The Two Hearts of Kwasi Boachi: A Novel (16 page)

A violent thud on my back left me gasping for breath. When I came to, the first thing I noticed was the freezing cold air pouring into my lungs. It smelled of grass. I prolonged this moment, as if I knew that from now on nothing would ever be the same. I stared ahead, insensible to the danger threatening from behind. Verheeck jumped on to my back and held me fast. He had two accomplices, Gerrit Toorenaar and Kobus Mus, the smallest and dullest boys in the school. They twisted my arms on to my back. Verheeck stood in front of me, legs apart and hands clasped behind him, a pose no doubt inspired by the framed print in our classroom showing the defeat of Vercingetorix. He was playing Julius Caesar, rising on his toes and throwing his head back so as to observe the loser from a suitable height.

“From now on,” growled Verheeck, “from now on, every time I ask: What are you? you must say: I’m a dirty nigger! Got it?” He gave me a taste of what would happen if I disobeyed by kicking me in the groin before I had a chance to say a word.

“So tell me now, what are you?” His tone was icy and unhurried. He waited patiently for me to get my breath back.

“A nig-ger,” I said, bewildered. Next I was punched on the chin.

“Wrong!” Verheeck said. “So you’re dumb too. All right then: a dumb dirty nigger. Tell me: what are you?”

“A dirty nigger.”

He struck me.

“And dumb too, dumb too!”

“I am a dumb dirty nigger.”

“Sir!”

“Sir,” I echoed, whereupon Verheeck’s minions let me go at last. I expected them to fall about laughing after my humiliation, the way they did when someone made a fool of himself in class, but they were silent. They wore stern, adult expressions. This was not a game. The incident was just as momentous to them as it was to me. They had accomplished their mission and were satisfied that everyone had acted according to plan. I, too, felt strangely calm as I walked home. I went up the stairs to my room and sat down on my bed. Only then did I feel the leaden weight of what had happened. I trembled with exhaustion. I felt more tired than ever before, and could not bring myself even to lie down. I sat like that, transfixed, for an hour, perhaps longer. I said the words over and over again under my breath, so that Verheeck would never have cause to attack me again: “I’m a dumb dirty nigger. I’m a dumb dirty nigger.”

Mon chou, mon bijou, mettez vos joujoux sur mes genoux
et prenez des cailloux pour chasser les hiboux.

I awoke to find that the spirit of rebellion within me had collapsed under its own weight. Taming an animal means that it learns to hide its anger. It slows down, its step becomes heavier. I could feel my resistance trickling down through my pores into my inner being, where I could keep it and nourish it without running undue risks. I got out of bed and went down to breakfast as I did every day, conscious of a new threat to be dealt with. The rest of the day I did my best to look unmoved. Still, there must have been something unusual about my expression, for van Moock forgave me a stupid mistake in a division sum, and afterwards his wife insisted on reciting a little poem to me. Even Bertha the maid slipped me two toffees after supper, so I feared they all knew how I had been humiliated, although that was not likely.

That evening I went straight upstairs after supper. When Kwame came up a little later I pretended to be asleep. He was not taken in and demanded to know why I was acting so strangely. At first I refused to talk, and when he pressed me I told him I was missing my mother. He believed me. He sat on the bed and put his arm around me. We listened to the noises of the school as it settled down for the night, the church clock striking the hours and the dying sounds of drunken revellers crossing the bridge. It was quiet for a while. Then Kwame began to sing, and I do not know whether he was doing it for my benefit or whether he thought I was already asleep. Perhaps he was singing just for the sake of memory. In a low hoarse voice he sang of Spider Anansi’s web, but lost track of the words in the second verse. It was some time before he got under the covers and curled himself around me.

I was wearing one of the nightshirts that had lain unused in the wardrobe since our first night in Delft. Kwame held his breath. He ran his fingertips over the fabric briefly, then rolled over on to his back with an angry sigh. I had fastened the drawstrings tightly around my neck and my wrists, in a desperate attempt to cover up my shame and so keep it to myself.

The next time Verheeck set eyes on me he knew he had been successful in asserting his superiority. It only made him more cruel. I recited the magic words dutifully, after which he left me alone, and I even felt grateful for having been told the words that would set me free. I thought long and hard about what they meant. Having been surrounded by white faces for the past year, I was well aware that I was different and a Negro. But why dumb? and why dirty? I was neither. I knew that for a fact. And yet I repeated the words in my head all day long, over and over until I was sure I had them on the tip of my tongue in case of an emergency. And there were emergencies three or four times a week. You would think the boys would grow bored soon enough, but the taunts became such a routine occurrence that they must have been addictive. Saying the magic words was usually enough, but not always. Sometimes my tormentors decided I had not been quick enough to respond, or that I did not look solemn enough, or spoke too softly, or showed too little respect. As they were not sure whether bruises showed up on my skin, they would aim their blows on the small of my back and thighs to be on the safe side, for they could rely on my keeping that part of my body clothed in front of van Moock.

People adapt themselves to circumstances. That is the trump card prized by despots and oppressors. Their victims bend so as not to break. Adjustment is a matter of survival. The minority toes the line drawn by the majority. And while your view of the world hardens, you discover that your pride is soft and malleable, like the skull of a newborn baby. You can actually divide yourself up into separate beings: one part of you lives in fear and shame, while the other half functions as if nothing is the matter. As simple as that.

In spite of everything I was determined to continue my exploration of the town. At first I tried to persuade Kwame to come with me, but he was not interested. So I set out on my long walks alone, along the canals and past all the workshops and stores. People were friendly. They shook hands with me and asked me to step into their shops. They offered me sweetmeats so as to prolong my stay until word got about and customers poured in. I knew their motives were mercenary, but I did not mind for it gave me the opportunity to talk with all sorts of people. I learned a lot of new words, found out about prices and profit-making, how to keep accounts in a ledger, and observed the craftsmen and their tools. I watched the people at work and seized every opportunity to discover more details of the Dutch way of life and the character of the Hollanders. My curiosity knew no bounds. I was obsessed by the desire to understand exactly what it was that made us so different from the townspeople of Delft that there was always someone staring at us in wonder. I wanted to remove the sense of wonder, and for that I would have to become a familiar face in every street in the town. Verheeck could not stop me. The ever-present fear of meeting him made my excursions all the more adventurous, I thought, and the fact that I could always say the magic words if the need arose gave me a feeling, however misplaced, of power. I imagined that this strange land offered a range of different magic formulas, which enabled me both to extricate myself from awkward situations and to win affection. I was interested in the whole range.

can, will, may, must, shall, might

Such was the mood of the autumn and early winter months. Whenever I crossed Verheeck and his cronies I did what was demanded of me and left it at that.

I became resigned to the boys’ behaviour and would not have thought of making a fuss if Bertha had not taken it into her head one day that the boys could do with an extra strong broth in winter. She went to market and bought a sackful of fish heads, for which she drove a hard bargain, as well as a pound of sole for the van Moocks, who refused to eat all but the very best quality fish. Thanks to a generous sprinkling of bread crusts, condiments and parsley the brew did not taste bad at all. That same night, however, the school was in an uproar. I stumbled down the stairs pressing my fists against my belly only to find that there was already a queue of boys in the courtyard waiting to use the privy. Panic-stricken, I tried to control my bowels by sitting down on the frozen ground, but this did not help at all. I cringed and squirmed and was about to sink to my haunches there and then to alleviate myself in full view of everyone—which would not have embarrassed me in the least in the old days—but my dread of being tormented for my lack of control stopped me. A stab of pain made me do the thing that was as obvious as it was unthinkable: I made for the van Moock’s private closet, slammed the door behind me and sank down in relief. But that was not the end of it. My bowels were in a dreadful turmoil, and I could not run out again as quickly as I had anticipated, so I sat there doubled up with pain, giddily picturing Mrs. van Moock in nightcap and curlers and how she would shriek when she discovered my lifeless body in the morning. Then the door flew open and I found myself staring at a face so horribly contorted that the end of the world seemed nigh. Then I saw that it was Cornelius.

“Dammit Boachi, hurry up man—come off it this instant!” he groaned, but I could not possibly do as he said.

“Come and sit here,” I said, pointing to the second hole in the mahogany seat, intended for passing water.

“Next to you?” he spluttered, and for a moment his astonishment seemed to make him forget his anguish. “How do you mean?”

“You know, here, next to me,” I said, at which point I was convulsed by a fresh cramp. Although I felt quite faint, I could still make out the rasp in de Groot’s breathing. He slipped inside, bolted the door, sat down next to me and did his business. We stayed there for a long time, perhaps half an hour or more, without speaking. I could hardly believe my ears when I caught the sound of quiet sobbing. I glanced sideways and in the weak lamp-light coming in over the door I saw Cornelius wiping his cheeks with his sleeve. He was crying.

Until now Cornelius had been the only boy I dared to address. He had stood up for me on two occasions, so it was natural for me to feel drawn to him. However, he always seemed surprised when someone talked to him, whether it was me or anyone else. He did not seem to like being spoken to, and always reacted gruffly. I rather looked up to him, but Kwame accused me of grovelling, although he could not help feeling some sympathy for him too. Besides, he was the only boy in whose presence Kwame and I felt free to exchange some words in Twi. I would greet Cornelius whenever I crossed him in the corridor, and if he dropped his pen I would pick it up for him. He would grunt in response. That was as close as we got. It was close enough.

So there I was, sitting in his stench, and he in mine. Good spirits, my mother used to say, smell of dung, not flowers, the better to draw attention.

“Are you crying?” I asked, whereupon Cornelius let out a yelp of outrage.

“Are you mad?” he said, sniffing loudly. There was a moment’s silence.

“Well, you could be, couldn’t you?” I burst out. I was as piqued as he was.

“Never!” He swore as his body was racked by a spasm, but although his intestines rumbled so alarmingly that the boys waiting outside made rude remarks, I don’t think it had the desired effect. He wiped the sweat off his forehead.

“Haven’t done for years,” he said in a confidential tone. The intimacy of the moment left us both paralysed, and neither of us dared to break the silence.

Finally he got up, as suddenly as he had sat down. “Take my advice,” he said, cleaning himself with a dash of ice-cold water from the pitcher. “Once an outsider always an outsider. Hard luck. You’ll never be one of the boys. But once people are scared they’re all the same. You must fight. You must be stronger than they are. That’s the only hope we have of gaining respect.” He shut the door behind him and reopened it two seconds later. “If you like, I’ll teach you about that some time. I’m good at it.”

The next morning we all had to stand to attention and were not allowed to have breakfast until the boys responsible for the filth in the private closet owned up. I was reluctant to step forward, and could feel Cornelius’s eyes burning on me. Since he was one of the culprits, no one dared to point in our direction, not even when a number of boys, including Verheeck, were singled out to clean up the mess.

When things were back to normal Cornelius took me aside. “You were a damned good sport,” he spluttered, and his voice turned gruff as he added, “you know, about last night.” He seemed to regret having raised the subject.

“Well, who’d have done the same for me, eh? Kept me company like that.” He plunged his hands in his pockets and walked off. After a few steps he turned round and said, without meeting my eyes, “If they bully you, let me know.” It sounded more like an order than an offer of help.

I did not doubt that he would take my side against Verheeck any time I wanted. I could have told him everything right there, and the taunting would be over. I said nothing, and was persuaded that my position had improved considerably. I gauged my chances and took careful stock of the situation.

The very next time Verheeck and his cronies bore down on me, which happened two days later, I braced myself. I took too long to utter the required words, and Mus starting cracking his knuckles and clenching the fist of one hand in the palm of the other.