The Two Hearts of Kwasi Boachi: A Novel

by Arthur Japin

  I sank to my knees on the salty ground, overcome with exhaustion. My heart ached and yet I was content. These salt pans are replenished with tears.

  10 February 1850

  Osei Tutu’s priest Anokye has summoned the Golden Stool, Sika Dwa, from the sky. It came down on the knees of the Asantehene in a dark cloud amid rolling thunder, while the air was thick with flying sand. It is the throne to which I am entitled by birth, and it is there that the soul of our people resides. News came from Kumasi today that one of my younger brothers is to inherit your father’s title. I sat down at once to write a letter of protest to the Asantehene, and another letter to my mother, begging her to explain how this could have happened. Van der Eb still does not believe that I have seen her in the flesh. However, he appreciates the gravity of the situation, and is willing to send a special envoy to Kumasi at the earliest opportunity.

  12 February 1850

  I have received your cut-out silhouette. It is indeed a deft piece of work. You tell me that these paper mementoes are all the rage in Weimar, and that you have sent them to all your friends and relations who wear them on their person or hang them on their walls as if they were works of art. But what am I to do with such a thing? Of all the manners of portrayal this is surely the most inane. It is flat, featureless and expressionless, and tells me less about you than your footprint.

  Forgive me my ingratitude. I have not been myself lately. Setting eyes on your profile distressed me deeply—your cut-out shadow mounted on a white ground, hardly more characteristic than an ink stain. I cannot bear to look at it.

  Raden Saleh’s painting, too, has been drained of human expression. The salt has won. We have melted away. In many places the canvas is visible through the paint. Your left eye, cheek and shoulder have been spared until now, while all there is left of me is my nose and one of my knees. The colours have gone. You may be doing the rounds as a black silhouette in Weimar, but here your face is deathly pale.

  Enough about the young ladies in Weimar, and more young ladies in Freiberg! I am sick and tired of them. All clamouring for a lock of your hair, because they are enchanted by the tight curls. And you allow them to pluck you like a chicken. You tell me they have even named their weekly meetings the “Ashanti Circle” in your honour—my goodness what a tribute—and that you actually grace these gatherings with your presence. You evidently still enjoy being the centre of attention. Attention, Kwasi, is not the same as acceptance. Being tolerated signifies not being equal.

  All those balls and hunting parties, the grand personages who pat you on the back, your membership of the rakish Saxon-Bavarian drinking club—they mean nothing to me. Please spare me the details of life at court, the evenings spent in the company of your noble friends and your tête-à-têtes with Liszt. Your message has come across loud and clear—you are finding life at Athens-on-the-Ilm congenial! Enough!

  Oh my dearest, most beloved friend, with whom I shared everything. If you do not feel the same as I do, who does? Don’t fret. Your friendship is safe with me, and I am only chiding you because I cannot bear the thought of one of those silly young ladies displaying you to her friends and then, after you have taken your leave, gossiping about you at the witches’ coven . . . Take no notice of what I have written. Go your own way. I am cursed with a deeply suspicious nature, and whatever you do, do not allow my distrust to divert you from your cause. Thank God you are more sanguine. That does not mean you are safe, but at least you have an open mind.

  And remember this: if I were to live my life anew, I would prefer exile with the comfort of having you at my side to a life of ease in Kumasi deprived of your company.

  16 February 1850

  Since my excursion into the forest my mother has been visiting me in my dreams. She looks real, but I am unable to take her in my arms. She brings images and many words. She sits at my bedside, partially screened by the curtain, and teaches me poems. In Twi. I echo her words. Memorize them. And when I awake I make a note of the words I have learnt. Quite miraculous, don’t you agree? I try not to think about the cause or the meaning of this phenomenon. The spirit world is not rational. My notebook already contains one hundred and fifty new words, which I practise during the day in an effort to construct sentences out of them.

  I have reached the point in my life where I take more pleasure in reliving past experiences than in living the present. Indeed, memory has more to offer than real life.

  20 February 1850

  What surprises me above all else is that people can be so blind. The world is so simply construed, but they appear not to see it. There is good and there is evil. That is all. You can tell the difference a mile off. But even the few people in whom I have put my trust over the years have been unable to keep them apart.

  To do good is to have a good life. To do evil with intent is to have a bad life. Nature sees to that. I can see wrongs being committed, and I long to warn the wrongdoers of the misfortune they are in fact bringing down upon themselves, but when I open my mouth to speak I see how futile it is. I myself have never wronged anyone, and yet look at me . . .

  The truth is this: my little monkey king fell foul of his clan. That is why he had to die. Nature is unequivocal in these matters. I had no desire to be implicated. You and I know better than most what happens when people start meddling with destiny. A king is a king, whether dead or alive, whether here or there. He who is weak must die. I have no regrets. I merely gave nature a hand. One branch withers, the other thrives—as Osei Tutu said.

  In three days I have learnt no fewer than forty-five new words of Twi, including the names of a variety of kitchen utensils and several diseases. That bodes well.

  21 February 1850

  You should have seen their faces. At luncheon today I surprised the officers by addressing them exclusively in Twi. It was quite easy, the words and phrases came tumbling out of my mouth of their own accord. Opening the shutters and letting fly, that is all it takes.

  Note in the governor’s log book at Fort Elmina:

  22 February 1850

  Today our small community has su fered a most sad loss. At eight-thirty a.m., in his private room, the Ashanti Prince Quame Poku took his life by shooting himself through the brain. The impact was so great that the poor fellow’s face was mutilated beyond recognition.

  The four walls of the room, the bed-curtains and the ceiling were splattered with blood and brain tissue. He was dressed in the ceremonial kente cloth, which was woven by him personally.

  He appears to have put the weapon to his head directly behind the left ear. The weapon, which was found next to the body, is the same hunting rifle that was presented to him by the Ministry of Colonies upon his arrival here. It seems that he used loose gunpowder, as there was no trace of a bullet.

  No motive for this desperate deed has been found, other than that his mind seemed strangely confused during the past three days. Yesterday at the commander’s mess, for instance, all he did was babble unintelligibly.

  PART FIVE

  JAVA 1900

  Buitenzorg, 3 August

  Mrs. Renselaar burst in on me yesterday morning at an unearthly hour wearing her travelling costume. I was still in my dressing-gown having breakfast—much to her annoyance.

  “There is very little time,” she snapped, “for we are off to Batavia today!”

  “Well then, I wish you a good journey,” I said, “and do not hurry back on my account.” She stood and watched open-mouthed as I peeled my mangosteen. I divided the fruit carefully into eight equal parts, and proceeded to eat one of them slowly.

  “Shouldn’t you be getting dressed?”

  “Certainly, in good time. But by then you will be halfway there.”

  “I have no intention of going on my own. You are coming with me.”

  I choked on a piece of fruit and spat it out into my napkin. “Madam, the last journey I took was to the Salak foothills. From there I had a good view of my house and the plantation, and yet my only desire was to retur
n home as quickly as possible.”

  “Nonsense, you travelled halfway across the world when you were only a child.”

  “And you can see what good it did me.”

  “You have criss-crossed the world all your life, and never complained.”

  “Those days are over. I have arrived at my destination.”

  “Don’t be absurd. We are going by rail. You can be back by evening.”

  “Out of the question. I am too old for pleasure-trips.”

  “Ah,” she said, “but it is not pleasure that we seek.” She turned away briefly, fumbled in her blouse and produced a small brass key, which she waved at me triumphantly. She seemed to expect me to applaud, and when I did not oblige she dropped her arm, drew up a chair and deposited the key on the table with a flourish.

  “Now listen carefully. My husband left the house in the early hours to attend to his business in Batavia. Half an hour ago a courier arrived with a summons for Mr. Renselaar to travel at once to Bandung, where the governor is meeting with a delegation of high officials from The Hague. I told him my husband was already on his way to Batavia. The matter appears to be so urgent that the young man departed at once to go after him.”

  “Most interesting, I’m sure,” I drawled.

  “Yes, isn’t it?” She beamed.

  “How does that concern me?”

  “The courier will soon catch up with my husband, who will barely have had time to sit down at his desk when he hears of the governor’s summons. He gathers together his necessities at once, notifies his subordinates that he must absent himself, and departs for Bandung post-haste.” She mimed the entire scene for my benefit. I interrupted her when she launched into a description of her husband tearing his hair out while consulting his watch.

  “Very good,” I said, “and what of it?”

  “Well, hardly will he have gone when my presence is announced. I will be told that he has been called away on urgent business. This is exceedingly annoying. I fly into a rage. They try to appease me, in vain. I have an appointment to meet him, and have come all this way for nothing.”

  “So why go there, for heaven’s sake?”

  “I insist on taking a rest in his office. With you.”

  “Me?”

  “Certainly. You will have made the journey for nothing as well. You just stand there, helplessly. You, a poor old man! They cannot simply turn us away after all our effort. It would be most uncivil. Where would we go? I feel quite faint. I make a scene.”

  “I do not doubt it.”

  “Just so as to be left alone for a short while. In his office. At his desk. We sit down.”

  “At last.”

  “We ask for some refreshments and tell them we are not to be disturbed. Then I take out this key. It is the key to the drawer of his desk, where he keeps the case containing the dossiers he is currently engaged in. Yours is among them. You will have half an hour to read it.” She swept the key off the table and slipped it back into her blouse. “Just half an hour and the mystery will be solved.” Feeling she deserved a reward, she pulled my plate towards her and devoured the fruit I had prepared. Meanwhile the implications of her plan began to dawn on me.

  “So you purloined your husband’s key on my account?”

  “Good gracious no, I had a copy made when he was taking his afternoon nap the other day. One never knows when such things will come in handy. Well now,” she said, smiling so broadly that the mangosteen juice trickled down her chin, “are you going to get properly dressed or do you intend to parade the streets in dishabille?”

  I went to my room in a daze. Ahim came running to help me wash and dress, but I could not bear him touching me and sent him away. I was very agitated, my whole body was shaking. As usual I cursed the woman for making such a fuss, but at the same time I was touched by the trouble she was taking on my behalf. I needed a few moments to compose myself. I pressed my bolster to my mouth to stifle a cry.

  The truth is that I have felt no desire to see anyone at all lately. I have been totally immersed in my self-imposed task. Having embarked on my personal memoir—which gave me little pleasure—I started rereading Kwame’s letters. I could not bring myself to take out more than one each day. By the time I reached the end I was so sad that my stomach could not tolerate any food. My body rebelled against the torment in my brain. Thoughts can ferment. They are like gin: you keep taking yet another sip in the hope of rinsing your mouth of the taste, but the blood curdles. The older you get, the harder your heart has to work to pump away the toxin.

  Last week Ahim ignored all my orders. We had our umpteenth altercation over luncheon. I was unable to eat the food he had prepared. He blamed my lack of appetite on my memoir and on my reclusive ways. I was more inclined to blame his cooking skills, but had the sense not to tell him so. I said he should mind his own business. He lost his temper, and stalked off into the kampung. He searched out my little daughter, whom he took from her mother and brought back to me. He came into my room carrying the child on his back. He pushed aside the papers scattered on the table and sat Quamina down in front of me. All this time he did not say a word. She was lively, and delighted to see me. She stretched out her little arms to hug me. I was nonplussed. I drew her on to my lap, gently, because with children and animals I am always afraid I might harm them. Ahim rolled up the blinds, after which he brought a piece of cardboard and some crayons. He handed me the musical box. I turned the handle and watched the child’s fascination at the tinkling notes. After a while we took her to the garden, and for the next few hours my mind was happily free from preoccupying thoughts. When it was time to take Quamina back to her mother, Ahim had to pull us apart. To please him, I ate the food he served me that evening. The next morning I awoke without a headache for the first time in weeks.

  Quamina’s sudden appearance had moved me much as Mrs. Renselaar’s show of concern did now. I hastened to put on the clothes that Ahim had laid out on the bed.

  Batavia was thronged with people. Perhaps I am less tolerant of crowds than I used to be, but to me it seemed that everyone was at each other’s throats. The close array of stalls encroached on the carriageway, while the vendors vied for attention with a chaos of garish signs and banners. We were jostled by people on all sides, running and shouting. Children played at our feet, and here and there an aged person slept on the ground. The stinking open sewers were choked with filth, and their banks were lined with chickens, rats and stray dogs. It was a madhouse. There was no rest for the eyes. The dust raised by the porters, horses and carts didn’t have room to settle, so that it formed a yellow haze which constricted my throat. Besides, the thick evil fumes from the heaps of refuse smouldering on every street corner poisoned each breath I took.

  Adeline led the way, swinging her parasol like a scythe, as if she were cutting a swathe through the multitude. We picked our way across the square in front of the railway station and managed to hail a cab. Once we were sitting down I told her how much I disliked the frenzy of the city.

  “Well, we are living in a new century now,” she retorted. “We cannot turn the clock back. It is only because you knew Java when it was paradise that you are shocked by the hectic pace of today.”

  “Paradise? Ankle-deep in mud and decaying roots, plagued by monsoons and mosquitoes? No madam, my idea of paradise is on a somewhat higher plane.”

  “Nonsense. You are devoted to this country. Why else did you stay?”

  “Good question, madam.”

  Our carriage drew up in front of the head office. Adeline alighted first, whereupon she took my arm to help me down. We heard a cry of anguish: an old woman trying to cross the road in front of our carriage had been knocked over by a coolie. The fellow did not stop to see what he had done and no one seemed to be about to help the old woman to her feet. She was even showered with abuse by a rickshaw driver, who had to swerve sharply to avoid running over her legs. I knew this already. All respect for life becomes smothered by the sheer magnitude of the masses. It
is each man for himself nowadays in Batavia.

  Mrs. Renselaar sprang into action. She tried to help the woman to her feet. The frail figure recoiled. The sight of that enormous white-faced body bending over her shocked her more deeply than her fall. Tenacious as ever, Adeline lost her balance and tumbled on top of the unfortunate old woman. When they were finally on their feet again I saw that both women had streaks of mud in their hair. I took out my handkerchief and offered it to Adeline, but she declined. Her dishevelment, she said, would come in handy. She wiped her hands at length on my lapels, so that I looked bedraggled too, after which she took my arm and drew me towards the gate of the head office.

  At first all went according to plan. Mrs. Renselaar overwhelmed the sentry with a torrent of words and strode past him without even slowing her pace. She opened the cast-iron door herself, and crossed the marble hall which gave on to three corridors and a flight of stairs. Without a moment’s hesitation she made for the first floor. She thumped up the wooden staircase, with me following quietly behind her.

  “Now remember,” she said, “you and I are in command today. Keep that in mind and act accordingly, then no one will ask awkward questions.” She opened the doors to two or three offices, without knocking and without the clerks raising their heads. We crossed an attendant in the corridor, who gave us a surprised but friendly nod. Adeline enquired where the archive office was. He pointed it out and went on his way. Adeline fumbled with the knob. When the door did not open she threw all her weight against it with her hip. At this point two thoughts were uppermost in my mind: I had to keep my knees from buckling and also to control the ringing in my ears which would prevent me from hearing people coming to restrain us. My eyes darted this way and that in terror, and I was just wondering why I had inflicted all this on myself when the door gave way. She stumbled into the room and found herself staring into the gaunt face of the archivist. He peered at us over his spectacles like a man neither accustomed nor partial to visitors.