by Dawn Farnham
Louis dragged a young man from a back room. “Voici Tong,” he said delightedly.
Tong, it transpired, was Louis’s friend. This was his father’s shop, and Tong worked as a translator in the Chinese Bureau at the offices of the Resident of Batavia. His Dutch, Louis said proudly, was most excellent. His mother was Malay, and he spoke the language fluently and as they started to use this language, the tension evaporated and Charlotte relaxed. As news of their arrival spread, two other young Chinese men came into the shop. It was clear to Charlotte that they were curious about her, but equally anxious to be with Louis. One good-looking young man sat next to Louis, who was lounging on a long bench, and began openly to caress his hair. Charlotte was amazed and blushed. Louis laughed.
“Eh oui, ma petite Charlotte, une tante, un pédéraste. There are many names. Are you shocked?”
Charlotte was shocked and suddenly very uncomfortable. She knew such men existed, for the sermons from the pulpit in Aberdeen had thundered against “unnatural affections”, but it had not occurred to her that Louis … She rose, and as she turned towards the door, she saw it was crowded with people staring in.
Now thoroughly afraid, she turned angrily to Louis. “Why bring me here, Louis? I do not care what you do, but why involve me?”
Louis shook his head. “I want you to know about me. That’s all. Honesty.”
Charlotte looked at him, her fury increasing. “Well, now I know. It would have been easier just to tell me. Now take me home.”
Tong shouted and moved the crowd apart, and even Louis, seeing the faces of the people and their hands touching Charlotte’s dress, sensed his mistake. The crowd followed, like a seething, chattering wake, as they walked towards the Glodok market at Pancoran. Here there were sado, the back-to-back pony traps, and Tong spoke to the driver very seriously. Tong turned to Charlotte and bowed deeply.
“Sorry, Louis made a mistake. Sometimes he’s very stupid, likes to shock people. Perhaps we will meet again.” He reminded Charlotte suddenly of Zhen’s friend in Singapore, and she felt a small rush of affection for him.
As they pulled away, she saw the crowd had not dissipated, many men turning to interrogate Tong. All the way back to Brieswijk in the bone-shaking and dusty contraption, Charlotte said nothing, reflecting on how she felt about this news. As she stepped down from the sado, she took Louis’s hand.
“Louis, don’t do that again. I do not understand about you and Tong, but that is your affair. If you want to be friends, we can be honest with each other without shocks.”
Louis kissed her hand, and she knew he was contrite. This desire to épater les bourgeois was part of his nature.
Louis looked over her shoulder, and she turned. Tigran stood in the doorway. He took in Louis, her hand in his, the pony trap, the mud and dust on her skirts, and she saw his eyes narrow. He turned and went inside, and she told Louis to go.
10
Dinner that night was strained. Takouhi was absent. Charlotte saw how it must look to Tigran, but she did not know how to tell him. As the silence between them lengthened, she plucked up her courage. After all, he had been away, and she was not his slave.
“Tigran, Louis is a friend from the French Opera troupe and he … he does not … how can I tell you … care for women in the way …” Charlotte stopped, thoroughly embarrassed. She did not dare tell him where they had been.
He looked up. His hand gripped his knife a little tighter.
“Yes, I understand. I did not imagine he was your lover, for your heart lies elsewhere, as we both know.”
She heard the bitterness in his voice. Then he calmed down.
“Louis de Montaillou is well known amongst some people in this town. He is not alone, there are others. Well. His way of life is not appreciated in Batavia, as I’m sure you can understand, but as an artist with the French company he is tolerated. As long as there is no scandal, there is no cause for the Resident to act. Everyone knows what the French are like.”
Charlotte looked down. “I did not know, Tigran. I met Louis only a week ago.”
Tigran’s heart softened, for he wanted to forgive her everything. “Never mind. Louis is a silly fellow but sometimes good company, I gather. But you must not go about the town with him, you understand, Charlotte. It would be hard on you and me. There would be difficulties. This is not a strictly conventional household, as you may have seen. My wealth gives me … dispensations. However, there is a line. And please, if you want a carriage, I have many. Do not use those terrible things. What does it look like if you go about in such contraptions?”
Charlotte looked up and smiled. He really was an understanding man. She was glad he was back, sorry she had made him angry. Louis had been rash today, taking her to Chinatown, and she had been equally foolish. It had opened her eyes, though, again, to the impossible prospect of a life with Zhen. A life with a Chinese man. A married Chinese man. The wishes of her heart needed continual reminders of this reality, for she forgot it as quickly as the memory of him flooded her thoughts.
“Our wedding is in three days, Charlotte. Are you ready? Are you sure?”
Charlotte was unable to say if she was ready or sure, but she had begun to like Tigran very much, and above all, above all, in this vulnerable state, to feel the web of protection and affection which he spun around her in an alien land. She had read and re-read Miss Ferrier’s novel Marriage, and though she could not agree with the Earl that love was only for the canaille of the countryside—what woman could?—still, perhaps love in marriage was not such an exigent necessity as she had first thought.
“Yes,” she said.
Five days went by in a blur. Fittings for her dress, selection of jewels, talk of food and guests. The evening under the stars watching the wayang. Even the marriage ceremony, with all its pomp, the guests, the church and the vows flew by. The reception at the Harmonie Club seemed like a dream. She recalled the white and gold coach, the diligence à l’anglaise, bedecked with floating ribbons; someone made a long speech, perhaps Pieter; the banquet was lavish. She remembered waltzing in Tigran’s arms, the first dance as a married woman; cutting the enormous and exquisite cake. It was like a fantasy, and she could not quite see herself. Only later, when the maid had left her and she stood in her room, looking at the circle of diamonds on the third finger of her left hand—the vena amoris which was supposed to run directly to the heart—did the realisation of what had happened sink in.
Then her door opened and Tigran came in. He, like she, was still dressed in his wedding clothes.
He approached her, and she suddenly realised that the thought of a physical encounter with Tigran filled her with dread. A man she did not love. Her ideas on the matter, of tremulous and brief duration, fled. Could anything be more abhorrent! Perhaps if she had been raised differently, in a more confined way, with less freedom to use her imagination. Perhaps if she had not already known one man, the perfect man. The human mind has wondrous abilities, she discovered yet again, as once more she realised that the impossibility of a life with the perfect man did not make her want him less.
But Tigran did something utterly unexpected. Taking her hand he led her to the balcony, and as they looked out over the moonlit grounds, a scene so inalterably romantic that it seemed conjured by a playwright’s pen, he said quietly, “Charlotte, I understand your feelings. We hardly know each other. You remember the words of the marriage ceremony: ‘Marriage is honourable, and the bridal bed is holy.’ Until you are ready, I will not touch you.”
Charlotte burst into tears. The relief was so obvious on her face that Tigran felt a powerful wave of annoyance. She might have had the goodness to conceal her feelings a little. But he had made this promise to himself, and in fact these tears only strengthened his resolve. No man, after all, wishes to be found disgusting, particularly on his wedding night.
He kissed the wedding band on her hand coolly and left her.
Within a few days they departed for the house in Buitenzorg, and Charlo
tte discovered a wonderland. A vertiginous and verdurous wonderland, she thought, the exaggerated adjectives necessary to describe such a place. An impossibly high, deep-red roof dominated the big two-storey stone house, covering a verandah which encompassed the whole building. It stood embedded into the hillside like a citadel. The grasses and trees of the lower slopes of the garden fell away at the edge of the mossy stone parapet into tiers of tea plants, green waves sweeping down into the valley like sculpted carpets and rising on the surrounding peaks.
This plantation was recent, Tigran told her as they gazed down. Tea had been introduced to Batavia in 1686 by Andreas Cleyer, the Opperhoofd of the factory at Deshima, as a decorative plant. In 1728, the VOC began to bring in tea seeds in large quantities from China to be cultivated in Java, but without success. Only those seeds smuggled from Japan to Java almost a hundred years later, in 1824, by Von Siebold had flourished. The first tea plantation had been started in 1828, and Tigran’s father had begun this plantation a few years after that. It had recently begun to make a good profit. Europe’s thirst for tea was phenomenal.
In amongst the rows of stumpy bushes, workers in flat straw hats moved like golden bees, some weeding and trenching, some gathering the top leaves of the plant. In the distance rose the violet shapes of the volcanoes. It rained three hundred days a year, wrapping the mountains in a vaporous mist, a constantly changing pattern of shapes and nebulous light. In the late afternoon, rays of gold pierced the shifting clouds, illuminating the green slopes and the valley far below. The air was crisp, transparent, invigorating. It imparted a jewel-like sparkle to the lush colouring of the landscape. She loved it immediately.
She met Madi, the dukun bayi, who would care for her through the growth and birth of her child. Tigran showed her the place where the baby would be born.
La seraille. That’s what Charlotte named it when she saw it. Thick teakwood columns supported a deeply eaved, manicured thatched roof. A small rill from the hillside contained by stone canals spilled into geometric ponds on either side of a stone bridge before continuing its fall. When she sat by these deep dark pools, watching the splash of the rill, Charlotte knew that from here the water would join the swift-flowing rivers until they slowed to meander through Batavia to the wide low sea. She felt this long, silvery thread as if she could see through miles of jungle space and over the Java Sea, connecting her to him.
Beyond the bridge, a carved Javanese stone gate mounted by the half-head of the Kala and guarded by two stone creatures concealed the pavilion. When the weather was fine and warm, perfumed incense filled the curtains floating on the breezes, for the pavilion was on a ledge giving onto the long valley below. Here the female dukun had tended to Meda; the masseuses had oiled and gently kneaded her skin and bathed her in the flower waters of the bath. Then she and her mother would lie on the silky cushions and talk and eat fresh fruits and drink the herbal tonics and gaze at the rainbow of butterflies which flitted below the lacy parapet. Beauty would heal her, Takouhi was sure. But it had not.
Visitors came frequently to Buitenzorg, and Tigran included Louis and Nathanial. She was grateful to him, for Louis also brought some of the French troupe, who sang and put on little plays in which everyone took part.
Nathanial took her to look at the Batu Tulis, a field covered in stone slabs, some prone, some upright, etched with figures and inscriptions in bas relief. They were adorned with garlands of jasmine blossoms, and smoking incense stood at their bases. They celebrated the virtues and victories of Hindu kings, he said. This was the capital of the ancient Hindu realm of Pajajaran, destroyed by a Muslim conqueror. These stones were still venerated as relics of a glorious past. The Javanese, he told her, as they wandered amongst the stones, were a gentle and thoughtful people. They embraced the Tuan Allah but did not forget the grace and valour of ancient times, the monuments to which stood everywhere on the island. On the contrary, they drew power from them. The gamelan and wayang, the love of Indian tales, of Siva and Krishna, of Sita and Rama, which were transformed into Javanese tales, were part of their souls, impossible to eradicate. They honoured those who had trod the land before they came, before the creed of Mohammed came, before even the Hindoos came, those hidden in the mists of time.
At the riverside, a massive round boulder stood in the riverbed covered in inscriptions and marked with two large, distinct footprints. The writing was in Sanskrit, he told her, an ancient language of India. It said, This is the print of the foot soles of the very honourable Purnawarnam, who is brave and controls the world, like the God Vishnu.
“He was king of the Taruma kingdom. You see, we are walking in the footsteps of Vishnu, the all-pervading essence of beings, the master of past, present and future, he who sustains and supports the universe and from whom all its elements emanate. Is it any wonder that these stones continue to wield power over the country folk? Yet they honour these stones as monuments to the faith of Mohammed, too. According to the villagers, they are the transformed shapes of Siliwangi, the last King of Pajajaran, and his followers, who were turned to stone by Tuan Allah as punishment for their refusal to embrace the faith.”
Nathanial gathered water into a bottle from a swift-flowing stream, and they returned to the field. Charlotte put up her parasol. The day had grown warm, but here in the hills only pleasantly so. A profusion of wildflowers—violets, primulas, ranunculas—spread like a carpet. Nathanial led Charlotte through the field to a stone which lay sheltered amongst the canopy and ropey pillars of an ancient banyan tree. This tree was a forest in itself, new branches reaching down to take root to strengthen the old trunk, an affectionate emblem of parent and children supporting each other through earthquakes, storms and tempests. The banyan, Charlotte now knew, was holy, a home of gods and spirits, a noble place of worship.
A small footprint was visible on the surface of a stone which was sheltered with palm leaves, garlanded with flowers and smeared with golden boreh unguent. On either side were gifts to Dewi Sri, the rice princess, and to the danjang desa, the village spirit. Further round in the columns of roots were offerings to djinns, spirits of evil who could bring pestilence and flood, as powerful for harm as the danjang was for good. It was wise to keep on terms of amity with them. Further along, placed in a niche, was a small statue of the Boodha, crudely made, and one of Gajah, the elephant-faced god who was Ganesh in India, a son of Siva, who was the compassionate bestower of all wishes. In some parts the tree was festooned with coloured threads. They were tied, said Nathanial, by women, to secure long lives for their husbands. In this one place, it was possible to see all the golden mix of Javanese belief, tumbling down the centuries, seared into the land.
“There is a tale, a love tale, which the villagers told me. Remember, this story is six hundred years old, but it was told to me only a year ago.”
Nathanial took off his coat and spread it on the ground, and they sat in the shade. He took two cups and poured the cold water, handing one to Charlotte. She leant back against the buttressed root of the banyan tree and drank.
“This footprint, I was told, is that of a beautiful princess. Of all those who fled with Siliwangi, she alone, the consort of his son, escaped their fate, through the help of an Arab priest, who had converted her. She could not, however, save her husband, her beloved one, whom she saw turned to stone before her eyes. The victor, overcome by her beauty, wooed her, but it was in vain, for she would not be separated from this stone which was him, which was love. She built a little hut under the banyan tree and came each day to sit and gaze upon the stone which bore her husband’s semblance. Filled with love and grief, she would hold this stone in her gentle arms and murmur into its deaf ear soft words and vows of love. Day by day, month by month, year by year, her tears would fall on the stone which now lay felled by time until at last it became as soft as clay and received the impress of her tender foot, which had known no other peaceful resting place for so long.”
Charlotte smiled at Nathanial for this pretty tale.
> “Do you think it is possible to love someone forever, even when they are gone, when you can never see them again?” she asked, gently tracing the footprint with her fingers.
Nathanial looked at her. He knew he was already half in love with Charlotte. “I think it is possible to be unable to relinquish the idea of love, the memory of passion, the ideal, no matter how impractical, of the loved one who is gone. Or,” he added, “the one you can never possess.”
Charlotte looked up, but Nathanial had risen and held out his hand. They walked through the field to the river and over the curved bamboo bridge into the village, where their carriage was waiting.
11
Life at Buitenzorg flowed at a comforting and steady pace. Tigran was sometimes away, and she was always glad when he came back. Gradually she grew used to his kiss on her cheek in the morning, his hand in hers when they walked on the estate, his arm on her waist when he helped her from the carriage. When they returned to Brieswijk, she had grown comfortable in his undemanding and attentive presence.
Despite her longings for Zhen, as time went by and she assumed the mantle of the mistress of Brieswijk, a gradual change came over her.
But there had been a time when she thought she would never recover.