The Two Hearts of Kwasi Boachi: A Novel (27 page)

For the first time we saw an opportunity to do something for the good of our country. Kwame’s enthusiasm was fired at last. He even made an effort to do better in class, but had lagged too far behind to make up for past inattention. I realized that by focusing my studies on the Gold Coast I would be able to fulfil my father’s expectations. At the same time, the idea of returning to Africa made me uneasy.

All those years at school I had permitted myself only vague memories of home. It was safer that way: the blur dulled the pain. Whenever I could not avoid picturing my mother in sharp detail, stooping with pursed lips and brushing my nose with hers to press a kiss on my cheek, I would shut my eyes tight and force myself to think of other things—Dutch things. When Sophie caught me doing this once, she thought it very odd indeed. Still, it worked, and I became quite skilled at this trick. After a while it was enough merely to turn away as soon as my mother loomed, and if I still wept it was for the loss of
a
mother, not
my
mother. In due course other memories dimmed, too, and I was left only with shadowy figures in the place of my loved ones.

On the few occasions that I was still visited by dreams of being reunited with my family, the figures running towards me were faceless. I did not understand their words of greeting, nor they mine. We ran dumbly across a landscape in which I had lost my bearings. Unlike Kwame I had never imagined what it would be like to return. Now that I attempted to do so, I found I had no memory of the Asantehene’s features. His clothing I could recall, and the Golden Stool, and how his rings were embedded in his plump fingers. Nothing else.

It came as a blow to me to realize that the curtain I had let down between me and my childhood had obscured the faces of my past for ever. That night I visited Kwame’s bedroom for the last time. I slipped into bed with him but, as I was drawing up the covers, he turned away from me.

“No, Kwasi,” he said, “not any more.” And he lay motionless, listening to my stumbling retreat.

After our encounter with the phrenologist I did not see my Sophie again until mid-March, which is not to say that she was absent from my ardent imagination. The vividness of the pictures in my head was sometimes almost as gratifying as if I had seen her in the flesh. The court was in some disarray. The old king who had abdicated was in Berlin, where he had fallen gravely ill in the arms of his lady-love. While the royal family were making up their minds whether the dying man was to be ignored or forgiven, all social engagements were postponed. During those months of separation I wrote Sophie three long letters, to which she replied affectionately but in keeping with court etiquette; she did not refer to what had passed between us during our session with Professor Deckwitz. It was not until Easter that we received an invitation from the crown princess to a
thé
dansant,
at which my Sophie was to declaim some verses by German poets. I would have been equally thrilled by the chance to hear her read the weather forecast in Mongolian!

Although anyone who had to put up with Willem Alexander’s temperament deserved sympathy, Sophie von Württemberg never inspired affection in me. It was clear that she saw us as belonging to her mother-in-law’s camp, along with her two brothers-in-law and her sister-in-law. She thought Prince Alexander weak and spoiled. She detested Prince Hendrik, whom I liked for his probing mind and sincere interest in our well-being. I never knew my Sophie to say a word against her brother’s wife, but she too was regarded as an enemy.

Nevertheless, I tried to form an unbiased opinion of Sophie von Württemberg, who would after all be queen one day. Relations between her and her husband were strained. Since I was in the throes of love myself, I felt sympathy for anyone not thus favoured, although I was perturbed by her dislike of Holland, which she found small and unappealing and full of dull folk. In later years people assured me that she was a good soul who suffered an unjust fate and a boorish husband, but in general her melancholy inspired more irritation than sympathy. Indeed, when she had asked Grand Duchess Maria Pavlovna, aunt to both Sophies, for advice concerning her intended marriage to Willem Alexander of Orange, whom she doubted would make her happy, the grand duchess had merely said: “Well my dear, what right would you have to happiness?” This was the sort of reaction she elicited.

However, as a hostess she could not be faulted. With her little son Wiwill on her arm, she personally conducted the search party for Easter eggs. This did not take long, for the gardens of her royal residence, which differed from a gentleman’s mansion only in the prevailing atmosphere of gloom, were not large.

My Sophie read aloud from the German poet Schiller. Afterwards she came to my side. She had something to tell me, she said, but was waylaid by Mrs. van Moock, which good lady was delighted to have us under her wing for the afternoon and under considerable pressure from the Prussian ambassador’s wife to arrange for Kwame and me to grace one of the embassy soirées with our presence. Under cover of their animated chatter, I reached out for Sophie’s hand, but she shrank from my touch. She rose abruptly, and invited Kwame to accompany her on the piano while she sang.

King Willem II arrived at around four wearing his favourite Russian cap, which usually betokened a good humour. He embraced his daughter-in-law warmly, who recoiled from the smell of tobacco. The king had just inspected the new wing that was being built on to the palace. He had drawn up the plans himself, wholly in accordance with the modern Gothic mode. He unrolled his blueprints and sketches of ornamental features. I enquired after the architectural calculations and the amount of tension sustained by the arches, but his evasive answers told me that he was better at sketching than at calculating. The conversation soon turned to the king’s collection of paintings, which he wished to open to the public. He even offered us a private viewing in the near future, and Kwame’s response was so warm that there was no way we could decline the invitation when it came.

A game of blind man’s buff was played in the garden. I did my best to be caught, and soon it was my turn to be blindfolded. I stumbled about with clawed fingers, at which all the children took flight. I sniffed the air like a predator. Sophie’s petticoats had been treated with lavender-scented starch. Within a few seconds I caught my prey. I let out a cry of triumph, and made her stand still, demanding a kiss for ransom. Not an unreasonable exchange under the circumstances, I felt, but to my shock her body stiffened. Then she tried to wrench herself free and even dug her nails into my flesh to make me relax my hold. I tore the blindfold off and saw she had turned very pale, that her lip trembled and that there were tears in her eyes. The children watched open-mouthed.

“Oh Aquasi!” her lips signalled, but there was no sound this time.

The arrival of Crown Prince Willem Alexander with a party of friends created an awkward interlude. He was accompanied by his drinking partner Jules van der Capellen and the Javanese artist Raden Saleh, and he made his entrance with a young lady on his arm: la Miranda. She was a leading actress with the Italian Commedia, one of the many drama companies that had taken to including The Hague on their tours now that the king provided funding for theatres and concert halls. Raden Saleh was painting la Miranda’s portrait, at Willem Alexander’s expense. The crown princess reacted with admirable aloofness: she merely offered the actress a little basket of sweetmeats, after which the conversation was gradually resumed.

The artist came to greet us. He was waylaid by the Prussian ambassador’s wife: “I hear that your portrait of the Ashanti princes is a masterpiece.”

“Too much honour, dear lady,” said Raden Saleh, with a slight bow, “for a canvas that has been consigned to the bushmen in Africa.”

Mrs. van Moock snatched her hand away from his arm. He listened impassively to the Prussian lady’s efforts to persuade him to paint her portrait, then excused himself hastily and made off.

“What an opinionated fellow!” huffed the ambassador’s wife. “He seems to think his name is still on everyone’s lips.”

“That look, so inscrutable!” said Mrs. van Moock, shuddering. It always made her nervous when other people had uncharitable thoughts. “I fear he is all too aware of the waning of his celebrity.”

“Tastes change,” the other lady declared. “Even the most exotic dish, if served day in day out, loses its appeal after a while. Well, what do you think, would it be convenient for you to visit next Saturday? With the two princes of Ashanti, of course.”

Crown Prince Willem Alexander circulated among the guests with Wiwill on his arm. He was tipsy and made a great show of throwing the child up in the air and almost failing to catch him. His wife’s cries of alarm made him laugh uproariously. She tried to take the child from him, but was obliged to witness how the proud father sat with all the prettiest ladies in turn, demanding praise for the fruit of his loins. She eventually succeeded in having the child taken to bed, but that did not stop Willem Alexander from showing off his son.

He drew a leather receptacle from his waistcoat pocket. It contained a silver-backed disc framing a portrait of little Wiwill surrounded by his toys. It was a remarkably accurate likeness, but was neither drawn nor painted. The shiny image, which was protected by glass, was handed round for the guests to admire, while the crown prince delighted in the incredulity shown by some. The King merely shrugged: “Queen Anna received one of these from Saint Petersburg recently, a portrait of her brother, and now she wants all our portraits to be fabricated in this manner. It is a new invention.”

“The image is obtained by using a method devised by Monsieur Daguerre. I saw this trick being performed in Paris recently,” Raden Saleh said disdainfully. “It is a good likeness, yes. That is all it is. But is it art?”

“My good man, what good is art if it is not a good likeness?” Willem Alexander said testily.

“With all due respect, Your Highness,” Raden Saleh continued, “there is surely more art in a canvas entailing weeks or months of dedicated labour than in a silver-coated copper plate that has been soaked in dangerous chemicals for a few moments.”

“All I want from art,” the crown prince rebutted, “is a good picture. You will never achieve such a convincing resemblance, Raden Saleh, not even if you spend the rest of your days perfecting a single face.”

The Prussian lady concurred a little too warmly for the crown prince’s liking, and he turned away brusquely to show the daguerreotype to us. It was indeed most remarkable. As though you were looking into a mirror that reflected someone else. I was eager to know more about the technique involved, but the crown prince was unable to supply me with details.

“We are to have a portrait of ourselves made soon. Why don’t you come along? Then you can fire your questions at the fellow making it.”

“A portrait like this?” I asked. “Of us all?”

“Certainly. I insist. Do it for Sophie’s sake,” Willem Alexander said, “so she can take you with her to Weimar.” Out of the corner of my eye I saw his sister nudge him to be silent. But the crown prince was only egged on by her admonition. “I dare say it’s still a secret, my dear, but Mamma is set upon having such portraits made of us all. By way of a gift. For you. So now if Quame and Aquasi would be so kind . . .” Kwame certainly did not wish any more portraits to be made of him, he said, but Willem Alexander was unperturbed, for once he was holding forth he became deaf to all others. “The number of portraits is of no consequence. As our artist from Java quite rightly stated, it takes only a few minutes. And so,
ma petite,
you can take all of us with you, and shall have no reason to pine while you are away.”

Sophie kept silent, and renewed her attempts to hush her brother. The look in her eyes told me that everything was about to change.

“The cure for heartache!” Willem Alexander exclaimed, whereupon an awkward silence descended. He paused, sensing that he had let the cat out of the bag. I was unable to speak. I had no desire to question him as to his meaning, for I feared that I would see everything in sharp focus at any moment, and tried to prolong the blur as long as possible. It was Kwame who spoke first.

“But Sophie, are you leaving us?” he asked, in a low voice.

Sophie nodded.

“Didn’t she tell you?” grinned Willem Alexander. “That is most unusual. She talks of nothing else.”

“Guillot,
je vous en prie
!” Her anger had made her break her silence at last.

“All right all right, I won’t say another word,” he said, and held his tongue for two seconds, until he burst out with: “our little grand duchess!”

“Grand duchess?” asked Kwame. Willem Alexander put his finger to his lips.

The Prussian lady gasped. “Does this mean that we are to believe the rumours from Weimar?”

I had inadvertently lowered my guard, and sustained a shattering blow. For several seconds I was frozen in shock. Mrs. van Moock patted me on the back and then quickly drew her new friend away from me. Kwame took my hand and gave it an affectionate squeeze. He meant well, but his gesture was awkward, not intimate as in the old days, and made me feel even more desolate. The sense of being entirely alone brought me back to my senses. No one would speak on my behalf. I had to speak for myself.

“Carl Alexander is an excellent match.” Trying to sound unmoved made my words come out a fraction too loud.
“Mes
félicitations!”

“It’s not that simple,” said Sophie, but did not meet my eyes.