The Two Hearts of Kwasi Boachi: A Novel (50 page)

Although Sophie was much in demand at the grand ball that evening, we managed to escape to the park for a while. I had longed so dearly for this occasion that now it was upon us I could barely find the words I had been saving to tell her. She was as radiant as ever, and I filled the lapses in our conversation by observing her closely and revelling in our reunion. She wore her blonde hair drawn back into a snood on the nape of her neck. The skin under her eyes was plumper than before, and when my stares made her laugh I saw two charming tiny wrinkles. At the same time, however, I discovered around her mouth a slight tremor, which did not make it easier for me to speak. It was as though we were waiting for the old familiarity to return and were both somewhat startled that it did not do so at once. Sophie was the first to regain her composure, displaying a charm and tactfulness that she had no doubt mastered during her frequent diplomatic functions. She guessed what I was thinking and assured me that all a friendship as old as ours needed was to listen together to the whispering of the Ilm. We strolled to the Roman villa and from there along Goethe’s parkland back past his country house. When we arrived at the Grotto of the Sphinx we sat down on a bench facing the stone statue. This fabled creature did not have the arrogant pose of its counterpart at Giza, but seemed slightly ill at ease with its ambiguous body as it lay crouched to one side of the cavern, its gaze averted from the small stream and the elderberry bushes alive with birdsong. I was fond of that spot, as of so many others in Weimar, and was prompted to reminisce, but Sophie soon interrupted me.

“I have read your letters carefully,” she said, “and have already written to Willem that he must do something to improve your situation.”

“I am afraid he will not listen.”

“In that case he will compromise me. Because the root of your troubles lies here.”

“In Weimar?”

“Yes. You need look no further. Do you remember your encounter with Raden Saleh when both of you attended a function hosted by us?”

“All too well.”

“You had some difference of opinion.”

“Yes we did. He mentioned the contract which sealed my fate, and also accused my father of failing to keep his end of the bargain.”

“Then you complained about the Ministry of Colonies and the treatment you received.”

“That may be so. I was provoked. I spoke in defence of my father, that was all.”

“What you and I did not know, was that in those days Raden Saleh was an informer for the Dutch government. As an artist he had access to all the royal courts of Europe without rousing suspicion. Being an ambitious man he seized this opportunity to ingratiate himself with those in power.”

“He spied on me?”

“He submitted negative reports. He accused you of ingratitude, and cast doubt on your loyalty to the State, after which the Ministry . . .”

She hesitated and glanced round to make sure we were alone.

“I don’t know when we will be able to talk again in private. So . . .”

She fumbled in the pleats of her dress and drew out a minutely folded note.

“I want to give you this,” she said, showing me a copy of a report dated 1849, which someone in The Hague whose identity she declined to reveal had secreted on her behalf. I had to pledge secrecy before she let me read Raden Saleh’s words.

What surprises me about Boachi is that he alleges that his father,
the king of Ashanti, was misled or tricked by the Dutch government in the matter of the recruits and that General Verveer
obtained diverse goods under false pretences. I told his friends
at Weimar and Dresden that this was false, and advised
Boachi himself to guard his speech, as he would be dispatched
to his homeland forthwith if word of his allegations reached
the authorities in Holland.

“But why did no one ever ask me to explain myself?”

“I rose to your defence, of course,” Sophie replied, “and so did Professor Cotta—quite vehemently—but the seeds of doubt had been sown. When I heard of the way you were being treated in Java I wrote to the king at once in no uncertain terms that I would not allow this silly incident to ruin your career. I feel responsible for what happens under my own roof. He is my brother after all, and will not refuse my plea for your rehabilitation.”

“But do you really believe,” I asked, “that such a petty offence could be the cause of all the opposition I have encountered?”

“Isn’t it enough? I am telling you that this is the crux of the matter and that your problems will be solved in due course. What more do you want? For goodness sake stop tormenting yourself.”

At that point we were spotted by a few guests, among whom was Captain von Schiller. He came forward to claim Sophie for the quadrille she had promised him. Noticing my disappointment she sent him ahead saying she would follow presently.

“I am told that you have now had a disagreement with the Schillers.”

“They take a different view of certain truths from you and I.”

“That may be so, but you must understand that they are the custodians of a literary heritage that is of paramount importance to Weimar. Believe me, the works and ideas of Goethe and Schiller are the heart and soul of our people.” I said nothing, which made her uneasy. “Anyway, I promised him this dance.”

“I dare say they take excellent care of their ancestor’s intellectual heritage in the material sense, but I hardly think their behaviour is in keeping with his spirit.”

“There is a serious risk that the captain plans to remove the manuscripts, indeed Schiller’s entire library, to Austria. I want to prevent that, whatever the cost.”

“Very well,” I said curtly. “Yes, do take Schiller’s heritage to heart. Paper ideas strike me as a sight more attractive at this juncture than the ideas that are being propagated here.”

She rose, took two steps and paused for me to take her arm. As we walked back to the ballroom she held me close and squeezed my arm now and then as if to make sure I was still there.

“I’m sure you’ll understand, since you’re my friend. It’s not worth making enemies over a mere lapse of decorum, is it?”

“I am warning you, no more melancholy! I have had more than enough gloom and doom as it is.” Anna Pavlovna rapped her fan across my fingers, but the look in her eyes was grateful. She dismissed her lady-in-waiting with a wave of the hand so that I could take the seat beside her.

“What’s got into you—did you think to do a poor widow a favour by harking back to happier days?”

“If my presence distresses you I am deeply sorry, but there is nothing I can do about the way I look.”

“Just as well, too. Whatever next! Right now I can think of no face that is dearer to me than yours. A beacon in a sea of new faces! Young and new, as far as the eye can reach. But who are they all and what are they doing here? That is what I should like to know!”

Sophie whirled past in the arms of the captain.

“Never mind, at least this is a festive affair, so I shall not complain. Nowadays I seldom go into society. I stay at home, alone with my thoughts. When you reach my age you will feel the same, I have no doubt. In old age there are two sides to remembering the past: one takes comfort in fond memories and yet it is infuriating that there is nothing new to be discovered among them.”

When the quadrille came to an end the orchestra struck up a gavotte. Sophie did not change partners.

“You must visit me in Holland soon. I insist! There is a picture by Pieneman that I want to show you. It is not a masterpiece by any means. I myself am barely recognizable in the painting, but it shows my husband’s coronation in the New Church in Amsterdam. Such a splendid event, don’t you think? Everyone who attended is in the picture. Row upon row. You are in it too, next to Prince Quame. Those days are gone forever. All gone, as you well know from personal experience. And now, each time I look at that scene afresh I have to strike off those who have passed away. That combined with the shoddiness of the composition make it resemble one of those advent calendars with all those little windows, except that they are shut instead of opened. One becomes impatient to know who will be next, in spite of oneself. It is only a matter of time before the shutter on my own portrait will be closed . . .” Her voice trailed off and she pondered these thoughts for a few moments. Then she drew herself up and exclaimed with renewed vigour: “Look what you are doing! You are talking me straight into a
crise de nerfs
!”

I offered her my apologies, but could not keep my eyes off the dancing couple. They were evidently enjoying themselves. Anna Pavlovna followed the direction of my gaze.

“Will you not dance?”

“I have not danced in years.”

“All the more reason to do so now. I can recommend it. Go on then, ask someone to dance!”

“I have learned not to embarrass ladies with such requests.”

“Embarrass them? Whatever do you mean?”

“Not everyone sees me as you do.”

“I do believe you are determined to depress me. And the look on your face! While I commanded gaiety and fun! Am I no longer to be obeyed? Do as I say and enjoy the evening, sir, for I am too old to settle for anything less.”

“So you wish me to dance?”

“Dear me, have you grown hard of hearing too?”

“In that case,” I said boldly, “you and I shall dance together.” And before her amazement could turn to indignation I added: “In our imagination. No one will notice. We’ll dance in our heads.”

She glanced at me, then, lowering her head to hide a coquettish smile, she peered at me girlishly through her eyelashes.

“There is nothing to stop us,” she replied, straightening her back. She was delighted. “By God, woe betide anyone who gets in our way!”

The next dance was a waltz, which we sat out side by side. After a few measures I heard the old lady humming the tune under her breath and on every third beat her skirt gave a little bounce.

The next morning I left Weimar feeling a lot more sanguine than when I had arrived.

Each link that is severed brings a man closer to his goal—I am convinced of that. Even as a child I strove after solitude. In light of this, the difficulties I have faced in my life can be said to have served a purpose. Could that be the reason why each loss I suffered left me with such mixed feelings? Alienation from others has always been both wounding and arousing to me.

Kwame’s death triggered a similar experience. You lapse into a trance-like state in which all is crystal clear. Life shows its true features for once, it looks you straight in the eye. Suddenly you find yourself face to face with a force that is overwhelming and yet utterly predictable. But this is not a depressing insight, it is a relief. You become light. Literally so—you become
en
lightened. Yes, you think, at this very minute I have a clear perception of existence. I write these words reservedly. If they strike a chord my meaning will be understood, and if they do not may they be forgotten at once.

At all events I felt so confident upon my return from Weimar that I wrote to the minister of Colonies the following day, stating in no uncertain terms that I demanded compensation in the form of the lease of an estate in Java, for the injustices I had suffered.

Early in 1858 I returned to Batavia. My demand for land had been passed on to Governor-General Pahud and his Council of the Indies, who delayed their concession for several more years. All that time I had to survive on my monthly allowance of four hundred guilders.

I had one last encounter with Cornelius de Groot. He wished to consult me about the Billiton mining company, which had been founded some years earlier by Prince Hendrik partly at my instigation. The tin yields were proving so low that the whole undertaking was at risk. At the time I had charted the whole area, I was familiar with the terrain and had conducted soil research on various sites.

De Groot now owned a handsome residence at Batavia, which he invited me to visit, not out of hospitality, but to show me how well he had done for himself. He was quite amiable on that occasion and asked after my welfare, which was not like him. I told him bluntly that I was living in a boarding-house and that my financial situation was dire. Although I had dreaded this meeting, I found that I no longer cared what he thought of me.

He had suffered misfortune too during the last six years, he said. He had married twice, and both his wives had died within six months of the wedding. He told me these things trying to look unmoved while he focused his attention on a bottle of expensive burgundy which, because of its age, he insisted upon opening himself. He had difficulty removing the lead cap, and when he succeeded at last he cut his finger. He swore and sucked the blood from the wound, then set about uncorking the bottle.

He told me how he had hoped to have a family; now that he was in a position to offer his children a better start in life than his own, he longed for sons to whom he might pass on his knowledge.

The cork would not budge and Cornelius needed a firmer grip. He sat on the edge of his chair and clamped the bottle between his knees, and although he held his head down I noticed a flicker in his eyes. I asked him whether he was in love again by any chance. Startled by my correct guess he looked up and then broke into a grin. At that point the cork broke, and he sat there looking so crestfallen and clumsy that I acted as I would have done in the old days—I relieved him of the paraphernalia, blew away the crumbled pieces of cork and proceeded to open the bottle. We drank two glasses while he explained the problems at the tin mine. I promised to think about a solution.