The Two Hearts of Kwasi Boachi: A Novel (35 page)

He learned some Portuguese from the Angolan slaves in the mines. That language is not unlike Latin, so we can understand each other. Unfortunately his knowledge of Twi does not extend further than a string of admonitions. I am able to say “That basket is too light,” and, “Be quiet or you shall go hungry,” but I hardly think that will get me very far in Kumasi.

Joa has met a Fanti woman here, who cooks for him. His appearance is somewhat forlorn, but his face lights up as soon as she comes near. He is as besotted as a boy. It does me good to witness a little happiness. I intend to visit him regularly. This afternoon alone my memory was sparked several times. Simple Ashanti customs came to mind, such as shaving the armpits, which all our adult men and women do every day. I knew this, and yet I did not know. Little things like that. And Joa uses a brush to clean his teeth after each meal, in the manner of the Ashanti. Why did we stop doing that in Holland? Probably so as not to draw attention to ourselves. I have now removed my body hair and made a brush out of a twig with which I clean my teeth until the gums bleed.

24 April 1848

Two days ago I made a bargain. I took the turning-lathe presented to me by the Dutch government out of storage and gave it to Joa. He said the contraption might be useful for making shuttles and spindles. In exchange he gave me a small hand-loom. I have placed it in my room, on the left wall by the window. I have already learnt how to set it up, but make mistakes with warp and weft. This exercise offers me some satisfaction.

27 April 1848

When I close my eyes I can still see the shuttle flying back and forth. I have made considerable progress in the past few days, and have now acquired a certain ability in weaving. My only objection to the technique is that it is so rectilinear. Weaving a patterned cloth is not like freehand drawing: the configuration of a woven cloth must be fixed beforehand. I have little affinity with such a calculated approach. I do not wish to be hampered by the knowledge that my composition is following a prescribed pattern, that it can be analyzed and reproduced down to the last detail, that there is to be no surprise outcome.

Yet weaving is one of the great arts of our people, and therefore deserves my respect and dedication. I wish to comprehend and master the technique. So I have resolved to weave my own
kente
cloth, and have already designed an ingenious pattern for the clothing I shall wear for my homecoming. I have ordered the yarn from Joa, and it will be ready for me in a few days. I am having it dyed in the colours I remember most vividly. Orange for one. Yellow. And brown.

30 April 1848

Two missives have arrived, in quick succession, both reporting on the turmoil in Europe. The first tells of a plot by Dutch workers against the monarchy. The populace of Amsterdam appears to be calling for a republic, and for the death of Willem II. There have been riots and plundering. Van der Eb has been instructed to deal harshly with any unrest among the troops. The second letter, however, brings news of a reformed constitution, involving the relinquishing of extensive powers by the royal family. There was also a personal letter from the minister of Colonies to van der Eb, which moved him to make the somewhat cynical observation that the king had switched from conservative to liberal within twenty-four hours. Has Sophie managed to win her father over to her ideas, too? Or does he have so little confidence in Crown Prince Willem Alexander that he wishes to save his people from future tyranny? I understand that the king postponed informing his son of the new constitution until the very last—after the event, in fact—and that this greatly offended the crown prince.

What a fuss. It is all so far away. It is hardly my concern. My thoughts here are of other matters.

There has been no change. I have been helping the men with the repairs to the east side of the fort. Since it is no longer used for the slave trade it has been badly neglected. If the outer walls were not whitewashed twice yearly, you would be able to see how seriously they are crumbling.

Interest in Dutch trade is minimal. During the past six months only two transactions have been concluded in Elmina. The forest path to Kumasi is choked with undergrowth, which has slowed down communication to an arduous foot pace.

As soon as we have finished the mortar work, we will start work on the drawbridge. See, the future king of Ashanti is a carpenter! Shades of Peter the Great after all—which would please the Wesleyan Society. I do not mind the hard physical labour, quite the contrary: it makes a welcome change. But the delay in my promotion riles me. That is small-minded of me I know, but none the less irritating for that. I realize I am beginning to set great store by futilities. That is how small my world has become.

Van der Eb tells me that there has been a march on the royal palace in The Hague by disaffected workers, but that King Willem averted a clash by appearing on the balcony and behaving as if the crowd had come to cheer him. The same happened the next day. Poor man. They say he insists that the populace were not calling for his abdication but showing him their respect. His hard-headedness, his proud bluff, was surely inspired by the Russian princess, don’t you think? But will the royal family be able to ward off misfortune?

1 May 1848

I beg you to do as follows: when you and Professor Cotta and your fellow students emerge from the mine shaft of the Reiche Seege, and your eyes have accustomed themselves to the bright light, look up at the sky. I see the same sun.

5 May 1848

Again the news from Holland is distressing. I am deeply shocked by the death of Prince Alexander at Madeira. How sad. And only twenty-nine years old. It is true that he was always delicate, but what gross injustice. That young man had a heart of gold. Another cruel blow to the House of Orange. Sophie must be devastated at the loss of her brother. I shall write to her at once. I presume all of you travelled to Delft for the funeral?

1 June 1848

When I accompanied Joa, whose skin is considerably paler than mine, to the local market to purchase a guava and three chicken legs for his beloved, we crossed a Dutch patrol. “Look, there go Light and Dark,” the commander called out, to make his men laugh. “Light, dark, light, dark!” they repeated in unison as they marched, as if responding to a prearranged signal. There was no malice in their voices. Van der Eb heard of the incident at supper, and concluded that it was merely a joke on the names of two officials in The Hague whom the king has charged with forming an independent government. He may be right, but I have my doubts. Not that I care. When I told Joa what they were saying, he shrugged his shoulders. “All men are the same colour down the mines,” he said, “but I prefer daylight all the same!”

16 July 1848

Our portrait is falling apart. During supper I noticed a fresh tear in the canvas, which is already ragged along the entire lower edge. Van der Eb is apologetic about the neglect. What can he do? The canvas is saturated with damp and the varnish simply dissolves in the salty air. Both the expertise and the means to halt this process are lacking here. Not that the painting is a masterpiece by any standards. Frankly, it makes me smile. Poor Raden Saleh— how upset he would be if he knew! After supper I inspected the damage with the aid of a candle, and when I traced our contours with the tip of my finger the paint simply flaked off. Some sort of mould has crept between the canvas and the oils. Little blisters are appearing. Verveer has already lost several of his medals, I’m afraid. And you and I are turning into lepers.

17 July 1848

This afternoon, when I was weaving, I remembered my mother telling me that in her day people used the silken thread of the spider
okomantan
. For lack of a web, I unravelled some silk handkerchiefs and threaded the strands on to my loom.

26 July 1848

Fancy Hans Andersen showing concern for my predicament. My heart leapt. I met him at that function in The Hague over a year ago, when he was honoured for his work. He is a kind soul, and a gentleman. He carries all the world’s sorrow in his eyes, which gives him a compassionate mien. Indeed, such a man’s company would be welcome to me here. (Although I would even sooner have you by my side.) I was most touched by his sympathy. I look forward to receiving the translation of his new collection of stories. Could you possibly send me the score of the music Liszt has composed to Andersen’s text? I expect it will have been printed by now, as the opera has been so successful.

Tell him that our encounter last year—it was on the eve of my birthday—made a deep impression on me. Indeed, come to think of it, meeting him played a decisive role in my decision to return to Africa. No, do not tell him so. He might feel responsible. Tell him . . .

Did you know that he postponed his onward journey to England, even though Jenny Lind was waiting for him there, and declined an invitation from the author Jacob van Lennep just so that he might visit me? Sophie had pressed him to do so. He did not dare announce his presence until I had read her letter of introduction. Such a gentle man! How privileged we are, Kwasi, to have made his acquaintance. When I picture the two of you together I begin to doubt the wisdom of my decision.

Tell him he was right, regardless of what the scientists maintain: rainbows around the moon are indeed to be seen every night in this place.

I am writing this in the early evening. You may wonder why I did not introduce you to Andersen. I did not even send word to the academy. There seemed little point. He was not concerned with either of us as individuals, his sole aim was to obtain information about our myths and legends. He requested my cooperation in a soft voice, as if he were reluctant to rouse a man who would prefer to remain asleep. I did not think you would wish to be a party to this delving into the past. It was soon after your speech to the Five Columns Club.

I started telling him the story of Anansi, but soon faltered, and had to admit I had forgotten many details. Andersen was unperturbed and did not press me. No, he simply drank his cup of tea as if he were at home, and then told me one of his own stories. At first I thought he was reciting what he had written, as was his custom at public readings. But after a few minutes I saw that he was addressing his words to me personally. I was startled by the emotion in his voice, and made to interrupt him. But he persisted in his narrative, and in this way he soothed my nerves. It was as if he were saying: you and I, we stand before the whole world, let the animals tell our story. After that it was as if the floodgates had opened, and I heard myself recounting an adventure that had befallen Anansi, Tsetse and the tiger. Followed at once by a second, a third and yet more tales, with Hans Andersen taking notes all the while. I was truly amazed at the whirlwind of stories rising in my memory. In retrospect it was like being in a trance, losing sight of the boundaries between memory and invention. I was embarrassed by this, and told him so. He smiled and said it did not matter. “To write,” said Andersen, “is to accidentally invent the truth.”

We sat together until late into the night. Never since leaving home had I pictured the streets and faces of Kumasi so vividly. Nor has the clarity of my refreshed memories on that occasion ever come back to me, not even now that I am so close to home. Especially not now.

Andersen’s ship sailed on the twenty-second. I went to Rotterdam to see him off. I had hoped to exchange a few words with him in private, but he was constantly beset by admirers, and listened politely to one speech after another. I was lucky to get the opportunity to shake his hand.

It is long past midnight now. It was Andersen, you know, who fanned the longing that had smouldered in my breast for so long. I spent my birthday in solitude. You had sent special greetings, and I was relieved by your apology for not coming to see me personally. We were living in separate worlds by then. Nonetheless I walked on air—for the first time in a long while.

4 October 1848

There has been an accident in the Dabokrom gold mines. Fourteen men have lost their lives, including two Dutch mining engineers. Their bodies have been transported from Ahanta to Elmina, where they were buried this morning in Dutch soil. The funeral service in the chapel was solemn, but the air was thick with rumours. The future of the entire mining operation seems most uncertain. Of course I still hope that you will be able to practise your profession here some day, but the risks involved in the current undertaking are so high that I am almost relieved you are not here. Eleven of the thirteen Dutch engineers who founded the company in 1845 have now died. Of the second team of thirteen, who arrived last year, only seven are alive today. No gold has been mined as yet.

5 October 1848

The difference between friendship and love is that friendship is more tolerant of separation. When friends meet again after several years, there is no change in their bond. Love, on the other hand, does not accumulate, but needs constant replenishment. In that sense, Kwasi, I love you. I need you. My reserves are nearly depleted.

18 December 1848

Thank you for sending the book by Goethe. I was under the impression that Sasha’s former tutor appealed to young ladies in particular. All I know about Werther is what Sophie told me. There’s a touch of the show-off there, wouldn’t you say?

You accuse me of not writing often enough. What do you expect? That I have a lot to say?