The Shallow Seas (6 page)

As she ran her finger over their shiny and intricate designs, Charlotte remembered other oriental things: Zhen's wedding clothes with dragons, phoenixes and peonies. She closed her eyes. Tigran, not sensing her mood, went to another shelf where a quantity of cloth of exquisite colours lay folded neatly along the shelves. Eager to please her, he took out a bundle of the clothes and put them on a table. On top lay a folded fan. Charlotte shook herself from her thoughts and picked it up. It felt as fragile as gossamer in her hand. She opened it carefully, and there lay before her eyes a scene in gold and blue: a crooked bridge over a river and along the bridge, ladies and children looking down over the rail into the water. On the water floated fans exactly like the one she was holding; it was a fan race. Charlotte was transported to the place, so far from her own imaginings, and felt the peculiar pull of this exquisite art. Then Tigran opened the top cloth and laid it out. It was a large coat, a kimono, he said, from the Japanese court. It was exactly the garment the ladies on the fan were wearing.

The silk was pale gold and covered with many-coloured pictures of little children frolicking amongst willow trees and cherry blossom, small dogs running at their feet. Others were playing hide-and-seek around flowing skirts. The whole was a picture so charming that Charlotte looked up at Tigran and laughed with pleasure. Tigran lifted the coat to turn it, but then it suddenly seemed to melt before their eyes. Rents appeared like rivulets of black in this paysage of colour. Charlotte watched, horrified, as the entire garment disintegrated, destroyed by insects and humidity.

“Oh,” said Tigran, looking at Charlotte, worried that she might be upset. Charlotte ran her fingers over the now shattered garment, its gold turned to silken shards and slivers.

She met Tigran's eyes.

“
Golden lads and girls all must
,

As chimney-sweepers, come to dust
.”

As she said this, she laid a hand on her waist.

Tigran's father had bought Brieswijk at great advantage to himself, for it included a vast estate in the surrounding countryside. The central house was two storeys, with a large, Dutch-style ornate gable adorning the roof. Here was the huge hallway, a dining room and the sitting rooms of the family, a library, a study, one huge bathroom with low porcelain bathtubs and several commode closets. The ten bedrooms, sitting rooms and four other bathrooms were all on the second floor overlooking the lawn and down to the river or out over the entrance and its screen of jungle trees and plants. The side additions were set back, the ballroom to one side and the formal dining room on the other. Kitchens and storerooms adjoined them. Down paths on either side of the house, screened by great bamboo groves, were stables for the horses and for Tigran's carriages. Servants' quarters lay beyond.

Charlotte's bedroom occupied a corner of the main house, with four tall windows at the side and a sweep of French doors towards the river. A wide terrace with a wrought-iron balustrade ran the full length of the house at the back, looking down over the shingled roof of the verandah and beyond to the park. It was a beautiful room. Takouhi had brought her here the night she had arrived, after supper on the terrace below. The lamps had cast a low warm glow; a breeze rilled and billowed the muslin curtains at the open windows. The polished wooden floor gleamed in the lamplight, and the bed stood near the window, veiled in gauze netting. A faint odour of sandalwood from the burning oils along the balcony wafted on the air. She was so tired that after the maid left, she climbed into bed and fell immediately into a deep sleep.

In the morning, though, she had examined the room. The carved teakwood four-poster bed was covered in fine, soft Indian cotton sheets and a pale green satin bedspread. When she looked closely, she saw, to her astonishment, that the initials CM had been embroidered in the middle, in the exact same shade as the coverlet. This must mean Tigran had intended her to come, to visit perhaps. Or had he always held out hope of marrying her? Charlotte was not sure. Now, though, the initials would not need to be changed. She would pass from Charlotte Macleod to Charlotte Manouk. If she had ever doubted, it told her much about his feelings for her.

A maid had brought her coffee that morning, shyly, curious at this white-skinned woman, placing the tray on the table before the French windows that were open to the lawn. A bowl of white jasmine flowers lay on the tray, with a small note. It was from Tigran.

“Good morning, Charlotte. I hope you slept well.
Saya cintamu
.”

Charlotte knew what the last phrase meant. It said “I love you” in Malay. She frowned a little. How could he love her? He did not know her. Then she remembered how quickly she had fallen under Zhen's spell, and suddenly, achingly, missed him.

Do not dwell, she thought,
hold fast
, the devize of the Macleod clan. She looked up and took in the view from the balcony, down over the vast grounds to the silver line of the Kali Krukut, which flowed through the estate down to Chinatown. She found a shawl on the back of a chair, casually thrown—a shawl of exquisite gold and brown batik with a long, silky fringe. She knew he had left it for her and touched its watery softness, putting it over her nightdress and looking in the mirror, admiring the loveliness of the garment and the way her hair looked lying on it. If I'm not careful, she thought, he will turn me into a vain peacock! But she smiled at the thought. She went out onto the terrace and looked into the distance, contemplating the extraordinary events of the last few days which meant that she would now be mistress of this beautiful estate.

She turned her head as she heard a door opening, and Tigran came out onto the terrace. She had not realised that his room was next to hers, and she blushed slightly—all the more since Tigran was naked to the waist, his lower body wrapped in a black sarong. He turned, unembarrassed apparently, and came towards her. Charlotte's heart gave a small thump. He was strong, not big like Zhen, but muscled and lean, the sarong falling loosely around his hips. As he came to her side, Charlotte was acutely aware that she was naked under the thin cotton nightdress and pulled the shawl around her. Tigran stood, silent, looking at her in this gift he had made her, ridiculously glad she was wearing it. He could see her body outlined against the cloth. Slowly he put out his hand, laying it on her waist, gently pulling her against him.

Charlotte was unable to react, her breath shortened. She had not expected this. Tigran looked down at her and turned her face to his, holding his hand on her cheek. The feel of her body against his was exquisite. He brought his face down to hers, his lips close but not quite touching, the dark plaits of his hair brushing against her face. He looked into her eyes, then closed his own, felt her breath on his lips. It took every ounce of his willpower to go no further. But he would go no further. To have her loving and willing, he must tempt her. And he wanted her to be his wife first, his wife before man and God.

“
Saya cintamu
,” he whispered. He released her and took her hand, kissing it.

“After breakfast, we will see the house and go to the
kampong
, visit the estate.” He smiled, then turned and went back into the house.

Charlotte regained her breath. She had expected his kiss and had gone back into her room embarrassed at these feelings and his professions of love.

Now, though, she had recovered her poise.

Tigran opened the sideboard and took out a blue and white dinner plate from the large service which lay inside. She recognised again the arms of the VOC adorning, in blue, the centre of the plate.

“These were Reijmsdijk's also. Father bought the estate and everything in it, including Reijmsdijk's portrait. I have never bothered to change anything in the house. Since my mother, no woman has really lived here as mistress. Should you wish to do anything, make it over to your taste, change everything, you have only to say, and all will be as you wish.”

Tigran looked at her, and Charlotte found again, to her annoyance, that she felt like blushing.

They went into the great hall. The floor was tiled in white, surrounded at the outer edges with a frame of Dutch Delft blue tiles.

“These tiles tell a story, the story of Holland,” said Tigran.

He pointed to the many images of fish in a variety of numbers and dispositions swimming around the floor; other tiles showed fish piled in baskets, some sold by sturdy women, some in boats.

“Herring,” he said and smiled at her frown. “A humble fish to be sure. But without the humble herring, Holland would never have become the greatest trading nation on earth.”

He pointed to a tile that showed a fat-bottomed ship heaped with herring. Elsewhere, merchants stood proudly displaying their wealth, their houses, their cities. The square-rigged, wind-filled sails of 17th- and 18th-century ships sailed around the edge of the hall floor.

“A Dutchman, Jan-Willem Beukelszoon, you see, discovered a method for curing the herring at sea so that it would not spoil. In a stroke, the Dutch had a long-lasting and delicious commodity they could trade all over Europe. They became sailors, traders and merchants of repute, began to build great new types of ships and invented a country which was built and governed not by some war-mongering and greedy king but by sensible and clever burghers. When they outgrew Europe, they looked to the rest of the world. It was inevitable that when the power of Portugal and Spain waned, the Dutch with their ships and knowledge would take over world trade, especially here in the Spice Islands. The VOC was their means of conquest, the first joint stock company every formed. In 1602, it raised six and a half million guilders. Can you imagine such a sum!”

Tigran pointed out other tiles showing coats-of-arms of the countries which had flown the VOC flag, including the fan-shaped man-made island of Deshima and its bridge in Nagasaki harbour, which the Japanese had built to prevent their enterprising trading partners from encroaching on their country. The VOC had ruled over Amboyna, Banda, Ternate, Macassar, Malacca, Ceylon, Java and the Cape of Good Hope. They had had factories in Bengal, on the Coramandel Coast, in Siam and on the Persian Gulf. Their trade routes connected the whole of the Orient, Africa and Europe with Amsterdam. In the Persian Gulf the Company traded spices for salt, in Zanzibar salt for cloves, in India cloves for gold, in China gold for tea and silk, in Japan silk for copper and in the islands of Southeast Asia, copper for spices. The inner Asian trade had been as profitable as that with Europe.

“My Dutch tutor used this floor as a history lesson,” Tigran said as he wandered around the hall. “He was always somewhat annoyed that VOC had traded New Amsterdam in exchange for the English leaving the Spice Islands, but it must have seemed a good proposition at the time. It is ironic that Holland has lost all these places because of their support of America, a colony they traded away over a hundred years ago.”

He looked over the hall.

“They created the first stock exchange, the first exchange bank. By the middle of the 17th century, they controlled half the world trade. Holland was a tiny nation, but what enterprise, what vision! Fifty fleets a year, 150 trading ships, 40 warships, 20,000 seamen, 10,000 soldiers, 50,000 employees from all over Europe. With all this it still managed to pay a dividend of 40 percent. Remarkable.”

Charlotte felt the admiration in Tigran's voice and smiled at this enthusiasm. He noticed and laughed, embarrassed.

“My apologies,” he said and bowed slightly. “I confess to an admiration for such a people. The Dutch then had a great intellectual curiosity, and the VOC profits paid for arts and inventions. Their religious tolerance allowed my Armenian family to find refuge and a new life in Amsterdam. My father taught me to admire Holland, and I was sorry not to have gone to Amsterdam for my education.”

From the hall the doors led to the terrace and, on either side, the white marble staircase curved to the upper landing. Charlotte could see it needed care, for in parts the white limewash was dingy, and some of the tiling was chipped. It needed attention, a woman's attention. She would have liked to know more about the original Japanese mistress of this house, about the extraordinary circumstances that had led her, much like Charlotte, to become the first lady of such a place. Before she could carry these reflections further, however, Tigran took her hand and led her to the main door.

4

A wide-bodied, big-wheeled carriage with a white calico sunroof stood waiting. The two ponies were pretty black-and-white
kumingans
, ubiquitous in Java. They appeared slight and fine-boned, yet they were strong and resilient, capable, Charlotte knew, of pulling heavy loads. The shafts of the carriage were shining black and bore at the heads finely wrought silver
garuda
birds, their wings flung back imperiously in flight. Tigran held on to Charlotte's hand to help her in. Then he took the reins, and they turned onto the road around the house and out onto a broad avenue of monumental
saman
trees which formed a shady canopy over their heads and cast a dappled light on the road which would take them down to the river. As they clipped along in the morning breeze, a faint sound came to her ears. It was a
gamelan
orchestra playing somewhere out of sight, the sound of gongs and bells carried on the air. It was almost magical, as if the music were being played by invisible nymphs or carried down from the spheres. Then Tigran astonished her as he began to recite a poem.

“
Thus spoke the Genius, as He stept along
,

And bade these lawns to Peace and Truth belong;

Down the steep slopes He led with modest skill

The willing pathway, and the truant rill
,

Stretch'd o'er the marshy vale yon willowy mound
,

Where shines the lake amid the tufted ground
…”

Charlotte looked at him and laughed, and he grinned broadly.