The Two Hearts of Kwasi Boachi: A Novel (Vintage International)

by Arthur Japin

  “Black skins have so little definition,” he sighed.

  “The boys know some poems by heart,” she ventured, in the hope of mollifying him. “Perhaps it would be interesting if they . . .”

  “A white skin, at least, glows with life. It can be given depth, and also transparency.” Clearly the prospect of painting our portraits inspired little enthusiasm in him. “A white skin can be painted—provided the artist is skilful enough—to look as though one can see through it.”

  Mrs. van Moock took a step back and laid her hands on our shoulders. She gave us a little squeeze of complicity, and spoke in a cool voice.

  “I have had the honour of viewing your self-portrait with my own eyes, at the exhibition in The Hague two years ago. Now I see you in the flesh, I must say it was an exceptionally good likeness. Quite remarkable.”

  “Thank you, madam.”

  “The colour of the boys’ skin,” she continued sternly, “is a shade darker than yours, but that is all. So I am confident you shall succeed.” At this, she turned and left the room.

  Raden Saleh stirred at last. His slender fingers swung gently, as though his long nails were tracing circles in an imaginary pool. After a while he rose to his feet in a single flowing movement.

  A white canvas of vast dimensions had been erected in the glassed-in bay. It was four yards high and at least as wide. The artist signalled to his servant to lower the blinds, and directed us to two chairs.

  Then he took his sketch pad and began to draw. Every half hour or so he told us to change position, so that he might see us in a different light. Eventually he ordered the room to be darkened completely, and placed an oil lamp before a convex mirror in such a way that a bright shaft of light illuminated us from one side. He selected a variety of colours and spent a long time mixing shades with which to render the tones of our skin. Then he made some more sketches on paper. Finally he put away his sketch pad, slid his drawing utensils into their case, wiped the traces of lead from his hands, bowed his head and sent us away.

  It was less than a week since Cornelius de Groot had given me my last boxing lesson. I had made good progress during the year, and by now I was in the habit of exercising my muscles, whether I had a sparring partner or not, by lifting weights, doing press-ups, and arm-wrestling with anyone who cared to take up the challenge. The pains in my chest, which had plagued me all winter, disappeared in the spring, and I attributed my cure to physical exercise. I often stood in front of the mirror in my shirtsleeves, staring at my reflection, and I kept track of the circumference of my chest, arms and thighs by tying knots in strands of wool. I was proud when the seams of my shirts needed letting out, and was often to be found, that summer, at the constabulary, where I was allowed to use the men’s gymnastic equipment. I compared the bare torsos of the men to my own. The difference in size between me and them fuelled my resolve.

  The disparity between Kwame’s body and mine increased. I pointed this out to him and tried to persuade him to follow my example, but never succeeded in arousing his enthusiasm. He seemed utterly unimpressed by my physique. I could not imagine that he was content with the childlike, undeveloped contours of his body, the sight of which, when he undressed for bed, was beginning to irk me.

  Cornelius commenced each boxing lesson in a gentlemanly fashion, with due ceremony and observance of the rules and rituals of the noble sport, but at the first blow to his body he would go wild, throwing all caution to the winds. He soon regained his self-control, but was inclined to take certain liberties with his own instructions. Afterwards we would change our clothes in silence. I began to imitate his fastidious habits of dress. He taught me how to press my trousers, and I took it upon myself to polish his boots and mine daily. He revealed to me the secret of his dazzling toe-caps: fresh sheep’s fat. It had a penetrating smell which I soon associated with my new friend. Kwame found it repellent.

  Until then the only body I knew as well as my own was that of my cousin, for I went to sleep each night at his side, but soon I became equally familiar with Cornelius’s. The differences I noticed between us were just as confusing as the similarities. Of course the bond of friendship between him and me, like that between myself and my cousin, was based on trust, but while the intimacy with my old friend had a soothing and relaxing effect on me, with my new friend it made me eager and alert. I discovered that friendship does not necessarily offer comfort and complacency, but that it can be challenging to the point of pain. Some friendships can be strained to their very limits, until it hurts, only to grow stronger as a result, the way muscles develop by exertion. But I did not have a preference for the one type of intimacy over the other; I valued both in equal measure.

  On the Sunday before our visit to Raden Saleh I had stripped to the waist for a sparring session with Cornelius. Our sparring had soon lapsed into wrestling. Grains of sand clung to our sweaty shoulders. We were rolling over the ground like savages, when a carriage drew up. A gentleman alighted hurriedly, and separated us by force. Hearing my name I looked up, and found myself face to face with Commissioner van Drunen. I threw my arms around his neck, and he did not shrink from my embrace despite the stains I left on his clothing.

  I reassured him as to the nature of our wrestling match, and he told me he was on his way to headmaster van Moock with a message concerning Kwame and me. He offered to take me with him in his carriage, so I quickly put my shirt on and got in. Cornelius made to follow me, as though it was the most natural thing in the world—after all, there was nothing he and I did not share when we devoted ourselves to our favourite sport. But when he climbed into the carriage van Drunen restrained him, saying that he wished to be alone with me. Cornelius paled, much as if I had delivered him a smart punch in the solar plexus. He stared at me incredulously, waiting to see what I would do.

  I said nothing, and did not protest when the carriage doors were closed. Van Drunen called out in parting that he was a sturdy young man and perfectly capable of walking home, but Cornelius stood at the roadside, transfixed.

  From Commissioner van Drunen’s report on the progress of the princes of Ashanti, 1838:

  On 13 July I travelled to Delft to visit the two princes of Ashanti, whose guardianship has been entrusted to me on account of the amicable understanding between the boys and myself dating from our lengthy voyage to the Fatherland. I found them in good health. They appear to be making such rapid progress in diverse fields that Mr. S.J.M. van Moock, the headmaster of the boarding school attended by the princes at a cost of 1000 guilders to the State annually, assures me he has never encountered Dutch children with like ability to learn so much in such a short time. Not one of his pupils is progressing more rapidly in any subject than the two Ashanti princes. Indeed the headmaster has requested me urgently to be informed of the intentions of His Royal Highness and the Ministry of Colonies regarding the future education of the boys, so that their current education may be refined in the desired direction. According to the headmaster, the two princes, although equally outstanding in their progress, display disparate temperaments and interests. In general it is fair to say that Prince Aquasi Boachi excels over his cousin in most of the academic subjects, and displays an exceptional talent for science. Quame Poku, heir to the Ashanti throne, excels in the arts; he is a proficient draughtsman, and plays the piano, trumpet, and clarinet with remarkable skill.

  Both boys show a keen interest in the Scriptures, and the headmaster has reported several occasions when they interpreted events from daily life in terms of the Holy Bible. He has entrusted the more advanced pupils of his establishment to the cares of the minister of the Reformed Church in Delft, who has intimated that baptism of the two children of nature is by no means ruled out. However, in view of the importance of a true understanding of the Goodness of the Lord our God, the aforementioned minister takes note of the advantages these boys have over their African brothers, who are not fortunate enough to know the Lord. Since the boys have not entirely shaken off their old belief in the po
wers of nature, Prince Quame Poku being more reluctant to do so than his cousin, there are as yet no grounds for their immediate baptism.

  Personally I spent a most agreeable afternoon in the company of the princes, who showed great a fection for me. I too have the impression that they are in good health and good spirits, although Prince Quame Poku has a slight tendency towards melancholy. He was eager to hear of the adventures that had befallen us in his former homeland, and was visibly cheered by every detail I touched upon. Such nostalgia does not strike me as abnormal in a child, and as he was on the whole bright and talkative about all manner of discoveries and possessions that have come his way since his arrival in his new fatherland, his occasional tears did not undermine my confidence in his general well-being.

  I came upon Aquasi Boachi at play with a schoolmate; he is equal to his peers in every respect, and ever eager for all manner of knowledge. Indeed he enquired after my advancement in rank, after my experiences in the service of the government, and also showed interest in the development of colonial relations in the Gold Coast pertaining to his and his cousin’s removal to the Netherlands. For obvious reasons, I informed them of the situation in the most general terms.

  In keeping with His Majesty’s wishes I advised them of the minister of Colonies’ happy decision that their likeness be painted by the celebrated artist Raden Saleh, in order that it may be sent to the father of Aquasi Boachi, the Asantehene at Kumasi, as evidence of their well-being as well as of the good intentions of the Dutch government, and also as a personal reminder to the king of Ashanti of the entente between them, which, notwithstanding the great expense incurred by the government, still remains to be fully honoured.

  So we sat for Raden Saleh to paint our portrait—usually once a week, occasionally once a fortnight, but always on a Thursday. These afternoons were somewhat strained. The Javanese prince worked in silence, and although we were not forbidden to speak, we had to sit quite still, especially once he had decided on the pose in which we would be portrayed for posterity.

  One day, Mrs. van Moock, who had accompanied us to the sitting, was taking her leave with her usual ado, when Raden Saleh asked: “Have the boys been told about the commander?”

  “Which commander, your highness?”

  “The canvas is very large indeed. In order to balance the composition I wish to place their benefactor in the centre.”

  “But my husband has no connections with the army at all!” protested Mrs. van Moock, taken aback.

  “Not your husband, my dear lady, but the major-general who escorted them here from Africa. He has acceded to my request and is waiting in the next room.”

  Major-General Verveer was in full regalia. He had put on weight since our last encounter. It was hard to imagine that this was the same man we had seen in Kumasi, desperately ill and writhing about on the ground. He shook hands with us and inspected the monograms embroidered on our gloves.

  “Well well, quite the little gentlemen, aren’t we?”

  Raden Saleh, who never showed emotion when he was alone with us, joined in with Verveer’s laughter. A trifle too loudly.

  “They are indeed,” he said. “Most convincing, most convincing!”

  At first Verveer was only required to sit for his contours to be sketched on the canvas, and once again for the artist’s final arrangement of the composition, after which Kwame and I were obliged to do all the posing. It was only when he was working on the faces that Raden Saleh insisted on the presence of all three of his subjects, not least, as he explained, because of the devilishly confounding contrast between the colour of Verveer’s skin and ours.

  The major-general sat between us on a carved chair with a red silk drapery over the back. I sat to his left on a pouf, my head sightly tilted to face him. My attitude seemed to say that I was struck dumb with wonder and suggested that I was gaping at him like Moses before the burning bush, although my eyes were not fixed on him but on Raden Saleh. It was a most uncomfortable position, which even the son of Amram and Jochebed would not have sustained for very long without getting cramps. Kwame stood at Verveer’s other side, with one hand resting on the seated man’s epaulettes. The major-general held his hands open-palmed on his lap. Kwame rested his free hand in our supposed benefactor’s right palm, and I rested both of mine in his left. The idea was to convey the complete freedom with which we expressed our heartfelt gratitude.

  His hands were rough and usually cold. I always tried to delay the moment of touching his fingers. Verveer himself did not enjoy this either. He had received summons from the highest authority to collaborate with the planned portrait for the Asantehene. Not once did he actually grasp our hands. Not once did he give them a little squeeze, or wrap his fingers around ours. To him the hands on his lap were a still life.

  Verveer found the sittings increasingly vexing and made disparaging remarks about the art of painting, which Raden Saleh pretended not to hear. It was as though this disdain for his art heightened his sensibility to Kwame and me, and although he never thanked us for our compliance, he did offer us a glass of milk from time to time, with a chocolate pastille or a hot bun. To make the time pass more quickly, Verveer tested us on our knowledge of the Scriptures. Now and then he would ask us to sing a psalm, which he would then interrupt with questions as to the works of charity, the Ten Commandments or the names of Jacob’s sons. We reeled them off. Without moving.

  “Reuben, Simeon, Levi, Judah, Dan, Naphtali, Gad, Asher, Issachar, Zebulun, Joseph, Benjamin,” I droned.

  “And his daughter Dina,” Kwame added.

  Verveer sighed. “I would rather spend a day in the saddle than keep still for half an hour.”

  “We’ve only been sitting for fifteen minutes,” I said, piqued by his failure to praise me for my good memory.

  “And not very still either!” said Kwame.

  “Touché, Prince Quame!” said Raden Saleh. “The more you protest, Major-General, the longer it will all take.”

  “But this is the umpteenth time, dammit.”

  “I have spared you as much as I can until now. If it were just the two boys, I would not have needed you here. But now that I am working on your face . . . After all, it was you who wished to take the central position.”

  Verveer took his irritation out on us. “Come now, Aquasi, give me the Plagues of Egypt!”

  “Frogs, gnats, mosquitoes, cattle murrain, boils, hail, locusts, and thick darkness . . .”

  “And?”

  “And . . .”

  At that moment there was a knock on the door, which was most unusual.

  “Not now!” cried Raden Saleh, without looking up from his canvas. We were surprised to see the timid face of his servant peering round the door.

  “Raden Saleh, you have a visitor.”

  “I am busy. You know I am not to be disturbed.”

  The servant slunk away, but instead of shutting the door behind him he flung it open to admit a formidable lady. A tower of chestnut hair crowned by a small white hat with an upturned brim made her seem even taller than she was. I could feel Verveer stiffen.

  “Perhaps you would be so good as to make an exception for me?” The soft line of her Slavonic eyes somehow jarred with the stern, narrow lips. She had a nose like an arrow with nostrils like barbs, was about forty years old and seemed, unlike the other women I knew, entirely at ease in male company. Raden Saleh looked round, flustered, and shot upright, while the major-general shook off our hands and rose to salute. It was our crown princess: the Tsar’s daughter Anna Pavlovna.

  “Oh dear,” she said and motioned for a chair to be brought. “Just look at them!” Her voice was as resonant as a man’s. It was also loud and halting. She was not used to speaking Dutch. Some of the consonants made little plosive sounds, as if they couldn’t get past her lips.

  “We happened to be passing, and remembered the king’s recommendation that we make the acquaintance of the Ashanti princes. You are the object of His Majesty’s concern, you know,” sh
e said, leaning over to inspect us. “Besides, he thought it would please the princess. Sophie? Sophie! Where is that girl? Sophie! She must have gone off exploring again. The young are so forward these days.”

  The doors to the drawing-room were open, and we could hear the patter of shoes on parquet.

  “It is a great honour, madam, to see you here . . .” stammered Raden Saleh when he finally regained his composure, but she took no notice of his civilities.

  “Is that enormous canvas for them? But it is twice as large as the portrait you painted of us!” She affected indignation, and her eyes twinkled for the first time since her arrival.

  “No canvas is large enough to represent your greatness.” Raden Saleh bowed, but Crown Princess Anna Pavlovna was not one to be taken in by flattery.

  “I have the likenesses of my father and my two brothers. I wear them next to my heart. No more than an inch high,” she said, “but showing each of them just as they are. As they are!”

  “Of course. But I did not mean to say . . .”

  “Size is not all that matters, sir!”

  Kwame could not suppress a smile. We had never seen Raden Saleh flustered. He bowed once more, sent his servant for refreshments and tried to change the subject by pointing out lines of perspective and vanishing points. The crown princess questioned the artist regarding brushwork and the composition of his paints. She seemed to be quite knowledgeable on the subject and suggested an improvement, which was politely acknowledged. Then she turned away from the canvas and approached us.

  “Well, Major-General, so these are the jewels you have brought for our crown.” She had lowered her voice and I was happy to believe her compliment was sincere.

  “At great personal risk,” Verveer said, “at the risk of my life.”

  She looked him up and down with steely eyes and concluded: “A small stake for such gain, sir!”

  The major-general gasped for air to protest, then thought better of it. The crown princess ran her finger along Kwame’s cheek and pressed our hands.