her feet into a pair of his late wife’s shoes, but the foot of a female slave who has walked many weary miles on her own tough soles is very different from that of the idle lady wife of a Director General of the Westindische Compagnie; and so, under her spreading skirt, Ama's feet remained unshod.

  Sensing her diffidence, De Bruyn approached her and presented his elbow for her to grasp. However, he had not yet taught her that particular trick and he had to show her how to take his arm. The Minister watched with some amusement,

  “May I present,” De Bruyn said to her, “Mijn Heer Hendrik Van Schalkwyk, Minister of Religion in the Dutch Reformed Church and Chaplain to the European residents of this Castle?”

  Van Schalkwyk wondered whether his part in this charade required him to kiss the hand of this slave girl. He decided against and merely bowed slightly from his ample waist. The girl’s appearance was undoubtedly striking, he thought. De Bruyn, you lucky old lecher, how did you find such a jewel in amongst all the dross and dregs of dark humanity which enters these walls?

  “Hendrik, this is Miss Pamela,” De Bruyn continued with the introduction.

  Van Schalkwyk bowed again. For a moment they were at a loss for conversation.

  “Please be seated,” said De Bruyn and drew a chair for Ama, indicating with a movement of his head that she should sit.

  They were beginning to understand each other’s body language, he noted with satisfaction.

  When the first course had been served and the wine had been poured, he said, “As yet, the wench neither speaks nor understands a word of Dutch, nor, so far as I can judge, any other civilised tongue. You need not, therefore, inhibit you sparkling conversation in any way.”

  He turned to Ama.

  “Pamela, I am telling the reverend Minister that we do not share a common language and that he may speak without fear of embarrassing you.”

  Ama sensed that they were playing a little game and that the game was being played at her expense. She caught his eye with a look that mixed appeal and mild reproof. They had made love together that afternoon, she told him. Twice indeed. In their passion they h
ad been equals. He should not mock her now before a third party. De Bruyn read her message and dropped his eyes. She was right, he had betrayed her. He looked up and apologised. She read his silent message and nodded her head ever so slightly in acknowledgement. De Bruyn felt profoundly excited. They needed no words to communicate. He wanted to be alone with her, to embrace her, to kiss her on the lips.

  Van Schalkwyk busied himself with his food and wine, attempting to convey that he had observed nothing of this. In fact he had witnessed the confidential eye contact and was attempting to fathom its meaning. His dissemblance was unnecessary for his two dinner partners had for a brief moment been unaware of his existence.

  “Pamela?” he asked. “That is not a common Dutch name. Presumably she did not bring it with her? You gave it to her?”

  He stole a glance at the girl. She had dropped her eyes. She is indeed pretty, he thought, seeing her through De Bruyn's eyes and feeling suddenly very lonely. Van Schalkwyk had a reputation in the Castle as something of a dirty old man. His penchant for making accidental body contact with female slaves and, believing no one else to be watching, for grabbing their buttocks or their breasts, had not gone unobserved. He was inhibited, however, from taking a concubine by fear of the consequences of breaching Company rules, by fear moreover that his status in the Castle would be undermined and by the certainty that eternal damnation would be his reward for fornication. Minister Van Schalkwyk led a secret life of unconsummated sexual fantasy.

  “English,” said De Bruyn. “Surely I have told you of the book of that name I have been reading? Samuel Richardson the author. It is one that Captain Williams brought me.”

  “Ah, yes, I do recall.” replied Van Schalkwyk. “Pamela is a maid-servant, not so? And she sets out to marry her employer?”

  “Not exactly, but that is the book,” said De Bruyn, looking at Ama and hoping that she would not misconstrue the continuing use of her name. Van Schalkwyk understood his host’s tone of voice to discourage further discussion on the matter.

  The two white men continued to talk in a desultory way about matters of no great consequence, washing down the five course meal with healthy draughts of Rhenish wine. Ama had eaten greedily the day before but the gnawing hunger had now passed and she left food on her plate in spite of De Bruyn’s urging. She had also learned the effect of the wine and gave him no chance to recharge her glass.

  “She doesn't like our chef’s cooking,” said Van Schalkwyk, but De Bruyn again changed the subject.

  The table was cleared and Ama had time to observe the two men as they re-lit their pipes. Her Mijn Heer was long and thin, scrawny even. In the flickering candlelight, his features appeared even more gaunt than they did by day. He seemed depressed. She had put him down and she was sorry. Yet, she told herself, if she were to consolidate her hold on him, and to do that seemed essential if she were to survive, she had to obtain his regard for her dignity. His carnal desire for her might not last long and he had the power to discard her without ceremony in much the same way as he had had her plucked from the dungeon. It was risky but she must insist on his respect. She must keep something back, so that he never felt that he had fully possessed her. He was old but he could be good to her. She could see in his eyes his passion for her. She might even grow to love him. Not like she had loved Itsho, never like that. She wondered again whether Itsho had sent his spirit to possess the man and make him love her. She would show Mijn Heer some of the things she and Itsho had done together. She smiled at the thought and De Bruyn saw the smile and, not knowing about Itsho, smiled back. A white man! What would Tabitsha say if she knew her daughter had a white man as a lover! And her father! They had never even seen a white man.

  The other man was short and fat. Indeed he was obese, almost obscenely corpulent. He reminded her of one of the eunuchs at the Asantehene's court. She wondered if his balls, too, had been cut off; if there were perhaps some causal relationship between castration and obesity. His chin cascaded down in fold upon fold of fat. Even his eyes were surrounded by fatty tissue, so that they seemed to look out through a tunnel. She was sure that when he stood up straight he would not be able to see his own feet. His skin was sallow, almost translucent. He did not look unkind but she could not be sure whether he would be her friend or her enemy. If he was Mijn Heer’s friend it was important that he should be hers too. What was his name? She had forgotten.

  De Bruyn got up to go and piss, leaving the two of them alone together.

  Ama pointed to herself and said, “Pamela.”

  Then she pointed at the fat man's chest and, with a coquettish smile, inquired what he was called.

  The Minister was successively astonished, amused at her boldness, and entranced by her smile.

  “My name?” he replied with a chuckle. “Well since you are so charming, you may call me Henk. But only in privacy, mind you. In public you must call me Minister.”

  He pointed at the wall and then described a circle with his index finger. Then he pointed at the floor and then to himself.

  “Henk,” he said.

  Though she was not quite sure what it meant, Ama reproduced his sign language and then pointed again at him.

  “Henk,” she repeated.

  Van Schalkwyk’s heart fluttered at hearing his name on her lips and he chuckled again.

  “Young lady, you are not only beautiful, you clearly also have brains,” he said. “Now see if you can understand this.”

  He pointed again, outside the room, far away.

  “In public,” he said, repeating the gesture, and then pointing again to himself, “You must call me Minister. In public, Minister. Do you understand?”

  Again Ama did not quite understand but she mimicked his gesture and repeated the second name he had given himself. If I have three names, she thought, it must be all right for him to have two.

  “What's all this now?” asked De Bruyn, reappearing at the end of this conversation.

  “Never you mind,” said Van Schalkwyk, enjoying his little conspiracy with Ama, “That is between the two of us.”

  * * *

  “Pamela,” said De Bruyn, “Would you be so kind as to fetch us the chess board?”

  He had laid it on the writing cabinet before dinner and he now pointed it out to her. She sent him an inquiring glance as she picked up the folded board.

  “And the box too, please,” he told her.

  “That’s a clever girl,” he praised her. “Now pull up your chair and watch us.”

  The board was just like that the Asante used for playing draughts, she noted, but with only eight squares along each side, rather than ten.

  “Your turn with the whites tonight, Hennie,” said De Bruyn as he tumbled the pieces onto the board, “I’ll take the Africans.”

  Ama had expected to see a game of draughts, but these tokens were unlike any draughts she had seen.

  “Now, Pamela, watch this,” he told her as he laid out the black pieces. “First the two castles: we also call them rooks. Then the knights, looking like horses - do you know what a real horse looks like? Not many of those in this part of Africa, eh Hennie?”

  Bedagbam, thought Ama, taking a knight and examining it. Abdulai. She put it down and clenched her fists, her finger nails cutting into her palms, at the recollection of the man who had raped her.

  “Next the bishops. Priests if you like, but not Hennie's kind, eh? Now watch closely. This is the king. Like me at Elmina.”

  He puffed himself up in jest and beat his chest, to demonstrate his importance.

  “Ohene,” said Van Schalkwyk, using one of his few Fanti words.

  Ama nodded vigorously. The pieces had been made in Batavia. De Bruyn had acquired them during his tenure at the Cape. She was fascinated by the intricate carving.

  “Always on the right,” continued De Bruyn, showing her first the correct disposition of the king and queen, then exchanging them and indicating his displeasure; and finally placing them back in their correct positions.
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br />   Van Schalkwyk repeated the demonstration.

  “I wonder if she knows her left from her right,” he ventured.

  “And these are the pawns, the foot soldiers, the slaves if you like. There to take orders, one step at a time.”

  Then they demonstrated to her the various moves which the pieces might make. Ama screwed up her face in concentration. She had become quite skilful at oware and draughts while she was in Kumase, but this game was quite different, each piece had its own rules.

  De Bruyn got to his feet and demonstrated the knight’s legal moves.

  “Two steps forward and one to the right. Or to the left.”

  He was already quite tipsy and staggered and almost fell.

  “It is quite complicated when you try to explain it, not so, Henk? I doubt if she will pick it up,” he said as he recovered his seat.

  “Director, before we start to play, there is something which I have to say to you,” said Van Schalkwyk.

  “Yes, I know. Fornication. The consequence of which is eternal damnation. Not to speak of the regulations of the noble Company regarding the taking of concubines. I have been waiting for you to summon up the courage to tackle the subject. Let us just take it all as said, shall we? I have heard it all before. I promise to pray to God to forgive me for my weakness. Now play,” replied De Bruyn.

  Relieved of any obligation to say more on the subject, Van Schalkwyk made his opening move. As the game progressed, Ama watched, transfixed. Flattered and amused by her interest, each player explained each move to her as he made it, confident that he was giving away nothing that his opponent did not already know.

  Where games are concerned, the rules of chess may be quite complicated; but, considered as a language, chess is easier to learn than Dutch. Ama watched each player as he deliberated on the next move and screwed up her eyes in concentration as the move was explained to her. The spoken words were superfluous: a finger pointed out a threatened line of attack by a bishop, or the alternative possibilities open to a knight. Only when the Minister castled, exchanging the white king and its rook, was she confused, but she set that move aside in her mind for future study. As pieces were taken, they gave them to her to keep in the box. Itsho, she thought, as a black pawn was taken by a white knight, poor Itsho. When there were only a few pieces left on the board, they explained the developing end game to her. Her mind reeled with complications as she tried to see the consequences of each possible move. She left her chair and kneeled on the floor beside De Bruyn.