The Two Hearts of Kwasi Boachi: A Novel (47 page)

“Ouch!”

“Forgive me. Such a deep cut.”

He rolled up my sleeve and poured the water liberally over the back of my hand. With deep concentration, the tip of his tongue between his lips, he disinfected the wound with a dried leaf and then sprinkled on some powder. It stung painfully, and I shrank back while he blew on my hand.

“Pain, tuan?” he enquired gently.

“No pain.”

He raised his eyes to see whether I meant it, whereupon he stopped blowing on the wound and proceeded to prepare an ointment of palm butter, to which he added a variety of ingredients. He looked at me again, deliberating whether he dared speak his mind.

“So bad, the wound,” he said eventually, and resumed stirring the ointment, rapidly at first and then dragging the spatula this way and that.

“When the farmer beats his buffalo it refuses to budge,” he said finally, smearing the ointment thickly on the back of my hand. He looked hard at me to see whether I understood his meaning.

“The buffalo has a thick skin,” I said gruffly, “and a short memory.”

“A man is not the same as a buffalo.”

“No, a man can try to understand motives.”

“The buffalo is strong, but stupid. That’s why he puts up with it.”

Not wishing to get drawn into an awkward conversation I broke in with, “Are you always so talkative?”

“Always, tuan!”

“Then I expect you often get yourself into trouble.”

“Always, tuan!”

Cornelius and I had once been received by the susuhunan of Surakarta, where several tigers had been caught in recent weeks. The cages were overcrowded and there was a shortage of food for the wild beasts. They had been fed all the poultry, monkeys and dogs that could be found, and were growing alarmingly thin. One tiger had already perished, and its death was considered to have brought shame on the court. Now it was time for the largest specimen to be disposed of without loss of face.

All the public officials arrived in full dress, the officers and princes wore uniform. We joined the grand procession and were admitted to the second forecourt of the palace, where the susuhunan awaited us on his throne.

A circular enclosure made of wooden poles and bamboo stakes had been erected on the grassed area. A buffalo wreathed in flowers was led into the pen. Then a cart bearing a large Javan tiger pacing to and fro in a cage was drawn up to the palisade. The spectators held their breath. The only sound was the gamelan orchestra. The air was filled with reverent suspense.

Cornelius, who was sitting next to me, drew himself up. I noticed him clenching and unclenching his left hand, as he always did when mentally preparing himself for a fight. His agitation was beginning to attract attention, so I nudged him with my elbow. He took no notice and cracked his knuckles with a single flick of the wrist.

The trap door in the cage was opened, after which there was no barrier between the lithe, muscular tiger and the mountain of flesh. Nothing happened. Instead of pouncing, the tiger sank on to his haunches and lay down, then settled his head on his front paws, keeping his eyes fixed on the buffalo. Sensing danger, the buffalo raised his heavy head and glared with bulging eyes. He turned to face the tiger, and advanced at a slow, steady pace.

“Look at that,” exclaimed Cornelius. “So majestic. So fearless.”

The buffalo lowered his head, pointing the horns at his adversary, and stood there, quite still. There was some whispering and shuffling about in the audience. Only Cornelius did not lose his concentration. His breathing was fast and shallow and he was sweating. The combat had already started in his mind. He thrilled to the ominous silence. His mouth was open, his lips were parched. He had difficulty swallowing because he was so focused on the beasts. A muscle twitched in his jaw. I followed his eyes and saw a ripple of tension on the buffalo’s flanks. No one else seemed to notice, but I knew that the threat always holds more violence than the attack.

At a sign from the susuhunan five attendants climbed on to the roof of the cage. From that vantage point they dropped handfuls of burning straw on to the tiger’s back. Although visibly roused by the pain, he did not attack. Next, boiling water was poured over the buffalo, which bellowed and retreated a few steps. The tiger did not rise. At last a powdered herb was sprinkled on to both animals, which stung so badly that they were galvanized into action. The tiger emerged from his corner and lunged at the buffalo. I could hear a sharp intake of breath at my side. The buffalo, undaunted, watched the wild beast slinking around him in circles, keeping his horns lowered menacingly. Finally, the tiger marshalled all his forces to pounce. He leaped in a great arc over his adversary’s head and sank his teeth into the neck. The buffalo was momentarily stunned, and did not make a sound. Then he rolled his eyes in rage and heaved his head from side to side with great force, slinging his attacker against the sides of the cage. But the tiger did not let go.

The buffalo paused to brace himself for a renewed attempt to shake off the wild beast. He dashed the tiger against the ground repeatedly and with such violence that the creature was forced to give way. At this point the buffalo took the offensive: he lowered his head and butted the tiger again and again with his horns, pushing him towards the palisade. Eventually the tiger sprang away, and lurked at the opposite end of the enclosure. He seemed confused by his failure to gain immediate victory over his lumbering foe.

“That’ll teach him,” rejoiced Cornelius. And then he turned serious: “Finish him! Finish him! Show him the stuff you’re made of!” He slapped his thighs. This gesture was not a sign of contentment, it served to sharpen his senses for the finale.

The royal tiger attacked again, frontally this time, and again he was gored. He leaped on top of his cage, making the attendants flee in all directions, paced the roof a few times and then took a flying leap, claws outstretched, on to the buffalo. The buffalo caught the great cat on his horns, mortally wounding him. The tiger did not charge again, but slunk round in circles, cowering and hissing and lashing out feebly. Finally he sank to the ground, exhausted, whereupon he was impaled to death by the buffalo.

The crowd cheered. All around us people were commenting on the fight. I too expressed admiration, but my neighbour did not speak. I turned to look at Cornelius. He had thrown his head back, as if in supplication to the heavens, and heaved a deep sigh of relief. His eyes were moist and he was shivering with elation. When he came to his senses, a grin spread slowly across his face and he took a long hard look at the dead beast as it was being dragged away. He wiped the sweat off his chin with his fist and stuffed his fingers into his mouth to suppress his glee. He seemed deranged. I saw a trickle of blood oozing from the corner of his mouth, and glanced around anxiously to see whether his behaviour was attracting attention. Grabbing his arms I shook him fiercely. Pleasure unleashed in him a passion no less violent than rage. It took a while for him to calm down. He glanced at me as if surprised to see me sitting next to him. There were tooth marks across his fingers. He stared at them blankly.

“Splendid, Boachi, what?” he said finally, “to see how stolid resolve conquers innate strength.”

“They seemed an equal match to me.”

“But the tiger lost. He underestimated the buffalo’s power because he believed he was superior by nature. Splendid. Splendid.”

“Nonsense. Neither of them wanted to fight.”

“But circumstances brought them together.”

“Even so, they would have left each other unharmed if they had not been driven to it. They had to be goaded into action no less than three times.” I was shouting now. “Three times. Don’t you see that both creatures had one common enemy?”

“Tuan Douwes Dekker does not beat his buffaloes,” said the house-boy. The dull ache in my hand was soothed by his ointment. He pressed the sides of the wound together and held them in position by clenching my hand between his bare knees while he started wrapping the bandage crosswise.

“And what next? He is to return to Holland. What will become of me then?”

“People can adapt to change, you know.”

“Some people can, tuan. Not me. I am not like you. I love myself too much.”

He held the end of the bandage between his teeth to make a lengthwise tear, then tied the strips in a bow and asked me to flex my fingers. The bandage was in place. He was satisfied, took the hand again and held it a while, for no apparent reason.

“I look at you and your friend and I can tell.” I withdrew my hand from his. “You should not put up with it,” he said urgently.

“It is no concern of yours. I warn you.”

I rose and made to leave. He replaced the herbs in his little chest and smiled as if he had said nothing.

“The bandage, is it not too tight? Remember: change it every other day, yes? Will you return to the dining room now? Cook has prepared a delicious dessert.”

“How would you know?” I asked with mock gravity, to show I had no ill feelings.

“I know because I stole a taste.”

I thanked him and asked his name.

“Ahim,” he said. “That is my name. You will not forget.”

JAVA, DELFT, WEIMAR, JAVA 1856–62

I have never been daunted by the hostility that has been directed at my person. Quite the contrary. Pain strengthens the awareness of self. I have seldom been more conscious of my own worth than when subjected to humiliation. Such anguish gives rise to spiritual insight, a lucidity of mind. The bond arising from the exertion of power by one man over another may not be edifying, but it is certainly unequivocal. Hostage and hostage-taker need each other in equal measure. They determine each other’s position. The least token of goodwill is gratefully seized upon by either side.

Indeed, during the years I spent in Cornelius’s service there were days when we got on together quite amicably. Not only did we compare notes on the lands that we visited, we sometimes formed very similar opinions and expressed them in virtually the same words. After a while we even shared jokes. While on our travels we would discuss new extraction methods or plan more efficient means of distribution. We even devised a labour-saving machine to bring ore to the surface. Together we admired the ornamentation and architecture of the temples we encountered on our way. We developed a similar liking for the landscape and a preference for
deng deng ubi
, a sauce of dried meat and sweet potato, although we never took our meals together: he dined at table, I ate elsewhere, even when he did not have company. On our day-length excursions we would surprise each other with offers of
kwee kwee
or
gulali
; the cakes were Cornelius’s favourite snack, the sweets were mine.

Such a degree of sympathy between master and slave tends to be met with incredulity. But the truth is that neither of us hesitated to take the other’s arm when crossing a fast-flowing river.

No, what daunted me in the end was the colonial government. I was promoted to the rank of engineer, third class, but that did not improve my position. The designation “extraordinary” was retained. To my demand for an explanation the Ministry replied: “Since you are a political ward of the Dutch State and maintain an uncommon, or extraordinary, relationship with our nation, that designation was chosen deliberately and in your best interests, notably to entitle the colonial government to offer you a more challenging post and a range of activity that is more sympathetic to you, and even a rise in remuneration or allowance without undue comparisons being drawn with your peers . . .”

But I never received a reply to my repeated applications for a position in keeping with my skills.

In 1853 the East Indies Life Insurance and Annuity Company was established for the benefit of civil servants in the Indies. Since I was and still am thrifty and prudent by nature, I sent in an application. A letter of rejection came by return post. The motive given was the unlikelihood of my pursuing a prolonged career in the colonial service in view of my reduced chances of promotion. I wrote back saying I had no knowledge of this. I requested them to substantiate their claim or else to reconsider my application, but all I received in reply was a non-committal note accompanied by a brochure from an investment company.

Time and again I received vague signals of this kind. I could feel something was seriously wrong, but found no tangible evidence. There was a sense of injustice, but it was impossible to put a name to its cause. How can a man take a stand against what is nameless? He feels demeaned, and consequently loses faith in himself. Without faith there is no future.

I was not yet twenty-seven years old. I had turned my back on my past. I had no choice but to fight for my future.

When I entered my sixth year in the Indies without having secured any guarantees for my career, I put in a request for a furlough so that I might put my case before the authorities in Holland. On 24 May 1856 I embarked from Batavia. I was alone, without regrets, and without expectations.

The dockside was alive with nervous activity. I recognized several government officials in the crowd. For a moment I thought they had come for me, but when I greeted them they said little. I stowed my belongings in my cabin, took the midday meal on deck, and was idly watching the busy traffic in the harbour when I noticed the arrival of a closed carriage, from which a gentleman alighted and hurried on board. He did not appear at the dinner table, but it was soon rumoured that we counted among our passengers former Governor-General Duymaer van Twist, who had handed his resignation in to Minister of Colonies Pahud two days earlier.