The Shallow Seas

by Dawn Farnham

  This extraordinary period of British rule was of enormous interest to Charlotte, who would have liked to hear more, but Takouhi put her off.

  “I will let Wilhelmina tell you. She is wife of Pieter Merkus, the Governor-General. My English not good but Wilhelmina speak very good.”

  Takouhi had selected their clothes with extraordinary care. They were to be dressed up-to–the-minute from head to toe in the latest European fashions. This was to be pure theatre, a statement of the Manouk power, wealth and “chic.” The old Dutch biddies and their dowdy daughters must be made to swoon with envy. In particular, Petra Couperus, who had been dying to marry Tigran for at least three years.

  “We meet her tonight. She is rich widow like me and wait and wait for him. Since her last marriage she say no to every man who come to marry her. But she also has nasty tongue. Talk, talk about everyone. But he meet you, and now Petra lose hope. You remember poor Lilian Aratoun, who also swoon—is word, no?—swoon for Tigran in Singapore. Here in Jawa, Tigran is Arjuna, you know Arjuna? The lover of the wayang. Later I tell you why we call him like that.”

  Charlotte smiled ironically. She knew who Arjuna was. Takouhi and Meda had told her the stories, loved them, of Arjuna’s amorous and heroic exploits. He was the gallant and handsome Galahad of the Indian world, the peerless archer, the compassionate seeker of meaning, full of love and bravery and honour, the Javanese knightly ideal. Women everywhere it seemed longed to be where she was today: on the threshold of marriage to Arjuna.

  As they finished their toilette, Tigran entered. Charlotte rose from her chair, and he felt his heart thump. She was so beautiful he could hardly breathe. He stood unmoving as she came towards him and offered him her hand, with its diamond ring. She was dressed entirely in white—virginal white, Takouhi had insisted—and wearing the blue diamond flower spray he had given her in Singapore. The bodice was just immodest enough to reveal her bosom, creamy white, and the silky beauty of her neck and shoulders, against which rested the long low coiffure of her blue-black hair. Her violet blue eyes had been made up with kohl—he could see it—imparting a smoky sensuality. He kissed her hand and calmed himself, chiding himself silently for being a fool. From his pocket he drew a flat box and opened it towards her. Inside lay a necklace, a chain of diamonds of exactly the same cut and colour as the brooch, almost the blue of her eyes, which Tigran sought to match. Charlotte had not quite ceased to be amazed at these gifts and smiled her thanks up at him. She had some inkling of the trouble he had gone to in order to find these rare blue stones. She invited him to put it around her neck, and as he fastened the clasp he could not help but drop his lips to her naked shoulder. She smelled faintly of roses.

  Charlotte moved away as if she had been stung, and Takouhi, who had taken it all in, moved quickly to her friend’s side and frowned at Tigran. Charlotte realised that her error, utterly involuntary, stemmed from other memories, and quickly moved to Tigran’s side and put her arm through his.

  “Thank you for your beautiful gift. You look most handsome tonight, Tigran. We shall be the finest couple in the room, shall we not?”

  Tigran put his hand on hers and smiled, thanking her for forgiving him. In fact, Charlotte thought, Tigran did look handsome, dressed in black and white, his hair long and shining, the jet beads she liked so much glinting, his eyes with their gold flecks filled with a love which shone on her like sunlight. She was annoyed with herself. She had not disliked the feel of his lips on her shoulder; she should not have shied away like a nervous virgin. She had to make it up to him.

  Turning, she touched his face and lightly kissed his cheek. She felt his intake of breath, the movement of his arm curling round her waist, and withdrew quickly. His face was flush, the golden flecks in his eyes darkened. Takouhi took Charlotte’s hand and led her out of the room quickly.

  “Charlotte, be careful. Tigran love you, I told you. He control himself, but very hard. Don’t forget.”

  They went slowly down the staircase, and as they arrived at the door, Tigran took Charlotte’s arm to help her into the carriage.

  “You ride with Takouhi; it is safer for you. I will take her carriage.”

  He smiled, and Charlotte realised that he was making light of the incident and was grateful to him and, somehow, slightly disappointed they would not be riding together. She was not absolutely certain anymore that she did not want to kiss Tigran, but before a dinner at the Governor-General’s palace was probably not the time to experiment with this idea. She settled back with Takouhi as they set off down the flame-lit path. This was the first time since her arrival that she had left Brieswijk, and a feeling of pleasant and exciting anticipation suffused her.

  The carriage entered the broad avenue of Molenvleit. Takouhi pointed out the white walls of the Harmonie Club as they crossed the canal and turned onto Rijswick.

  “Daendels order this building for European people to meet, but no money, so Raffles finish it. All of Rijswick and Nordwick is Raffles’s work. Before him there were some big VOC estates, but also kampong and Chinese shops. When he come, he order all pull down, move out. Only European can build here, make shop here. Raffles house next to Governor-General’s, other side. Is hotel now.”

  As she finished speaking, the coach passed through gates and, by the light of lanterns and firebrands, a rather plain, two-storey white house appeared. In Charlotte’s view, it hardly, from here, earned the name “palace”, looking no better, she thought, than a colossal horse station. Tigran’s stables, indeed, were more grandly constructed.

  Tigran was waiting and, taking a lady on each arm, climbed the marble steps and walked into the brilliant light of the hall. He was not ordinarily a boastful man, but tonight he brimmed with a proud desire to show Charlotte, this fair and lovely woman that he had won, to his acquaintance.

  A band was playing Viennese tunes, and the room was already full of men and woman in conversation, divided, Indies style, into two. To her alarm, as Charlotte entered the conversation fell to a murmur and every eye turned to her. Suddenly the music seemed unnaturally loud. Then, just as abruptly, it stopped, as if their arrival was a signal, and began again with a gentle and lilting version of Wilhelmus van Nassouwe, the anthem of the Netherlands. Doors at the far end of the room opened, and a couple emerged. The man, the Governor-General, for this was he she could tell from the almost reverential hush that fell on the crowd, was older, tall and spare with a thinning pate and sharp black eyes. On his arm was a woman of about thirty-five, small boned and pretty, with brown hair. Tigran left Charlotte and his sister and instantly gained the men’s side of the room. Takouhi and Charlotte joined the women. Pieter Merkus, the Governor-General of the Netherlands East Indies and his wife, Wilhelmina, made their way slowly down the aisle, talking now and then to their guests. When they arrived at Charlotte, she curtsied deeply and was introduced. Pieter bowed graciously over Charlotte’s hand and Wilhelmina kissed her cheek warmly.

  “Welcome, my dear, to Batavia, and congratulations on your illustrious marriage to one of our favourite men. I fear you have broken many hearts this week.”

  Her English was absolutely correct, with a slightly odd intonation now and again, as if she had learned much of it from a book.

  As Pieter went up to Tigran, the band struck up a popular tune and the buzz of conversation resumed, but Charlotte felt as if every eye were drinking her in. Takouhi led her to a group of women seated in the corner of the room, some hugely fat, some rake-thin and pale, most simply dull and remarkably plain. As they ogled her, out of the corner of her eye she saw a striking woman, dressed in dark red silk, go up to Tigran and lay her hand on his arm. Takouhi gazed at her, in fact almost all the women in the room had swivelled their eyes to her, for this breaching of the line was an extraordinarily daring break in protocol.

  “Petra,” Takouhi whispered.

  Tigran turned to Petra and bowed. She had moved in very close, keeping her hand on his arm and whispering something against his cheek. Charlotte fe
lt a sudden, unexpected flush of annoyance at this intimacy. She could not see his face. All the ladies were now watching Charlotte intently. She opened her fan, waved it gently and waited, curious now to see what Tigran would do.

  At that moment, a group of men approached Tigran, and he removed Petra’s hand from his arm and bowed over it, taking his leave. Petra made her way slowly over to Takouhi.

  As they curtsied, Charlotte could see there was no love lost between the two women. Petra looked Charlotte up and down in the most insolent manner. Charlotte felt the blood rush to her cheeks.

  “Con-gra-tu-la-tions,” Petra said slowly and deliberately in accented English, then turned on her heel. Charlotte could see that Petra was very beautiful. Thick, black curly hair which fell about her face and shoulders in a most alluring manner, full rouged lips, dark almond eyes with long lashes, a voluptuous figure, fine brown skin. She could also see the woman was angry and jealous, and Charlotte wondered why Tigran had not married such a belle years ago.

  “Takouhi, why did Tigran not marry her? She is beautiful and rich.”

  Takouhi contemplated the swaying figure. “Yes, lovely. She is Mardyjker blood somewhere. She married already three times. There was a time he care for her, she have chance, but she make big mistake with Tigran.”

  Charlotte waited to hear more. “Mardyjker?” she asked quizzically. It crossed her mind that she had developed an unseemly interest in Tigran’s former relationships, especially this one.

  “Mardyjker is child of free black slave.” Takouhi sneered as she said it, and Charlotte was astonished, for such gracelessness in Takouhi was unusual. “They always clever and proud.” Seeing Charlotte’s face, she continued. “Before Dutch come to Java, Portuguese have big power in Asia. Like Dutch men, Portuguese men make million half-blood child which they baptise, make Christian.”

  Charlotte smiled at this surely exaggerated number, which Takouhi used for anything over ten.

  “When Dutch come, they take many prisoners in old Portuguese towns like Ambon, Malacca and Coromandel. They make slave and bring here. Those people Catholic, but Dutch not allow this, so Dutch say if slave join Dutch church, they be free. So Mardyjker mean “free man.” They speak Portuguese. Even in my father time here, many speak mix Bengal and Portuguese. Now no one speak Portuguese, but here is still Portuguese church in the Kota. So, anyway, long ago, maybe, but Petra’s blood like that.”

  Charlotte looked at Petra with renewed interest. A truly scarlet woman with a colourful lineage. How wonderful! Perhaps Tigran was the only one she could not have. Charlotte looked over at Tigran, standing, dark and handsome, in the group of ordinary- looking men. She could see that his long-haired piratical demeanour gave him an undeniable air of romance and danger. Petra, too, was gazing at him.

  As if sensing Charlotte’s eyes, he turned and looked at her; it was a long look, of such smouldering intensity that she looked down in embarrassment. But she smiled nevertheless. Petra too saw this look and turned away, fanning herself violently. This was becoming most enjoyable.

  A white-liveried servant came up with drinks, and Charlotte chose French wine in a fine crystal glass. Several introductions passed; then the Reverend Walter Medhurst, the Anglican pastor of All Saints, introduced himself. His wife, Eliza, a small, frail-looking woman was with him. They found they had a mutual interest in the London Missionary Society and a common acquaintance in Benjamin Keaseberry in Singapore, who had studied printing with him. Medhurst had arrived in the East to spread the word of Christ to China. China being closed to foreigners, however, it was decided to minister to the Chinese outside who might, if they returned home, take Christianity with them. Java had been chosen. That had been eighteen years ago, he added with a wry smile, but now things had changed. He and others were preparing to depart. The Treaty of Nanking had ended that country’s isolation. His own son, educated at Macau, had been Chinese secretary to the expeditionary leader Charles Elliot during the war. He and his wife would be joining their boy in this new town of Hong Kong before proceeding to Shanghai. It was a double blessing.

  “Now we shall all begin this glorious enterprise.” His colour had heightened, and Charlotte could see his enthusiasm. She talked a little of her father’s life in Madagascar for the Society. As ever, she was impressed by the quiet, unrelenting faith of these missionaries, but was somehow also confounded by their attitudes to the violence and horror of war, the invasion of other lands. She thought of her father. For the first time she asked herself why on earth he had gone to Madagascar. The Chinese in Singapore seemed happy with their ordered and peaceful religion. She could not think how Zhen’s deep soul would be improved by Christianity.

  “Do the Chinese need Christianity, Reverend Medhurst?” she asked, now suddenly curious, for surely his reasons must have been those of her own father.

  “My dear child, oh yes.” He looked shocked. “They worship idols. It is our duty to bring the grace and love of the true Lord to the heathen and to the poor downtrodden masses. And the enormous advantages of an advanced and benevolent civilisation.

  Before she could ask more, other Englishmen and their wives joined them. Charlotte found herself relaxing in their easygoing company. John Price was a plantation owner, and his wife was Dutch Chinese. Gillean Maclaine was a trader with a Javanese wife who spoke good English. His sons were by his side with their Indische wives. As she looked round the room, Charlotte realised what Takouhi had said was true: there were few white European woman in the palace. Clearly these English guests had been invited to set her at her ease, and she was grateful to Wilhelmina for her thoughtfulness. The only bachelor present was Nathanial Fox, a naturalist and archaeologist who had been in Java for many years; a slim, pleasant-faced man with blue eyes and curly sandy hair, some ten years older than herself. He reminded her immensely of Robert.

  As the others wandered away to pay their compliments elsewhere, Nathanial, seemingly unconcerned about the proprieties of sitting amongst the women, began an exposé of the various guests. The Reverend Medhurst, he said, dear old fellow, was a worthy soul and an excellent scholar.

  “He has made a first translation of the Bible into Chinese. He works tirelessly in Batavia. All Saints opens its doors to all the Christian faiths. He has a printing press. There is a native school and an orphanage. He petitions the government for aid in diffusing Christian knowledge amongst the people of Java, but his pleas fall, I assure you, on very deaf ears. The government dreads any such actions and will not brook interference with the religions of the country for fear of stirring up rebellion. Doubtless they are correct.”

  Over there, the wild-looking one was Baron van Hoevell, president of the Batavian Society for the Arts and Sciences, an institution which Raffles had revived and encouraged. The Society met at the Harmonie Club, where there was an excellent English library. He himself would be presenting his findings to the Society in due course.

  The group in a huddle around Tigran, he said, were all Freemasons, for it was strong in Batavia.

  “De Ster in het Oosten,” he said with a strong, mock-Dutch accent. “The Star of the East. You should probably know that your fiancé is doubtless adept in its black arts. You are warned, Mademoiselle.”

  They shared a smile.

  The grumpy group of old men dressed like figures in a seventeenth-century Dutch painting were members of the Raad van Indie, the council which ran the Indies and met here in the palace. The Governor-General and his wife, like Raffles and all others before them for a hundred years, spent almost all their time in Buitenzorg.

  The most grotesque man in the room, but one of the most entertaining and pleasant, was old Leendert Miero, Nathanial confided.

  Charlotte looked at this little old man, wizened and bald, with a prominent and hairy chin which contrived to meet his nose. No mouth was discernible, and Charlotte realised that the old fellow clearly had no teeth. He was dressed in an ancient blue velvet coat and a frilled cravat and attended by what were clearly, by the
ir looks, his children.

  “He has a wonderful story. There is a house, not far from Brieswijk on Molienvliet West. It was built around 1760 by a former Governor-General, Reinier de Klerk, and passed through various hands to those of John Siberg, who was acting Governor-General before Daendels. Anyway, it happened that Siberg returned home one hot day and found a Polish Jewish soldier sleeping at the entrance whilst on duty. The furious Siburg ordered the man to take fifty lashes. On the day of the lashing, so the story goes, he swore by his forefathers Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, that one day he would own the house. After he finished his military service, the soldier became a goldsmith and made a fortune. He purchased the house and still to this day he invites all Batavia to celebrate the anniversary of the day he was given fifty lashes.”

  Before Nathanial could continue, Wilhelmina Merkus came up to them, fanning herself rapidly. Nathanial bowed and departed to the correct side of the room.

  “Are you admiring us all? Will you join me on the terrace before dinner? I am so hot, and I should be glad to talk a little alone.”

  6

  The terrace of the palace overlooked a vast park, dark now, with candles and flames flickering here and there. Night-blooming flowers—tuberose, gardenia, jasmine and moonflower—exhaled their invisible scent. Charlotte was grateful to escape the heat and the pressing attentions of the ballroom. They sat in the semi-darkness. A servant boy stood to one side with a large fan.

  “You have caused quite a little stir in our town. you know,” said Wilhemina.

  Charlotte smiled.

  “That was certainly not my intention, Madame,” she replied.