Solomon's Song

by Bryce Courtenay

  ‘So what was the difference in his disposition on his return home late on Monday night? I mean, apart from the beating?’ Hawk asks the cook.

  ‘Don’t know nothing about his dispo . . . dispo . . . whatever, sir. Mrs Hawkins says they was all asleep like and were woke up because o’ the shouting and blasphemy and then the screams and sobbing from Miss Heenie.’

  ‘And that was the same night Benson saw him in Wapping?’

  ‘I can’t rightly say, sir, he didn’t mention what night it were.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Briggs, I am truly grateful to you for coming to see me.’

  Mrs Briggs rises from the leather armchair. ‘Thank you, sir, shall I leave the pot? I’ll bring you a fresh cup.’

  ‘No, no, take it,’ Hawk says absently, then sees that he has allowed the cup resting on the small table beside his chair to grow cold. The cook is on her way back downstairs when Hawk calls out to her. He hears her ponderous tread as she turns and climbs the three or four steps she has already descended, then her head pops around the door.

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘Tomorrow morning when Young Benson arrives with the sulky, be so kind as to ask him to come up and see me.’

  Hawk sits for some time after the cook has left. His first instinct is to take a cab to Sandy Bay and call on Hinetitama. But it is already well after eight o’clock and his commonsense tells him there is little he can do until the morning. He knows sufficient of Tommo’s daughter to decide that discretion is the better part of valour, to go around and make a fuss will most probably create an even bigger one. Hawk thinks she is more likely to take her husband’s side than his. Despite Tommo’s daughter having mellowed somewhat, scratch her skin and underneath is the tiger she ever was. He’ll have to approach things somewhat delicately or she’ll be likely to send him away with a flea in his ear.

  The following morning when Young Benson comes up to his study Hawk questions him closely. ‘On how many occasions have you er . . . seen Mr Teekleman in Wapping at night, Benson?’

  Benson, cap in one hand, scratches his scalp, thinking a moment. ‘Can’t rightly say, Mr Hawk, sir.’

  ‘Once . . . twice maybe?’

  ‘Oh no, it be more than that, they’s regulars.’

  ‘They? You mean Isaac Blundstone?’

  ‘Aye. But it’s late, see, and Blundstone slumps in the corner too pissed to even fart. It’s the Dutchman what plays alone.’

  ‘Plays what, Benson?’

  ‘Poker, sir, and euchre.’

  ‘A game between friends maybe, nothing serious, eh?’

  Benson grins. ‘Not on your bleedin’ nelly, sir! It’s Benny the Mill what runs it. I wouldn’t say it were what you’d call a friendly game.’

  ‘Benny the Mill?’

  ‘Ben Mildrake, sir, a proper villain.’

  ‘Mildrake? But he’s in prison, isn’t he?’

  ‘Aye, don’t make much difference, school’s his, he’s still the boss cocky on his patch, the dockside half o’ Wapping, Andy Handshake runs the top half.’

  ‘Andy Handshake?’

  ‘Another proper villain, sir, Andrew Hindsheek, but they calls him Andy Handshake.’

  ‘Benson, as a matter of interest, how do you come to know all this?’ Hawk now asks.

  ‘Cockatoo, sir. Gets me out o’ mischief, keeps me out the pub.’

  ‘What, watching out for the law?’

  ‘Nah, law don’t come into Wapping at night, sir. Big game, lots of gelt about, there’s villains what wouldn’t hesitate to ’elp ’emselves given ’arf a chance.’

  ‘Villains watching out for villains, eh?’

  Benson shrugs, and then by way of further explanation adds, ‘Wapping, sir. It ain’t the nicest place.’

  ‘Benson, I want you to stay stum, say nothing, not even to Cook or Martha, but keep your eyes skinned, let me know when Teekleman comes and goes and whether he wins or loses.’

  ‘The first, that’s easy, he ain’t of a size to be easy missed, but I dunno about the take home. I’m outside on the corner, a cockatoo, I ain’t in the room where they plays, nor wants to be. I keeps me nose clean, less you know the better with them lot, know what I mean, sir?’

  ‘Very wise. Well, do your best, there’ll be a sov in it for you.’

  ‘Yes, thank you, sir, Mr Hawk, I’ll be waiting with the sulky. Will we be going to the brewery, sir?’

  Hawk nods and the young man takes his leave. ‘He’s sharp enough,’ Hawk thinks to himself, ‘might warrant watching.’ He thinks to find out how well the young fellow reads and writes and whether he has some arithmetic.

  Hawk calls for Teekleman to be sent to him when he arrives at the brewery in the late afternoon. A few minutes past the four o’clock smoko whistle there is a tap on the open office door and Hawk looks up to see the huge form of Teekleman almost filling the entire door frame. For all his own great size, the Dutchman must outweigh Hawk by a hundred pounds, which would give him a weight of around four hundred pounds in his stockinged feet.

  ‘Come in, Mr Teekleman,’ Hawk calls out. Despite the Dutchman being Hinetitama’s husband, Hawk has always kept his distance and addressed the cheersman in a formal manner.

  ‘Mr Solomon, you vant to see me, ja?’ Teekleman asks.

  ‘Yes, yes, please, come in,’ Hawk points to the ottoman, the only seat sufficiently large to accommodate the Dutchman’s corpulence. ‘Please be seated.’

  Slabbert Teekleman first examines the couch suspiciously, trying to decide whether it will bear his weight. Then he gingerly lowers himself into it, first each cheek in a rocking motion, the leather ottoman sighing beneath the weight of his arse. His thighs follow, either hock clasped and lifted into position with both hands to rest in the correct forward direction, though his knees do not touch, his protruding stomach denying them access to each other. His feet are planted like stout stumps, rooted into the Persian carpet, as if they are his anchor points to keep him seated in an upright position. Finally, in what seems his only spontaneous gesture, he slaps a massive paw down onto each knee. It is a process which has taken a conscious effort and some little time to achieve. ‘Ja, that is goet,’ he says at last and Hawk senses that a part of the elaborate performance is an attempt to conceal the Dutchman’s nervousness.

  He rises from his desk and comes to join Teekleman, seating himself in a club chair opposite him. The two big men are strangely contrasted. Hawk, though his waistline has thickened somewhat in middle age, does not carry any excess weight and at seven feet remains an awesome sight. His face, now well lined, wears the fearsome moko of his Maori initiation and his hair is beginning to turn grey at his temples. It is an altogether imposing look made all the more incongruous beside the fat Dutchman with his straw-coloured hair, blue eyes and florid complexion. While Hawk could well pass for the devil himself in any children’s pantomime, Slabbert Teekleman might appear as a grotesque perspiring cherub bursting out of his grey worsted suit. The one man exudes sheer power while the other is a testimony to the extremes of self-indulgence.

  ‘Mr Teekleman, while you and I have kept our distance from each other, you should know that I admire the way you have conducted yourself since you arrived in Hobart.’

  Teekleman looks surprised. ‘I try alvays my best, Mr Hawk.’

  ‘You have been a good husband to Hinetitama and father to her children and I am grateful to you for this.’ While this last is not entirely true, Teekleman sleeps for most of the day and sees little of his children and when he does shows no interest in them beyond a pat on the head, it serves Hawk’s purpose to commend him. Hawk is thought by both Victoria and Ben to be the dominant male figure in their lives and he is secretly grateful for Teekleman’s neglect as it allows him easy access to Ben and Victoria. For their part, the children seem to like Hawk immensely.

  ‘Ja, Hinetitama, she is goet vummen,’ Teekleman mumbles. He senses that Hawk hasn’t simply called him to compliment him on his success as a husband and father. ‘She look
after me well.’

  ‘Wapping, what do you know of it?’ Hawk now asks.

  ‘Vapping?’ Teekleman repeats. ‘We have two pub there.’ He squints curiously at Hawk, ‘You know already this?’

  Hawk nods. ‘Do you visit them often?’

  ‘Ja, sometimes, like all za others,’ he lies, then shrugs, appearing to be bemused. ‘This is my job, I think so, no?’

  Hawk nods again. ‘And lately, have you visited them at night?’

  ‘Alvays I visit za pub at night.’

  ‘Yes, yes, but the two in Wapping?’ Hawk persists. ‘Have you visited them recently?’

  The Dutchman is suddenly silent, he averts his eyes and fixes them down onto his massive stomach so that his numerous chins concertina inwards. He doesn’t know how much Hawk already knows or to what he should admit. Teekleman finally glances up at Hawk. Chancing his arm he says, ‘Ja, sometimes I go zere.’

  Hawk has earlier in the day sent Young Benson to the two company-owned public houses in Wapping, the Lark & Sparrow and the Emerald Parakeet, Mary having named both public houses, the one after English birds and the other after her new land, for her great good-fortune birds, her beloved rosellas. Benson enquires whether Teekleman has visited either at night in recent weeks. The Dutchman is not stupid and if he has taken the trouble to do so he will have a sufficient alibi to argue his case for being in Wapping. But Teekleman has been too arrogant, or perhaps grown overconfident about his nocturnal perambulations, and hasn’t thought to cover his tracks sufficiently well. Young Benson reports that neither publican can recall a visit from him after sunset and that both seem surprised at the question, Wapping is one of the few exceptions where a cheersman never visits at night.

  ‘Mr Teekleman, we value your services very highly. Wapping is a dangerous place after dark and I must from now on expressly forbid you entering it after sunset on behalf of the brewery. I believe there is an existing order to this effect. I know that a man of your standing in the community would not normally enter a place like that at night of his own accord and I thank you most sincerely for doing so in the line of duty.’ Hawk pauses and then adds, ‘I want you to know it is not required.’

  Teekleman is forced throughout to hold Hawk’s gaze and now he averts his eyes and appears to be closely examining the fingernails on both his hands which are spread out on the surface of his enormous stomach. ‘You do understand my concern, don’t you, Mr Teekleman? I feel quite sure Mistress Mary, had she been here now, would feel exactly the same. You are, after all, a part of our family and we would not knowingly place your safety in jeopardy.’

  The Dutchman looks at Hawk, his eyes drawn to narrow slits. ‘Thank you, Mr Hawk, I am not afraid this Vapping. It is not so bad.’ He tries to hide his anger at being told what to do by the nigger and attempts a smile. ‘Ja, I have been places much verse den dis.’

  Hawk returns his smile. ‘Ah, haven’t we all, Mr Teekleman, but we are neither of us as young and I trust not as foolish as we were then.’

  ‘I go now, ja?’ Slabbert Teekleman suddenly asks, anxious to avoid making a direct promise to Hawk. He is perspiring profusely even though the temperature in Hawk’s office is by no means inclement. He begins to move on the couch, his hands firmly gripping the edge of the seat while his huge arse starts to wriggle as if to gain sufficient momentum of its own to attempt the enormous effort required to rise. With a great heave he pulls himself slowly to an erect position, his legs wobble dangerously and for a moment seem unable to carry the burden thrust upon them, then he locks his knees and they steady as the distribution of his weight is adjusted and, panting from the effort, he finally stands upright, his hands clamped to the small of his back.

  Hawk rises from his chair and, making a deliberate effort to keep his voice calm, says, ‘I hear your wife has had a small domestic accident but is recovering well?’

  He waits for Teekleman’s response. The Dutchman seems to be thinking then says, ‘It is not so bad, a few bruise, I think she vill be soon better.’

  ‘I am most pleased to hear that, Mr Teekleman. Her welfare is of the utmost concern to me. You will be sure to take good care of her, we would not like her to have another such accident.’

  Teekleman, who has been feeling increasingly angry, now seems close to apoplexy at Hawk’s implied threat. He has the greatest difficulty concealing his fury and his several chins visibly quake and his face turns the colour of new-baked brick as he struggles to restrain his temper. Hawk has no right to threaten him. He has always hated the schwartzer, who humiliated him in Wellington by buying him off and forcing him to run away with his tail between his legs. Now, like the old hag before him, Hawk threatens to possess his whole life, to rekindle the fear he has lived with for five years.

  Teekleman believes that while he had an agreement with Mary, it should not carry over to Hawk. The contract with the black seal has become a life sentence he can no longer endure. He has wealth and protection and even a certain standing in society but remains as much a prisoner as if he was incarcerated in a dank prison cell. It is all too much to bear.

  Slabbert Teekleman halts at the doorway and turns to face Hawk, who has returned to his desk and is attending to some paperwork. The Dutchman cannot contain himself any longer.

  ‘Mr Hawk, why you do this, eh? What you want?’

  Hawk looks up querulously. ‘Do what, Mr Teekleman?’

  ‘Threaten me.’

  ‘Threaten you? How have I done that? I am merely concerned for your safety in Wapping.’

  ‘I think this is not true!’ Teekleman shouts. ‘You know something, eh? Mistress Mary, she speaks to you about za contract?’ The moment the word escapes his mouth he knows he has made a terrible mistake, that his temper has allowed him to play into Hawk’s hands.

  ‘Contract? What contract is this?’

  ‘A paper,’ Teekleman replies. ‘Your muthza and me.’ His voice is somewhat mollified as he tries to play down the importance of the word he has used.

  ‘I have not seen such a contract,’ Hawk says truthfully. ‘What does it concern?’

  The Dutchman cannot explain any further without exposing himself completely. ‘It is nothing.’ He gives Hawk a feeble grin, then shrugs his shoulders and spreads his hands wide as if to apologise for his outburst. ‘Maybe she loses this paper, eh?’ he says. ‘I go now, please?’

  ‘No, just a moment, Mr Teekleman!’ Hawk says, stepping out from behind his desk and coming towards the Dutchman. ‘If you wish I shall look through Mistress Mary’s papers?’ He halts in front of the perspiring Dutchman, a look of concern on his face. ‘An agreement you say? We do not break agreements here, nor do we expect them to be broken. Is there something I should know?’

  Teekleman is beaten neck and crop and he raises his hand in a feeble protest. ‘No, it is nothing,’ he repeats, turning back to the door, though Hawk can sense his enormous frustration, his huge body trembling as he waddles through the doorway.

  To a man like Slabbert Teekleman Hawk’s subtle approach is a form of persecution he is unable to endure. He would rather feel the sharp lash of Hawk’s tongue and have him waving the black-sealed agreement under his nose than to suffer the uncertainty of not knowing how much the nigger knows about his past.

  He always thought that Mary Abacus would return the document to him when she came to the end of her life, or that she would destroy it, releasing him from its conditions. When nothing was said for several months after her death, and with no evidence to the contrary, he convinced himself that this was what happened. He was free at last to lead his life without constraint. With Mary’s death, Teekleman decided that Hawk was not going to take her place and run his life for him. Now he feels deeply betrayed. After all, he has kept his part of the bargain and sired two great-grandchildren for the old bitch. He has served his sentence and it is time for him to be released.

  While he would have been afraid to gamble in Wapping while Mary was still alive, his agreement is not with Hawk. He insi
sts to himself, perhaps not unreasonably, that if he can get drunk on behalf of the brewery he has every right to get drunk on his own account. He will gamble wherever and whenever he chooses and, in the process, choose his own companions. Drunk or sober, he will beat his wife if he desires to do so. It is every husband’s duty to keep his wife subservient to him and it is common knowledge that a beating will stop a woman from having ideas beyond her station. It is, he tells himself, a matter of respect for his role as head of the household and he cannot be restrained from exercising it. Hinetitama may be a Solomon, but she is still a half-caste, a reformed drunk and finally only a woman. He, Slabbert Teekleman, is a white man and a Hollander, so he does not have to prove his superiority. In future, nobody, least of all a nigger and a half-caste, will decide how he will lead his life. He has decided that from here on they can both get fucked.

  But now Hawk has pulled him up, reminding him that the old shackles persist. It is simply too much to bear and, as he walks away from Hawk’s office, he swears he will have his revenge. Halfway down the long corridor, as he passes the stairs leading to the fermenting tower, he suddenly realises how he can destroy the giant black man without placing himself in danger.

  It is quite simply done. He knows that Hawk is due to visit Melbourne where he will explore the business opportunities available and is to be gone for four months. Teekleman will wait until Hawk has departed so that he cannot be present to influence Hinetitama, then he’ll chuck in his job with the Potato Factory and announce to his wife that henceforth he will make his living as a fiddler working the various taverns at night. With the income from Hinetitama’s ten per cent share of the Potato Factory they are wealthy and there is no need for Teekleman to work. He already has a reputation as an entertainer and those taverns and pubs tied to the Cascade and the Jolly Hatter breweries should welcome him with open arms.

  ‘My dear, you are not singing vunce since you granmutza dies, you come with me, we make together beautiful combination, ja.’

  With Mary gone Hinetitama has been lonely. Furthermore, her work at the maternity hospital, where she had hoped to practise as a nurse and midwife, has not turned out as she had expected. While the nurses are prepared to have her in the role of owner or even administrator, they will not accept her as an equal who is prepared to work with a birth or a miscarriage in the same capacity as they do. Though they cannot openly object to her presence, they find a thousand small ways to disconcert her and make things difficult.