The Two Hearts of Kwasi Boachi: A Novel (48 page)

Duymaer van Twist, a man of gentle disposition, had shown himself to be an enlightened governor-general by taking such measures as curtailing statute labour, improving popular education and lowering the leases for the bazaar. Unfortunately, a kind nature does not always spell strength of character. So it came to pass in the final months of his term that a shadow was cast over his merits by his attitude in a case involving Douwes Dekker versus a number of chiefs and the Council of the Indies, in which he had failed to support the former in his campaign against unfair treatment of the natives. This betrayal had wounded Duymaer van Twist himself as much as Douwes Dekker, who went on to write a controversial novel dealing at length with the debacle. I am in two minds about the affair. Of course I admire Douwes Dekker’s humanitarian ideas, but I cannot see the worth of propagating them so loudly that one is discharged from the very post in which, with a little more diplomacy, one might have dealt with abuse and injustice from the inside. However, I cannot claim to have been more successful with my attitude of patience and discretion.

I had hoped for an opportunity to bring my own case to Duymaer van Twist’s attention during the voyage to Europe, but he did not appear on deck until we reached Madagascar, and only rarely afterwards. Now and then I would catch sight of him at night, when we were both unable to sleep. If he noticed my presence he would greet me cordially, but usually he was sunk in thought. I did not disturb him, but found myself a quiet corner and put out my lamp, after which each of us regarded our private ghosts in the shimmer of the moonlit waves.

It was on one of these nights, before we had rounded the Cape, that I found him on deck leaning back against the railing, resting his elbows loosely on either side. Before him stood a young sailor, who was explaining the position of the Southern Cross in relation to the Pleiades. My interest was aroused, and I sat down on a coil of rope to listen. Then the boy was called away, and for a long while we gazed in silence at the swathe of the southern milky way. When he at last spoke his question startled me.

“Do you long for the fatherland, Boachi?”

“The fatherland?”

“You have been disappointed.”

“I think I have one fatherland too many.”

“Which one is that?”

“I cannot say.”

“No, I suppose not,” he said, and lit a fresh cigarette.

“I have changed sides too often.”

“And I not often enough.”

The governor-general had proved to be a friend to me several times without any prompting on my part. The first of these occasions had been soon after our visit to Amboina. Duymaer van Twist and Douwes Dekker were still on good terms at the time. They shared a hatred of injustice and Douwes Dekker was able to arrange for Cornelius to be summoned for an official interview. What was said on that occasion I do not know, but—as I might have expected—the show of concern for my lot turned against me. The ill treatment I was subjected to only became more cunning, the malice went underground so to speak, where it was more difficult than ever to keep track of.

For a while, Cornelius had managed to control his hot temper. It was not until the following year, in Celebes, that things got really out of hand. In the course of an arduous journey across rough countryside, during which we had to forgo an escort party owing to a cut in our budget, he injured me more gravely than he had intended. I suffered a broken rib. Shocked by my cries and by the sight of blood oozing from my side, he abandoned me at the side of the road. A group of children found me and guided me across a mountain pass to the hamlet of Tembamba. My black skin caused a sensation there, but the villagers nursed me so lovingly that I was soon well enough to make my way back to Batavia, where I arrived only four weeks after Cornelius. It transpired that he had reported me “missing, probably lost.” This incident was investigated at the instigation of Duymaer van Twist. As I myself felt somewhat uneasy about having quarrelled with my superior and also ashamed of my own weakness, I had not mentioned the cause of my injury to anyone, but the affair earned de Groot a reprimand and his career suffered as a result. After this I resumed my position, albeit reluctantly, and for a while my nemesis lay low.

“You know, we seem doomed to get in each other’s hair, Boachi,” he said in a jocular tone. Then he told me to open a bottle of his best claret and offered me a glass. “It’s not as if we have any friends. It’s a matter of each man for himself. That’s what I’ve been trying to get across—it’s time you took charge of your life.”

We drank far too much that night and sang soldiers’ ditties together, arm in arm. He never reproached me for the loss of face he had suffered as a result of our clash in Celebes, and for some time life was not unpleasant. He demonstrated how wrong it is to fortify one’s opponent by a show of weakness. I was still Cornelius’s pupil.

A direct consequence of this affair was that Duymaer van Twist set about improving my situation. In April 1854 he ruled that I should be released from my secretarial duties for seven months of the year, during which time I was granted a provisional licence to conduct research.

During the first weeks of my—temporary—release from de Groot’s service I felt quite lost. I barely ventured out in public, and now that I was in a position to take the initiative I had no idea in which direction to turn.

I spent much of my seven months writing, as I had done previously, but from now on my words were my own. Not only did I begin to keep a diary, I was also inspired to revive my correspondence with Sophie, who had recently become grand duchess of Weimar. I initiated several research schemes, and reported on my findings in various publications. (My article “Coal samples from the shores of Seagull Bay, Bantam Residency” was published in the
Scientific Journal for the Netherlands Indies
, and “Notes on the Chinese in Java” in a German periodical devoted to oriental studies.) The factual terseness of these texts made me thirst after a more imaginative undertaking. I cast around for a source and found a small wellspring from which I drew several poems and three short stories, which I sent to Sophie. I also started writing a play, which I did not complete. Then I composed some essays, after which I attempted to write a memoir of my youth. However, the feelings were still too raw.

I re-entered Cornelius’s service in November 1854 with far more confidence than before. De Groot made various attempts to break my will, but I was determined not to give up the few privileges I had secured. Within two months I felt obliged to appeal to Duymaer van Twist, who had already been so helpful of his own accord. I wrote him a letter requesting relocation to Holland. But although I sent him reminders of my request, a reply never came.

“There was so much at stake. With all respect, sir, you cannot imagine how much was at stake.”

“Indeed I can,” I said.

Duymaer van Twist had sent for two chairs to be brought on deck, as well as sugar-water and some bread. A few clouds in the east were set ablaze by the first rays of sunshine, making them look like ships with flaming sails chasing across the horizon. A few seconds later it was light.

“I am aware of the stakes involved,” I said. “I owe my removal from Africa to them. But it wasn’t the fault of one particular person. The forces that come into play in such cases are impossible to contain, much less to control. They defy all comprehension, all legality. In the past people would have attributed them to fate.”

“I made a point of completing the arrangements for your furlough before Pahud took over from me. I hope you will find a more ready ear in Holland for your pleas than in the Indies. Decisions made in Europe cannot be unmade in Batavia. I advise you to appeal directly to the king, and not to leave the country until you have received formal confirmation that your demands have been met. I’m afraid you cannot expect much from Pahud as governor-general.”

“Why not?”

“Trust me.”

“It is my fate, I suppose. A comforting thought. No one is to blame for fate.”

“And you are prepared to accept that?”

The belly of the ship awakened. A hatch opened and a party of sailors poured across the deck, each setting to his appointed task.

“I am tired,” I said. “It is hard to know what to think. Political motives are incompatible with justice, it seems. What I do know is that the wishes of the group always take precedence over those of the solitary individual.”

“That is why we choose to follow the Greek model. In a democracy every man has an equal say.”

“That does not mean he will be heard.”

“But at least he has a voice.”

“Just one. And who will hear it when everyone else is shouting in chorus? Most people tend to align their opinions with those of their friends and neighbours. It is a natural propensity. To deviate from the norm is always seen as a greater risk. First they establish the norms, and then they are frightened they will be unable to observe them. That is why they huddle together. They find their identity by joining forces against anything deviant. They can’t help reinforcing each other’s prejudices. No, there will always be groups. Democracy merely legitimizes the dictatorship of the majority.”

“Are you saying that you would prefer the tyranny of an old-fashioned despot?”

“At least tyranny is forthright. You are either in favour or out. If you are out of favour you must keep silent. You can seek refuge or flee, but at least you know your enemy. There is no cause for suspicion of your fellows. To me at any rate such a state of affairs is less irksome than the tolerance of the masses, for tolerance is capricious, imponderable, no more than a mask.”

“But don’t you believe in the righteousness of majority rule in all things?”

“Quite the contrary, for it means that the minority must always bend to the will of the majority. There is no benefit in this for the few.”

“Does that mean you believe that the rights of the group necessarily curtail the rights of the individual?”

“I am sure of it,” I said. “I do not belong in any group, big or small. And yet my presence is seized upon, for people find it easy to judge a man who is different in every respect, a man who stands alone. No sir, for the likes of me democracy is surely the least favourable of systems.”

Duymaer van Twist leaned back in his chair so as not to miss a moment of the sunrise, which was now flooding the crests of the waves with orange. When he spoke it was in a low voice: “Do you realize how much better I would feel if I could feel certainty?”

“Certainty?”

“As you have. As Douwes Dekker has. The certainty of being right.”

“You do not understand,” I said, rising to my feet in order to return to my cabin. “Douwes Dekker stands alone because he made a choice. I stand alone because I lacked the courage to do so.”

The streets of Delft were veiled in a light mist. The August sunshine was steaming the cobbles dry after a shower. I had my hired carriage draw up in front of my old boarding school. As I alighted I was struck at once by the paint flaking off the woodwork, then by the deep silence in the hall. I found Mrs. van Moock in the parlour, where the curtains were drawn. Her eyesight was poor.

“But do come here, my dear Prince. Come close to the window, closer, closer.” She opened the curtains a little way and drew me into the shaft of light. Placing her hands on my shoulders she rocked me gently at arm’s length, peering at me through her eyelashes.

“No, a dark smudge. That’s all I can make out.” She pressed me to her bosom. I had forgotten how small she was.

“He is deceased, did you know?” she whispered in my ear. I had already heard the sad news and offered her my condolences.

“Ah well, the end came as he would have wanted. He was standing among the ruins of Troy. He had taken Anchises on his shoulders. Father and son wept to be leaving their city. Mr. van Moock turned round for a parting look, and the emotion was simply too great. He died there and then, on his feet. When he was lying in his coffin I said: ‘My dear van Moock, at least you gave one of your classes an unforgettable impression of the anguish of exile.’ ”

After this she called for some refreshments and demanded to hear all my news. She persuaded me to lodge with her for the coming weeks, but I insisted on paying for my board. I ordered my luggage to be taken upstairs and settled into my old room. I sat down at once to write King Willem III a note, brief though affectionate, asking him to receive me as soon as convenient. I enclosed a copy of my latest publication entitled “Coal in the Region of Cilacak Bay, Preanger Regency” with a fond dedication on the flyleaf, sealed the parcel and arranged for a messenger to take it to the royal palace. Then I dispatched the maid to buy meat and fresh vegetables, and instructed her to make a strong broth for the old lady every day from now on.

At supper Mrs. van Moock did not speak much. She brought her face close to each of the dishes, sniffing at it and screwing up her eyes to inspect the contents. She ate hungrily, pausing only once with her spoon in midair to say: “Pray tell me—you did come by carriage this morning, did you not?”

“Certainly madam.”

“Good. Yes indeed, in a carriage, quite right too.”

A few days after sending my first letter I wrote a second, after which I presented myself at the king’s council-chamber in The Hague. There was a large anteroom with chairs along the walls, several of which were occupied by waiting citizens. They raised their heads when I came in, their expressions turning rapidly from hope to disappointment, after which they followed my footsteps across the parquet with their eyes. There was a small desk at the far end. Behind it sat a court official, who did not look up when I approached. He went on shuffling the papers on his desk, unperturbed. I cleared my throat, and still he did not raise his eyes. Then I noticed a table bell, which I rang. I introduced myself and said that His Majesty was expecting me.