The Shallow Seas

by Dawn Farnham

  Takouhi frowned. Something was going on here. She asked Jantzen to send some tea to the verandah and went out to look for the children. She found them under a tree to one side of the house. Alexander had grown tall. He was almost three, she calculated. She went up and looked at him, then sat on the grass, and he came up to her and sat in her lap. He remembered her, she could see, and she hugged him and kissed his cheeks and neck. He showed her the straw elephant which the babu had made for him, talking to her in Javanese, calling her bibi, auntie, and they chatted amiably. Then he got up and chased some birds from the grass, running fast, screaming, his babu in pursuit, calling to him frantically. She smiled. He was beautiful and strong. She could see his Chinese blood, but it would not be obvious to most people, for his eyes had something of Charlotte’s, a lightness. She had seen Zhen in the town sometimes. Now she could see his height, his build, the strength of his face, in his son.

  She went over to the hammock which Adam’s babu was swinging gently and looked inside. The baby was fast asleep. She could not make out who he resembled, but he looked something like Meda when she had been a baby, his hair dark and unruly. She told the babu to stop and picked him up. He lay in her arms, and she rocked him and kissed him. It was wonderful, this constancy that nature gave. George had died, but his son lived. Meda had died, but somehow here she was reflected in this child’s face. She put him back into the hammock. It was good to be back. She never wanted to go away from these children again.

  Returning to the verandah, Takouhi sat, pouring tea and looking out over the grounds. She took from her bag a cardboard picture wrapped in silk. It was a daguerreotype which Gaston Dutronquoy had made of her and George.

  She remembered with what excitement and almost trepidation they had set foot in his studio, which was in George’s house at No. 3. George had taken a look around his old house and declared it quite splendid. There was a small theatre for amateur theatricals, and a production of the farce The Spectre Bridegroom was that night, the 14th of March. She would never forget that date. Robert and Billy had appeared, and it was hilarious, as such a play can be in a small settlement where everyone knows each other. Charlotte had laughed to tears, she remembered, at the sight of her brother in make-up. George had loved the idea of his house as a place of ribald humour.

  There had been a taproom stocked with barrels of beer and wine where his inner hall had once been, and he liked it very well. They had giggled like children. They had posed for a brief time, and then, miraculously, they had this image of them both. Thirteen days later, he was dead.

  Now she gazed at the picture, touched his hair, ran her finger down his cheek. It was, she thought, the most beautiful thing, better than any painting. It was the finest invention of mankind. With this miraculous machine, you could keep the ones you loved with you always. She desperately wished she had a picture of Meda. Faces faded, no matter how you strove to hold on to them. Now Adam would remind her of Meda, blessedly. And with this picture, she could see George’s face at any time. It gave her the greatest comfort. Later she would take it to show Meda.

  Finally she heard footsteps and raised her head. Tigran came out onto the verandah and she stood at his entrance, shocked. He looked gaunt. She took him in her arms.

  Tigran held on to his sister, glad she had come. When he had received her letter to send the brig, he had closed his eyes in relief. He loved her. She understood everything about him, about Charlotte. Surely she would know what to do.

  They sat down, and she poured him some tea. “What is happening here, Tiga?” she demanded.

  Tigran took off his coat, trying to think how to explain this, where to start. He told her of his discovery of Charlotte’s affair with the Chinese man. Takouhi looked down. She had known about this and had not told her brother. She was as complicit as Charlotte; she had been heedless of everything but George. It had been as if no one else existed.

  She kept silent as he related the whole story: his punishment of her, the terrible voyage, the hard birth, the opium. On the third day after the birth, she had lapsed into a fever. Madi had given her jamu drinks, cleansing baths. It had lasted five days, and when it finished, she was very weak. But she had recovered. Tigran had determined then to put an end to their estrangement. She had nearly died. He had horrible dreams of Surya. Charlotte asked for the opium, and he wanted to give her what she wanted. With it she rested; he could see that, and she was in good humour when they were together; she ate well.

  Louis brought her supplies and spent days at her side. She took no interest in either Alexander or Adam, however, and he had grown concerned. She had recovered her health and a degree of vitality. He wanted her to come back to him, to his bed, but when he had said this, she had simply looked at him as if he were demented. “Come to your bed!” she had said and laughed. “Make another child, so you can finally kill me.”

  He had been struck as if by a thunderbolt. Everything had gone terribly wrong. Once, Charlotte had even disappeared into Chinatown with Louis, to smoke opium, like the Chinese do. The damn stuff had taken over her life. He wanted to confine her, to stop this, but he did not dare. Once before he had done it, and he felt ashamed. It had turned her against him.

  Takouhi took Tigran’s hand. “I know opium. It is good for pain and for sadness. I took this when was I young and had trouble. Usually it is good. I sometimes make poppy tea. After George died, it was helpful for me to rest my mind. Maybe she is taking too much?”

  “Taki, I don’t know, but something … we must do something. Charlotte and I have no life, no wedded life, no family life, no social life.”

  Takouhi rose and looked down towards the river. She could see the carriage pulling away, bringing Charlotte back to the house.

  The moment she saw Takouhi, Charlotte ran into her arms, thrilled to see her friend. She had had such a lovely day at the river. The colours and shadows blended into phantasmal shapes, and even the wind could speak.

  That night, in her room, Takouhi brushed Charlotte’s hair. “Charlotte, Tigran is worried about you.” she said.

  Charlotte turned to face her. “Tigran is worried about everything. He worries too much.” She laughed and turned back to the mirror.

  Takouhi thought a moment. “Alexander and Adam look well. Do you think? Alex so big now.”

  Charlotte frowned. She was starting to feel agitated. She had taken her last pill before lunch, and now it was time for sleep. She wished Takouhi would go away so she could get into bed. She yawned.

  Takoui stopped brushing, kissed Charlotte on the cheek and said goodnight. She went to Tigran, who was sitting disconsolately on the terrace.

  “It seems that she has come to need opium to sleep. She became anxious when she was ready to take the next pill. Tiga, you and I take opium. Many people we know use opium from time to time. Why can we stop and ignore it, and she cannot?”

  “I don’t know.” He looked at his sister. “Is it because she is so very unhappy? Do you think? You can die from unhappiness. Surya did.”

  He put his head in his hands. “It began on the ship,” he said. “She was so pregnant and so distressed and, no matter what the reason, I made everything unbearable for her and Louis came and gave her something which made her feel well. Then the birth, which was hard …” He raised his head as if something had suddenly occurred to him.

  “I am responsible. She sees me and remembers misery. God help me. That is the truth.”

  He looked at Takouhi. “Should I bring happiness to her? Should I ask this Chinese man to come?

  Brother and sister stared at each other. Neither spoke for a long time.

  “You and I have not had easy lives,” Tigran said finally. “We lost our mothers young. You had a vicious marriage. But we both had happiness too. I had Surya for a while. You had George and Meda a long time. These are blessings. And Charlotte, I wanted her. She did not want me.”

  He stopped.

  “But she learned to care for me, give herself to me, because I was
generous and patient. I don’t know, Taki, but I think I have to ask him to come.”

  The memory of the first time he saw Charlotte came flooding back. He had been complacent, his wealth assured, his children grown, a man who strove for nothing more than a peaceful life, and she had walked into the room. She had been dressed in a robe the colour of her eyes; she was like a scent made corporeal, a whisper of lavender turned to woman. He had been lost to her from that moment. Now he had half-killed her.

  He made up his mind.

  He rose and went to his sister, leaned down and kissed her cheek. “Good night, Taki, thank you for coming home.”

  In his room, he took up his pen. He wrote to Robert, telling him of Charlotte’s state of health, how for one reason or another she had come to depend on opium. He asked him, confidentially, to speak to the man who was Baba Tan’s son-in-law, ask him to come to Batavia. He knew that Charlotte cared for this man; Robert must understand that this was all that was important now. Zhen was Chinese; they knew about opium, and he was also a man who knew about Chinese medicines. Tigran knew Madi used some of the remedies from the Chinese herbalists in Glodok, but he could not trust her with this. He had gone beyond pride or righteous anger. Perhaps if she saw a face of one she loved and trusted, as clearly she no longer did him, this would help. He was at the end of his tether, and for Charlotte’ sake, he wrote… .

  Tigran could hardly believe he was inviting this man into his house. He put down his pen, stretched his neck and stared at the candle.

  37

  Tigran had rarely been to the Gong Guan, the offices of the Kapitan Cina and the Chinese Council in Batavia.

  He had met Tan Eng Guan on several occasions at his compound on Molenvliet West, however, for the leader of the Chinese community entertained his wealthy compatriots and the Dutch community frequently and lavishly.

  Long before the Portuguese and Dutch had come to Jayakarta, a Chinese community had existed here. They were indispensable to all the colonial cities in the East. Colonists were invariably a small group of men, dependent on the large communities of peaceful and industrious Chinese for almost everything. In the Dutch Indies, every possible consumable item was made or supplied by the Chinese: they ran the sugar plantations and factories; through the farm system, they controlled the tolls, the markets, the river transport, the wayang, the arrak trade, the opium farm, the gambling farm, money-lending. For the organisation of all this, they paid the Dutch government valuable concessionary taxes and relieved the Dutch bureaucrats of a heavy administrative burden. The colonial government might be the artery of trade and the Javanese peasant the agricultural heart, but the Chinese were the veins linking the two in an efficient web of networks which profited themselves and the Javanese Regents and, most importantly, the Dutch rulers.

  The massacre of 1740 had taught them this lesson very starkly. Tigran was not amongst those who resented the Chinese. He knew the charges laid against them. They were the bloedzuigers of the Javanese peasant through money lending, which year upon year mounted drastically. They charged too much for the road and market tolls. But Tigran found them courteous, industrious and clever. A certain ruthlessness in business was not unusual, and he sometimes found it strange that the Dutch, who were hardly gentlemen in the world of closed and monopolistic commerce, should criticise them. All the laws they worked under were those made by the Dutch and could be improved at any time to the benefit of the peasantry. The Dutch chose not to do so, for the status quo suited them very well.

  He knew of the massacres, occasioned by suspicions and resentments, which had led to the indiscriminate killings of 8,000 Chinese.

  On the wall of the Chinese Council hung a large board carved with red characters. Tigran had been told that it read:

  Since the appointment of the first Chinese headman, eleven kapitan had already served for a hundred peaceful seasons until in 1740, when weapons were suddenly taken up. Creatures grow and wither away, that is how the ultimate embracing of life and its negation, good and bad, were destroyed alike; the excellent and depraved befell the same misfortune. How can this be expressed in words? But by the spring of Ren-wu (1742,) the disturbances came to rest. The great King Banxinmu promoted Wei Hanlin to serve as kapitan; then the Gong Guan council was established. Their virtuous hearts assist the people; with civilising teachings, all reach the path of virtue!

  Tigran knew that Banxinmu was Governor-General Van Imhoff, who had swiftly recognised how much the Dutch needed the indefatigable industry and intelligence of the Chinese. They had been moved outside the old city walls, to Glodok, to separate them from the Dutch, but the Council had quickly been established and renewed Chinese immigration encouraged. The Dutch government charged a head tax on them, which accounted for a quarter of the revenues of Batavia. For their own people, the Council ran orphanages, schools and a hospital, the temples and cemeteries, settled grievances and disputes, gathered taxes, registered births, marriages and deaths.

  The Kapitan Cina’s private residence was an extensive series of compounds of curved-roof buildings, surrounded on all sides by high walls. He had sometimes wondered why the Chinese houses were so contained—secret worlds within themselves. They had an ancient, quiet charm, these courtyards over which a veil of incense always hung. The entertaining areas, which in general were all anyone was permitted to enter, were highly decorated in carved wood, red and gold, covered in symbols which were particularly auspicious: fish, cranes, peaches, ducks and lotus pods. Huge, six-sided glass lanterns etched with characters lit the rooms. Along one wall stood a massive four-part screen decorated with precious stones, mother-of-pearl and jade, depicting the four seasons. Beyond lay a world unseen and unseeable.

  Like the Dutch women in Holland, Chinese women were banned from leaving China, and Tigran knew the Chinese men also took mainly Balinese wives or married within their own community. They preferred the Balinese above all others—for their looks, of course, but also because the Balinese had no religious objection to the preparation of pork, as the Mohammedan women did. Tigran understood that Tan had many wives and consorts. As rich as he was, Tigran knew his wealth paled in comparison to the wealth of many Chinese merchants.

  Tigran stepped up to the plain red door. He had walked from his offices on the Kali Besar to this unprepossessing Chinese building in Jalan Tiang Bendera. At his approach, the door swung open, and he was ushered inside. Immediately from one of the rooms at the side, Tan came out to greet him. Tan knew Tigran quite well from social occasions and because Tigran had once offered him a very comfortable berth on his brig to travel to Semarang when no junk could carry him. The Manouk household employed many Indies-born Chinese—in their offices in Batavia, in the plantation as scribes and comptrollers, and especially in their sugar factories at Semarang. Tan had been surprised by this rather strange request to facilitate a meeting of these two men who seemingly had little in common: a wealthy Armenian merchant in Batavia and the son-in-law of Tan Seng, whose mission in coming to Batavia was to talk to him of a marriage between their two houses, a proposition which had certain attractions.

  Shaking hands, the two men went into a room where there were a thick, marble-topped table and some hard Chinese chairs. Once tea was served, Tan raised a long-nailed finger to a man nearby and spoke to him quietly.

  Tan’s Dutch was good, and they chatted for a moment before the man returned. Behind him stood Zhen, who bowed to the Kapitan and Tigran. His face was completely impassive. You could never tell what they were thinking, mused Tigran.

  Tigran stood, turned to Tan and said in Dutch, “Thank you for making this meeting possible. It is an entirely personal matter, and I am grateful for your discretion.”

  Tan inclined his head. One of his most important duties as Kapitan Cina in this town was to make affairs run smoothly between the Europeans and the Chinese. He left the two men alone.

  Tigran sat and motioned Zhen to a seat. “Do you prefer to speak English or Malay? I cannot, I’m afraid, speak any
Chinese,” he said.

  Zhen sat and looked at this man. He had understood it was about Xia Lou. Something was wrong. She had got involved with opium. He had been horrified to learn this, for Zhen had seen the effect that opium had had on his own family. His father had become its ruinous slave, and still was. Zhen sent money back to China every month to keep his family from penury. He planned to bring his younger brother to Singapore, but as yet it was impossible, for he was charged with helping the eldest brother with their father and with the small business Zhen had financed in Fujian. The quantity of opium his father required never ceased growing, and Zhen paid for all this without demur: it was his duty. But he had seen how, gradually, this drug had eaten his father alive, and he could not believe this was happening to Xia Lou.

  “I speak English. You want me to help Xia Lou? She is sick?”

  Tigran was glad the man had come straight to the point. He would like this done with quickly. It was bad enough to have to call on this adulterous swine whose child he was raising. Tigran had no intention of having him meet Alexander, whose features he could see on this man’s face.

  “Charlotte is, I think, deeply unhappy,” Tigran said. “The birth of our second son was difficult, and she became ill. I think it would be helpful for her to see you.” He looked Zhen in the eyes. “I do not want you, I assure you, in my wife’s life. I am aware that you are not an honourable person.”

  Zhen’s eyes narrowed slightly but he said nothing, and Tigran became annoyed at the man’s silence.

  “You lay with my wife? You have a wife. Did you think of this, that Charlotte is my wife?”

  “She is my wife first. I married her long ago.”

  Tigran stared at him and rose. “What are you talking about?”

  Zhen rose too and the two men stood facing each other, hard-eyed. Tigran felt his hand trembling, aware of the kris at his back, wanting to strike this insolent beast, kill him for the mockery he had made of his marriage, for crushing Charlotte’s love for him.