by Arthur Japin
But then Adeline is the prima donna of our amateur dramatics society here at Buitenzorg. Indeed she insisted on reciting her latest role for my benefit: Desdemona! For a moment I was afraid she would press me to play the part of Othello, but she was only interested in her solo performance. I groaned and pretended to be suffering from sickness, St. Vitus fits, beriberi and an ague all at once, but she ignored my grimaces. After her finale, during which she was to be throttled by the Moor—which deed made him my favourite stage hero—she came to the point.
“My dear Prince, or what am I saying? Isn’t it time we were on more familiar terms? What do you think?”
“I would rather not.”
“Mister Boachi, Aquasi, dear old man, I wish you could bring yourself to see me for what I am—your family. All that grouchiness is nothing but a mask. Do take it off.”
“Madam, since you seem to think that all the world’s a stage, may I remind you that my life is not another of your sketches. There is no role in it for you. My stage make-up has taken many years to apply. If it is not to your liking, please proceed to the variety theatre!”
“Delightful! How amusing, a little play—how very clever!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands. The sound was muffled by her kid gloves. I gave up and let her have her say.
“Your fête. We have had consultations with the manager of the Society, and also with the owner of Tjiwaringi. The latter has a good, high-ceilinged hall, which can be rented for receptions quite inexpensively, and there is a charming podium. Do you have a preference for either one?”
“No podium at all sounds ideal to me.”
“You are not taking this seriously. Never mind, I suppose it is not fair to presume on the honoured person himself for organizational support. I would hate to impose on you. You have no idea how much I am enjoying the preparations. And everything seems to be going according to plan. Everyone is enthusiastic. It looks as if you have become one of the most beloved members of our community. Why the dark look, mon Prince? You are cynical. You do not believe me. I tell you that half the town is already wreathing laurels, in a manner of speaking. That look! All right then, shall I tell you . . . there is a slight possibility—do not get me wrong, only a slight possibility—that the governor himself will engage in the event. A great marquee by the Deer Park, the same as on New Year’s Day!” She clapped her hand over her mouth and stared at a corner of the room as if the entire circus were parading past already.
“Mrs. Renselaar,” I interrupted, “I do not doubt the goodness of your intentions, but the general euphoria concerning my person, such as you describe it—even if it were sincere—cannot but pain me. You are right, I am a bad-tempered old man. That is what fifty years of Java have done to me. And you wish to celebrate that fact? How, may I ask, do you intend to do that? By rousing the enthusiasm of the same people who have ignored me for half a century?”
“That is not true.”
“Well, not the same people, perhaps, although the distinction is hard to draw. If I have won their sympathy by approaching the end of my life, then that is a bitter thought. Where were they when I embarked on my career? When I had problems with my workforce? When I needed a mortgage? Why were the doors of their balls closed to a dark-skinned young man, and why would they wish to dance at his fête now that he is old and faded?”
“If you mean, if you are insinuating that . . . I always say, the prince, our prince, is a true Hollander. Truer than most, I should say. After all, you could have been a prince of Orange yourself, if, that is, if you were, if you were not . . .”
She had forgotten her lines. I decided to prolong the moment by keeping silent.
“. . . what I mean is this. We regard you as one of us. Do you hear? And this is something I feel very strongly about. We have taken you to our hearts!”
“Hurrah!” I said meanly, “and that makes my life a success, I suppose.”
“Your tone! So dreadful. I honestly believe that you despise me. Me! While I am the one, I . . . from the very first mention of your misfortune . . .”
“Misfortune?”
“That life of yours!”
“Which misfortune?”
“Well, I’ll be honest with you . . . I wept! I resolved to improve our acquaintance and if possible to offer some amicable companionship by way of retribution.”
“Retribution?”
“But no, you would rather hang back with a disgruntled look on your face. You choose to exclude me. Me! I who have come to you to deepen our acquaintance, really to get to know you.”
“Dear lady, what on earth have you done that might warrant retribution,” I cried, “except wasting my time with your histrionics!” I had to raise my voice to get a word in edgeways.
“I feel responsible,” she said solemnly, laying her hand on her bosom, “for your fate.”
I aped her grand gesture, adding a scornful shrug of the shoulders for good measure. She was beside herself.
“I of all people . . . and I had so looked forward to our meeting. From the moment my husband told me . . . But I was mistaken. I should not have come. I should not have cared a whit for your affair. But that’s just my way you know, I can’t abide injustice. And now . . . now . . . You are taking advantage of my feelings. You are wicked. A monster, a devil, Mephistopheles in person!” She had worked herself into such a state that she burst into tears. Not like the Desdemona of the Indies this time, with great sobs racking her heaving bosom, but like a disconsolate little girl, quietly, almost inaudibly. And for all my resentment I felt pity for the poor woman. I sent Ahim to make her some lemonade and moved her to the porch, where I sat her down, bustle and all, in the rocking chair. I drew up my own cane chair and sat next to her. We said nothing, but I held one hand on the back of her rocking chair, moving it gently. The soothing rhythm calmed her, just as I had hoped. After a few minutes she took my other hand in hers, and we sat like that for some time, gazing into the garden.
“Of course I had heard rumours,” she recommenced quietly.
“Of course,” I said. A young capuchin monkey landed in the flame tree. We watched it hunting for food among the flakes of bark.
“Most remarkable rumours,” she continued in a low voice, “quite disparate. Some I never credited, but nearly all were respectful.”
The monkey in the tree, having sated its appetite, leaped away and vanished into the thick foliage. Adeline took out a handkerchief and blew her nose daintily.
“My husband and I are childless. God wished it so. I spend my days alone, at home. Now that Richard has been promoted I even spend the entire week alone. All alone. You know what that means.” She sipped her lemonade and composed herself. “Richard works in Batavia nowadays. Since his advancement six months ago he leaves the house on Monday morning and I don’t see him again until Friday evening. You have children. You are fortunate.”
She wanted to rise, but could not bring herself to let go of my hand. “I have become accustomed to solitude. Believe it or not. Appearances are against me, I know, but I assure you that it is with the greatest difficulty that I engage in social relationships. Each time I must overcome my own sensitivities. Our dramatics society is my only distraction. Acting allows me to forget myself. And when I go out I brace myself, ruffle up my feathers like a fighting cock. I see the ladies and gentlemen aglow with complacency and I know: I am not one of them! But I shall not give up. I shall outdo myself. Transcend the misery of my situation. I am acting my part, which is that of a foolish old crone. It is a balloon that you have punctured with your sharp intellect. But I have no choice, don’t you see, not when I am among the others. In our Dutch colony it is either sink or swim.” She started crying again. This time I was not to be shaken.
“Why are you telling me these things?” I said in my coolest voice. I dreaded being subjected to a melodramatic soliloquy.
“God did not bless me with motherhood, but He gave me something in its stead. Something extra, a special sensitivity. You could say it was som
ething beyond the normal, although I myself have no truck with all that nonsense about magic and guna-guna one keeps hearing. No, let’s just call it my sixth sense.”
“Your sixth sense,” I echoed, just to please her. “What is it?”
“It is love!”
“Since when was that a sense?”
“It is the love that has accumulated in me . . . like, like the deposit of hairs on the drain in the washroom! There is nowhere for it to go! I know I sound absurd, you must think I’m out of my mind, but what can I do—this is how I feel. My sorrow has made me hypersensitive. I can tell the emotional state of people from afar. Once they come near I can read them, the way one reads the Illustrated Review. Like an open book. I can sense disturbances with a precision that would make the meteorological office in Batavia green with envy.”
I was suddenly worried by the possibility that Ahim had fortified her lemonade with rum. To make matters worse she fell silent at this point and gazed at me, as if she had just revealed a state secret and expected a medal for her service.
“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.
