The Two Hearts of Kwasi Boachi: A Novel (32 page)

I must confess that I had phrased my discourse with deliberate stridency in order to convince my fellow students that I had truly put the life of the wild behind me. That from now on I was one of them. But in the face of Kwame’s obvious misery—even if I myself were the instrument of it—my personal objective paled to insignificance. From then on I addressed my words to him alone, and only through him to the others.

I criticized the religion, customs and thinking of my forebears. I censured the state of knowledge, the traditions of kinship and social relations, of love and work, of the divinities both living and dead. One after the other. As though I had to tear the roots out of my own flesh.

“Equal rights obtain between man and woman, including the possibility of seeking divorce. But the man alone enjoys the legal right to punish his wife, notably by cutting off parts of the body: the penalty for adultery is the loss of her nose, for divulging a secret or eavesdropping the loss of both ears. Women who have been mutilated thus are a common sight in Kumasi.”

I had to pause here. My eyes raced across my papers, but my heart could no longer endure my own words. The audience was silent, staring at me in bewilderment. I shuddered, and turned over several pages in quick succession.

“No,” I said, reading from my notes again, “I do not wish to proceed in this vein, but to stop here after humbly requesting your compassion and forgiveness for your brothers in nature, who in their blind savagery commit such deeds, for these abominations are indeed deemed rightful by them. The people are foolish and deeply superstitious, and from these two deficiencies their priests draw masterful profit, impressing upon the minds of men all manner of alien and unspeakable notions, thus compounding their folly and superstition.”

At this point Kwame jumped to his feet. His chair clattered to the marble floor. He took a few tottering steps and seemed about to fall. Lebret made to catch him, but Kwame had recovered his strength. He drew himself up, threw back his head and opened his mouth. He let out a roar like a wounded animal, like an epileptic. It was dreadful, there was no end to it, and when his breath ran out he doubled up as if he had been punched in the stomach, squeezing out the last air in his lungs, groaning, raving. He foamed at the mouth. Linse took his arm to calm him down, but Kwame threw him off. He ran towards the door, but the soles of his military shoes were slippery and he fell flat on the floor, his sprawled body sliding forward. The students on either side of the aisle shrank back, afraid that he would attack them. Jules van der Capellen unsheathed a short hunting knife, and shielded Willem Alexander, who had turned ghostly pale. But Kwame scrambled to his feet and stormed out without a backward glance, as if he could not breathe until he was down in the street again. Linse wanted to run after him, but was restrained by Lebret, who flashed a knowing look in my direction. It took a while for peace to be restored, although the whispering and shuffling did not abate. It was only when I made to take a sip of water that I noticed that I had gripped my glass so firmly that it had broken. There was a small cut in the palm of my hand.

“Now then,” I said, dabbing the cut with my handkerchief. Having cleared my throat for the last time, I continued until the end of my exposé without faltering even once: “Let us pause for a few moments to cast an eye into the dwelling of a witch doctor . . .”

The last guests left the society at first light. I had no desire to go home. I was drunk. Everyone was drunk. After giving my speech I had sent Linse to the van Moocks to enquire after my cousin. He returned half an hour later saying that Kwame had arrived there with a slight case of food poisoning. Mrs. van Moock had given him milk with calcium and had sent him to bed. He was asleep. All was well. Greatly relieved, I called for the champagne to be uncorked. From then on I immersed myself in the festivities and forgot the disarray.

I was woken by a servant clearing the tables. Another domestic was gathering glasses and shards from the floor. I did not wish to stand in their way and struggled to slip my arms into the sleeves of my coat. The insignia of my newly acquired membership of the Five Columns were in my pocket. I drew them out and, weighing them on my hand, staggered to the door. Halfway there, I steadied myself against the wall hung with the portraits of the honourable members. The servants held me in their sights. I made a pretence of studying the row of faces. My air was grave as I contemplated twenty or thirty young Dutchmen of noble birth. There were painted miniatures, several profile portraits, one figure on horseback, another during a hunt.

Earlier in the evening, when I was solemnly presented with my daguerreotype portrait, I had not inspected it so as not to appear vain, but now I could not wait. I slipped it out of its case. The silvered copper plate glittered like a mirror. I narrowed my eyes. Holding it at a certain angle I could distinguish my own likeness, in the pose I had struck in the studio.

Mercury vapour was applied to create a positive image: a proud-looking young man wearing a silken waistcoat and holding his book with the severity of one who has no time for frivolities. His skin is dark, only a shade lighter than his coal-black morning coat. He has the wide cheekbones of the Ashanti and a short beard bordering his full lips.

For a few seconds I was delighted with the likeness. Then I noticed! Behind the shimmering image lay another. I could hardly believe my eyes.

The slightest tremor of the fingers affected the angle of the light, making the surface flash from jet black to silver white and reversing the areas upon which the mercury vapour had condensed into silver—turning black into white and white into black.

I tilted the plate this way and that: one moment the young man paled, the next he darkened. Before my own eyes I switched from black to white and from white to black, again and again, in a spasm of indecision. The process developed by Monsieur Daguerre, the positive–negative action of the reflecting plate, portrayed reality as well as its antithesis. Life and dream.

I narrowed my bad eye. I snuffed the candle in order to lessen the dazzle. But however hard I tried, both figures kept coming back: Kwasi and Aquasi, black, white, black, white, black, white.

Two young men are thus united within the same image: a white man with a black shadow, and a dark man with a white aura. Two men, each fated to become the other, immortalized in a single portrait. I have been both these men.

PART FOUR

WEST AFRICA 1847–50

31 October 1847

How happy I am to have left Holland! Dear friend, happiness is so unpredictable. To be so far away from you, who were my only mainstay for all those years, my better half, from whom I was inseparable—and yet to be happy. You will not hold this against me, for you saw the state I was in. You knew my deepest desires. You shared them once, although you seem to have forgotten that. You have seen how fate trifled with my misfortune for ten long years. Something had to change. So there is no need to blame yourself. It is true that the estrangement between us in the last few months tipped the scales in favour of my departure. After your speech to the Five Columns Club I found I could no longer live among those who had lured you away from me. Rest assured, it has proved to be a blessing. It moved me to do what I had dreamed of doing all those years. Oh, if only you were here to breathe this air.

This evening our ship dropped anchor off the coast. You will remember how heavy the swell is here, and it was too dark to lower a boat for landing. So I shall have to wait until morning. I cannot sleep. I have not set foot on our land and yet I can scent its proximity. I breathe its aroma. The moist warmth, growing more intense with each nautical mile in the past few weeks, has wrapped itself around me. It is as though the pores of my skin are opening to let it in. As though I can relax at last. I am rocked by the waves. Like a newborn babe I lie at the breast, close my eyes and drink. Blindly. There is an inborn trust. I had forgotten its existence and yet, within a few instants, all is as it once was.

There is no moon tonight. Sometimes I fancy I see a flicker in the distance. Is it a lantern, or is it the glitter of stars in the water?

Although I have little news to report at this point, I shall leave this letter with the captain. Tomorrow the ship’s company will be replaced by the regiment we have come to relieve. They are to take on cargo at Abidjan, after which they will head back to Holland. Van Moock will forward this letter to you at once. With any luck you will read it in six weeks. To think there was a time when I could just turn round and whisper in your ear. So distant, my friend, and yet so close to my heart.

I try to envisage how you are spending this evening. I cannot. I do not know where you are. How are your lodgings? What do you eat? Write and tell me everything as soon as possible! What sort of people have you met? What are the names of your fellow students, your professors? Are they kind to you? Knowing that, by now, you too have left Holland makes things easier for me. For some reason I would hate to think of you staying in your little room in Delft, in the same old surroundings. Some travelling will do you good, I am sure. Even a brief absence from the flat polderland will remind you that there is more to the world than Holland. Indeed I have no worries on that score. You too are receiving fresh impressions, seeing new panoramas. You will expand your knowledge, meet people and make friends. And I know of one dear friend with whom you will certainly be reunited. I just hope that it will not pain you to see her happy. It is a comforting thought that she will take your welfare to heart. Give my warmest regards to Sophie, and remember to tell me how she is in your next letter.

A bird from the mainland has alighted on deck. The creature is not at all timid, and I have given it some food. It has white feathers and a yellow comb. The gulls tried to steal its meal, but I chased them away. Now it has crept under my chair. It trusts me.

Tomorrow! Tomorrow! My very dear friend, from now on we will keep our gaze fixed on the future. I am certain of that. The present smiles upon us, and we must let bygones be bygones. I have forgiven fate. That is gracious of me, don’t you agree? But I mean it. You must believe me when I say I am no longer shackled to the past. I have arrived. My past lies before me. Tomorrow I shall set eyes on my future once more.

1 November 1847

How clear my head is. I see everything in clean, clear perspective. I don’t know whether this is thanks to the air or to the light. Or to my soul, which keeps careful stock of everything I observe, albeit with detachment. Like a migrant bird. From a great height I recognize a brittle branch as the blossom of yore. Each rediscovered detail points the way forward, tells me that I
must
go forward.

Governor van der Eb gave me a warm welcome when I came ashore this morning. He had been advised of my forthcoming arrival by the Ministry. He did not address me by my military rank of corporal, but by my noble title. He served the local wine. Palm wine has a sharp tang, did you know that? My tongue curled at the taste, for the memory was of a velvety drink, like liqueur. Do you remember how we broke the seal on one of the casks in the storeroom behind the women’s quarters, and drank until we fainted? Surely the taste was sweet? Or not? I cannot recall. Memory sweetens.

After a brief conversation van der Eb insisted that I should not be billeted with the troops. He assured me that I shall receive the promotion that has been promised to me, and offered me a spacious bedroom in the officers’ wing. When I demurred, he suggested various alternatives. He was surprised when I chose the smallest cubicle. It is our room, Kwasi! The very same one. I am to sleep in the same cot we shared ten years ago. How could I have explained that to him? It still creaks and wobbles, and it is far too small, but at least I shall be able to dream here. Dear friend, do you remember how frightened we were, how we clung to each other? How sorely I miss you. Just imagine, the chair I am sitting on as I write is the same chair upon which we laid our robes that night, only to find they had been replaced by trousers in the morning. Before long I shall leave my uniform behind on this very chair—at my departure for Kumasi. I wish to return to wearing the
kente
cloth.

I had intended to purchase our traditional clothing here, but there is none to be found. Ashanti culture is taboo in this Fanti settlement. I have been told of a northerner who knows the Ashanti weaving techniques, but I have not been able to trace him.

The absurdity—I was presented this morning with a chest from the ship’s cargo, which turned out to contain a turning-lathe. What a gift! According to van der Eb, it was the Ministry of Colonies’ idea to give me something practical as a sendoff, since I declined to follow the Wesleyan Society’s recommendations as to how to make myself useful. As you can imagine, I would have been infinitely more grateful for some oil paints and an easel, say, or a block of marble and a chisel. I requested van der Eb politely to convey my thanks to the Ministry, and I put the lathe in storage. Then he gave me a handsome hunting rifle, a present from the Dutch government on my departure. Goes to show how glad they are to be rid of me, as well as of the expense of my allowance. I spent the rest of the day wandering in the environs of the fort. I had no plan.

Oh Kwasi, it is amazing how much of what I thought I had forgotten has been stored away in my soul all this time, to return at the slightest provocation. The heavy, aromatic heat. That pungent smell of decaying forest, carried out to sea on a gentle breeze, brings back entire weeks of our life. The red earth. The sinking sun setting the world ablaze. The pride in the eyes of the women. That they can be proud while they possess nothing but the ground beneath their feet. Oh, my dearest cousin, if only I could have persuaded you to come with me.