The Two Hearts of Kwasi Boachi: A Novel (23 page)

After a tiresome journey we alighted from the stagecoach to an atmosphere of despondency. The crown princess had retired to her private quarters on account of swollen eyes from crying. “Well, you might as well go straight back,” Sophie lamented, “because Mamma has refused to call the musicians. And what sort of a birthday is that, if there is to be no dancing?”

But there were cakes, and lemonade in three different colours. One of the conservatories was decked with flowers. Sophie’s tutor Monsieur Cavin, a Swiss, was the only other guest. He sat in a corner, immersed in
The Genius of Christianity
. Its author, Chateaubriand, was held in high esteem by Sophie’s mother, because he had sided against the new regime after the French Revolution.

At long last the crown princess herself descended the staircase. She was very grandly dressed, and her large skirts seethed with exasperation. To everyone’s surprise she wore, on top of her plaited hair, a felt circlet sewn with pearls and around her neck some of her famous jewels.

“What are you staring at? The whole country is celebrating the heir apparent’s wedding, and you would grudge his own mother a bit of finery?” Aware of the awe her appearance inspired, she took a seat, graciously allowing the folds of her trailing robe to be adjusted by a footman. I was so incautious as to congratulate her.

“Ah well, of course you are right, Master Aquasi, let them be married. Why strive after happiness, anyway?” she said disdainfully. Monsieur Cavin shut his book and withdrew discreetly.

“After all, what could be wrong with a young man taking his cousin from the mad side of the family to be his wife? That is the modern way, it seems. There will be children—but never mind about that. Who knows the lot of them may even render madness fashionable! I for one have no intention of letting it stop me enjoying myself.” Having made her point, she ordered her Russian singers to assemble. She was brought a tray laden with sweetmeats, which she pounced on like a vulture on market offal. Sophie took us out into the park.

“What on earth are you doing?” she cried.

In my eagerness to engage her with yet more folklore, I had broken two twigs from the almond tree.

“My mother brought that tree with her from St. Petersburg. Whenever she’s sad she has tea served here from a samovar. Then she sits with her eyes shut for hours, pretending she can hear the ripple of the River Neva.” We could hear the splash of Neptune’s fountain in the
rond-point
where the avenues met. “Have you ever seen it? The Neva?”

“No,” replied Kwame.

“No,” I said. “I only know my own country.”

“What about Holland?” protested Sophie. “You know Holland, too.”

“I
meant
Holland,” I said.

Kwame stared at me, aghast.

The sun faded early. At dusk we gathered around the stove in the conservatory with the ladies-in-waiting. Several visitors were announced. They had come to congratulate Anna Pavlovna on Willem Alexander’s marriage, and she thanked them civilly, raising one eyebrow. Although her low opinion of her son’s new consort was widely known, she spoke in company as if the heavens had parted to let Sophie von Württemberg down in our midst.

The ease with which she lied fascinated me. She had the ability to rise above her deepest emotions, to transcend them. I envied her self-discipline. I studied her diplomatic talents, and decided that self-abnegation was something you could learn.

That Anna Pavlovna had deigned to show her true feelings to us earlier struck me as a sign of friendship and trust. But Kwame took it amiss, thinking she didn’t care what we thought because we were mere Africans. His dark moods shocked me, but they troubled him even more. At such times he would withdraw into himself, fall silent, and make himself impossible by sulking for hours.

Kwame’s glumness did not escape notice. Fortunately Bernhard of Saxe arrived, accompanied by Hermann and Gustav. Not one of the guests neglected to wish my cousin a happy birthday, but they soon gave up trying to engage him in conversation and turned to me instead. I took it upon myself to entertain the company by making sums in my head from numbers called out by those present. Then I quoted Lamartine’s poem “Le Lac,” and after that I was handed a sketch pad upon which to draw the profile of any guest who cared to be portrayed. Everyone demanded to be sketched by me, and I was showered with praise. Both Kwame and I were commended for our diligence, and I found the applause deeply gratifying, more so indeed than the high marks we earned in class. To me it was the first true acknowledgment of how hard we had studied since arriving in Holland.

But Kwame persisted in his gloom. It was exasperating. Just as I was being vindicated! At the very time when I was demonstrating that our dedication and studiousness had gained us acceptance as equals in the highest society imaginable, he was choosing to behave like a savage. At first I was merely irritated, but soon my gorge rose.

For the first time in my life I was ashamed of him. Of his stubbornness. Indeed, of his presence. How many times hadn’t I felt ashamed of myself, but such mortification is not half as painful: yes, you break into a sweat and feel weak at the knees, but you can absorb the pain because it is your own. Feeling shame for someone you love tears you apart like a predator clawing its way out of your breast.

“What’s the matter with you!” I hissed. “You’re making a fool of us.” I took his arm and led him to the group that had gathered around the crown princess. They were playing Snap. Before joining the circle I told him to pull himself together. He muttered something under his breath.

“What did you say?” I growled, and then he repeated, in an angry voice: “If only you wouldn’t show off all the time!”

He had the gall to say that! It was outrageous. As if
he
had reason to be ashamed of
me
! I tried to look unconcerned, as Anna Pavlovna would have done, as if the absurd words had never been uttered. The cards had been dealt, but instead of concentrating on his hand, Kwame stared into the void.

So as to avoid further aggravation, I turned away and challenged Sophie to a game at the chess table. I played quite successfully, but she did not notice this for some time.

“I prefer playing with you than with Willem Alexander,” she said. “He’s such a poor loser.”

“I’m not losing.”

She seized my bishop with a pawn. I countered her move smoothly, but Sophie was unperturbed. I told her that her confidence reminded me of Napoleon before the Battle of Waterloo.

“Quame isn’t playing,” she observed. “He’s sitting there holding his cards, but he isn’t doing anything. Is he scared?”

“Kwame is the worst loser of all,” I said. “Let’s see . . .” And, with a malicious flick of the wrist I indicated the tour my knight would take to capture her castle.

“But the two of you have suffered so much loss already,” she said, giving me a steady look. Unflinching. There was no trace of strategic intention in her eyes. We gazed at each other, and it was as though she was satisfied with my silence. My muscles tensed. I was filled with longing, but did not show it.

“That’s true,” I said. “But I think I’m a better loser than he is.”

“Thank goodness for that,” she smiled, “because there goes your knight! I told you there was no advantage to the right of first move!”

We bowed our heads over the board in silence while I pondered my strategy. I was close to calling checkmate, and it was her turn to think hard. “Sometimes I think he blames it on me,” I said.

“What?”

“The distance. Between us and other people.”

She nodded as if she understood, reached for a chess piece, but wrinkled her nose and changed her mind.

“People are foolish,” she said soothingly, “don’t let it bother you.”

“But it doesn’t bother me, I want to be as much like everyone else as I can. I don’t want to attract attention.”

“Nothing attracts attention like trying to belong.” There was a hint of disapproval in her tone, and she slid her bishop forward resolutely. It was my move.

“I know what you mean about distance,” she said. “My own family is utterly isolated. People are watching one and judging one all the time, but they don’t come close enough for one to get to know anything about them. It’s as if my face were disfigured by a scar or birthmark, which sets me apart from other people. Everyone can see it and yet no one dares mention it.”

My eyes flitted across the board, unseeing. In the meantime I was groping desperately for words to confirm the perfection of her features, as she no doubt expected me to do.

“Mamma says,” she went on, “that loneliness is the privilege of the strong.” She surveyed the board and laughed as if she had already won the game. I couldn’t make up my mind, and slid my piece this way and that until I gave up concentrating. Which was lucky for Sophie.

The rest of the evening was spent at the card table, where Kwame managed to spread his gloom to everyone else.

“Why don’t you play something for us on the piano, Prince Quame,” Anna Pavlovna suggested. She enthused at length about his talent and yet he was not easily persuaded. “I beg you, a little musical intermezzo performed by the birthday boy himself would be a suitable finale for this celebration.”

“I have nothing to celebrate, madam,” he said, averting his eyes. There was a silence. Anna Pavlovna took his hands in hers.

“I know,” she said, “I know.”

“Oh, Mamma,” sighed Sophie, “
ça c’est le mal de René.
” I thought she was referring to young René Labouchère, who sat two rows behind me in class and who suffered from fainting spells, which I attributed to his over-tight trousers. I asked her how she knew him, but she waved dismissively, as if she did not wish to be distracted from emotions she had made such an effort to comprehend.

“When I think about home,” said the crown princess, “I always sing one of the songs my mother taught me.”

Kwame bit his lip. After a long silence he said: “Out loud?”

“Certainly! Sometimes just the tune will do.” She hummed a few bars. Kwame let go of her hands.

“We don’t think about home much,” I said, for I was finding the situation increasingly embarrassing. “At least that’s what I try to do. Not think of home.”

Anna Pavlovna shook her head, vigorously but with a look of regret, the way headmaster van Moock did when you gave the wrong answer. She rose up and stepped into her sedan chair.

“People think remembering brings sorrow.” Her chair was lifted up by her footmen and she was suspended in midair. “The contrary is true. It is forgetting that brings sorrow.”

The summer months at boarding school were quiet. Most of the boys went home for the holidays. Mr. van Moock would try to delay their departure with extra revision and exams up to the last minute. He was sorry to see them go, and urged them to return promptly. “Knowledge,” he wrote to the parents and guardians of his boys, “is like the body of an athlete. It thrives on regular exercise. Lack of exercise causes atrophy.” Those of us who stayed behind knew that his concern for the boys’ pliancy arose from financial straits. Payment of school fees and allowances for board and lodging ground to a halt during the holiday periods—the very time when maintenance to the premises was due. Meals were reduced to twice daily, and the practice of serving roast meat on Sunday was discontinued, because, we were told, it was unwholesome in warm weather. We were not upset by the austerity of the diet, for the van Moocks themselves were clearly short of money. Mrs. van Moock sent her maid away until September, and did all the darning herself, besides polishing the brass and waxing the floors. Mr. van Moock continued to teach us until mid-July. After that we devoted our time to “drawing after the nature of the Lord,” which amounted to being sent off into the countryside in the morning with an apple, some coarse paper and watercolours. We were not expected back until supper time.

The first few days saw us flitting about like birds that have just discovered the door of their cage open. We ran this way and that across the fields, carefree and happy. We did not do any painting, but held wrestling matches instead and rolled about in the wheat field. But at the end of the first week van Moock demanded to see some results.

I lay face down in the grass, with a buttercup just under my nose. Clamping the tip of my tongue between my teeth I copied what I saw as accurately as I could, not missing a single vein, petal or carpel. Then I pulled the plant out of the ground and drew the roots in great detail. I poked my fingers into the earth to make sure I hadn’t left anything out. Finally I took my penknife and sliced the stalk lengthwise, pulled the skin off the leaves, scraped the pistil clean and drew the whole plant afresh, this time showing the underlying structures. When the object of my scrutiny lay before me in its dry, dissected and wilted state, it occurred to me that my own creation was superior to the original. My pictures were so neatly drawn that they seemed to defy the capricious, unruly diversity of nature itself.

Kwame set to work without any method. Whenever his eye was caught by a likely subject he would hitch up his trousers, lean against a tree, narrow his eyes and stare. He would stay in the same position for as long as an hour sometimes. Then he would take a sheet of paper and start painting—quite at random, it seemed. He would paint energetically for a while, and then stop in midair with the brush poised over his composition, as if he were waiting for it to do the work for him. As he never looked up from his occupation, it was as though his subject came from within rather than from what he saw around him.