The Two Hearts of Kwasi Boachi: A Novel (12 page)

“But if the human mind is so transparent to you,” I asked, “why is it hard for you to deal with the members of the Dutch community?”

“Precisely because I can read their minds. I can tell when the ladies and the gentlemen say one thing and think another. About each other. About me. Nothing escapes my notice. I hear a conversation and at the same time I catch the asides, the cries for help from the psyche, and all the underlying signals as well. During the most inconsequential tea party I perceive more agitation and clamour than anyone else would notice at the evening bazaar. It is both a blessing and a cross I must bear. I will say no more.” She rose to her feet. Hearing herself pour her heart out had done her so much good that she was wholly recovered.

“I am only telling you . . .” she said, “and only you, you should be the first to know, because . . .”

“Because?”

“. . . because I recognized something in you.”

“Recognized something?”

“Yes, I recognized myself in you.”

She raised her arm, stabbing the air with her index finger. I was reluctant to let her proceed, because with her sort you find yourself in the middle of a seance before you know it, listening for spirits to knock on the table.

“The love has accumulated. We are incapable of admitting so much emotion, and think we are guarding ourselves against life.”

To stop her from pursuing this train of thought I slipped my arm through hers while we took a turn on the grass. Now and then she stooped to pick a flower, which she tucked into her hair.

“It was my idea to have a celebration. I thought you could do with some distraction. I was mistaken. If you oppose my plans for a fête we will put the whole thing off.”

I was about to say “Please do,” when it struck me that I ought not to begrudge her this pleasure. I mumbled my assent, reluctantly.

“What did you say?”

I mumbled again.

“This won’t do,” she cried. “What did you say? Louder please. I am sensitive, not clairvoyant!”

“I said, madam, that if you are of a mind to mount a feast in honour of an old man, the least he can do is stay alive until the event comes to pass. Be warned, though: I am old. Too old for frivolity. And I shall come wearing the mask I am wearing now.”

She leaned forward and kissed my cheek. She stood still to insert a final flower in her straggling coiffure, which by now resembled the kind of apparition natives dread on a moonless night.

“But I will make no plans without your approval. I shall discuss each and every detail with you.”

“That is not necessary, I assure you.”

“But it is. And all I ask is this: please tell me a little about yourself from time to time.”

“No,” I said firmly.

“Naughty! Naughty!” She gave a little laugh and wagged her finger at me. She took a few steps towards the garden gate, then turned around. “Goodbye,
mon Prince
, dear Aquasi Boachi, and I beg you—do not take a simple woman’s emotions amiss. Dear Lord, I have really let myself go again this time, ranting like the madwoman of the Moluccas!”

She flounced her skirts and ran off as if I were about to give chase.

19 March

When I opened my shutters this morning, young Aquasi was sitting on his haunches under a tree in the yard. I beckoned him. He saw me, but did not dare come near. This angered me. It was ten in the morning, and it took me considerable effort to secure a place for him at the Reformed School. I wish him to be educated at a respectable institution. He is the only pupil who lives among the natives. And he is the brightest of the lot.

I called his name. I tried telling him to go to school, but he did not budge. Ahim said the boy had been sitting there for hours. I got dressed and ordered breakfast to be served on the veranda for two. But my son refused to come near. At long last I took a plate and brought it to him. He had been crying. I asked him why he was not at school. He said nothing, but the way his eyes avoided mine gave me the answer. I felt a stab of anger and grief and bit my lips.

“Are they giving you a hard time?” I asked, and immediately regretted my question, for he started sobbing. I hugged him tight, telling him that these things happen to us all and that he had to be strong. Then he explained that his classmates had taunted him with the name “Snow White.”

This is a Dutch joke. The Javanese name for the African recruits in the Dutch East Indies Army was
blanda hitam
, or black Hollanders. After a long life of service, these old recruits, procured by my own father, had retreated into small villages in Semarang and Purworedje. Their half-caste descendants display the same features as my beloved children. The Hollanders, with typical humour, called them by the deprecatory nickname of Snow White.

“Does your teacher know about this?” I asked. Aquasi nodded. “And has he punished the wrongdoers?” He shook his head.

My first impulse was to go to the school, give the teacher a hiding and explain to the class about the high birth of my son. Ahim opposed the idea. Aquasi’s anxious looks told me he was right. I calmed down. I went to sit under the tree again, beside my son and told him he was the descendant of a great king. It was my intention to restore his self-confidence. But he stared at the ground as if to say: So much the worse! I sent Ahim to fetch him some goodies from the kitchen. When he returned he offered them to the child with a sweeping bow, in a way he has refused to do for me for years.

“For Aquasi and Aquasi,” he said, beaming, “the two princes of Ashanti . . .” I do not believe he was mocking us. I was relieved to see my son’s face brighten. I told him he ought to be proud, and went on to mention various details of his ancestry.

20 March

Today I had a disconcerting encounter with Mrs. Renselaar. I was taking a stroll to the Botanical Gardens, where I had not been for several weeks. Happening to pass her house I felt obliged to make a brief social call. After the customary civilities she pressed me yet again to speak of my history. I must admit that her plea was not entirely unwelcome this time. The past haunts me. I happened to be carrying my manuscript under my arm. It was time to let someone else read my words, and in order to silence Adeline I entrusted the papers to her. She reacted like Salome to the head of John the Baptist.

Since her last visit I have had some difficulty in deciding what my attitude to her should be. The irritation she arouses in me has abated somewhat. The interest she shows in my person seems— certainly compared to her customary histrionics—almost sincere.

Late in the afternoon her husband came home: a formal man. He was most surprised to find me there. Indeed, one might even say he was shocked.

“Well now,” he said nervously. “Well now, what a coincidence!”

When he heard that I had written an account of my early years for his wife to read and that I had come to deliver the manuscript to her (that was her version of events) he drew her sternly into the other room. What passed between them I do not know, but she was as white as a sheet when she returned. Soon afterwards her husband excused himself and left the house, in what struck me as unseemly haste.

I asked Adeline whether they had had words about me. At first she denied this, but after some persuasion she was more forthcoming. She explained that her husband, who is a ranking civil servant, had been appointed to some confidential post, second only to the governor. His first assignment had been to put into order the affairs left behind by his predecessor. Over the past few weeks he had covered so much ground that he was ready to dispose of the superannuated dossiers. He went through all the files, sifted out the informal chits from among the documents of consequence, after which everything that was no longer relevant to the day-to-day administration in Batavia was dispatched to the Ministry of Colonies in The Hague.

On a Friday evening some time ago he mentioned having come across a dossier that had greatly surprised him: mine. It is to be sent to Holland soon. Adeline enquired after it again a few days ago in the hope of gleaning a few anecdotes for her speech at my anniversary celebration. But he refused to discuss the subject this time. He said he had since come across material that was classified as secret. He asked her to put all thoughts of my case out of her mind.

I was perplexed, and eager to know more, but Adeline already regretted having confided in me. She said it was pointless to ask her husband for further details and made me promise not to approach him about this matter. She seemed so distressed that I gave her my word. All she knew was what her husband had told her: that the odds had been wilfully stacked against me and that I had received unjust treatment from the State of the Netherlands.

“Not much news there,” I said, realizing that she was making a mountain out of a molehill again. “You can read the whole story in my papers which are now at your disposal.”

“Your words are safe with me,” she declared.

“I hope you will not be disappointed. It is a sad tale, but you will not find any secrets.”

When I rose she apologized once more for her husband’s behaviour. It seems that he too is opposed to her absurd plans for a grand celebration of my jubilee, but that has only hardened her resolve.

Aquasi went to school today as usual. He came to see me later. We did not mention what had been troubling him, but he was lively and I was reassured by his laughter. After he left I asked Ahim to order some more writing paper and a set of new pens.

22 March

I have received a message from Mrs. Renselaar. To my surprise it was brief. She was moved by my story. However, she cannot see any connection with the material that has come to light in her husband’s archives, as they contain only matters pertaining to the Dutch Indies. She has been pestering Richard to say more and, in a moment of weakness (anything to keep her quiet), he has now revealed that the secret concerns the progress, or rather the lack thereof, of my career in the Indies.

If it was not the injustice done in Africa, then which injustice could it be? I force myself to think of other matters. I have enough on my mind as it is. Young Aquasi has put certain questions to me. I am now obliged to formulate the answers correctly and yet in such a way that they will not sadden him unduly. There is so much to say. The memories, once unleashed, are harder to rein in than I thought. Last night, for instance, I had the following recollection:

One day, when I was a young man, I was sitting on my usual bench in the park at Weimar, which was named “Ashanti’s Höhe” in my honour. The same children played there every day, and I dandled two of them, a boy and a girl, on my knee. The little girl stroked my cheek and said: “You, black man with your white heart.”

I was so moved that I was at a loss for words. Then she inspected the palm of her hand to see if some of the black had rubbed off.

PART TWO

DELFT 1837–39

“But has the ship of state struck her last sail of decorum, sir, or is it only in my dreams that princes merit conveyance in a carriage?” The lady in the bonnet filled the front door of number 161 Oude Delft with her indignation. She did not deign to look at van Drunen during her tirade. Instead, she placed her plump hands on her knees and stooped to smile at Kwame and me.

“On foot! All the way from the barracks! Is that a token of respect for young personages of royal blood?” She hesitated whether to curtsey or to bow. Being too stout to do either, she took a step forward, bent her knee, jutted out her posterior, bowed her head and waved one arm grandly as if she were wielding an épée.

“They’ll clip the Angel Gabriel’s wings next and tell him to come down by ladder! Princes, I’ll have you know, travel in a carriage, or they do not travel at all. And at this late hour! This cannot be a suitable time to venture outdoors, can it, my dears? But do turn them around for me, sir, so that I may see the little princes. Come on now, show them to me.” Without taking her eyes off us she cried: “The princes have arrived! Mr. van Moock! Mr. van Moock! Where has he got to?”

At that moment I coughed. My throat never did get used to the Dutch climate. The lady recoiled as if stung by a wasp.

“Goodness gracious me, what do I think I’m doing? The evening air! Full of germs, diseases and unwholesomeness. Do come inside at once, please do step inside! Dear me what a darling little thing! And you there, negro princeling, what’s the matter with you, are your eyes crossed?” She grasped my face and shook it from side to side. “Ah no, it was just the fright of it all, you’re looking much better already. Never mind, you dear little thing, I’m no oil painting either, am I? Am I? Don’t anyone contradict me!” She spun round with a swish of her skirts and walked off, clapping her hands to say we should follow.

“The drawing-room. Into the drawing-room with you. And some hot chocolate at once, of course.” She turned impatiently. “But sir, why are they just standing there? Are they afraid of me or do African princes expect to be carried on a litter? No, how silly of me, they don’t understand a word of what I’m saying!” She was close to reaching out to touch us again, so I decided it was time to put our lessons into practice.

“Ja Mevrouw,”
I ventured.

“He can talk! He can talk, Mr. van Moock! Come here at once! Princes, my good man, talking princes!”