Ama (29 page)

“Pamela?” he asked. “That is not a common Dutch name. Presumably she did not bring it with her? You gave it to her?”

He stole a glance at the girl. She had dropped her eyes.
She is indeed pretty
, he thought, seeing her through De Bruyn's eyes and feeling suddenly very lonely. Van Schalkwyk had a reputation in the Castle as something of a dirty old man. His penchant for making accidental body contact with female slaves and, believing no one else to be watching, for grabbing their buttocks or their breasts, had not gone unobserved. He was inhibited, however, from taking a concubine by fear of the consequences of breaching Company rules, by fear moreover that his status in the Castle would be undermined and by the certainty that eternal damnation would be his reward for fornication. Minister Van Schalkwyk led a secret life of unconsummated sexual fantasy.

“English,” said De Bruyn. “Surely I have told you of the book of that name I have been reading? Samuel Richardson the author. It is one that Captain Williams brought me.”

“Ah, yes, I do recall.” replied Van Schalkwyk. “Pamela is a maid-servant, not so? And she sets out to marry her employer?”

“Not exactly, but that is the book,” said De Bruyn, looking at Ama and hoping that she would not misconstrue the continuing use of her name. Van Schalkwyk understood his host's tone of voice to discourage further discussion on the matter.

The two white men continued to talk in a desultory way about matters of no great consequence, washing down the five course meal with healthy draughts of Rhenish wine. Ama had eaten greedily the day before but the gnawing hunger had now passed and she left food on her plate in spite of De Bruyn's urging. She had also learned the effect of the wine and gave him no chance to recharge her glass.

“She doesn't like our chef's cooking,” said Van Schalkwyk, but De Bruyn again changed the subject.

The table was cleared and Ama had time to observe the two men as they re-lit their pipes. Her Mijn Heer was long and thin, scrawny even. In the flickering candlelight, his features appeared even more gaunt than they did by day. He seemed depressed. She had put him down and she was sorry. Yet, she told herself, if she were to consolidate her hold on him, and to do that seemed essential if she were to survive, she had to obtain his regard for her dignity. His carnal desire for her might not last long and he had the power to discard her without ceremony in much the same way as he had had her plucked from the dungeon. It was risky but she must insist on his respect. She must keep something back, so that he never felt that he had fully possessed her. He was old but he could be good to her. She could see in his eyes his passion for her. She might even grow to love him. Not like she had loved Itsho, never like that. She wondered again whether Itsho had sent his spirit to possess the man and make him love her. She would show Mijn Heer some of the things she and Itsho had done together. She smiled at the thought and De Bruyn saw the smile and, not knowing about Itsho, smiled back. A white man! What would Tabitsha say if she knew her daughter had a white man as a lover! And her father! They had never even seen a white man.

The other man was short and fat. Indeed he was obese, almost obscenely corpulent. He reminded her of one of the eunuchs at the Asantehene's court. She wondered if his balls, too, had been cut off; if there were perhaps some causal relationship between castration and obesity. His chin cascaded down in fold upon fold of fat. Even his eyes were surrounded by fatty tissue, so that they seemed to look out through a tunnel. She was sure that when he stood up straight he would not be able to see his own feet. His skin was sallow, almost translucent. He did not look unkind but she could not be sure whether he would be her friend or her enemy. If he was Mijn Heer's friend it was important that he should be hers too. What was his name? She had forgotten.

De Bruyn got up to go and piss, leaving the two of them alone together.

Ama pointed to herself and said, “Pamela.”

Then she pointed at the fat man's chest and, with a coquettish smile, inquired what he was called.

The Minister was successively astonished, amused at her boldness, and entranced by her smile.

“My name?” he replied with a chuckle. “Well since you are so charming, you may call me
Henk
. But only in privacy, mind you. In public you must call me
Minister
.”

He pointed at the wall and then described a circle with his index finger. Then he pointed at the floor and then to himself.

“Henk,” he said.

Though she was not quite sure what it meant, Ama reproduced his sign language and then pointed again at him.

“Henk,” she repeated.

Van Schalkwyk's heart fluttered at hearing his name on her lips and he chuckled again.

“Young lady, you are not only beautiful, you clearly also have brains,” he said. “Now see if you can understand this.”

He pointed again, outside the room, far away.

“In public,” he said, repeating the gesture, and then pointing again to himself, “You must call me
Minister
. In public,
Minister
. Do you understand?”

Again Ama did not quite understand but she mimicked his gesture and repeated the second name he had given himself.
If I have three names
, she thought,
it must be all right for him to have two.

“What's all this now?” asked De Bruyn, reappearing at the end of this conversation.

“Never you mind,” said Van Schalkwyk, enjoying his little conspiracy with Ama, “That is between the two of us.”

* * *

“Pamela,” said De Bruyn, “Would you be so kind as to fetch us the chess board?”

He had laid it on the writing cabinet before dinner and he now pointed it out to her. She sent him an inquiring glance as she picked up the folded board.

“And the box too, please,” he told her.

“That's a clever girl,” he praised her. “Now pull up your chair and watch us.”

The board was just like that the Asante used for playing draughts, she noted, but with only eight squares along each side, rather than ten.

“Your turn with the whites tonight, Hennie,” said De Bruyn as he tumbled the pieces onto the board, “I'll take the Africans.”

Ama had expected to see a game of draughts, but these tokens were unlike any draughts she had seen.

“Now, Pamela, watch this,” he told her as he laid out the black pieces. “First the two castles: we also call them rooks. Then the knights, looking like horses - do you know what a real horse looks like? Not many of those in this part of Africa, eh Hennie?”

Bedagbam
, thought Ama, taking a knight and examining it.
Abdulai
. She put it down and clenched her fists, her finger nails cutting into her palms, at the recollection of the man who had raped her.

“Next the bishops. Priests if you like, but not Hennie's kind, eh? Now watch closely. This is the king. Like me at Elmina.”

He puffed himself up in jest and beat his chest, to demonstrate his importance.

“
Ohene
,” said Van Schalkwyk, using one of his few Fanti words.

Ama nodded vigorously. The pieces had been made in Batavia. De Bruyn had acquired them during his tenure at the Cape. She was fascinated by the intricate carving.

“Always on the right,” continued De Bruyn, showing her first the correct disposition of the king and queen, then exchanging them and indicating his displeasure; and finally placing them back in their correct positions.

Van Schalkwyk repeated the demonstration.

“I wonder if she knows her left from her right,” he ventured.

“And these are the pawns, the foot soldiers, the slaves if you like. There to take orders, one step at a time.”

Then they demonstrated to her the various moves which the pieces might make. Ama screwed up her face in concentration. She had become quite skilful at oware and draughts while she was in Kumase, but this game was quite different, each piece had its own rules.

De Bruyn got to his feet and demonstrated the knight's legal moves.

“Two steps forward and one to the right. Or to the left.”

He was already quite tipsy and staggered and almost fell.

“It is quite complicated when you try to explain it, not so, Henk? I doubt if she will pick it up,” he said as he recovered his seat.

“Director, before we start to play, there is something which I have to say to you,” said Van Schalkwyk.

“Yes, I know. Fornication. The consequence of which is eternal damnation. Not to speak of the regulations of the noble Company regarding the taking of concubines. I have been waiting for you to summon up the courage to tackle the subject. Let us just take it all as said, shall we? I have heard it all before. I promise to pray to God to forgive me for my weakness. Now play,” replied De Bruyn.

Relieved of any obligation to say more on the subject, Van Schalkwyk made his opening move. As the game progressed, Ama watched, transfixed. Flattered and amused by her interest, each player explained each move to her as he made it, confident that he was giving away nothing that his opponent did not already know.

Where games are concerned, the rules of chess may be quite complicated; but, considered as a language, chess is easier to learn than Dutch. Ama watched each player as he deliberated on the next move and screwed up her eyes in concentration as the move was explained to her. The spoken words were superfluous: a finger pointed out a threatened line of attack by a bishop, or the alternative possibilities open to a knight. Only when the Minister castled, exchanging the white king and its rook, was she confused, but she set that move aside in her mind for future study. As pieces were taken, they gave them to her to keep in the box.
Itsho
, she thought, as a black pawn was taken by a white knight,
poor Itsho.
When there were only a few pieces left on the board, they explained the developing end game to her. Her mind reeled with complications as she tried to see the consequences of each possible move. She left her chair and kneeled on the floor beside De Bruyn.

His king was under attack. Ama perceived the threat. It was De Bruyn's move.

“Mijn Heer,” she said to him and showed him with her outstretched finger how his queen could take off a threatening white knight.

“Pamela,” he replied, his eyes wide in astonishment, and suddenly took her face in his hands and kissed her on the lips.

He had forgotten Van Schalkwyk's presence. Now he covered his embarrassment by demonstrating to Ama that the move she had suggested was not quite as clever as she had thought and would certainly lead to the loss of his queen. His position was indeed irrecoverable. Soon the Minister was calling
Check!
at every move and finally
Checkmate!

“Check,” said Ama, “Checkmate!” looking at De Bruyn with sympathy and the two men laughed.

In the excitement of the game she had lost all her reserve. Now she was shy again.

“Another?” suggested Van Schalkwyk.

De Bruyn yawned and stretched his arms.

“No thank you,” he replied, “That's enough for one session. But let's have a night-cap.”

He poured the two cognacs as Ama put the chess things back in their place. When she came back he offered her a sip from his glass. The liquor was too strong for her and she screwed up her face and shook her head when she had tasted it. They laughed. The couple's obvious intimacy increased Van Schalkwyk's loneliness. He gulped down the brandy which he had been swilling round his mouth.

“Director-General,” he said, “You have discovered a young woman of astonishing intelligence. I have never before come across such a clever black, let alone a female.”

“Well, you don't have much to do with the natives,” said De Bruyn. “And what about Augusta? You know Augusta, don't you?”

“Of course I know Augusta,” replied Van Schalkwyk, “and I admit that she is clever, and especially quick, so I am told, when it comes to business. But Augusta is an older woman with a lifetime of contact with Europeans and their ways. She speaks some Dutch, but can she read or write? She can reckon, no doubt, but has she learnt to keep books of account? And can you imagine Augusta mastering chess, as Pamela seems to have done, by watching a single game?”

“Well, no, I must admit that chess is not Augusta's style. What exactly are you suggesting, though?”

Van Schalkwyk had suggested nothing but De Bruyn had read his mind.

“Well, no doubt Miss Pamela will soon pick up Dutch from you. Indeed, probably more quickly than we whites seem to be able to pick up Fanti. However, I think you might consider also teaching her to read, perhaps even to write and figure arithmetic.”

“What would be the benefit of that?” asked De Bruyn.

“Well,” replied Van Schalkwyk, improvising, since he had not yet considered the implications of his suggestion, “It would be an interesting experiment. I mean, to see just how much she can absorb and how quickly. She could read to you. And in the course of time, she might be brought to receive the grace and salvation of Our Lord.”

“No,” said De Bruyn, “I am no schoolmaster and I would not have the time.”

Jensen, he thought, would waste little time in getting back to the Ten a message that Director-General De Bruyn was spending several hours a day teaching a slave girl to read and write. He could imagine the consequences. Then he had a brain-wave.

“
You
would have to teach her. It would do you good. You have plenty of time on your hands. But if she is to read to me, you would have to teach her English, not Dutch. All I read in Dutch is correspondence from Amsterdam. For relaxation I read only English and a little French. De Foe, Richardson, Fielding and of course Shakespeare and Milton; there is nothing in Dutch to match them. We can teach our neighbours across the Channel a thing or two when it comes to painting pictures and, of course, trade, but you have to admit it, we have not produced a single writer in Dutch who can match the English.”