The Shallow Seas

by Dawn Farnham

  And now, in the blink of an eye, everything had turned hideously sour. She went to the line of windows and opened one, letting the air rush in. She watched as the shoreline of Singapore receded, keeping her eyes on Mount Wallich. But now she was not sure which hill was which. And as they left the harbour, the sea became rough. She shut the window and lay on the bed. The baby had begun its churning. Surely Tigran would calm down, surely he would forgive her. She closed her eyes.

  33

  Charlotte awoke as the light began to filter into the room. The oblivion of sleep left her and the day, and her thoughts rushed in. She remembered. Tigran would not speak to her. She lay and watched the passage of the early morning pass across the floor.

  For four days she had been confined in the cabin, but the journey had taken much longer than expected. For days they had lain windless, floating on the shallow blue sea of the Straits of Carimata, which joined the South China Sea to the Java Sea. The main island in the passage rose, a lofty, barren height of grey and yellow; another lay like the backbone of a stooping creature. Further off, a smattering of insignificant and indistinct islets curved into the haze. The ship floated motionless, chained to its mirror image on the glassy sea. This becalming seemed, to her fevered mind, the very symbol of her plight: stuck immobile between Singapore and Batavia, between two men, utterly incapable of action, just as the wind had seemingly deserted the earth.

  Sometimes there would be an inexplicable long, heavy swell, as if the sea had inhaled a deep breath, and this would cause the ship to move forward, raising spirits. Charlotte could hear it in the animation and chatter of the Malay and Javanese sailors. It would give only brief hope, however, for soon, again, they lay unmoving. Then would come only what sailors called the baffling winds, the shifting, varying breeze which caused the idle sails to flap. There was surely no more hideous sound at sea than the monotonous and never-ending flap, flap, flap of the idle sails against the masts and yards.

  Charlotte thought they might never leave these regions of the doldrums. When the sun was at its zenith, the breeze would die altogether and the sun beat down, scorching the ship, heating them like a furnace and reducing them all to dripping, exhausted wraiths.

  The food was adequate, for rice was plentiful and the men fished and shot seabirds. The water, though, ran low and the men took the cutters and went to Caramata Island for fresh supplies, to look for firewood, fruits and whatever else they could gather. The water party returned, but the second boat was attacked by a small group of natives, with one man killed and two wounded.

  Now the fear of pirate attack added to their woes. After two days, both wounded men died, and the captain held a burial at sea. Charlotte could not bear to watch, hearing from the cabin the splash of their bodies.

  On the fifth day, Tigran, seeing the prospect of a long voyage, allowed Charlotte to come on deck, though he remained unremittingly cold to her. He responded when she spoke, but otherwise he addressed not a word to her. Charlotte was certain she would go into labour on this mirrored sea and die in hideous agony in the relentless heat. She would stare down into the waters, watching the sunlight move on beds of coral and dark indistinct shapes and imagine her body floating there: she and her child still joined by the cord.

  The captain could not help but notice the tension; he could not make out what had so suddenly turned this loving couple against each other. Mrs Manouk looked sickly, so heavy with the child, but her husband seemed indifferent.

  To raise her spirits, he talked to her of the sea and of the ship. He told her that the word “brig” came from “brigand”, for some believed that pirates lay at the origin of this two-masted vessel. The Queen was an old-fashioned lady, over twenty years old and much modified. She had been an English privateer which Tigran’s father had bought because he liked her English name. The upper cabins behind the wheel, which the captain and the ship’s master occupied, had been added so that the roomy main cabin was reserved for the owner or his guests.

  The Queen was a good sailor, quick to respond and courageous in all weathers, he told her, and she felt his affection for this sleek craft. They talked of the stars and navigation. Captain Elliott showed her how to use a sextant and found her quick to grasp the concepts. They discussed the merits of steam and both agreed that it was in seas like this when every sailor would be glad of it to confound the capricious spirits of the air.

  Charlotte was comforted by the captain’s little mongrel dog, Tasty, which lay in the day, panting, at her side in the rigged shade of an old sail and in the evening shared her lonely cabin. Elliott told her he had named him this when he had saved him, as a pup, from the jaws of a crocodile during some village foraging. When Tigran saw them talking together, he turned away.

  Charlotte could not reach him. She had been angry at this confinement, determined to make him pay for it, but as it extended, she had become bored, agitated. When she had been allowed on deck, initially she had been happy to be free, still annoyed with him. After a week, however, she had become anxious. The voyage which should have taken four days had, finally, taken sixteen. It had been hideous, long, hot and tedious. She had been sick and frightened, filled with visions of madness. Only the Captain’s kindness and the presence of the young Javanese maid had kept her mind in order, for this young girl was more terrified than she. Charlotte longed for Brieswijk.

  Now she was here, but nothing had changed. Tigran left in the early hours for the Kota. He returned in the afternoon, but then, after bathing and changing, he went to the Harmonie Club or the Concordia Club or the Hotel de Provence or the Masonic Lodge or heaven knows where. He slept not in the room next to hers, but in apartments at the other end of the house.

  They were invited to dine, but he refused everything on grounds of her health. She felt, now, that what had been wounds of love had festered into hatred of her. She longed for Takouhi to come home, but her friend wrote that she could not. She wanted to see George’s tomb built. She wasn’t ready to leave him.

  Nathanial was absent, on another expedition to the East. Louis was away too, travelling with part of the troupe to Semarang and Surabaya. She spent her days with Alexander, who barely recognised her, in her room, or in the library and at the river. The river gave her some comfort. The maids were charming and attentive, but they chatted in a language she could not understand.

  Once she went at sunrise to the river and watched quietly as the villagers bathed in the green and golden waters. The men, half-naked, ran and leapt into the water, diving under and emerging, their copper bodies gleaming wet. The women, sedate, pulled their sarongs over their bosoms, leaving their shoulders bare. At the edge of the water they paused and lifted their arms to twist their heavy hair into knots. Young mothers coaxed their little ones into the stream. Crowds of small boys and girls plunged and splashed noisily. Half-hidden in clumps of reeds, the young girls poured water from palm leaves over each other’s heads until their sleek black hair melded with their garments in flowing, clinging folds, moulding their lithe figures into those of nymphs. She turned away. She took her meals alone. She did not know how long Tigran meant to punish her.

  Now, today, she did not want to get up. It was too much effort. It was so much easier just to go back to sleep. She half-awoke when the maid came with tea, but then returned to slumber. In the evening she awoke, surprised to find she had slept all day. She rose, needing relief from the sticky heat and went to the verandah, where she felt a waft of cool evening air and sat looking out into the darkness. Her maid, anxious, appeared instantly at her side, with tea and some food. Charlotte smiled at her and resumed her vigil over the darkness.

  Charlotte’s maids liked her a great deal. She never bullied them, was always gentle and kind. They could not speak her language, could only watch as she fell into this despond. Madi should come, but without the master’s permission it was impossible to send for her. When she heard, the housekeeper informed Janszen, the major-domo, who ran everything in the house.

  Tig
ran failed to return that night, and Janszen became concerned. The mistress slept all the time. She had taken a little water but had eaten nothing now for two days. The maid feared for the master’s child.

  When Tigran finally came back, Janszen made his report. Tigran frowned and went to her room. Charlotte lay naked on the bed. She had lost weight, and her skin was sallow and sweaty; her hair stuck to her.

  He went to the bed and touched her, tried to wake her, but she did not move. She was all belly, so thin it protruded like a barrel. Had he done this? He had not seen her for two weeks. Had he done this?

  He saw the movement of the child, raking an elbow or kicking a foot against her inside, rolling under her skin like some huge parasite. Her skin was almost translucent, her belly a map of blue veins. He saw she had marks where the skin had stretched, and they looked red and raw. She looked neglected, abandoned, and he felt a terrible remorse.

  Tigran tried to rouse her again. She opened her eyes and looked around a moment, her eyes rolling, then closed them again. He rose in alarm. She had not seen him. She did not know where she was. She had suffered on the voyage, and now she had drunk nothing for two days. He called a servant to fetch the civil surgeon. Then he returned, tried to raise her, give her some water. Again, she opened her eyes. She seemed to recognise him, but it was if she was looking at him from across a vast space. He called the maids and lifted her into his arms. Despite the weight of the baby, she felt like air, and he shook his head at his own folly.

  He carried her to the bathing room and put her in the cool, scented bath. The water revived her so that she was half-awake as they washed her hair and body. Tigran saw that she no longer wore her wedding ring and shook his head. How had it come to this? He sat by the bath, and she took some water from him.

  But they could not rouse her more than this. He carried her back to her bed, now remade with fresh sheets. She fell again into a deep sleep. Now Tigran was frantic. He sent another servant urgently to the civil surgeon. Then he remembered Madi. In his anger at Charlotte, he had not called Madi to care for her in this late stage of her pregnancy. Furious at himself, he sent for her.

  Tigran took up Charlotte’s hand, kissing the white mark where her wedding band should be. He opened the drawer at her bedside and it lay there, forlornly, shorn of its power and meaning. She had simply removed it one day when he had not been there, perhaps because she could not bear to see it any longer on her finger, this symbol of their union, now destroyed. He loved her so much, yet he had caused this suffering.

  He had a horrible premonition suddenly that she might die, like Surya, from melancholy and misery. And this time, he would be the cause. The thought was unbearable.

  He rose, putting his lips against hers, kissing her, again and again, her lips, her cheeks, her eyes. Touch: she had loved his touch before, longed for it. Lovely Charlotte, his sensual, beautiful wife. Wake up, my love, he murmured, kissing her neck, running his hands through her hair, running her fingers into his plaits, over the beads which he knew she loved to touch. But she did not move, and he rose, letting out a roar of anguish, pacing the floor.

  Madi arrived. He went to her, his eyes filled with tears, and she looked at Charlotte, went to the bed, felt her face, then turned. She had delivered him and all his children safely, gotten rid of others, ministered constantly to the needs of his women. She said nothing, but he felt her anger and sat on a chair like a child. She turned to Charlotte and took out a bottle of liquid from her bag. In a small glass of water she put three drops. She raised Charlotte’s head, and with a bamboo straw she sucked up some of the liquid then put the straw between Charlotte’s lips and blew the liquid into her mouth. Charlotte swallowed, involuntarily, and within a few minutes opened her eyes. Madi put the rest of the liquid to her mouth, chanting quietly, and Charlotte drank.

  Madi called the maid, who was hovering anxiously, to prepare some herbs. She felt Charlotte’s belly, assessing the child. It seemed to be well, but it had drained its mother of everything. More than this, though, Madi knew there was some problem in the mind.

  The herbal brew revived Charlotte, and she looked around her. She felt a raging thirst and asked for more to drink. She was so happy to see Madi and kissed her hand. Madi smiled a black-toothed grin, poured more of the brew and ordered the maid to make a honey, ginger and ginseng drink. For a few hours, Charlotte would do nothing but drink and excrete her liquids, bringing back balance to her body.

  The civil surgeon arrived, and Madi retreated in the presence of this tuan. After examining Charlotte, he pronounced her somewhat debilitated and advised bloodletting and purging. Madi’s brew had relaxed Charlotte, and she had begun to feel pleasantly well. Now she looked at Tigran, terrified.

  “I feel better Tigran, please don’t …” She spoke in a frightened little voice, cowed, and he realised that she feared him.

  He went up to her, and she flinched. He was filled with anguish. “Oh, no, no, Charlotte. It’s all right.”

  He turned to the doctor. “I am sorry to have bothered you, Willem. I was concerned, but Charlotte is much better.”

  Tigran propelled the doctor firmly towards the door. “Send me your invoice and add something extra for your trouble. Let’s dine in a week or so at the Harmonie?” They left the room, Tigran taking him to his carriage.

  Madi went immediately to the bed and helped Charlotte to drink. She stroked her hair and clucked softly, crooning a Javanese lullaby. When Tigran returned, Madi put up a warning hand, not letting him touch her. Charlotte looked at him. She had no idea what she felt for this man anymore. She could not imagine him holding her, touching her during labour as he had with Alexander, when she had sunk into his strong arms and felt his comforting power. Now, wherever the fault lay, she was wary of him. She was in his power, and she did not like it. He could isolate her, trap her. She remembered Takouhi’s story. He was not like that; it was not fair, but he had exacted an obedience nevertheless.

  He saw it in her eyes, this guarded assessment. He was relieved that she would be well now, the panic of the past few hours over. He had to think what to do next. If she could not ever love him … His paralysing anger had receded, and the thought drained him of all vitality.

  They looked at each other silently until she lowered her eyes.

  He turned and left the room.

  34

  Tigran paced the library floor. He felt utterly drained of imagination, unable to act. Over the past few days, Charlotte’s health had improved. She had begun to eat; her colour had returned. This morning he had joined her at breakfast, thankful that she had come to the table, could take some food. He poured her some tea. She thanked him very quietly, but would not look at him. Everything in her attitude told him she wished he were not there.

  He wanted to apologise for his treatment of her. Everything had got out of hand so quickly, for he had been uncontrollably angry. On the ship, when he looked at her he had seen her betrayal, his head full of savage and unbearable visions of her lying with this man, making love with him even whilst she was carrying his child. It made blood come to his eyes. He supposed he had intended to punish her, make her change her ways, forget her lover. He had not intended to break her spirit or ruin her health, though. He couldn’t remember now why he had let it all drag on.

  He had started to speak, but as he began, she rose abruptly.

  “Excuse me, please. I feel unwell,” she said.

  She stood, waiting, and he realised she was waiting for his permission to go. He couldn’t believe it. She had no right to make him feel like a monster. She stood there, thin and frail, with this huge belly, unmoving. His anger evaporated. He felt a flood of sympathy and love for her. He wanted to put out his hand, touch hers, but he knew she would pull away.

  He rose quietly. “Please finish your meal, Charlotte. You need your strength.”

  He left, and Charlotte sat down, frozen with misery. She knew he wanted to talk to her, to try to end this, but she just could not forget how il
l she had become at his hands, how he had imprisoned her. Now they were both stuck in this emotional mire. She did nothing but think and think how to change this, how to get out, but all ways seemed closed. She tried to follow Zhen’s advice and find the middle way, stop these swings in mood to which she had become horribly prone. But it was hard. Sometimes a black gloom simply enveloped her. Madi had made her body well, but she feared, sometimes, for the balance of her mind.

  Then, a few days later, finally, Louis came to see her. She was so happy to see him that she burst into tears and hugged him. He made her laugh with stories of the troupe and the good burghers of Semarang. They sat on the verandah at Brieswijck, and she told him everything.

  “Oh, Louis, I would give anything to stop feeling this way, just to stop thinking.”

  Louis put his hand in his pocket and took out a pretty silver box. He opened it and held it towards her. She looked at him quizzically.

  “L’opium, ma belle. Le cadeau precieux du coquelicot.” He took out a small pill and put it in her hand.

  “It will give you rest. Take it this evening and you will forget every trouble; it will take you in its arms and embrace you. It will dim the light, and when you wake, you will be refreshed and revitalised. It is the panacea for all ills. It is the secret of happiness.”

  Charlotte stared at this pill. Opium. She had seen it, smelt it, in Singapore; its sweetish odour poured out of dozens of doors in Chinatown from behind grimy, tattered curtains. The smell was not disagreeable, something like roasted nuts.

  “Do you take it, Louis?” She looked up at him.

  “My dear Charlotte, of course. Everyone takes it. The Pharaohs, the Romans, the Greeks, all of antiquity knew of its divine powers. It is God’s gift to mankind, a recompense for our mortal sufferings, nôtre miserable existence.”