The Two Hearts of Kwasi Boachi: A Novel (51 page)

After some time a servant came in to announce the arrival of guests for dinner. Cornelius told him to show them into the other room while he took his leave of me. He said there was no need to hurry and I could finish my glass at leisure in his absence. We wished each other good luck and he made for the door. With his hand on the doorknob he turned to look at me. I thought he was going to invite me to join the company for dinner after all.

“One piece of advice, Boachi: find yourself a wife. It can make all the difference. She needn’t be pretty. Not clever either. I have had both, and believe me, neither beauty nor brains are important. Even a sweet nature can be dispensed with, so long as she is your match. Someone who knows you so thoroughly that there is nothing to hide or to be ashamed of, someone whose company is congenial to you regardless of time and circumstances. Yes indeed, to be without shame is worth a darn sight more than all that love.”

“Do such women exist?”

“Let’s hope so, Boachi. Let’s hope so.”

I investigated the Billiton affair and recommended mining in the vicinity of Tanjong Pandan. Cornelius promptly ordered a shaft to be dug, after which yields improved steadily on that island. Some time later I heard that he had found a third wife, but she did not survive him either.

It was not until late 1862 that I received word from the authorities offering me the lease of a tract of land in southeastern Java, to wit one thousand
bouw
(seven hundred and ten hectares) for the cultivation of coffee. The latter concession was presented as a privilege, as the government had a monopoly on coffee production. I packed up my belongings and departed as soon as possible. The only delay I encountered was at the sultanate of Yogya, where an over-zealous functionary insisted I should visit the palace. He showed me a gallery hung with portraits of the sultan and his relatives, all painted by Raden Saleh. I made as much haste as propriety would allow and proceeded to Madiun.

Upon my arrival in that mountainous region I was directed to a steep valley with rocky outcrops; a wilderness upon which the surrounding forest was rapidly encroaching. There was a small wooden house that had evidently been abandoned long ago. Parts of it had been dismantled by natives in need of planking or firewood. The door had vanished, and the vegetation was coming in through the floorboards. In my search for a bed or a bench or somewhere to lie down, I startled a civet. The creature responded by raising its tail and emitting its stench, making me almost thankful for the holes in the roof.

For several hours while I struggled to make my way through the thick undergrowth I believed that some mistake must have been made, but upon reaching the poppy fields of Dungus I was assured by the foreman at the opium store that I had come to the right place. I returned with a heavy heart, made a fire to chase away the vermin and slept in a borrowed hammock on the veranda.

In the next few days I was able to lay bare some of the old plantation bushes among the tangled weeds. The old stock had exhausted the soil, and in spite of my ignorance of farming I knew that my land would have to be cleared throughout, ploughed, equalized and manured before an entirely new crop could be planted. But that was not all: the watercourses were all silted up and the footpaths were virtually impassable, even with a chopping knife.

I did not gain an overall view of the estate until I had managed to clear a path leading up one of the steep slopes. From the top I could see a sprawl of muddy banks like gigantic, dark red fingers grasping the land. The mud had slid farther down the mountain-side with each heavy rainfall, dragging rocks and debris with it and effacing the boundaries of the old plantation. These vast accumulations of mud would all have to be removed in turn; one avalanche had already reached the back of my house, making the rear wall buckle. The house would have to be taken down and constructed anew. I also discovered three ravines on the property, with three or four reasonably open fields in between, which however would be useless unless bridges were built to connect them with the surrounding area. I was standing there contemplating all the work that had to be done, and wondering how I could possibly finance these operations on my modest salary, when a column of smoke alerted me to the presence of a hamlet in the distance.

All the inhabitants saw me approach their huts, but none of them showed respect by sinking to their haunches. Once they got over the shock of my appearance they laughed loudly and gave me a friendly welcome, although the youngest cowered in fright and the eldest kept a wary distance. There were six families, all of whom worked in the opium fields. Some villagers responded to my queries, but all eyes were fixed on me. I bought a chicken and engaged one of the older men as a foreman.

This man, by the name of Budi, had known the plantation in his boyhood, before it was struck off the list of government plantations. He claimed that the site was unsuitable for the cultivation of the Robusta coffee bush. In summer the dry stifling heat was trapped in the valley by the surrounding mountains, while in the rainy season every passing cloud caught on the peaks, causing downpours that were disastrous for this type of crop. He pointed out other problems, such as the lack of storage space, the lack of manpower in this remote region, and the difficulty of the access route, which would hamper transportation of produce from the estate. Nevertheless I instructed him to recruit men for the reclamation work, telling him to go as far as Solo if necessary to find them. He took the money I gave him and left without a farewell greeting. I could not bring myself to slaughter the chicken for supper.

For several months I had about eight men in my employ. Their number varied. They would come and go without telling me, and when I complained of their unreliability Budi merely shrugged. The work progressed too slowly. At first they grumbled at my orders; as time went on their dissatisfaction gave way to indifference. They nodded to everything I said, the way one placates a child, after which they proceeded to do as they pleased. The more I pressed them the more blatantly they ignored me. If I was overly strict they simply left; if I was too lenient they walked all over me. On one occasion I became so enraged that I grabbed the nearest worker’s axe and hacked wildly at the underwood to show them what it means to work like a man. This was met with gales of laughter, whereupon the others tried to needle me into taking over their work as well.

Initially I blamed their recalcitrant behaviour on the fact that I was not accustomed to giving orders. I thought they claimed privileges because I could not pay them a better wage and because they knew there were no other workers to be had.

The situation got so out of hand that I decided to appeal directly to Budi, as a last resort. I ordered a meal to be served for us both in my room, which was the only part of the house that was habitable at the time. I softened him with small gifts for his family and told him candidly what I was up against. I explained that my funds were limited and that my survival as a planter depended on a speedy harvest. I had already placed an order for seedlings of the Arabica Bourbon with a nursery at Buitenzorg which specialized in varieties suitable for land such as mine, where coffee seeds were slow to germinate. My batch of seedlings would soon be ready for transportation to the estate. I begged Budi to tell me how to go about persuading the men to prepare the ground for planting before it was too late. I made no attempt to hide my anxiety, but he did not seem to appreciate the seriousness of my predicament.

“They work as hard as they can, tuan.”

“That is not true, Budi, and you know it.” He did not react. “Come on now, I need your help. I am asking you as a friend.”

“But what can I do? This is the way they are. This is how they work.”

“I’m sure they aren’t so slow when they work at Dungus?” I asked.

Budi gave me a condescending look. He did not even bother to beat about the bush. “The master of Dungus is a Hollander.”

“But I am a Hollander too.”

“Surely not, tuan.” A smile spread across his face in the typically Javanese manner, with a hint of contempt under a veneer of deference.

From then on I became stricter with them, I threatened them with wage cuts or even dismissal, although I could not afford to miss a single man. I myself worked from dawn till dusk, although my body protested at such hard labour. The attitude of the men did not improve.

Despite the unwillingness of the workers we succeeded in clearing the terrain extending from the house to the ravine, and by the time the seedlings arrived the earth had also been tilled. It was a miracle, for which I impulsively rewarded all the men with a bonus. I painted a sign and hammered it on to a post at the side of the road:
Suka Radya
, or Prince’s Pleasure.

The day the cartloads of seedlings arrived from Buitenzorg my men stood at the ready by the gateposts, and did not hesitate to help unload the vehicles when the road into the estate proved impassable. Some jumped up on to the carts while others formed a human chain. I was among them of course, and was gratified that my persistent efforts to rouse their enthusiasm had apparently had effect. Soon there were hundreds of crates stacked by the side of the road. I sent my workers and the party of drivers and porters, who numbered about ten, to my house, where an elaborate meal had been prepared by the women of Dungus to celebrate this milestone.

As for me, I stayed behind with the crates, which I inspected lovingly one by one. The seedlings were smaller than I had expected, but the stems were sturdy, with vigorous budding leaves. They were still securely rooted in their rich compost, and I offered up a quick prayer that they might find sufficient nourishment in my soil.

I weighed a couple of plantlets in my hand and tried to envisage the fully grown bushes that would constitute my surroundings for years to come. My heart rejoiced at the promise of this new life, this fresh start. Never again would I have to adapt myself to a situation that was not of my making. For the first time in my life I was about to create my own environment!

I was so absorbed in my happy thoughts that I do not know how long it was before I noticed Budi at my side. My workers had gathered not far off.

“Have you finished already?”

“Yes, we have eaten,” he said. He was flustered, and I was not accustomed to seeing him in that state. He threw a look at his men over his shoulder, as if in need of reassurance. Two of the men stepped forward hesitantly.

“Good. Did you enjoy your meal?”

“The men and I,” he began, “have had a conference.”

“A conference?” I had no idea what he was referring to, and was secretly amused by the formal expression, which I assumed he had picked up at Dungus. “So tell me, what was the conference about?”

“There is much work to be done, yes?”

“Indeed yes, a lot of work. We must start at once, don’t you think?”

“I don’t think so, tuan.”

“But we must, Budi. All the seedlings have to be planted out within the next few days.”

“That is why . . .”—he glanced back at the men to make sure they were still with him—“. . . we think, we must speak with you now.”

“Speak? What about?”

“Conditions, tuan, you understand. A lot of work. Hard work. All quickly quickly.”

At last it dawned on me why they had been so energetic earlier on: they were merely hastening the moment when I would be utterly dependent on their cooperation. I listened to what he had to say. Not only did they want more money, they even demanded a portion of the land to cultivate for their own needs.

“No question,” I said, as coolly as I could. “But I can assure you that I will raise the men’s wages as soon as the first harvest has been reaped. This is normal procedure; indeed it is followed on the other plantations too.”

“Well, tuan, we like working at the other plantations.”

“More than at mine?”

“Every man prefers to be his own master, tuan. But we have grown accustomed to working for foreign masters. For Hollanders. Now these men, who must work for you—how do you think their families receive them when they return from the fields?”

“I don’t know.”

“They are mocked, of course! Their wives no longer respect them. People laugh at them. And so, tuan, they are ashamed.”

“What of?” I asked testily. “Tell me, Budi, what they are ashamed of.”

“You must understand: they have their pride. Think of it: men like them having to obey a master like you.”

“Like me?”

“Black, yes?”

Perhaps it was the smirk on his face that inflamed me, perhaps it was just that I could not bear having my dreams shattered again. At all events I lunged at the little fellow, making him tumble backwards. I pressed my knee on his chest and struck his face. He flailed his arms to ward me off.

The workers made to intervene, but thought better of it when they saw the look in my eyes. Budi and I rolled over the ground, but in the swirl of dust I imagined I had the whole band of men to contend with. In that instant, I swear I felt a surge of opponents. Among all those bodies I glimpsed my father’s hand waving at me, also Kwame swimming in the waves and Sophie whirling past, and all the while I was throttling Cornelius, who was beaming with pride because I was finally putting his lessons into practice.

Budi soon gave up. I panted as I scrambled to my feet and dragged him up by his hair. I took off my belt and lashed him harder and harder, deaf to his pleas. And he was an old man.