The Shallow Seas

by Dawn Farnham

  That evening there was a service for Meda in the chapel. Nothing more was said about George. When Takouhi appeared, she seemed composed, and they left for the church together, walking through the tamarind grove preceded by the servants carrying tall torches. Charlotte was silent, knowing her friend was in a deeply sorrowful place: sorrow for her lost daughter, George’s lost daughter. As they listened to the priest, Takouhi took Charlotte’s hand in hers and they looked at each other. Charlotte nodded. They both remembered sitting like this in the church in Singapore, but then George had been at her side and Meda was a happy and excited flower girl. That night was the night she had taken sick. And, Charlotte remembered, the following day she had given herself to Zhen and he had utterly changed her life. They both had to take this news slowly.

  Tigran came to her room late. She was half-asleep when he moved next to her and took her in his arms. She murmured softly, and he kissed her neck, letting his lips linger on her soft skin; then she drifted into sleep, her head cradled in his arm, against his chest. Tigran watched her, beautiful in rest, her full, pink lips parted slightly, her long lashes resting on her perfect cheeks, her bosom rising and falling imperceptibly beneath her white satin gown, wisps of jet black hair escaping from the plait the maid had fashioned for sleep, tied, as always, with a scarlet ribbon. He had bought her a rainbow of silk and satin ribbons, but when she slept she always chose a red one. He loved her little idiosyncrasies, the way her lovely eyes widened when she was curious, the way she bit her lower lip when she was thinking, the way her eyes seemed to change colour when he brought her to the height of passion. When that happened he felt like a king, invincible. How he loved that, how he loved her, to an ache.

  He tried not to succumb to the deep anxiety which this news from Singapore had caused in him. But he felt that something had happened. He knew her every nuance. Perhaps it was George, just George, and her desire to see him and Robert. He hoped so. He had thought about looking for the letter but, suddenly weary, he could not muster the energy. She had come so far from sorrow and found pleasure and contentment in his arms, given him so much joy. He had to trust her, for otherwise there was only torment.

  15

  Tigran was happy to agree to a voyage to Surakarta, although business meant he could not accompany Charlotte and his sister. He was glad that the effect of this news from Singapore had abated slightly. Takouhi had said nothing of George’s supposed return. Charlotte thought it wiser to be quiet on the matter too.

  This journey had been suggested on the night of the feast for Meda. That night, Brieswijk was turned into a vast park of firelight. From the house to the river, lanterns and firebrands led across the grass to the riverside, where bonfires threw flames and smoky trails into the night. The perfumes of jungle firewood and sandalwood incense filled the air. Wayang theatres were thrown up throughout the grounds. Wayang kulit, wayang golek and a Chinese wayang were in progress. The people from the villages and surroundings were invited, and all afternoon boats arrived and vast crowds moved from place to place, watching first one display, then another. An array of food and drink lay on mats along the riverbank: special slametan food. Great peaked mountains of rice, one yellow for love, the other white for purity; garlic, red onion and chili to ward off evil; whole chickens for unity, whole eggs for new life; long green beans for long life, and mixed vegetables for diversity, all rested on banana leaves representing strength. Families and groups lounged on the grass, enjoying the festivities.

  Louis and Nathanial sat with Charlotte and Takouhi on the verandah. They had shared the food on the banana leaves and drunk tea with the villagers. Takouhi was filled with pleasure for this day. There had been the service in the church and the slametan ritual and now the enjoyment of the villagers. It was exactly what Meda would have loved: the throng, the noise, the excitement of the wayang, the gongs and drums of the gamelan. Takouhi would have liked for one brief moment, just one quiet moment more, to hold her daughter in her arms and feel her tender little body. But this was good-bye, the final slametan, the giving of peace to her soul, for the body was gone. She had surrounded Meda’s grave with oil lamps and lit double candles in the chapel from herself and George. He was coming back. She could hardly believe it, but she was glad. The end of the festival would be marked by fireworks, but that was still hours away.

  Captain Palmer emerged from the garden. The festival had been thrown open to all the Europeans in Batavia, and Takouhi had made an announcement in the newspaper. Wilhelmina and Pieter and many others had come and gone.

  Charlotte had seen Palmer occasionally at balls and on Waterlooplein but had rarely spoken to him. Now he bowed over Takouhi’s hand.

  “What a charming and lovely occasion to remember your daughter. I did not know Meda, but the loss of a child is hard to bear. I, too, have suffered such a loss.”

  Palmer looked up as Takouhi took his hand in sympathy and asked him to join them.

  He looked over at Charlotte and bowed, nodding to the men. Louis and Nathanial eyed him dispassionately.

  “Madame Manouk, it has been a long time since we last met. You spend a great deal of time at Buitenzorg.”

  Charlotte smiled and nodded. Palmer found her more beautiful than ever.

  The conversation turned to Nathanial’s prospective voyage to East Java, and Captain Palmer mentioned that he too was planning a trip to Surakarta. He told them of some of his voyages in Sumatra, for he had been involved in the pepper trade which the Dutch government had granted to the American merchants from Salem. All at once they were all talking of a large group travelling together. Louis, who would be unable to leave the theatre, pouted.

  By the time Tigran joined them, the voyage had virtually been planned. Palmer watched as Tigran went to his wife and sat, taking her hand—proprietorially, Palmer thought—in his and putting it to his lips. Lucky dog, he thought.

  Charlotte was excited by the prospect of this voyage, and Takouhi seemed determined. Tigran said they would talk tomorrow. He wanted this trip, if it were to happen, planned to the last detail, with plenty of protection for his wife and sister. Nathanial was a good man and a good companion, but, in many respects, Captain Palmer was a welcome addition. He was older, hardy, had certainly seen battle and sailed the high seas. Six of Tigran’s men would accompany them.

  “I will write to the Residents of Semarang and Surakarta to ensure that everything is in order for you,” he said, and closed the subject.

  Captain Palmer rose to take his leave, with a smile, and Tigran accompanied him to the door. The voyage would take several weeks, and he would very much enjoy the company of Mrs Manouk, whom he intended getting to know much more intimately.

  “I am not sure about that fellow,” Nathanial said.

  “Oh, Nathanial.”

  Takouhi looked over at him. “He has suffered like us the loss of a child.”

  Nathanial looked down. Tonight was not the time to raise his doubts. He changed the subject, and, as Tigran returned, raised his glass.

  “To lovely Meda,” he said and they all toasted her.

  A week later, the Queen of the South stood ready to depart for Semarang. Charlotte had written to Robert, telling of their coming voyage, and her hope that they might return to Singapore when he had more news of George, thanking him for the information about Zhen. She would have liked to write to Zhen, put a note in her letter, but it seemed such a betrayal of Tigran. She asked Robert to send her compliments to Zhen, but dared write no more. He would know, surely. This news was enough for the moment. She felt she could smile when she thought of him now: well, handsome, urbane, a gentleman, speaking excellent English. When she went to Singapore, she was sure that she could meet him with something close to equanimity.

  It was with an easy heart, therefore, that she kissed Tigran farewell. He held her tightly, and she embraced him, too, with a strange forcefulness. She wished now he was coming on this voyage but was glad that he would be with Alexander. Tigran loved this little boy like
his own, Charlotte could see it when she watched Tigran speaking Dutch with him, playing with the rattan ball, sitting in the river of the bathing pavilion with Zan on his lap, the boy’s little fingers wound in Tigran’s long plaits.

  Now they went up on deck, and she took Alexander in her arms.

  “Be a good boy for Papa now,” she said gravely and kissed his cheeks. He looked at her with his almond eyes and began to cry, but as soon as Tigran took him in his arms, he stopped, hugging his father’s neck.

  Tigran held him tight, and he kissed Charlotte again. She felt his emotion at this parting. She hugged them both. Then, quickly, he turned and passed Alexander to his babu, and they went down to the waiting lighter. She watched, waving. She felt tears well, but in an instant Nathanial had come to her side.

  Within minutes the ship was on its way, heading out to the island of Edam and the open sea. It was swift, the passage from land to sea, and as the breeze caught her hair, she suddenly felt liberated. There was freedom on the sea. Shore cares were left behind, like casting off invisible shackles. She loved the sea, loved to sail; she had forgotten this feeling of pure escape. She looked at the captain, feet planted on the raised poop deck like a king in his dominions, and, as the ship ripped along and the sails roared with wind, she understood why men loved to sail the oceans. The land was immobile; it always belonged to someone. But the water was free, rolling from shore to shore. She liked to think that the waves which now washed the shores of Java would, by the constancy of the moon, tumble up against the sands of Singapore.

  She thought, already, of the pleasure of sleeping in the master’s cabin below, the row of mullioned windows flung open, listening to the sea slip under the ship, sliding along the black painted sides of the brig; she thought of watching the sea swallow the sun slowly, until only a tiny spark remained floating on the edge of the world before it was, all at once, extinguished. Her last voyage on this ship had been one of deep misery, but now she felt at rest, ready to enjoy this extraordinary voyage. A part of her truly wished Tigran had come so they could share this together, but another was glad to be alone. Now that he was far away, she felt closer to him than she had ever been before. This ship was part of him.

  At dinner, they were very merry. There were five of them: Takouhi, Charlotte, Nathanial, Captain Elliott, and Tigran’s eldest son, Nicolaus, who was on the voyage for trade. The ship was laden with cloth, iron goods and teak for Semarang, where Nicolaus would also inspect the sugar mills. Tigran was importing new sugar-refining machinery from England. Then Nicolaus would load sugar, tea, rice, cloth and opium to trade for camphor, ironwood, gunpowder, gold dust and diamonds in Pontianak and Bandjermasin. In this island trade, the Queen of the South flew the Dutch flag, permitted to trade by government licence.

  Charlotte was glad to spend time with Nicolaus. Tigran had put aboard flagons of fine French vin gris for this special voyage, and the captain was delighted to have ladies along. He was not one of those superstitious types who thought women on board were bad luck. So particularly eighteenth-century, he said, and they all laughed.

  The talk turned to piracy, with Captain Elliott telling some blood-curdling tales and recounting the remarkable exploits of James Brooke, the man who had been created the white Rajah of Sarawak. Charlotte and Takouhi, who had heard only a little of this story, begged for details.

  “Well, ladies, he is quite an adventurer, our Brooke, with a dash of luck thrown in. I have met him once or twice, for his yacht, Royalist, has plied these waters. Brooke was in Singapore on his way to explore Borneo. As it happened, he arrived in Kuching in time to be of service to the local rajah, who was the Brunei Sultan’s relative. The poor fellow was trying, unsuccessfully, to put down a rebellion. The rajah apparently made Brooke some promises in return for the use of his ship and its guns. When it was over, the rajah, so it’s told, demurred, and Brooke merely turned them on the rajah’s palace and demanded his due—to be the first white rajah in Sarawak! Such audacity! You may imagine the excitement this news created. Every man who sails half-dreams of his own empire on a far-flung island.”

  Seeing the faces of the women, caught up in this story, Nathanial added, “Good old Brooke. I’ve heard it remarked that Brooke knows as much about business as a cow a clean ship. Now, the man who is doubtless the silliest of spoilt individuals to sail the China Sea is the toast of the East India Company. They shall be able, through him, to plunder the treasures of Borneo and ply the unsuspecting natives with all the useless manufactures of Manchester.”

  He raised his glass in mock salute. Captain Elliott did not approve of these sentiments, but his gentlemanly instincts forbade him to challenge his guest in front of the ladies. He changed the subject.

  Captain Elliott thought that Mr Manouk was the luckiest man alive. Wealth beyond measure, robust and competent sons, a well-married daughter and vigorous grandsons. And on top of these blessings, an incomparably beautiful young wife and a new, healthy boy. He had seen her when they had brought her from Singapore and was glad she had found happiness. Mr Manouk was an excellent master, and Elliott enjoyed sailing this lovely brig. Tigran had arranged a pension for when he felt ready to retire, as well as a small house in Batavia. Elliott was happy to be able to say flattering things to his master’s wife, son and sister. Many Dutch ships employed British-born officers but few employers were as generous as Mr Manouk. Thus, in mutual pleasure, the voyage continued along the coast for four days until they reached the port of Semarang and all too soon had to part.

  Nicolaus was fond of Charlotte, who was only a little younger than himself. She in turn saw the young Tigran in him, though he was not so good-looking as his father. He was a good man and had welcomed her into the family from the beginning. Both brothers had done so, but Nicolaus in particular seemed happy for his father.

  Charlotte had met Nicolaus’s mother, Nyai Kuonam, only once; it had given her a glimpse into a different place, the household of the native woman caught up in the Dutchman’s world. She and Takouhi had called on Nyai Kuonam one morning and found her sitting in her sarong on a mat on the floor, her hair hanging down greasily, ringed by women as unkempt as herself, occupied in cleaning vegetables. She was small and wrinkled, with very black teeth, and every now and again spat a stream of blood-red spittle into the cuspidor which stood at her side. She spoke Malay with them but said little. Charlotte could not believe she was younger than Takouhi or that Tigran had ever made love to her, though Takouhi assured her that she had once been very pretty. She was now a wizened old lady. She took little interest in either of her visitors, and they soon departed.

  Valentijna, Tigran’s daughter, did not care for this marriage of her father’s and Nathanial suggested it might have something to do with the instant disappearance of her large inheritance. A new young wife and child were, doubtless, a vast inconvenience to her. Charlotte should have a few more little heirs and heiresses to outrage her. Charlotte had smacked Nathanial lightly when he said this, and laughed.

  The thought of children had, however, crossed her mind, for she was late. She frowned and knew exactly when. It could only be the time when Tigran had come unexpectedly to the bathing pavilion and sent the women away. Precautions were impossible, but their imminent separation had visited an urgency upon him, and the look in his eyes was determined. He had thrown off his clothes and come to her side in the river, pulling off her sarong, kissing her mouth and cool dripping breasts, his long hair trailing in the water around her body, like a ravishing river god, then lifting her to the side, to the great pile of cloths and cushions on which she, Takouhi and Alexander lolled in the hot afternoons. He had been forceful and adamant, taken her, protesting, in his arms, and she had succumbed, her resistance turning to excitement at this risqué coupling in the open air.

  Now she feared the worst. Charlotte did not want another child. Not now, not ever. She was still terrified of childbirth. Also, unconsciously, she wanted to go to Singapore as slender as he remembered her. She shook her h
ead, angry at this half-admission, angry that he could still occupy so easily a part of her mind. She knew Tigran would be delighted at such news, for this time it would be his child, and he had spoken of another child many times. Had he come to her at the pavilion expressly to get her pregnant? He knew her time of the month as well as she did. No, she would not think like that. She would resent him too much. Nothing would dampen her spirits. After all, she had been late before, and a potion from Madi had solved the problem.

  While in Semarang, they would stay at a house which Tigran owned in the southern town. Nicolaus would depart after Charlotte and his aunt had left for Surakarta and be back in time for their return in two weeks. Everything had been carefully arranged, and within an hour of their arrival they had received an invitation for dinner at the house of the Resident of Semarang, Martin Eeerens. The wife of the Assistant Resident was Tigran’s daughter, Valentijna, and Charlotte was certain she would be present.

  The Resident’s cutter arrived to take them off the ship and upriver and thence to a carriage to cover the two miles to the house which served as his home. It was a large, columned, double-storey residence set back in a pleasant garden. Much like in Batavia, the European houses lay some way from the port. Charlotte was amused to note that not one of the government residences she had seen so far was as fine as Brieswijk.

  The Resident and his wife greeted them effusively. Martin Eerens was a very small man with a very large moustache and a nose which betrayed a fondness for brandy. His wife was his very opposite, at least three times his size, with thinning hair and a long, white nose which supported a pince-nez. Nathanial murmured “Jack Sprat” in Charlotte’s ear, and she had to grit her teeth and open her eyes wide to prevent a fit of giggles.

  In the drawing room, Valentijna and her husband came up to them. Valentijna embraced her aunt and brother warmly and Charlotte coolly. She was a lovely woman, with beautiful golden skin and Tigran’s brown eyes, but Charlotte could not warm to her. There was something haughty and distant in her demeanour. Charlotte had a pleasant relationship with Nicolaus Manouk’s half-French wife and through her was well aware that Valentijna thought of Charlotte as a penniless upstart who had brought nothing to the Manouk house and who had somehow bewitched her father. She had said as much to Nathanial. Valentijna’s husband was a well-made, very good-looking Dutchman who spoke halting English, and after a perfunctory but very polite greeting he remained silent.