The Two Hearts of Kwasi Boachi: A Novel (36 page)

25 December 1848

A man tormented by the proximity of the woman he loves, whom he sees in happy union with her husband . . . I am beginning to understand why Werther’s story appealed to you. Thank goodness you are not a Romantic yourself, for you have both feet firmly on the ground.

26 December 1848

Werther is an observer, he is moved by stage scenery. Nature is a luxury to him. I am a child of nature. Merry Christmas.

1 January 1849

And a happy new year.

2 January 1849

In recent weeks several Europeans have fled Kumasi, seeking refuge in Cape Coast and Accra. There are traders and missionaries among them, and all have bloodcurdling tales to tell about the persecution of Christians. The tide seems to have turned indeed. The Asantehene and the priests have launched an offensive against the European influence. What hope is there for me in the present circumstances?

12 February 1849

Watch out for Raden Saleh. He is a dangerous man, as inscrutable as a snake. A pity he should be so much in evidence, to the extent of receiving a royal welcome in Weimar. Are there no other portrait artists of merit? His personality must clash with the refinement of life at court. The thought of him dining in the company of Andersen repels me. I trust Sophie is sensible enough to see through him. I suppose it is not unreasonable that he should be the guest of her parents-in-law, but Sophie ought to dismiss him firmly but politely. Until she does so, please take care with what you say. That smile of his hides a cunning and spiteful nature.

You were quite right to speak up in your father’s defence. Of course! What business is it of his—a sycophant from Java— whether the Asantehene has or has not defaulted on his pledge to Verveer? No doubt it has escaped his notice that it was the English who raised a hue and cry against the trade in recruits, saying it was old-fashioned slavery in disguise.

Tell him, if he ever dares broach the subject again, that the Dutch only desisted from their recruitment activities once international indignation had been sparked. Van der Eb said so himself. It was the Dutch who stopped the supply of men. You can tell our Javanese prince that if he cannot resist poking his nose into other people’s business he should look at the treatment we have received. He chose to go to Europe of his own free will—we did not. He went in search of gain, we were abducted to ensure gain for others.

Do not let him provoke you. I am glad to hear that he will soon return to his native land, where he is to paint the portrait of the sultan of Jokyakarta. Good riddance. You can tell him from me—politely if you will—that his work is not very durable in the tropics. My own face, at any rate, is now drained of all expression. I can recognize you by your remaining eye, lower lip and one and a half eyebrows.

There has been another casualty at Dabokrom, although from natural causes this time. The man inadvertently pitched his tent in the path of an army of ants. He was overrun by the termites, and died of his wounds three days later. The first sample of gold dust accompanying the body to the coast was less than one and a half ounces.

10 April 1849

Our entire company is in deep mourning, but none more than I. The dreadful news did not reach us until two days ago. I am sending my most sincere condolences to Sophie and to Prince Hendrik, and of course to the poor, poor queen. Did you ever see a warmer domesticity than theirs? So . . . all things end in anguish. Please write and tell me all, as soon as you can. I gather from what van der Eb told me and from the newspapers that the king was on a visit to the new palace being built in Tilburg, and that he spent the night in the home of a wool-dyer—how typical of his modesty—where he became unwell. Also that sourdough poultices were applied to soothe the intestine, and that Everard was sent for, but it was too late. I understand that Anna Pavlovna came at once from The Hague, but was so agitated when she arrived that she was not deemed fit to see her husband. She was persuaded that he should not be disturbed, and posted by the door to his room, listening. So the king passed away without knowing that his beloved wife was only a few yards away!

Such immense grief puts my own in the shade. There is no limit to adversity, it seems. I am ashamed of my plaintive tone of late, of having regard for no one but myself. I even tried praying, which is something I have never done before of my own free will. In times such as this one can do with all the support one can get.

15 May 1849

Since you have already written to me of the sad events in Holland, most of the questions in my last letter no longer apply. How unfortunate that you should have been away in Switzerland with Professor Cotta at the time, and therefore unable to offer Sophie your moral support. I admire her courage. She is a remarkable woman.

So the new king is Willem III, and Anna Pavlovna has ceded her position to her capricious daughter-in-law. But the dear lady will show her Russian mettle, you mark my words, and will certainly recover from this devastating blow. For the time being the inheritance seems to be giving the main cause for concern. Is it true that the king actually transformed his father’s fortune into a debt of four and a half million? In the space of eight years? The glorious Rembrandts lost to St. Petersburg! All the other art treasures, which were such a comfort to me in the old days, sold at auction—furniture, tableware, all gone. It is awful. Even the little covered wagon we used to play with when we pretended to be Red Indians. Time and again one loses all one loves. I have heard that Anna Pavlovna bade the empty rooms of the palace goodbye with the words: “Never more, little father, never more!” I can believe it. A touch of sentimentality there, but what counts for her counts for us.

20 May 1849

I have done as you requested, and have plied Joa with questions about the mining situation in Ashanti. It is no trouble at all. At least this is an opportunity for me to be of some use to you, but I am afraid his information was hardly exhaustive. He is a simple man, and has little knowledge of engineering. His sensitive nature made him unfit for life down the mines, where slaves and horses stay underground for days on end. The tools consist of simple pickaxes, and each team of miners advances no more than a few inches a week. Joa has bad memories of his days as a miner. I have written down everything he could recall in a separate notebook. I am enclosing a diagram of the tunnel in which he worked: it is a cross-section at a depth of forty-five feet. Greater depths are rare. Van der Eb tells me that there are roughly
forty thousand
small-scale mining operations throughout the country.

I told Joa that you, too, frequently descend into the depths of the earth. He found it hard to believe that a king’s son would ever do such a thing. I amazed him with your description of the Elisabeth shaft and the Reiche Seege mines. He was familiar with the method of drainage, but was mystified by the endless chain conveyor for lowering and raising the workmen. Here it is customary to lower the men at the end of a rope. He is eager to know more about your methods, and is especially interested in the number of fatal accidents.

I hope the scanty information we are able to offer will be of use to you for your thesis on mining techniques. If you need to know more, please send me specific queries. I could try to visit a mine myself. It would give me an excuse to leave the fort for a while. I have already discussed my plan with van der Eb. He has no objections. He thinks it is good for me to have an aim. (Still no promotion. Complete silence on the part of the ministry, even though van der Eb keeps pressing them to respond. No one seems to care a whit that I was formally promised advancement, and that it is therefore my due. Their demurral is wounding, as you can imagine, but even the rank of major-general would not bring me a step closer to home.)

I am still weaving. After a few bad starts I have now managed to come up with a pattern that is decidedly attractive, if I may say so. My cloth is getting longer by the day. I think it must be big enough for a whole family by now. What shall I do with it when it is finished? Give it away and start afresh? But to whom should I give it? I hardly think you would be thrilled to receive this type of reminder of home. You know, even something trivial can become a problem if you dwell on it long enough. Last night, unable to sleep, I seriously considered unravelling an inch or two, only to delay the moment of completion. Yet like Penelope I have no doubt of a happy end. One must be entitled to some form of reward eventually, if only for having been so trusting. Anyway, if the worst comes to the worst I can always set up a trade in cloths.

21 May 1849

Just one more thing: Joa tells me the miners have a single safety device: a butterfly. Each miner is issued with a butterfly in a small jar. These insects have large silvery-blue wings, which reflect the least ray of light. They are bred specially for service underground. If there is a rock slide, a smell of toxic gases, or the men have any difficulty breathing, the creature is released. It makes straight for the slightest airstream. In this way it points the way to the surface.

One day Joa was underground when a thunderstorm struck. The sudden change in air pressure caused a vacuum in the headway. My friend was the only one of his team to make it to the surface, where he emerged in a cloud of brilliant, fluttering butterflies.

1 June 1849

The regiment is to set sail for Holland today. I shall entrust my mail to their commander. These men, in whose company I came here, have had their fill of eighteen months of life in the tropics. I notice they have been finding the discipline increasingly tiresome of late. Some are sick all the time and nearly everyone is affected by a recurrent intestinal infection. A fresh regiment is to take their place.

Van der Eb will remain here, and of course he has asked me what my intentions are. He has finally admitted that I cannot count on the promotion that was pledged to me. He is sincerely sorry, and can only guess at the reasons for the minister’s prevarication. He is no less pessimistic about my chances of finding favour among the powers that be in Kumasi. So you see: I live in the twilight. The governor strongly advises me to return to Holland. He has made it painfully clear that my qualifications will be of little use to me here. I have reflected deeply. In the end I had to concede (also to myself) that my hope has all but died. Yet here I am writing you a letter, instead of rushing back to Europe to embrace you in the flesh. This is my land. Here is my Golden Stool, whether or not I shall ever occupy it. And what have I to look forward to in Holland? I would sooner plunge into the darkness of the night.

29 June 1849

How am I to advise you? Of course my dearest wish is for you to come here. Are you really considering leaving Holland? An annual salary of two thousand and six hundred guilders sounds reasonable. I think you should take the promise of promotion to the rank of chief military engineer with a grain of salt. Elmina is far from The Hague. Promises are sooner given than kept over such a distance.

Oh Kwasi, your question tears me apart. My heart cries out: come here as soon as you can! If only for my sake—for I cannot pretend that the news from the Dabokrom mines is encouraging.

30 June 1849

Today I had a disagreement with my only friend. I had carved a small block of wood to serve as a stamp: the symbol of Anansi the spider. Do you remember? It is a sun with five rays, quite simple, like the spokes of a wheel. I was using my block to print a length of cloth from Joa’s stock, when his Fanti sweetheart came in with refreshments. He hurried to meet her and took her hand. They stood still like that, hand in hand, oblivious to the world around them. The trust, the intimacy . . . Not wishing to disturb them I went on pressing my block on the cloth at regular intervals to form the pattern, as he had taught me. He and I took the drink she offered, and as she was leaving he gave her a playful slap on her buttocks. She affected indignation. Then he turned to face me, smiling mischievously. For an instant there was a glint of complicity in his eyes, the kind of understanding that exists only between men. Then the realization that I was excluded from his happiness wiped the smile from his face. He stooped to inspect my work. He pointed out that I had given the sun one ray too many. He was right. The cloth was useless. But I was outraged, and challenged him with a vehemence and passion that took me by surprise. Joa was adamant, and in the end I said that he, not being an Ashanti himself, had no right to teach me about my culture. He threw me a reproachful look and fell silent. I apologised at once and told him I would pay for the material.

Men and women seem to belong to different races. I cannot understand how they can abide each other. You can bring the two together, but they will never be one. You can use red and yellow yarn to weave a brown cloth, but even then the colours remain distinct; they intertwine but do not merge. And yet, Joa and his beloved seem to have attained true union. He from the north, she a Fanti. Moslem and heathen. Man and woman. This happy bond between dissimilar constituents ought to inspire hope in me, not anguish. Indeed I am glad for them, I really am, but still I fear for myself.

What is it that prevents us from forming lasting attachments? What sort of deficiency is this? I am afraid to look into my heart, Kwasi, for I know I shall find a great emptiness. Being ignorant of the love between man and woman myself, I imagine it to be boundless, reassuring like the affection of my mother, and yet as stimulating as friendship. Ah well, does it matter? You fell in love once, but then you were robbed of your happiness. Nothing can be woven from threads that are cut too close to the spool.