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

by Arthur Japin

  “I don’t know when we will be able to talk again in private. So . . .”

  She fumbled in the pleats of her dress and drew out a minutely folded note.

  “I want to give you this,” she said, showing me a copy of a report dated 1849, which someone in The Hague whose identity she declined to reveal had secreted on her behalf. I had to pledge secrecy before she let me read Raden Saleh’s words.

  What surprises me about Boachi is that he alleges that his father, the king of Ashanti, was misled or tricked by the Dutch government in the matter of the recruits and that General Verveer obtained diverse goods under false pretences. I told his friends at Weimar and Dresden that this was false, and advised Boachi himself to guard his speech, as he would be dispatched to his homeland forthwith if word of his allegations reached the authorities in Holland.

  “But why did no one ever ask me to explain myself?”

  “I rose to your defence, of course,” Sophie replied, “and so did Professor Cotta—quite vehemently—but the seeds of doubt had been sown. When I heard of the way you were being treated in Java I wrote to the king at once in no uncertain terms that I would not allow this silly incident to ruin your career. I feel responsible for what happens under my own roof. He is my brother after all, and will not refuse my plea for your rehabilitation.”

  “But do you really believe,” I asked, “that such a petty offence could be the cause of all the opposition I have encountered?”

  “Isn’t it enough? I am telling you that this is the crux of the matter and that your problems will be solved in due course. What more do you want? For goodness sake stop tormenting yourself.”

  At that point we were spotted by a few guests, among whom was Captain von Schiller. He came forward to claim Sophie for the quadrille she had promised him. Noticing my disappointment she sent him ahead saying she would follow presently.

  “I am told that you have now had a disagreement with the Schillers.”

  “They take a different view of certain truths from you and I.”

  “That may be so, but you must understand that they are the custodians of a literary heritage that is of paramount importance to Weimar. Believe me, the works and ideas of Goethe and Schiller are the heart and soul of our people.” I said nothing, which made her uneasy. “Anyway, I promised him this dance.”

  “I dare say they take excellent care of their ancestor’s intellectual heritage in the material sense, but I hardly think their behaviour is in keeping with his spirit.”

  “There is a serious risk that the captain plans to remove the manuscripts, indeed Schiller’s entire library, to Austria. I want to prevent that, whatever the cost.”

  “Very well,” I said curtly. “Yes, do take Schiller’s heritage to heart. Paper ideas strike me as a sight more attractive at this juncture than the ideas that are being propagated here.”

  She rose, took two steps and paused for me to take her arm. As we walked back to the ballroom she held me close and squeezed my arm now and then as if to make sure I was still there.

  “I’m sure you’ll understand, since you’re my friend. It’s not worth making enemies over a mere lapse of decorum, is it?”

  “I am warning you, no more melancholy! I have had more than enough gloom and doom as it is.” Anna Pavlovna rapped her fan across my fingers, but the look in her eyes was grateful. She dismissed her lady-in-waiting with a wave of the hand so that I could take the seat beside her.

  “What’s got into you—did you think to do a poor widow a favour by harking back to happier days?”

  “If my presence distresses you I am deeply sorry, but there is nothing I can do about the way I look.”

  “Just as well, too. Whatever next! Right now I can think of no face that is dearer to me than yours. A beacon in a sea of new faces! Young and new, as far as the eye can reach. But who are they all and what are they doing here? That is what I should like to know!”

  Sophie whirled past in the arms of the captain.

  “Never mind, at least this is a festive affair, so I shall not complain. Nowadays I seldom go into society. I stay at home, alone with my thoughts. When you reach my age you will feel the same, I have no doubt. In old age there are two sides to remembering the past: one takes comfort in fond memories and yet it is infuriating that there is nothing new to be discovered among them.”

  When the quadrille came to an end the orchestra struck up a gavotte. Sophie did not change partners.

  “You must visit me in Holland soon. I insist! There is a picture by Pieneman that I want to show you. It is not a masterpiece by any means. I myself am barely recognizable in the painting, but it shows my husband’s coronation in the New Church in Amsterdam. Such a splendid event, don’t you think? Everyone who attended is in the picture. Row upon row. You are in it too, next to Prince Quame. Those days are gone forever. All gone, as you well know from personal experience. And now, each time I look at that scene afresh I have to strike off those who have passed away. That combined with the shoddiness of the composition make it resemble one of those advent calendars with all those little windows, except that they are shut instead of opened. One becomes impatient to know who will be next, in spite of oneself. It is only a matter of time before the shutter on my own portrait will be closed . . .” Her voice trailed off and she pondered these thoughts for a few moments. Then she drew herself up and exclaimed with renewed vigour: “Look what you are doing! You are talking me straight into a crise de nerfs!”

  I offered her my apologies, but could not keep my eyes off the dancing couple. They were evidently enjoying themselves. Anna Pavlovna followed the direction of my gaze.

  “Will you not dance?”

  “I have not danced in years.”

  “All the more reason to do so now. I can recommend it. Go on then, ask someone to dance!”

  “I have learned not to embarrass ladies with such requests.”

  “Embarrass them? Whatever do you mean?”

  “Not everyone sees me as you do.”

  “I do believe you are determined to depress me. And the look on your face! While I commanded gaiety and fun! Am I no longer to be obeyed? Do as I say and enjoy the evening, sir, for I am too old to settle for anything less.”

  “So you wish me to dance?”

  “Dear me, have you grown hard of hearing too?”

  “In that case,” I said boldly, “you and I shall dance together.” And before her amazement could turn to indignation I added: “In our imagination. No one will notice. We’ll dance in our heads.”

  She glanced at me, then, lowering her head to hide a coquettish smile, she peered at me girlishly through her eyelashes.

  “There is nothing to stop us,” she replied, straightening her back. She was delighted. “By God, woe betide anyone who gets in our way!”

  The next dance was a waltz, which we sat out side by side. After a few measures I heard the old lady humming the tune under her breath and on every third beat her skirt gave a little bounce.

  The next morning I left Weimar feeling a lot more sanguine than when I had arrived.

  Each link that is severed brings a man closer to his goal—I am convinced of that. Even as a child I strove after solitude. In light of this, the difficulties I have faced in my life can be said to have served a purpose. Could that be the reason why each loss I suffered left me with such mixed feelings? Alienation from others has always been both wounding and arousing to me.

  Kwame’s death triggered a similar experience. You lapse into a trance-like state in which all is crystal clear. Life shows its true features for once, it looks you straight in the eye. Suddenly you find yourself face to face with a force that is overwhelming and yet utterly predictable. But this is not a depressing insight, it is a relief. You become light. Literally so—you become enlightened. Yes, you think, at this very minute I have a clear perception of existence. I write these words reservedly. If they strike a chord my meaning will be understood, and if they do not may they be forgotten at once.<
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  At all events I felt so confident upon my return from Weimar that I wrote to the minister of Colonies the following day, stating in no uncertain terms that I demanded compensation in the form of the lease of an estate in Java, for the injustices I had suffered.

  Java

  Early in 1858 I returned to Batavia. My demand for land had been passed on to Governor-General Pahud and his Council of the Indies, who delayed their concession for several more years. All that time I had to survive on my monthly allowance of four hundred guilders.

  I had one last encounter with Cornelius de Groot. He wished to consult me about the Billiton mining company, which had been founded some years earlier by Prince Hendrik partly at my instigation. The tin yields were proving so low that the whole undertaking was at risk. At the time I had charted the whole area, I was familiar with the terrain and had conducted soil research on various sites.

  De Groot now owned a handsome residence at Batavia, which he invited me to visit, not out of hospitality, but to show me how well he had done for himself. He was quite amiable on that occasion and asked after my welfare, which was not like him. I told him bluntly that I was living in a boarding-house and that my financial situation was dire. Although I had dreaded this meeting, I found that I no longer cared what he thought of me.

  He had suffered misfortune too during the last six years, he said. He had married twice, and both his wives had died within six months of the wedding. He told me these things trying to look unmoved while he focused his attention on a bottle of expensive burgundy which, because of its age, he insisted upon opening himself. He had difficulty removing the lead cap, and when he succeeded at last he cut his finger. He swore and sucked the blood from the wound, then set about uncorking the bottle.

  He told me how he had hoped to have a family; now that he was in a position to offer his children a better start in life than his own, he longed for sons to whom he might pass on his knowledge.

  The cork would not budge and Cornelius needed a firmer grip. He sat on the edge of his chair and clamped the bottle between his knees, and although he held his head down I noticed a flicker in his eyes. I asked him whether he was in love again by any chance. Startled by my correct guess he looked up and then broke into a grin. At that point the cork broke, and he sat there looking so crestfallen and clumsy that I acted as I would have done in the old days—I relieved him of the paraphernalia, blew away the crumbled pieces of cork and proceeded to open the bottle. We drank two glasses while he explained the problems at the tin mine. I promised to think about a solution.

  After some time a servant came in to announce the arrival of guests for dinner. Cornelius told him to show them into the other room while he took his leave of me. He said there was no need to hurry and I could finish my glass at leisure in his absence. We wished each other good luck and he made for the door. With his hand on the doorknob he turned to look at me. I thought he was going to invite me to join the company for dinner after all.

  “One piece of advice, Boachi: find yourself a wife. It can make all the difference. She needn’t be pretty. Not clever either. I have had both, and believe me, neither beauty nor brains are important. Even a sweet nature can be dispensed with, so long as she is your match. Someone who knows you so thoroughly that there is nothing to hide or to be ashamed of, someone whose company is congenial to you regardless of time and circumstances. Yes indeed, to be without shame is worth a darn sight more than all that love.”

  “Do such women exist?”

  “Let’s hope so, Boachi. Let’s hope so.”

  I investigated the Billiton affair and recommended mining in the vicinity of Tanjong Pandan. Cornelius promptly ordered a shaft to be dug, after which yields improved steadily on that island. Some time later I heard that he had found a third wife, but she did not survive him either.

  It was not until late 1862 that I received word from the authorities offering me the lease of a tract of land in southeastern Java, to wit one thousand bouw (seven hundred and ten hectares) for the cultivation of coffee. The latter concession was presented as a privilege, as the government had a monopoly on coffee production. I packed up my belongings and departed as soon as possible. The only delay I encountered was at the sultanate of Yogya, where an over-zealous functionary insisted I should visit the palace. He showed me a gallery hung with portraits of the sultan and his relatives, all painted by Raden Saleh. I made as much haste as propriety would allow and proceeded to Madiun.

  Upon my arrival in that mountainous region I was directed to a steep valley with rocky outcrops; a wilderness upon which the surrounding forest was rapidly encroaching. There was a small wooden house that had evidently been abandoned long ago. Parts of it had been dismantled by natives in need of planking or firewood. The door had vanished, and the vegetation was coming in through the floorboards. In my search for a bed or a bench or somewhere to lie down, I startled a civet. The creature responded by raising its tail and emitting its stench, making me almost thankful for the holes in the roof.

  For several hours while I struggled to make my way through the thick undergrowth I believed that some mistake must have been made, but upon reaching the poppy fields of Dungus I was assured by the foreman at the opium store that I had come to the right place. I returned with a heavy heart, made a fire to chase away the vermin and slept in a borrowed hammock on the veranda.

  In the next few days I was able to lay bare some of the old plantation bushes among the tangled weeds. The old stock had exhausted the soil, and in spite of my ignorance of farming I knew that my land would have to be cleared throughout, ploughed, equalized and manured before an entirely new crop could be planted. But that was not all: the watercourses were all silted up and the footpaths were virtually impassable, even with a chopping knife.

  I did not gain an overall view of the estate until I had managed to clear a path leading up one of the steep slopes. From the top I could see a sprawl of muddy banks like gigantic, dark red fingers grasping the land. The mud had slid farther down the mountain-side with each heavy rainfall, dragging rocks and debris with it and effacing the boundaries of the old plantation. These vast accumulations of mud would all have to be removed in turn; one avalanche had already reached the back of my house, making the rear wall buckle. The house would have to be taken down and constructed anew. I also discovered three ravines on the property, with three or four reasonably open fields in between, which however would be useless unless bridges were built to connect them with the surrounding area. I was standing there contemplating all the work that had to be done, and wondering how I could possibly finance these operations on my modest salary, when a column of smoke alerted me to the presence of a hamlet in the distance.

  All the inhabitants saw me approach their huts, but none of them showed respect by sinking to their haunches. Once they got over the shock of my appearance they laughed loudly and gave me a friendly welcome, although the youngest cowered in fright and the eldest kept a wary distance. There were six families, all of whom worked in the opium fields. Some villagers responded to my queries, but all eyes were fixed on me. I bought a chicken and engaged one of the older men as a foreman.

  This man, by the name of Budi, had known the plantation in his boyhood, before it was struck off the list of government plantations. He claimed that the site was unsuitable for the cultivation of the Robusta coffee bush. In summer the dry stifling heat was trapped in the valley by the surrounding mountains, while in the rainy season every passing cloud caught on the peaks, causing downpours that were disastrous for this type of crop. He pointed out other problems, such as the lack of storage space, the lack of manpower in this remote region, and the difficulty of the access route, which would hamper transportation of produce from the estate. Nevertheless I instructed him to recruit men for the reclamation work, telling him to go as far as Solo if necessary to find them. He took the money I gave him and left without a farewell greeting. I could not bring myself to slaughter the chicken for supper.

  For
several months I had about eight men in my employ. Their number varied. They would come and go without telling me, and when I complained of their unreliability Budi merely shrugged. The work progressed too slowly. At first they grumbled at my orders; as time went on their dissatisfaction gave way to indifference. They nodded to everything I said, the way one placates a child, after which they proceeded to do as they pleased. The more I pressed them the more blatantly they ignored me. If I was overly strict they simply left; if I was too lenient they walked all over me. On one occasion I became so enraged that I grabbed the nearest worker’s axe and hacked wildly at the underwood to show them what it means to work like a man. This was met with gales of laughter, whereupon the others tried to needle me into taking over their work as well.

  Initially I blamed their recalcitrant behaviour on the fact that I was not accustomed to giving orders. I thought they claimed privileges because I could not pay them a better wage and because they knew there were no other workers to be had.

  The situation got so out of hand that I decided to appeal directly to Budi, as a last resort. I ordered a meal to be served for us both in my room, which was the only part of the house that was habitable at the time. I softened him with small gifts for his family and told him candidly what I was up against. I explained that my funds were limited and that my survival as a planter depended on a speedy harvest. I had already placed an order for seedlings of the Arabica Bourbon with a nursery at Buitenzorg which specialized in varieties suitable for land such as mine, where coffee seeds were slow to germinate. My batch of seedlings would soon be ready for transportation to the estate. I begged Budi to tell me how to go about persuading the men to prepare the ground for planting before it was too late. I made no attempt to hide my anxiety, but he did not seem to appreciate the seriousness of my predicament.

  “They work as hard as they can, tuan.”

  “That is not true, Budi, and you know it.” He did not react. “Come on now, I need your help. I am asking you as a friend.”