The Two Hearts of Kwasi Boachi: A Novel (11 page)

“Does the Prince wish for this, shall I bring the Prince that?”

If I say no he persists. If I say yes he rebukes me for not having made my request earlier. I send him away. I threaten him with punishment if he dares to show his face once more, but within the next hour there he is, padding around me again.

“Not too hot? Not too cold? Have some more soda water!”

Sometimes he spends hours in the kitchen in the middle of the night making snacks and squeezing the juice out of fruits, only to have a pretext to intrude yet again. I’ll be damned if he isn’t jealous of my dedication to my pen.

17 March

I concluded the description of my origins this morning before sunrise. I must have nodded off over my writing, for I awoke lying on the sofa amid a cascade of cushions. Ahim had carried me there, undressed me and covered me with a blue sarong, knowing that blue has a calming effect on my nerves. Thanks to his fuss I slept without interruption until he came in with my evening meal. I ate like a young man. And then—and this was highly unusual—I longed for company. But it was dark by then and the sudden gusts of wind presaged rain. I told Ahim to fetch me a bottle of Chateauneuf from the stock I keep in my blanket chest for special occasions. I drank several glasses. I had seen no one but Ahim for almost a month. I had spent all my days working on the African part of my memoir. It is quicker to live than to recollect, it seems.

It is curious how, once you have hit upon something you thought you had forgotten, you want to shout it from the rooftops. Now that I had done what I set out to do I did not feel at rest, but was filled with nervous elation. After my third glass of wine I called Ahim, telling him to pour me another. I then emptied the bottle into the glass and motioned him to drink. He was flustered. I raised the glass to his lips. He looked as if I were offering him a lemon. It seems he cannot tolerate wine, so after a few sips I sent him away to fetch a lantern. He returned with the light, but when he saw me making ready to go outside he did his utmost to restrain me. He even grasped at my arms, as if in fright. When I wrenched myself free a button flew off my shirt. With a shock I recalled an article in the last
Aurora Yearbook
, stating that “alcohol is the most hazardous among East Indians of a bilious temperament; a sip can be enough to unleash a fatal rage in the soul.”

Quite possible. Ahim was the most bilious man I knew.

So I proceeded on my way to Wayeng’s house in the rain. She had a visitor: Lasmi. Quamina Aquasina lay asleep under the mosquito net with Aquasi junior. They had flung their arms and legs around the rattan bolster lying between them, and suddenly, old fool that I am, I was moved by the utter abandon with which those babes embraced their Dutch wife and each other. I was proud of my family and heartened by the warm welcome the women accorded me. Wayeng prepared a dish of fruit and roused the children to greet their father. I exulted in their fondness and reproached myself for having neglected them of late, setting greater store by my memories than by those dearest to me. I began to tell my children what had been occupying my thoughts, but soon saw their eyelids droop. No, worse still, I saw them trying hard to keep them open, whereupon I hugged my darlings and patted them and said they could go back to their dreamland. After all, I have now put the whole story down on paper. If they have questions about their roots they can always consult my memoir. Too tired to be a virile consort to Wayeng that night, I fell asleep in her arms.

18 March

Had another visit from Adeline Renselaar this morning, without her usual entourage this time. She thought I might be a little more forthcoming during a tête-à-tête. She was still counting on me to collaborate with her plans for my jubilee celebration. Today she tried the charming-female tack. Well, it’s a bit late for that. Twenty years too late. Adeline’s charms have to be seen to be believed. They come out of a jar. She is twice the size of other women and wears a bustle so large that she cannot sit down in company. For the duration of every social encounter, like ours this morning, she strikes attitudes. She assumes a pose, holds it until her muscles begin to twitch, and then strolls about airily, swinging her improbably long arms, until she has her back to the window where she strikes the next pose in dramatic lighting— hey presto: a tableau vivant! It is a miracle she has never knocked something over.

But then Adeline is the prima donna of our amateur dramatics society here at Buitenzorg. Indeed she insisted on reciting her latest role for my benefit: Desdemona! For a moment I was afraid she would press me to play the part of Othello, but she was only interested in her solo performance. I groaned and pretended to be suffering from sickness, St. Vitus fits, beriberi and an ague all at once, but she ignored my grimaces. After her finale, during which she was to be throttled by the Moor—which deed made him my favourite stage hero—she came to the point.

“My dear Prince, or what am I saying? Isn’t it time we were on more familiar terms? What do you think?”

“I would rather not.”

“Mister Boachi, Aquasi, dear old man, I wish you could bring yourself to see me for what I am—your family. All that grouchiness is nothing but a mask. Do take it off.”

“Madam, since you seem to think that all the world’s a stage, may I remind you that my life is not another of your sketches. There is no role in it for you. My stage make-up has taken many years to apply. If it is not to your liking, please proceed to the variety theatre!”

“Delightful! How amusing, a little play—how very clever!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands. The sound was muffled by her kid gloves. I gave up and let her have her say.

“Your fête. We have had consultations with the manager of the Society, and also with the owner of Tjiwaringi. The latter has a good, high-ceilinged hall, which can be rented for receptions quite inexpensively, and there is a charming podium. Do you have a preference for either one?”

“No podium at all sounds ideal to me.”

“You are not taking this seriously. Never mind, I suppose it is not fair to presume on the honoured person himself for organizational support. I would hate to impose on you. You have no idea how much I am enjoying the preparations. And everything seems to be going according to plan. Everyone is enthusiastic. It looks as if you have become one of the most beloved members of our community. Why the dark look,
mon Prince
? You are cynical. You do not believe me. I tell you that half the town is already wreathing laurels, in a manner of speaking. That look! All right then, shall I tell you . . . there is a slight possibility—do not get me wrong, only a slight possibility—that the governor himself will engage in the event. A great marquee by the Deer Park, the same as on New Year’s Day!” She clapped her hand over her mouth and stared at a corner of the room as if the entire circus were parading past already.

“Mrs. Renselaar,” I interrupted, “I do not doubt the goodness of your intentions, but the general euphoria concerning my person, such as you describe it—even if it were sincere—cannot but pain me. You are right, I am a bad-tempered old man. That is what fifty years of Java have done to me. And you wish to celebrate that fact?
How
, may I ask, do you intend to do that? By rousing the enthusiasm of the same people who have ignored me for half a century?”

“That is not true.”

“Well, not the same people, perhaps, although the distinction is hard to draw. If I have won their sympathy by approaching the end of my life, then that is a bitter thought. Where were they when I embarked on my career? When I had problems with my workforce? When I needed a mortgage? Why were the doors of their balls closed to a dark-skinned young man, and why would they wish to dance at his fête now that he is old and faded?”

“If you mean, if you are insinuating that . . . I always say, the prince, our prince, is a true Hollander. Truer than most, I should say. After all, you could have been a prince of Orange yourself, if, that is, if you were, if you were not . . .”

She had forgotten her lines. I decided to prolong the moment by keeping silent.

“. . . what I mean is this. We regard you as one of us. Do you hear? And this is something I feel very strongly about. We have taken you to our hearts!”

“Hurrah!” I said meanly, “and that makes my life a success, I suppose.”

“Your tone! So dreadful. I honestly believe that you despise me. Me! While I am the one, I . . . from the very first mention of your misfortune . . .”

“Misfortune?”

“That life of yours!”

“Which misfortune?”

“Well, I’ll be honest with you . . . I wept! I resolved to improve our acquaintance and if possible to offer some amicable companionship by way of retribution.”

“Retribution?”

“But no, you would rather hang back with a disgruntled look on your face. You choose to exclude me. Me! I who have come to you to deepen our acquaintance, really to get to know you.”

“Dear lady, what on earth have you done that might warrant retribution,” I cried, “except wasting my time with your histrionics!” I had to raise my voice to get a word in edgeways.

“I feel responsible,” she said solemnly, laying her hand on her bosom, “for your fate.”

I aped her grand gesture, adding a scornful shrug of the shoulders for good measure. She was beside herself.

“I of all people . . . and I had so looked forward to our meeting. From the moment my husband told me . . . But I was mistaken. I should not have come. I should not have cared a whit for your affair. But that’s just my way you know, I can’t abide injustice. And now . . . now . . . You are taking advantage of my feelings. You are wicked. A monster, a devil, Mephistopheles in person!” She had worked herself into such a state that she burst into tears. Not like the Desdemona of the Indies this time, with great sobs racking her heaving bosom, but like a disconsolate little girl, quietly, almost inaudibly. And for all my resentment I felt pity for the poor woman. I sent Ahim to make her some lemonade and moved her to the porch, where I sat her down, bustle and all, in the rocking chair. I drew up my own cane chair and sat next to her. We said nothing, but I held one hand on the back of her rocking chair, moving it gently. The soothing rhythm calmed her, just as I had hoped. After a few minutes she took my other hand in hers, and we sat like that for some time, gazing into the garden.

“Of course I had heard rumours,” she recommenced quietly.

“Of course,” I said. A young capuchin monkey landed in the flame tree. We watched it hunting for food among the flakes of bark.

“Most remarkable rumours,” she continued in a low voice, “quite disparate. Some I never credited, but nearly all were respectful.”

The monkey in the tree, having sated its appetite, leaped away and vanished into the thick foliage. Adeline took out a handkerchief and blew her nose daintily.

“My husband and I are childless. God wished it so. I spend my days alone, at home. Now that Richard has been promoted I even spend the entire week alone. All alone. You know what that means.” She sipped her lemonade and composed herself. “Richard works in Batavia nowadays. Since his advancement six months ago he leaves the house on Monday morning and I don’t see him again until Friday evening. You have children. You are fortunate.”

She wanted to rise, but could not bring herself to let go of my hand. “I have become accustomed to solitude. Believe it or not. Appearances are against me, I know, but I assure you that it is with the greatest difficulty that I engage in social relationships. Each time I must overcome my own sensitivities. Our dramatics society is my only distraction. Acting allows me to forget myself. And when I go out I brace myself, ruffle up my feathers like a fighting cock. I see the ladies and gentlemen aglow with complacency and I know: I am not one of them! But I shall not give up. I shall outdo myself. Transcend the misery of my situation. I am acting my part, which is that of a foolish old crone. It is a balloon that you have punctured with your sharp intellect. But I have no choice, don’t you see, not when I am among the others. In our Dutch colony it is either sink or swim.” She started crying again. This time I was not to be shaken.

“Why are you telling me these things?” I said in my coolest voice. I dreaded being subjected to a melodramatic soliloquy.

“God did not bless me with motherhood, but He gave me something in its stead. Something extra, a special sensitivity. You could say it was something beyond the normal, although I myself have no truck with all that nonsense about magic and
guna-guna
one keeps hearing. No, let’s just call it my sixth sense.”

“Your sixth sense,” I echoed, just to please her. “What is it?”

“It is love!”

“Since when was that a sense?”

“It is the love that has accumulated in me . . . like, like the deposit of hairs on the drain in the washroom! There is nowhere for it to go! I know I sound absurd, you must think I’m out of my mind, but what can I do—this is how I feel. My sorrow has made me hypersensitive. I can tell the emotional state of people from afar. Once they come near I can read them, the way one reads the
Illustrated Review
. Like an open book. I can sense disturbances with a precision that would make the meteorological office in Batavia green with envy.”

I was suddenly worried by the possibility that Ahim had fortified her lemonade with rum. To make matters worse she fell silent at this point and gazed at me, as if she had just revealed a state secret and expected a medal for her service.