The Shallow Seas

by Dawn Farnham

  Charlotte frowned. Did Tigran take opium? Did Zhen? She looked again at the pill.

  “Charlotte, ma chère, n’hésite pas. It is regenerative. You will find again rest, a peaceful nature.

  “When I build castles in the air

  Void of sorrow, void of fear

  Pleasing myself with phantasms sweet

  Methinks the time runs very fleet.”

  He grinned his infectious grin and flopped back in his chair.

  When he left, she looked out over the lawns. Two peacocks moved with slow elegance from the shadow of a tree, and one, suddenly, spread its tail into a magnificent fan, the eyelets shuddering and shaking. The baby moved violently, and she put her hand to her side, feeling a pain shoot around her and into her hip. She was so heartily sick of this pregnancy. She had become anxious about the pains of labour. More now even than before, when she had Tigran at her side. Yet she longed for it to come on, so she could be rid of it, this parasite that was eating her alive.

  Just as she was thinking this, Madi arrived with a tonic drink for her and a tray of tiny dishes.

  That evening she went downstairs and found Tigran waiting. He had sent a note to her asking her to please come to dinner on the terrace. She had toyed with refusing, but what did it matter? The pill Louis had given her was in her room. Somehow he had reassured her. Tonight she would be at rest.

  Tigran rose as he saw her. He had dressed carefully for her. The perfect gentleman, the Arjuna she had known. He took her hand and bowed over it. Honouring her, moving her chair, helping her sit. She looked at him and could find nothing.

  The servants came with some dishes: a stew of tender beef and potatoes; some vegetables from the hills, where spinach and peas grew; a dish of soft, pink peaches, ripe plums and raspberries, too, from the farm at the plantation. All the fruits and vegetables of Europe grew happily in the upper reaches of the hills, where the air was temperate. From the coastal plains to the jungles and high mountain plateaux, with all its climates, there was no gift this island could not bestow in abundance and beauty. Java truly was the home of the gods.

  There was something she tried to remember. Something Nathanial had said about hunger, but she could not quite remember. How could there be hunger in Java?

  They ate in silence for a while. Then Tigran spoke. “Charlotte, are you feeling better? Can I get anything for you?

  She shook her head and toyed with her stew. She heard him breathe a sigh and put down his fork.

  “I know you are angry with me,” he said quietly, “but we must talk about the birth of the baby. Our feelings are something we cannot help for the moment. I am so heartily sorry for my treatment of you.”

  He wanted to add that she might have respected him more, not betrayed him, but he did not. “It is your well-being and that of the child which concern me. Would you rather go to Buitenzorg or stay here?”

  Charlotte looked at him. In the candlelight she remembered how much she had cared for him, yet something, something, stopped her from caring any more. It was not Zhen. She had not thought of him for a long time. He had faded. She lay down her fork. She wanted to go away from them all. They all wanted too much.

  “It is of no matter where I give birth to this child. Just so long as I can rid myself of it. Here is well enough,” she said. She looked over at him dispassionately.

  “Must you be present? At the birth?”

  He did not know how to respond.

  After she left, he rose and walked out onto the grass in the dark, towards the dimly lit path to the church. From the balcony, Charlotte watched him, then returned to her room. She took a glass of water and looked at the little pill in her hand.

  35

  The pains began at midnight. She was awakened from her befogged slumber. At first she thought they were in her dreams. She had taken a pill after dinner and lain back on the bed, letting the delicious sensation flow down her body, warming her, tingling, insulating her from pain, fear and sadness. Truly, Louis was right. It was as if she were lying in her mother’s arms, all the comfort of maternal love washing over her. She had misty visions of her mother, her lovely face, her long black curls, and she, Charlotte, rested in her arms.

  The contractions must have been proceeding for some time unknown to her, for, she realised, they were strong and close together. Her waters had broken, and this was what had awakened her. Here was bliss. This birth, under the beneficial effects of opium, would be put speedily behind her.

  One of her maids, seeing her mistress awake, rose from the mat on the floor. Madi had made sure that two maids slept with Charlotte every night for the past two weeks, waiting for the labour to begin. Madi knew Charlotte had begun taking opium. She was not averse to this, for it calmed her and eased her mind. Since she had begun opium, her brightness had returned, and she ate well and had a pleasant demeanour even with Tigran, who had, Madi knew, begun to despair.

  This was good for her and the child. Charlotte did not know it, but Madi had given her a brew of crushed poppy heads during her last labour. Had she not somehow come to this on her own, certainly Madi would have made her a mild potion from a recipe that her mother had passed down to her—a potion which soothed the worries of the world. Madi liked to smoke opium with tobacco in the evening, after her work was done, for it eased the joint pain in her hands. She knew that though she might continue to chant to keep the jealous spirits at bay, her days as a birthing dukun bayi would be soon over. Perhaps this would be the last child she would deliver.

  Madi was called and Tigran informed. Next they helped Charlotte to the downstairs bathroom, where the water was being prepared. Charlotte was given a strong brew to help the labour, which she took down in small gulps. She was still under the influence of the drug, Madi could tell, and this caused her to frown a little. Usually she gave a mild poppy brew to ease pain when the labour was well underway and the time to push arrived. She was not sure what would happen in this circumstance, and this uncertainty made her nervous.

  Madi’s assistants, her apprentices, helped Charlotte into the water, after Madi had taken oil and checked the dilation. She was pleased, relieved that the dilation was good. Tigran had sent for the doctor, to stand by in case of complications. The doctor was not well pleased that they only called for him in extremis, but Tigran paid him very well for his troubles, and he knew that many families in Batavia preferred these old methods of birthing amongst women.

  The contractions continued, and Tigran relaxed. He had changed into a clean white sarong and was happy that Charlotte had settled into his arms to wait. He massaged her belly with warm oil. He had ordered the gamelan to play outside the window quietly, for it was a relaxing and hypnotic sound.

  He had been surprised at Charlotte’s change of heart when he had seen her next. He had gone to the church in utter despair and kneeled in front of the altar, where a single candle burned. He did not pray often, but he felt at the end of all thought. And, it seemed, God had answered.

  She had returned to a semblance of liveliness. They took their meals together, and she seemed to find some enjoyment in his company. She was a little strange, perhaps, occasionally other-worldly and speaking little, on other occasions full of vitality. He was so relieved at her improved health and her newfound calm that he was happy to just let everything go.

  Now, though, he was a little troubled at her lack of movement, her seeming lethargy in the midst of this labour. Then, as he massaged her belly, he realised that the strong contraction he had felt before had weakened. Charlotte, too, had become restless. She realised suddenly what was happening. She began to feel the pain of the contraction and moved back against Tigran. Madi felt the belly. There had been a sudden dropping-off in the strength of the spasm, yet pain had returned. The opium was wearing off, but the contraction had not strengthened but weakened. She could not make it out. It was outside of all her experience.

  Charlotte grasped Tigran’s hand. “I need more opium, Tigran, for the pain.”

 
; His eyes opened wide. Opium? Now he understood. Certainly Louis had given her opium, for he was the only person who came every day to see her. He must be a foolish man not to have seen the evidence of his own eyes. The evidence which lay everywhere he went in Java, from the opium dens of Chinatown and the warungs in the countryside to the great houses of Batavia, everyone, more or less, took opium. Occasionally, he took a grain in wine for pain.

  He looked at Madi. “Does she take opium every day?”

  Madi nodded. “It has relieved her, but perhaps she has taken a little too much.”

  Charlotte gripped Tigran’s hand again as a contraction began. This one was stronger, and Madi showed her black teeth in a smile. Charlotte groaned and writhed in pain. She had gone from ease and comfort to this grinding torture.

  “Opium, Madi, I need it.”

  “I will give her the poppy drink, but first we must watch the spasms,” Madi said.

  They lifted Charlotte, and Madi felt the dilation. It had moved on very slightly. Charlotte again moaned as a contraction came, faster now. Too fast, thought Madi. Everything was a little strange, the contractions changing in strength and timing. Charlotte looked up at Tigran in a fury. She spoke through clenched teeth.

  “Tigran, by all that’s right, give me something. Have you not punished me enough?”

  Tigran looked at Madi with anguish, but Madi shook her head. She spoke quietly to Charlotte, stroking her hair. “Ssh, ssh. Not yet, the pains are not regular—you are not open enough. All is well, but we must wait. I will give you a drink to dull the pain, but not the poppy, not yet.”

  For two hours they waited. The contractions became more regular, close and hard. Charlotte gasped and groaned, sweat pouring off her. She had forgotten this hideous pain, like hot knives twisted in your back, between your legs. The wrenching, torturous feeling of being torn in two. As she felt the wave rise and squeeze, she cried out and gritted her teeth. Tigran lifted her onto her knees. He was desperate, feeling useless as she sank into this sea of agony. It gave some respite, as walking had done for a while, but below her waist she was now just one vast and excruciating wall of pain.

  Finally, the urge to push came, and Charlotte cried with relief. Madi felt the dilation, felt the head of the baby engaged. Now Madi gave Charlotte the poppy brew, and she gulped it down. Within a minute, a sweet ease came over her—not so great as with Louis’s pills, but the pain had diminished to the bearable. Charlotte was thankful and gripped Madi’s hand. She threw a look of dislike at Tigran, so strong that he left her side to wait in the shadows at the edge of the room.

  The birth attendants helped Charlotte, pushing down on her belly, helping each contraction. She was getting exhausted, Madi could tell. She had been too thin and weak, and despite all Madi’s ministrations had had too little time to regather her strength. The baby was ready to be born, but Charlotte could not bear down strongly enough. Charlotte’s head fell onto her chest, and she seemed to swoon. Tigran moved forward, frantic. Madi whispered to a maid, who was starting to cry out of fear for the mistress, and she ran away. Within a few minutes, she came back.

  Madi took some finely ground pepper in her hand, waiting to feel the contraction rise, and put it under Charlotte’s nose. Charlotte looked at her, eyes wide with consternation, but within a few seconds, she gave a great sneeze, followed by three more and the baby slipped quickly out into Madi’s waiting hands and gave an angry cry.

  It was over. The baby was cleaned and, when the pulsations had ceased, Tigran tied the cord with woollen threads and severed it. He had done this so many times. Now here was his child, a boy, his son by this woman he loved so much. Charlotte leant back on the cushions of the cot to which she had been moved, waiting for the final contraction to expel the placenta. The brew had done its work and she felt pain free but alert. She looked at Tigran holding his child. Thank God, she thought, it is over. He has his new boy. Never again. I never want another child.

  Within thirty minutes, she was cleaned and wrapped and resting on her bed. Tigran brought the baby and she looked at him. He was red and squashed, as newborns are. She felt absolutely nothing for this child, just a deep relief that this trial was finished.

  “Thank you, Charlotte, my darling. Thank you for this little boy.” He took her hand and kissed it. “Can you forgive me?”

  Charlotte looked at him and smiled, shrugged slightly. “I don’t want to feed it. You must get a wet nurse.” With that, she lay back and closed her eyes, sinking back into the visions of endless clouds and peace.

  He frowned and took the child to Madi.

  36

  The carriage turned into the gates of Brieswijk and rounded the final curve, past the trees. Home, Takouhi thought, at last.

  She was content. She had spent every day at the graveyard, sitting near the cupolas on a bench which she had caused to be placed under the shade of the tamelan trees, watching the workmen build George’s tomb. During this time she had taken up embroidery, which she had done as a child with her stepmother. She would no longer dance, as she once had, the Javanese dances of the court. She had begun to feel age creep on her, knew it was because George was gone and there would never be another man, but she did not mind. To have had George’s unswerving love for so long. To have loved him and found together a late, youthful passion with him. It was more than enough.

  She had spent a great deal of time with Teresa Crane and her sisters and cousins. The da Silva family was one of great generosity and hospitality—too much, sometimes, when she simply wanted to be left alone with memories. She had gone more often to the Armenian church and found that prayer, especially in this place, gave her solace, for she was as close to George here as she could be. She had felt enclosed in his hands, his mind, remembering the building of this beautiful offering to the glory of God and the continuation, in faith, of a dispossessed people.

  She had been part of a sewing circle, which good-hearted Evangeline had started when she discovered Takouhi’s new pastime, to beguile her friend from sorrow. There were ten to fifteen women who had come after supper several times in the week. Some embroidered, some sewed children’s garments and christening gowns. Evangeline made lace, the most exquisite lace: needle lace, bobbin lace. Her family came from Calais and had been lace-makers for generations. There were machines now, of course, but Evangeline still enjoyed the pleasures of la dentellerie, which she sold to raise money for the new church. Her lace and crochet work were so exquisite that she could command almost any price. The Arab and Chinese ladies, she had found, liked to wear lace under their garments as much as the European ladies did.

  Robert and Teresa had dined once a week. She had had news of the birth of Tigran’s second son, Adam, though strangely, Charlotte had not written to her for a long time.

  Billy Napier, John Connolly and several of George’s friends had come every Sunday to take tea and talk about old times and George. They had all promised George this: not to abandon Takouhi, no matter what.

  Billy had proposed to Maria, and she had accepted him. He would adopt George’s boy after the wedding. Takouhi had been glad, though she felt, in some measure, sorry for Maria. To pass from the arms of George to those of Billy … but women often had few choices. George’s son would have a good father, who would love him as he had loved his friend.

  She rarely saw Maria, despite the proximity of their houses. If their carriages passed sometimes or they met, shopping, in the Chinese town, Maria would turn away. She had come, once, to the cemetery and seen Takouhi and turned back. Takouhi had been sorry and through Billy had told Maria the times when she would be there so that Maria could come to George’s grave if she wished. She had realised that she needed to leave soon so she would stop haunting this young woman’s life.

  Finally the day had come when George moved residences and the ceremony had been completed with a memorial service at the church. She had laid great garlands of white perfumed jasmine flowers on his tomb and in the cupolas and written to Tigran and asked
him to send Queen of the South for her and her things. She had left instructions with Billy to sell the house and everything in it. There were memories here, and for months she had walked the rooms and the garden, basking in them.

  Then it was time. From the sitting room of Tir Uaidhne, she had heard the church bells ring out for Billy and Maria’s wedding and knew little George would be safe.

  And now she was home. She had heard little from Batavia for these many months. Tigran wrote of the children and work and some of their acquaintance. Charlotte he mentioned as “well.” She had written not at all, and now, as Takouhi got down from the carriage, she had a sudden sense of foreboding.

  She stepped inside the hall, and Jantzen came forward to greet her, his hands raised to his forehead. She was very happy to see him so well. She smiled at him and asked where the master was, the mistress. A slight shadow seemed to pass across his face.

  She had known this man most of her life. He had come when she was sixteen, living back in Brieswijk, her vicious husband gone to Macassar. He had been a small slave boy who had grown up in Brieswijk. When Takouhi made Tigran free all the slaves, he had become Tigran’s servant and took the name of the mestizo cook who adopted him and taught him the ways of the house. Within a few years, he had taken over the duties of the whole household. He now received a generous salary, and his wife made exquisite batik cloth which Takouhi bought at above-market price, for it was the finest in Batavia, and kept for herself or gave as gifts. They had five children. He knew he owed his freedom and much of his small fortune to this woman, and she knew he was a good, kind and irreplaceable man.

  “What is it? Is something wrong?” Takouhi asked urgently

  He bowed. “Mistress, the master said he will come soon from the Kota. The mistress is at the river. The children are with their babus in the garden.”