The Two Hearts of Kwasi Boachi: A Novel (Vintage International)

by Arthur Japin

  “Tuan Douwes Dekker does not beat his buffaloes,” said the house-boy. The dull ache in my hand was soothed by his ointment. He pressed the sides of the wound together and held them in position by clenching my hand between his bare knees while he started wrapping the bandage crosswise.

  “And what next? He is to return to Holland. What will become of me then?”

  “People can adapt to change, you know.”

  “Some people can, tuan. Not me. I am not like you. I love myself too much.”

  He held the end of the bandage between his teeth to make a lengthwise tear, then tied the strips in a bow and asked me to flex my fingers. The bandage was in place. He was satisfied, took the hand again and held it a while, for no apparent reason.

  “I look at you and your friend and I can tell.” I withdrew my hand from his. “You should not put up with it,” he said urgently.

  “It is no concern of yours. I warn you.”

  I rose and made to leave. He replaced the herbs in his little chest and smiled as if he had said nothing.

  “The bandage, is it not too tight? Remember: change it every other day, yes? Will you return to the dining room now? Cook has prepared a delicious dessert.”

  “How would you know?” I asked with mock gravity, to show I had no ill feelings.

  “I know because I stole a taste.”

  I thanked him and asked his name.

  “Ahim,” he said. “That is my name. You will not forget.”

  JAVA, DELFT, WEIMAR, JAVA 1856–62

  Java

  I have never been daunted by the hostility that has been directed at my person. Quite the contrary. Pain strengthens the awareness of self. I have seldom been more conscious of my own worth than when subjected to humiliation. Such anguish gives rise to spiritual insight, a lucidity of mind. The bond arising from the exertion of power by one man over another may not be edifying, but it is certainly unequivocal. Hostage and hostage-taker need each other in equal measure. They determine each other’s position. The least token of goodwill is gratefully seized upon by either side.

  Indeed, during the years I spent in Cornelius’s service there were days when we got on together quite amicably. Not only did we compare notes on the lands that we visited, we sometimes formed very similar opinions and expressed them in virtually the same words. After a while we even shared jokes. While on our travels we would discuss new extraction methods or plan more efficient means of distribution. We even devised a labour-saving machine to bring ore to the surface. Together we admired the ornamentation and architecture of the temples we encountered on our way. We developed a similar liking for the landscape and a preference for deng deng ubi, a sauce of dried meat and sweet potato, although we never took our meals together: he dined at table, I ate elsewhere, even when he did not have company. On our day-length excursions we would surprise each other with offers of kwee kwee or gulali; the cakes were Cornelius’s favourite snack, the sweets were mine.

  Such a degree of sympathy between master and slave tends to be met with incredulity. But the truth is that neither of us hesitated to take the other’s arm when crossing a fast-flowing river.

  No, what daunted me in the end was the colonial government. I was promoted to the rank of engineer, third class, but that did not improve my position. The designation “extraordinary” was retained. To my demand for an explanation the Ministry replied: “Since you are a political ward of the Dutch State and maintain an uncommon, or extraordinary, relationship with our nation, that designation was chosen deliberately and in your best interests, notably to entitle the colonial government to offer you a more challenging post and a range of activity that is more sympathetic to you, and even a rise in remuneration or allowance without undue comparisons being drawn with your peers . . .”

  But I never received a reply to my repeated applications for a position in keeping with my skills.

  In 1853 the East Indies Life Insurance and Annuity Company was established for the benefit of civil servants in the Indies. Since I was and still am thrifty and prudent by nature, I sent in an application. A letter of rejection came by return post. The motive given was the unlikelihood of my pursuing a prolonged career in the colonial service in view of my reduced chances of promotion. I wrote back saying I had no knowledge of this. I requested them to substantiate their claim or else to reconsider my application, but all I received in reply was a non-committal note accompanied by a brochure from an investment company.

  Time and again I received vague signals of this kind. I could feel something was seriously wrong, but found no tangible evidence. There was a sense of injustice, but it was impossible to put a name to its cause. How can a man take a stand against what is nameless? He feels demeaned, and consequently loses faith in himself. Without faith there is no future.

  I was not yet twenty-seven years old. I had turned my back on my past. I had no choice but to fight for my future.

  When I entered my sixth year in the Indies without having secured any guarantees for my career, I put in a request for a furlough so that I might put my case before the authorities in Holland. On 24 May 1856 I embarked from Batavia. I was alone, without regrets, and without expectations.

  The dockside was alive with nervous activity. I recognized several government officials in the crowd. For a moment I thought they had come for me, but when I greeted them they said little. I stowed my belongings in my cabin, took the midday meal on deck, and was idly watching the busy traffic in the harbour when I noticed the arrival of a closed carriage, from which a gentleman alighted and hurried on board. He did not appear at the dinner table, but it was soon rumoured that we counted among our passengers former Governor-General Duymaer van Twist, who had handed his resignation in to Minister of Colonies Pahud two days earlier.

  Duymaer van Twist, a man of gentle disposition, had shown himself to be an enlightened governor-general by taking such measures as curtailing statute labour, improving popular education and lowering the leases for the bazaar. Unfortunately, a kind nature does not always spell strength of character. So it came to pass in the final months of his term that a shadow was cast over his merits by his attitude in a case involving Douwes Dekker versus a number of chiefs and the Council of the Indies, in which he had failed to support the former in his campaign against unfair treatment of the natives. This betrayal had wounded Duymaer van Twist himself as much as Douwes Dekker, who went on to write a controversial novel dealing at length with the debacle. I am in two minds about the affair. Of course I admire Douwes Dekker’s humanitarian ideas, but I cannot see the worth of propagating them so loudly that one is discharged from the very post in which, with a little more diplomacy, one might have dealt with abuse and injustice from the inside. However, I cannot claim to have been more successful with my attitude of patience and discretion.

  I had hoped for an opportunity to bring my own case to Duymaer van Twist’s attention during the voyage to Europe, but he did not appear on deck until we reached Madagascar, and only rarely afterwards. Now and then I would catch sight of him at night, when we were both unable to sleep. If he noticed my presence he would greet me cordially, but usually he was sunk in thought. I did not disturb him, but found myself a quiet corner and put out my lamp, after which each of us regarded our private ghosts in the shimmer of the moonlit waves.

  It was on one of these nights, before we had rounded the Cape, that I found him on deck leaning back against the railing, resting his elbows loosely on either side. Before him stood a young sailor, who was explaining the position of the Southern Cross in relation to the Pleiades. My interest was aroused, and I sat down on a coil of rope to listen. Then the boy was called away, and for a long while we gazed in silence at the swathe of the southern milky way. When he at last spoke his question startled me.

  “Do you long for the fatherland, Boachi?”

  “The fatherland?”

  “You have been disappointed.”

  “I think I have one fatherland too many.”

 
“Which one is that?”

  “I cannot say.”

  “No, I suppose not,” he said, and lit a fresh cigarette.

  “I have changed sides too often.”

  “And I not often enough.”

  The governor-general had proved to be a friend to me several times without any prompting on my part. The first of these occasions had been soon after our visit to Amboina. Duymaer van Twist and Douwes Dekker were still on good terms at the time. They shared a hatred of injustice and Douwes Dekker was able to arrange for Cornelius to be summoned for an official interview. What was said on that occasion I do not know, but—as I might have expected—the show of concern for my lot turned against me. The ill treatment I was subjected to only became more cunning, the malice went underground so to speak, where it was more difficult than ever to keep track of.

  For a while, Cornelius had managed to control his hot temper. It was not until the following year, in Celebes, that things got really out of hand. In the course of an arduous journey across rough countryside, during which we had to forgo an escort party owing to a cut in our budget, he injured me more gravely than he had intended. I suffered a broken rib. Shocked by my cries and by the sight of blood oozing from my side, he abandoned me at the side of the road. A group of children found me and guided me across a mountain pass to the hamlet of Tembamba. My black skin caused a sensation there, but the villagers nursed me so lovingly that I was soon well enough to make my way back to Batavia, where I arrived only four weeks after Cornelius. It transpired that he had reported me “missing, probably lost.” This incident was investigated at the instigation of Duymaer van Twist. As I myself felt somewhat uneasy about having quarrelled with my superior and also ashamed of my own weakness, I had not mentioned the cause of my injury to anyone, but the affair earned de Groot a reprimand and his career suffered as a result. After this I resumed my position, albeit reluctantly, and for a while my nemesis lay low.

  “You know, we seem doomed to get in each other’s hair, Boachi,” he said in a jocular tone. Then he told me to open a bottle of his best claret and offered me a glass. “It’s not as if we have any friends. It’s a matter of each man for himself. That’s what I’ve been trying to get across—it’s time you took charge of your life.”

  We drank far too much that night and sang soldiers’ ditties together, arm in arm. He never reproached me for the loss of face he had suffered as a result of our clash in Celebes, and for some time life was not unpleasant. He demonstrated how wrong it is to fortify one’s opponent by a show of weakness. I was still Cornelius’s pupil.

  A direct consequence of this affair was that Duymaer van Twist set about improving my situation. In April 1854 he ruled that I should be released from my secretarial duties for seven months of the year, during which time I was granted a provisional licence to conduct research.

  During the first weeks of my—temporary—release from de Groot’s service I felt quite lost. I barely ventured out in public, and now that I was in a position to take the initiative I had no idea in which direction to turn.

  I spent much of my seven months writing, as I had done previously, but from now on my words were my own. Not only did I begin to keep a diary, I was also inspired to revive my correspondence with Sophie, who had recently become grand duchess of Weimar. I initiated several research schemes, and reported on my findings in various publications. (My article “Coal samples from the shores of Seagull Bay, Bantam Residency” was published in the Scientific Journal for the Netherlands Indies, and “Notes on the Chinese in Java” in a German periodical devoted to oriental studies.) The factual terseness of these texts made me thirst after a more imaginative undertaking. I cast around for a source and found a small wellspring from which I drew several poems and three short stories, which I sent to Sophie. I also started writing a play, which I did not complete. Then I composed some essays, after which I attempted to write a memoir of my youth. However, the feelings were still too raw.

  I re-entered Cornelius’s service in November 1854 with far more confidence than before. De Groot made various attempts to break my will, but I was determined not to give up the few privileges I had secured. Within two months I felt obliged to appeal to Duymaer van Twist, who had already been so helpful of his own accord. I wrote him a letter requesting relocation to Holland. But although I sent him reminders of my request, a reply never came.

  “There was so much at stake. With all respect, sir, you cannot imagine how much was at stake.”

  “Indeed I can,” I said.

  Duymaer van Twist had sent for two chairs to be brought on deck, as well as sugar-water and some bread. A few clouds in the east were set ablaze by the first rays of sunshine, making them look like ships with flaming sails chasing across the horizon. A few seconds later it was light.

  “I am aware of the stakes involved,” I said. “I owe my removal from Africa to them. But it wasn’t the fault of one particular person. The forces that come into play in such cases are impossible to contain, much less to control. They defy all comprehension, all legality. In the past people would have attributed them to fate.”

  “I made a point of completing the arrangements for your furlough before Pahud took over from me. I hope you will find a more ready ear in Holland for your pleas than in the Indies. Decisions made in Europe cannot be unmade in Batavia. I advise you to appeal directly to the king, and not to leave the country until you have received formal confirmation that your demands have been met. I’m afraid you cannot expect much from Pahud as governor-general.”

  “Why not?”

  “Trust me.”

  “It is my fate, I suppose. A comforting thought. No one is to blame for fate.”

  “And you are prepared to accept that?”

  The belly of the ship awakened. A hatch opened and a party of sailors poured across the deck, each setting to his appointed task.

  “I am tired,” I said. “It is hard to know what to think. Political motives are incompatible with justice, it seems. What I do know is that the wishes of the group always take precedence over those of the solitary individual.”

  “That is why we choose to follow the Greek model. In a democracy every man has an equal say.”

  “That does not mean he will be heard.”

  “But at least he has a voice.”

  “Just one. And who will hear it when everyone else is shouting in chorus? Most people tend to align their opinions with those of their friends and neighbours. It is a natural propensity. To deviate from the norm is always seen as a greater risk. First they establish the norms, and then they are frightened they will be unable to observe them. That is why they huddle together. They find their identity by joining forces against anything deviant. They can’t help reinforcing each other’s prejudices. No, there will always be groups. Democracy merely legitimizes the dictatorship of the majority.”

  “Are you saying that you would prefer the tyranny of an old-fashioned despot?”

  “At least tyranny is forthright. You are either in favour or out. If you are out of favour you must keep silent. You can seek refuge or flee, but at least you know your enemy. There is no cause for suspicion of your fellows. To me at any rate such a state of affairs is less irksome than the tolerance of the masses, for tolerance is capricious, imponderable, no more than a mask.”

  “But don’t you believe in the righteousness of majority rule in all things?”

  “Quite the contrary, for it means that the minority must always bend to the will of the majority. There is no benefit in this for the few.”

  “Does that mean you believe that the rights of the group necessarily curtail the rights of the individual?”

  “I am sure of it,” I said. “I do not belong in any group, big or small. And yet my presence is seized upon, for people find it easy to judge a man who is different in every respect, a man who stands alone. No sir, for the likes of me democracy is surely the least favourable of systems.”

  Duymaer van Twist leaned back in his chair
so as not to miss a moment of the sunrise, which was now flooding the crests of the waves with orange. When he spoke it was in a low voice: “Do you realize how much better I would feel if I could feel certainty?”

  “Certainty?”

  “As you have. As Douwes Dekker has. The certainty of being right.”

  “You do not understand,” I said, rising to my feet in order to return to my cabin. “Douwes Dekker stands alone because he made a choice. I stand alone because I lacked the courage to do so.”

  Delft

  The streets of Delft were veiled in a light mist. The August sunshine was steaming the cobbles dry after a shower. I had my hired carriage draw up in front of my old boarding school. As I alighted I was struck at once by the paint flaking off the woodwork, then by the deep silence in the hall. I found Mrs. van Moock in the parlour, where the curtains were drawn. Her eyesight was poor.

  “But do come here, my dear Prince. Come close to the window, closer, closer.” She opened the curtains a little way and drew me into the shaft of light. Placing her hands on my shoulders she rocked me gently at arm’s length, peering at me through her eyelashes.

  “No, a dark smudge. That’s all I can make out.” She pressed me to her bosom. I had forgotten how small she was.

  “He is deceased, did you know?” she whispered in my ear. I had already heard the sad news and offered her my condolences.

  “Ah well, the end came as he would have wanted. He was standing among the ruins of Troy. He had taken Anchises on his shoulders. Father and son wept to be leaving their city. Mr. van Moock turned round for a parting look, and the emotion was simply too great. He died there and then, on his feet. When he was lying in his coffin I said: ‘My dear van Moock, at least you gave one of your classes an unforgettable impression of the anguish of exile.’ ”