The Two Hearts of Kwasi Boachi: A Novel (33 page)

I have notified the governor of my resolve to return to Kumasi at the earliest opportunity. It was my intention to acquire a horse and some bearers this week. Van der Eb listened attentively to my plan, but was not enthusiastic. He advised me to take some time to
acclimatize.
How about that? As if a man must habituate himself to his native climate!

I have just returned from dinner. I must tell you about something quite extraordinary, something that took my breath away as soon as I entered the dining room. You remember the large room, the hall with the balcony on the outside? You remember where we used to sit at the officers’ mess? Well, on the high wall, which used to be quite bare as you know, directly behind the commander’s seat . . . I could not believe my eyes . . . I saw you. You and me together, larger than life. I thought I was dreaming, but no, it was your face that I looked upon all through dinner. You were with me. Your beloved face. I could not swallow a morsel. What I was looking at was that huge portrait Raden Saleh painted of us. Verveer in his chair, you on his left, me on the right. The portrait for the Asantehene, which took so many tiresome sittings.

I am told that the canvas was first transported across the jungle, at enormous cost. The package was so unwieldy that the path had to be widened all the way to Kumasi. When the convoy finally reached the capital an official ceremony was mounted for the presentation of the gift to your father. He was horrified, thinking that you and I and the general had been murdered and that our flayed skins had been stretched on a frame. Even after he had been put right he could not abide the painting, so it was taken straight back to the coast.

So here we are then. Virtue having been made of necessity, we now grace the previously bare wall. What a twist of fate. Every meal from now on will give me the opportunity of gazing into those dearly loved eyes.

Not that our condition is anything to write home about. You can imagine what the damp, and especially the briny mist that always gathers around the fort, have done to the varnish and pigments. The canvas is disintegrating. It is being eaten away. Big patches of Verveer have already gone, and some kind of mould is encroaching upon the two of us. The livid bloom on our cheeks makes us both look decidedly ill.

17 November 1847

I am overwhelmed by the world around me. Entranced. I spend many hours each day simply wandering around without purpose. Or rather, my purpose is to be awed. Most people spend their lives in the same place. They are foolish.

People stare at me in the street. I am used to it now. The Fanti are shocked to see an Ashanti wearing the Dutch army uniform. And yet they invite me into their homes and offer me white bread with sugar. A novelty. They got the idea from the regimental baker. This is only one of the many foreign customs the locals are adopting.

When the villagers speak their own tongue I do not understand a word of what they are saying. Was it always like this? I seem to remember being able to understand some words in the Fanti language, but I have evidently lost the ability. Fortunately some of them speak a little Dutch, especially the half-castes. They stop me in the street saying “Good morning master,” or “Buy? Buy? Little money!” In the space of ten years the old resentment of the military seems to have faded, making way for eagerness to trade.

Once again everything is different. Customs, gestures, beliefs. The more differences one observes among men, the more obvious it is that all men are fundamentally alike. The particularities are nothing but different expressions of the same emotion. It is as though I have learnt to look through these superficial dissimilarities, as though all I see is the soul. Do you feel the same now that you are a stranger in Weimar?

In Weimar. Weimar. Kwasi, when will my first letter reach you? When will I receive your reply? And God knows when I shall be able to dispatch this letter to you. There is so much to share. So much. The pace is so slow. I write my words as in a dream, where you run as fast as you can without advancing an inch. I can see you clearly in my mind’s eye, and I embrace you, but you will not feel my arms until two months from now.

This afternoon I spoke to van der Eb again about my plans to return home. He protested that the path to Kumasi is impassable due to flooding. But I do not wish to postpone my departure any longer. Nature is my friend—how could she not look kindly on me? I asked the governor whether he thought Moses should have been deterred by the Red Sea, but he did not rise to the bait. He has paid one official visit to the kingdom of Ashanti. He did not meet your father, but has an opinion of the Asantehene all the same. He started by saying that much has changed in the ten years since we left. After Verveer’s expedition, several other European nations sent delegations to Kumasi. The British, Germans and Portuguese have all established missions and trading posts, it seems, and the surfeit of attention has dampened the Asantehene’s interest in anything connected with Europe. My rejoinder was that I myself had had my fill of Europe, so much so that I was glad to leave it behind. My forthrightness made him smile. He softened towards me, but suggested that I would do well to write a letter to your father announcing my arrival. All I need now is a messenger to convey my ardent wish to the Asantehene.

Immediately after our talk I returned to my room—our room—to compose a letter, but had to tear up the first five or six drafts. I kept declaring my love for the land and the people. My tone was exclamatory instead of measured. My scribblings brimmed with emotion, but were lacking in eloquence. How do you tell someone who has forgotten you that you love him? By grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him. But at the same time you want to be tender and to hold him against your breast. How do I explain that it is possible to yearn for something you no longer know? There is no hurry. It can wait. I shall rest my pen for the day. In an hour it will be dark. (Do you remember how sudden and intense nightfall is in these parts? I was never partial to the twilight—I cannot remember a more depressing hour than tea-time at the van Moocks.) I have taken to running along the beach in the dying light. Far away, as far as possible. Panting, my heart pounding. Once I am past the settlement I shed my clothes and slip naked into the sea. The waves rock me, they know the turmoil in my breast. They draw me out over long distances and cast me back.

30 November 1847

Today the letter announcing my arrival embarked on its journey to Kumasi. Would that I could take its place.

A few days ago a frigate from the East Indies dropped anchor here. On board was a consignment of tea leaves for the Asantehene. The captain recruited a band of Fanti men to transport the goods to Kumasi. I gave the man in charge my letter to deliver to your father, for which I paid him too generously.

I was able to put my wish into words eventually. My wish to return. My letter was emotional, but rang true; it was assertive yet honourable. While writing I imagined how moved the old man would be. I could see your father’s face, elderly now, light up at receiving news of you as well as me. So I wrote at some length of you, to which you have no objection, I presume. As for myself, loyalty became the underlying theme; solidarity, a common destiny. Oh my friend, I shall die if I do not return to the Ashanti way of life. I wrote your father as much. And more. From my personal point of view. When I showed van der Eb my missive, he expressed surprise that it was written entirely in Dutch rather than in Twi. I had to explain that we had lost our mother tongue. All I can do now is wait.

At last I have an opportunity to send word to you. I shall give my letters to the captain of the merchant frigate before nightfall. I embrace you and miss you. Write to me if it is within your power.

15 December 1847

It is too soon for news from Kumasi, I am aware of that. Each morning I tell myself so, but my heart will not listen. I am impatient, certainly, and yet confident. I have been separated from my people for too long. I have not yet come home, but here in Elmina I am distant enough from my goal to look forward to reaching it, and near enough not to let impatience spoil my joy. I am in the anteroom, so to speak. I am so sure of my return that my soul permits me to be tranquil.

I spend a lot of time reading. I also go for walks, always armed with pen and paper. I seek out the prettiest places to sit in the shade and address some words to you. I eat the local produce and observe the local craftsmen. I play with their children. Last week I gave them a toy carriage I made out of a cigar box and some corks. This week they are teaching me to fish with live bait. “But are you happy?” you will ask, with your customary insistence. It is a dilemma. How can I be happy when I am deprived of your company? All this waiting, all this time to think and read the classics, has put me in a frame of mind that you, with your preference for rational thinking, would find too mystical. I am more and more convinced that happiness does not exist, only the desire to be happy. It seems to me that happiness is the absence of sadness, of longing. I hope soon to achieve that blissful state. It is an old idea. When I suggested it to you, you were outraged. You were as shocked as a church elder upon being told that the Old Testament is nothing but a collection of picaresque tales after all.

“Every man desires happiness, but in order to achieve it he had better discover what the ingredients are first.” Was it not Rousseau who said that? Or is it my own idea? It is quite possible that I merely
think
no one is happy because I have never experienced happiness myself. People who claim to be happy never seem to look it. But who am I to know what happiness looks like?

22 December 1847

I have received your letter! Kwasi my dear, I read it over and over again. The written word is all that binds us now. I must confess, I wept, I cannot help it. I wept because I missed you, thinking of your strolls in the Buchenwald, but especially because I am relieved to hear you are well.

You tell me you are a frequent visitor at Sophie’s new residence in Weimar, and that you have found lodgings in Freiberg. I wish I had a map of the area. How far is it from Freiberg to Ettersburg Castle? Evidently not so far as to prevent you from travelling there regularly.

So your host Lingke is a “Bergmechaniker”
—
but what does that word mean? Does he work in the mining industry, or is he a lecturer? Tell me everything, but avoid using too many technical terms. They confuse me, as you know.

You say you live in the “Geudtnerschen Hause.” What does that mean? Is that the Thüring dialect? You describe Freiberg so clearly: the wide street you look out on to, the “Konditorei Hartmann,” the Nicolai Church, the park, your lodgings. I can picture you walking back and forth between your bedroom and the common rooms. How far are your lodgings from the Berg Academy? Please draw me a little map—more than one, if you can. I want to be able to count your footsteps. I am not joking, I long dearly to share your experiences. “At the corner of Rinnengasse and Peterstrasse”—it sounds like a popular tune, and goes round and round in my head all day. “That is where he lives!” I tell myself, “at the corner of Rinnengasse and Peterstrasse.”

No, your anecdote did not make me laugh. It reminded me of too many similar incidents. The news that Lingke invited you on your very first day to a dinner with some city councillors and professors naturally pleased me, but that your arrival should have been announced by the shrieks of a startled housemaid who had seen the devil on the doorstep—no, I cannot find that amusing. You yourself don’t really think it is funny either, Kwasi—go on, admit it.

Your description of Sophie is so vivid that I can see her before me at this very moment. I can even imagine her being a little more rounded now, a little older. I believe you when you say you are pleased to see her happy. That is in your nature. I never doubted she would receive you with open arms, but that you should refer to Carl Alexander as a friend is quite remarkable. I am grateful to her and to her “Sasha” for the affection they have shown you. I shall write them a note, too. You are, no doubt, enjoying the company of the young dukes of Saxe-Weimar, for you were always fond of Hermann and Gustav. Life at court sounds entertaining and pleasant, but I would not wish to be in your shoes, as you may well imagine. To each his own. I prefer to do my waltzing barefoot in the sand.

No, I was not in the least surprised to hear how charmed you are by little Carl August. Only this afternoon I watched a father with his little girl, also a toddler, taking a bath at the wash-place. Never will I forget how the child clung to her father’s neck. The sight of such pure blind trust made me jealous! A child—why should not you and I be blessed with children one day? It is so comforting to think that a new trust is born with each new generation. Although you and I may never be able to trust anyone again, we may still be able to inspire it in others. We are of the age, Kwasi, and I confess that—simply by looking around in the village here—a longing for fatherhood has lodged in my breast. I know what you are thinking, and you are right: I have never in my young life met a woman who inspired true passion in me. I blame that on my displacement. All my longing was concentrated on a single aim. Now I have attained it, I promise you this: as soon as I am in Kumasi, I shall open myself fully to mature love.

I gather that you have not yet received any of my letters, not even the very first one. So once again I must face up to the cruel fact that I am deceiving myself here at my writing table. No matter how many pages I write, my pen cannot bridge the distance between us. Once I am settled in Kumasi, which will be soon, our sluggish correspondence will inevitably dwindle to no more than two or three exchanges a year. The way I feel tonight I cannot imagine surviving on such a meagre ration of news, despite the fullness of my new life. Fortunately you are always in my mind. We have long conversations together. You share every one of my experiences, and believe me—we laugh a lot.