The Two Hearts of Kwasi Boachi: A Novel

by Arthur Japin

  The crouching white bodies massed together like a herd of animals. Most of us tried to catch some sleep. I did not succeed, as my lungs were playing up again from the cold. The huddled figures reminded me of Sophie’s rag dolls, with which we had enacted the Greek legends. They were Odysseus’ men, waiting for the return of the Cyclops. Their coarse stuffed limbs could be folded into any desired position. It was only in the barn that I wondered why I had never minded that none of the white dolls resembled me. I had not even noticed, until Kwame painted one of them black by overturning an inkwell on its head. Sophie had been delighted with the result.

  In the middle of the night we were startled by the drunken revelry of our captors, who came staggering out of some local alehouse. They opened the barn doors. Several of them I had seen before, including the ringleaders, who were members of the exclusive Five Columns Club. They made us stand in line and then brought in some rented girls, who proceeded to inspect each of us in turn in a manner which would be impolite to describe and which they soon regretted. I have never spoken of what transpired during that night and I find it difficult even now to mention it. Suffice it to say that we were forced to engage in the grossest behaviour. It was a demeaning experience for everyone concerned.

  Towards morning most of our tormentors were exhausted, but the fiercest among them singled Cornelius out for a final drunken diversion. Until then he had resisted them on all fronts but one, and they were determined to break his will. They drove him into the adjoining pigsty and tried to make him get down on his knees among the pigs and root in the filth covering the ground. Cornelius refused, and received a kick on the lower back. He drew himself up. I could see how he was struggling with his pride. At the order “Go on, you filthy swine, root!” a look of such defiance crossed his face that one of his tormentors armed himself with a length of wood. I was tired out. My nerves were shattered. All I wanted was for this to end. I went into the pigsty and knelt down next to Cornelius. Without taking my eyes off him I showed him what to do. I pushed my nose into the dung. He did not follow my example. However, my voluntary debasement made the brutes fall about laughing as they staggered outside.

  “It’s only a joke,” I told Cornelius, trying to sound brave.

  “For you it is, I dare say—even at school you were used to bowing and scraping.”

  “But you helped me then, and now . . .”

  “No need,” he said, and got up. I stayed behind. The pigs spread a comfortable warmth, and anyway it was all over now. At daybreak our clothes were returned to us and we were taken home. Before going up to my room I scrubbed myself clean in the courtyard. Kwame came down with his wash-cloth. He could not have known how I had demeaned myself, but the contempt in his eyes was more hurtful than the long night of bullying.

  I fell into a deep sleep, and had a nightmare in which I was trapped in a burning shed, but I awoke to remember that I was now a full member of the Delft student society Phoenix, and told myself that this made up for a lot.

  As soon as I recovered from my attack of bronchitis Kwame and I were baptized in the Old Church at Delft. Headmaster van Moock and his wife sat in the front pew, beaming and catching their breath as if we were their own flesh and blood. Mrs. van Moock pressed a card into my hands:

  “Ye were sometimes darkness, but now are ye light in the Lord: walk as children of light.” Ephesians 5:8. September 1843, Best wishes, Henriette van Moock.

  There were congratulatory messages from Sophie and Carl Alexander in Weimar. Prince Hendrik, acting on behalf of King Willem II, presented us with a Bible. He assured us that his father was most gratified with this milestone. Van Drunen delivered a speech in the name of the minister of Colonies, commending us for setting a good example to the people of our homeland, from which wilderness he had removed us six years earlier in order that we might reap the fruits of Holland.

  “Well now,” he said, with a hint of regret in his voice, “the seed has sprouted, the weeds have been uprooted, the tree of our knowledge is bearing fruit!” Afterwards there was luncheon with coffee and sultana pancakes.

  Kwame behaved tolerably that day, although in the past year he had sorely tried Dominee Molenkamp’s patience. I must admit that the dominee’s sermons were remarkably tendentious. Kwame was probably right in his belief that the man looked down on our race. To the dominee, the riches of Europe were a sign of God’s favour, and the simplicity of Africa, if not a punishment, then at least a judgement. His most important lesson was that we should be grateful for the opportunity of acquainting ourselves with the only true God, a privilege denied to so many of our countrymen.

  “Since He sees fit to deny the Ashanti His Word,” retorted Kwame, “it must be for their own good.”

  As for me, I felt quite proud of my baptism, proud that I should have earned a place in such an ancient tradition. And God? I could hardly blame Him for the folly of his servants. They construed His words of grace in their own limited ways. Certainly, He had supplanted the gods of nature that I used to worship in our temples. But those deities had faces, the kind of face you glimpse in a gnarled tree trunk or in a sunbeam glancing off a pool. God has never shown His face to me. That is something I miss. Nor has He ever spoken to me, as a father to His child, although I asked Him every day for many years. I strained my ears in the dark, but all I ever heard was my own voice. Or a reproach from Kwame. I was uplifted by Him, but never consoled.

  Some days later we heard, via the Ministry of Colonies, that a messenger had arrived in Elmina from my father Kwaku Dua, requesting tidings of his “European family.” Kwame was deeply moved by this news, and pressed me to write to my father at once. I was evasive. A bitter quarrel ensued. Kwame threatened to send a letter himself telling the Asantehene of my refusal to write. I promised to reconsider the matter, but did not put pen to paper. I plunged into student life and surrounded myself with friends until December, when the clubhouse went quiet and Lebret, Linse and Wenckebach, too, left town to spend Christmas with their families. I had not been invited to their homes. On several evenings I tried drinking to forget myself. The boarding school was full of new boys, who left me cold. I was seized by a melancholy that settled into my bones.

  Until now my sure method of dispelling downheartedness had been to throw myself into my studies, but this time the gloom persisted. One night when I could not sleep—I was probably a little tipsy, too—I finally made the effort to write. I still have the notebook, containing diagrams of a staircase set at an angle of forty-eight degrees, in which I drafted the following lines to my father:

  Esteemed Asantehene / Father / My Father / Dear Father . . . etc. Now that we have been notified of your interest in our well-being, I can inform you that we have made progress entirely according to your plan and are nearing the completion of our education, thereby . . . / Threads / Broken wings [illegible] . . . greatly saddened by the dearth of news / Our departure / our banishment / Father, how is it possible for a man to part with his son without grief? / Impossible to describe what that means to a child / not aware? / consequently, Father / the only way I could live with that grief was to turn away from my past. I embraced what lay ahead, as Tsetse the fly clings to the sticky threads of Anansi, when life has broken her wings. The lesser of two evils / to survive / new life / I disavowed what was dearest to me. Rigorously. To soften the pain of separation, to reconcile myself to this fate that has befallen me, I embraced all that is new as being of more consequence / better / worthier than the old. The only means of surviving my grief was to lay the blame at your feet, for the cruel and [crossed out]. The sense of betrayal was such that I had no choice but to turn a new leaf / failing to comprehend what your motives might be I aligned myself with the kingdom of Holland, in the hope of encountering more fidelity than that shown by my father / fatherland / Father, Father, help me to keep my faith in you. Save me! All I ask is but one word to serve me as mainstay, as a sign that I have not been forgotten / reassurance that my soul may find consolation in what lies behind
me, too / Can the power of consolation be lost? / Can a soul change colour? Perhaps the rift is not beyond repair./ Perhaps . . .

  In short: the jottings of a befuddled brain. However, I ended up composing a suitable letter according to the rules of etiquette and good form, in which I provided detailed information concerning our progress without withholding my personal sentiments. This letter reached Elmina in April 1844. I did not receive a reply.

  By the time Kwame enrolled as a student the following summer, our friendship had matured. That is to say, it was tranquil, heartening, and no longer subject to the vagaries of our emotions. Now and then I invited him to accompany me and my friends on outings. Linse and Lebret grew fond of my cousin. When we went out riding or met for dinner they would ask him to join us. They urged him to become a member of our society. His refusal was without precedent. They protested that he would not make friends among the students of his year if he did not join, and that he would be debarred from attending balls and other social functions.

  “I appreciate your friendship,” he said. “I am very grateful for it, deep down, but it would be a lie to say I was one of you.”

  “Doesn’t friendship create equality?”

  “Take a good look at me, and then tell me you can’t see the incontrovertible disparity between us.”

  I could have kicked him, but Lebret took it all in good spirits. He and Linse devised a plan, which they submitted to the president of the society, who in turn discussed it with the Five Columns Club. The statutes were amended to allow for an “extraordinary membership” giving admittance to parties, lectures and balls, which was duly offered to Kwame. After that we succeeded in luring him into the bar room with us from time to time. Although not gregarious himself, his company was always in demand.

  We turned eighteen, and manhood was upon us. Wenckebach had chaffed me ever since my birthday. When Kwame’s birthday came near and the heady days of early summer made us all frisky, the time was ripe.

  “If you put it off any longer,” said Linse, “you’ll end up dreading it.”

  “A year from now it’ll be too late. You start feeling intimidated, you see,” Wenckebach went on, “and before you know it you won’t even dare. You’ll end up like the Stockfish.” (This was what we called our maths professor, in whom every scrap of life had dried up.)

  My friends had, either openly or under some charitable pretext, wheedled their fathers into contributing funds for a “gentlemen’s night out.” They would pay for Kwame and me, because our allowance from the Dutch State did not extend to visiting brothels.

  We took the stagecoach to The Hague, where we dined without paying much attention to the food. We drank a lot of wine and hired a carriage, which took us across the foul-smelling canal that divided the heart of the city from the south-eastern end, where we halted in front of one of the houses of ill repute. On the doorstep our courage sank. We only rang the bell because none of us wanted to lose face with the others. A family of Italians was having supper on the pavement. I thought I recognized the father as the organ grinder Sophie and I used to listen to when he played his hurdy-gurdy by the palace gates. I shielded my face with my collar, but no one took any notice of us.

  We were received in the proper fashion, although I noticed that the proprietress took Wenckebach aside to enquire about Kwame and me. She looked doubtful and called for her friend, who eyed us from head to toe. Kwame said she probably did not have anyone who dared take us on, so the two of us might as well leave directly. I restrained him—the milk-sop!—and the next moment our coats were taken from us. A girl led us into a dimly lit, red drawing-room. She lifted the hem of her skirt and tucked it under her belt, revealing a dainty black boot with laces. Turkish cushions were scattered on the settees and on the floor. The walls were hung with paintings of odalisques and oriental baths. Champagne was brought by a prim-looking maid, who averted her eyes and left the room without saying a word. She was quite unlike what I had seen in pictures. I asked Wenckebach, who was less nervous than the rest of us, whether they would all be so shy. His chuckle was drowned out by the stroke of a gong. The double-leaved doors swung open. Twelve girls trooped in. They were scantily clad. Bodice and petticoat, that was all. It was clear that they had been advised of our presence, for all eyes turned immediately to Kwame and me. There was some giggling. Each of us became the centre of a cluster of girls. I was astonished to see how a band of youths, united until a moment ago by their trepidation, can waive all solidarity as soon as a woman makes her appearance. Worse than that: other men cease to exist, it seems, when a man is in courting mood. Kwame and I were entertained by two young girls, who seemed to be less robust and less practised than the others. I suspected they were new, and had been assigned to us by the older girls. They were timid, as we were. We drank some wine. They told us their names were Loulou and Naomi, and claimed they had posed for the leading artists of The Hague. Kwame launched into a discourse on the angle between the torso and the pelvis, but they did not seem to follow. Naomi suggested he might like to make a life study of her, but he said he had forgotten his drawing pen. Naomi giggled, and Loulou hooted with laughter as she went on about certain gentlemen having dipped their pens a little too deep in the inkwell.

  Linse, Lebret and Wenckebach withdrew in turn, each of them accompanied by one or two girls. Kwame and I had no choice but to climb the stairs to the first floor as a foursome. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Kwame tickling Loulou between her thighs. Although the sight aroused me, I was unpleasantly surprised. She did not protest, and even tilted her hips so as to ease his way. For the duration of this exchange he looked at me fixedly over his shoulder, to see my reaction to his forwardness. As though he were saying: take a good look, I am perfectly capable of this, too. Even on the basest level we are each other’s mirror image.

  At the top of the stairs we separated and withdrew into rooms on either side of the corridor. I was with Naomi, he with Loulou.

  Things did not proceed smoothly. Naomi lay on the bed while I sat hunched on the chair next to it, struggling with a knotted shoelace. The girl plied me with questions entirely unrelated to our purpose in that room. Civilities dampen every passion, I firmly believe. When I told her so, her response was a torrent of improprieties. I was taken aback, for in my dreams the girls from the pictures never spoke when I was with them, or only a few words in greeting. Their eloquence and erudition always echoed that of my beloved in her palace garden. But this trollop’s prattle soon dulled my senses. It was not that I was without lust that first time, merely that conversation was not what I had in mind. Who would have thought words came into it at all?

  I ordered another bottle to win a stay of further intimacy, but Naomi was tugging at my clothes. She drew me to the washbasin and, to my astonishment, made to wash me. This was too much. I pulled on my trousers and dashed into the corridor under the pretext of going after the champagne. Upon encountering the maid, who was on her way to deliver two bottles, I took one of them from her and lingered in the corridor. From behind one of the doors I heard Lebret groaning with pleasure, and wondered how long I could decently put off returning to Naomi. Then Kwame came out of his room. His excuse was the same as mine, and the maid handed him his bottle of champagne. We waited for her to leave, then sank to the floor and drank the contents of my bottle. Each gulp hardened our resolve to explore the bodies awaiting us, but we kept delaying the moment. We opened Kwame’s bottle, too, and laughed away our misgivings. When Naomi and Loulou came looking for us, we were in excellent spirits.

  It was four in the morning when our party stumbled down the stairs of the brothel. We clambered wearily into our carriage. I could barely keep my eyes open, but Linse, Lebret and Wenckebach demanded to know what we had been up to. They had found Kwame and me and the two girls fast asleep in the same bed. Our blissful slumber suggested an abandon that impressed them deeply. However, I had no recollection of what had passed between us, and never dared ask Kwame if his memory served him any better. W
e left it at that, and boasted of our prowess.

  We had not gone far when the carriage was forced to a sudden halt. A drunken lout had been thrown out of some tavern and was assaulting a streetwalker. To silence her screams he threw her on the cobbles in front of our carriage wheels. The coachman slammed on the brakes and the horses reared in fright. Lebret and Linse tumbled on to our laps. Wenckebach swore at the coachman.

  “It’s nothing,” he shouted. “Harbour folk. This is where you find the women of pleasure, you know.” And sure enough, I saw a window with a few of those hapless creatures on display. Their clients had the same needs as we, but not the money to visit a private house. So this was where the flighty girls in my secret pictures were to be found!

  The fracas had ended without my seeing the assailant’s face. The coachman checked the harnesses and pacified his nags. A few minutes later we set off again at a walk. We turned into a side street where the moonlight barely penetrated, and caught sight of the same couple, embroiled in a doorway this time.

  “Not the French way, you bastard, I said no!” I heard the woman cry, but the man forced her to kneel.

  I ordered the coachman to stop.

  “Leave them alone, master.”

  “But that fellow has a whip,” I said, “and the young lady has nothing.”

  “That’s no young lady, sir. That’s Turkish Tilly, serving a client. Tuppence for a hand turn.” He evidently had no intention of stopping the carriage, so I jumped out. I ran to the drunkard, who was forcing the woman to do his bidding, although she was almost choking. I did not stop to think and leaped on to his back. He reeled. I could hardly have injured him, but he let out a scream of pain. It was not until the woman rose to her feet that I saw she had taken the opportunity to sink her teeth into her assailant.

  “There,” she spat, wiping her mouth on her sleeve, “that’ll teach him!” The coachman came running with a lantern, but even before he reached us I had recognized the villain by his groans.