The Two Hearts of Kwasi Boachi: A Novel

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Praise

  PART ONE

  JAVA 1900

  WEST AFRICA 1836–37

  1

  2

  3

  4

  JAVA 1900

  PART TWO

  DELFT 1837–39

  1

  2 - Words

  3

  4

  PART THREE

  DELFT 1839–4 7

  1

  2 - On the Noble Savage

  3

  4

  PART FOUR

  WEST AFRICA 1847–50

  PART FIVE

  JAVA 1900

  DUTCH EAST INDIES 1850–55

  1

  2

  JAVA, DELFT, WEIMAR, JAVA 1856–62

  Java

  Delft

  Weimar

  Java

  Java 1900

  About the Author

  Afterword

  Copyright Page

  ACCLAIM FOR ARTHUR JAPIN’S

  The Two Hearts of Kwasi Boachi

  “A classic tragedy. . . . This is a true story, fully and humanly imagined, and that is the measure of Japin’s accomplishment.”

  —San Francisco Chronicle

  “A virtuoso re-creation of an extraordinary life.”

  —Daily Telegraph (London)

  “A mesmerizing tale about the personal cost of assimilation. . . . Like Arthur Golden’s in Memoirs of a Geisha, Japin’s ventriloquism is virtually flawless. ” —Time Out New York

  “Deeply thought and intricately worked. . . . The whole is as seamless in its artistry as it is moving in its emotional investigations.”

  —The Times Literary Supplement

  “Arthur Japin has written a complex novel, beautifully crafted and spellbinding.” —Daily Mail

  “A powerful story. . . . A fascinating study of how people deal with difference.” —Financial Times

  “A tour de force. . . . Be prepared for surprises on every page.” —The Dallas Morning News

  “Exceptionally well-told and emotionally absorbing.” —Deseret News

  “Beautifully written. . . . Quietly moving, Japin’s novel is a powerful study of displacement and disillusionment.” —Booklist

  “Given our increasingly diverse society, this exploration of the difference between tolerance and acceptance is both evocative and important.”

  —Library Journal (starred)

  “A potent dramatization of culture shock, ethnic injustice, and exploitation. . . . As artful and moving an analysis of the tragedy of colonialism as we have seen in many years.”

  —Kirkus Reviews (starred)

  ARTHUR JAPIN

  The Two Hearts of Kwasi Boachi

  Arthur Japin is an actor, opera singer, and writer. His research for The Two Hearts of Kwasi Boachi took him through Europe, Asia, and Africa; during one trip to Ghana, he was kidnapped and held for ransom before breaking away from his captors and making his escape. He lives in Utrecht, the Netherlands.

  Kwasi Boachi as a young man

  PART ONE

  JAVA 1900

  19 February

  The first ten years of my life I was not black. I was in many ways different from those around me, but not darker. That much I know. Then came the day when I became aware that my colour had deepened. Later, once I was black, I paled again.

  On every tea field I had, I always planted some poinsettias, also called flame-leaf or euphorbia. A touch of scarlet amid the green every hundred yards or so prevents blindness among the pickers. Seeing the same colour for hours on end causes the vision to blur, like staring into the sun. A single flash of a different hue restores the contrast.

  Such a lone red plant has a remarkable effect on its surroundings. Everything that is green draws together. Before the eye, all the variegated shades of green in the tea bushes, which were clearly distinguishable at first, blend into one sea of colour. Differences disappear. The decor becomes monotonous. What else is there to say other than—yes, how green it all is. A very green sort of green. Or rather: it is offensively un-red!

  Conversely, the red plant itself burns a brighter red when set off by the green than when it grows among its peers. In the bed I always reserved for poinsettia seedlings, there was little to distinguish one plant from its neighbours. My poinsettia did not turn scarlet until I planted it out in new surroundings. Colour is not something one has, colour is bestowed on one by others.

  It is 1900. Anniversary celebrations are popular this year in Buitenzorg society. Wedding anniversaries, the anniversary of Grandmother’s demise, Madame’s umpteenth change of hair colour. Anything for a celebration. Indeed the new century is being fêted week in week out, and only so that ghosts may be laid. Everyone wishes to convince themselves and each other that all is well and that bygones should be bygones. A great show is made of having no fears about the future.

  And so word has been put about that it is half a century since I arrived in the Indies. Congratulations for nothing! Notwithstanding my profound reluctance, Adeline Renselaar, Mrs. van Zadelhof’s cousin, has set her mind on having a celebration. She has already involved three families in her machinations, and was even seen in the Deer Park last week, chattering to the governor about this very matter.

  A small committee of organizers sprang a visit on me this morning to discuss the timing and location of my jubilee. They enquired after the sensitivities of my elderly stomach, so that they might take them into account when planning the menu for the banquet. The style of 1850, which is the date of my arrival in Java, is to prevail in every detail. It is no concern of mine. The expense appears to be immaterial.

  “We do not see much of you at our social gatherings,” said Mrs. Renselaar, that stout harpy with her eagle beak. “Of course that is your business entirely, but you cannot deny us the right to celebrate on your behalf. That would be unfair. One cannot grudge other people their pleasures. Besides, I wish to deepen our acquaintance. To think that we have been exchanging greetings all these years without the faintest idea of what was going on in each other’s lives. But now, now that my husband has told me about your, well, about the a fair . . . What I mean is, the least we can do now is pay tribute!”

  I only heard half of what she said, because the whole time our farcical exchange lasted I could smell my coffee fields burning. I saw Willem Gongrijp give a little shudder of glee at each gust that came our way. He is the self-appointed master of ceremonies, while everyone knows he cannot wait for me to croak so that he can get his hands on my land. With him on the committee there is no need for a wicked fairy. I answered their questions with due civility, but when I finally got rid of them, the sense of time running out weighed heavily in my room. I crossed the river and sought eternity in Wayeng’s lap—twice in fact—but there is no love strong enough to deflect me from my thoughts.

  I left her embrace in the night. I needed fresh air. Aquasi junior, who lay beside us, woke up and wheedled for attention. So as not to disturb Wayeng I took my son outside. We sat together for a while, until he fell asleep with his head on my knees. Not being used to this, at first I hardly dared move. Now and then, however, I had to shift my position because my muscles had become stiff. He did not seem to notice. He turned over and lay sprawled on his back, utterly serene. I brought my hand to his face and traced the contours without touching him. After a while I became bolder and stroked his hair. It is soft and loosely curled, quite unlike mine. I stroked it again and could not stop. I was brimming with love. The sky was overcast, but now and then the moon emerged to show me a glimpse of his face.

  My son is nine years old. I am in
my seventy-third year. By the time he leaves school I will be seventy-six. By the time he falls in love . . . I will not live to see him a grown man. (I would wish him to study at Delft in Holland, but funds are low. I think I shall write another letter to our young queen, informing her of my plans.)

  I am too old. I do not even know whether my children see in me a father or merely a kindly old man who visits their mothers from time to time. That is the price one pays for having postponed happiness for so long.

  There I sat with my child. I was seized by the notion that one day he will want to know what sort of man his father was. I cursed Adeline Renselaar. It is because of her poking about in my past that I am beset by such thoughts.

  20 February

  It was still night when I returned to my house. I sought out the boxes that I had secluded in a safe place. Not safe enough. I have often considered burning all these letters and notebooks, but could never bring myself to part with them. They are all I have left to remind me of the other men I have been.

  Just before daybreak I felt the need to relieve myself. I was already holding the chamber pot when something in me rebelled. I stared at the hairline cracks in the Delftware and felt utterly out of place in the darkly panelled room with its velveteen curtains. I set off for our small outdoor washroom, but halfway there I changed my mind and made for one of the trees, opened my clothing in the open air, which gave me a childish thrill, and let my water splash against the trunk. For the first time in years I noticed the impudent croaking of the frogs, although it is never absent. I stooped to see the foam blister and sink among the roots, first dark, then silvery white in the gloaming. It was a signal for butterflies, and a few minutes later the place was teeming with them.

  It is of course improper to relieve oneself against trees, at any rate once one’s student days are over. In fact I never do so in the open. Never. I leave that to the natives. But this morning I was overcome by an indomitable urge. Oddly enough I felt no shame.

  The sapling that served as my urinal is not a native species. It came from a consignment of seeds, fruits, plant cuttings and root-stocks I ordered from the Gold Coast. The greater part of the consignment was lost to the rains. But this shoot was willing. The tree it came from is not overly delicate, and will adapt to any environment. It is the tree that was called kuma by us, in the kingdom of Ashanti. There, I believe, it was common practice to relieve oneself against trees. I have no recollection of any embarrassment.

  The story of the tree is, in brief, as follows: One day Osei Tutu cut two branches off the kuma tree. He planted them in the earth, at some distance from each other. One cutting adjusted well to its surroundings, sending down roots in the soil—asi in the Twi language. It sprouted buds and bore fruit. The other cutting shrivelled and died. Osei Tutu founded his capital of Kumasi, seat of the mighty Asantehene of Ashanti, at the foot of the thriving kuma tree. Kuma-asi, the soil under the kuma, is my native soil.

  It was this story that I wished to tell my servant this afternoon. I was in my study hunched over my papers when the old rogue stole over the veranda. He let down the blinds against the sun, which at five o’clock sinks beneath the palm fronds and glares into the house. Feeling mellow towards him, I beckoned him to my side and thought to divert us both with some musings on the kuma tree.

  “Osei Tutu cut off two branches,” I began. “He planted them in the earth, at some distance apart. One of them adjusted well and rooted. The other withered and snapped. Our capital city marks the spot where the tree thrived. Kuma-asi, seat of the mighty Asantehene of Ashanti.” I noticed his eyes wandering, so I leaned over to set him at ease and, speaking to him, man to man, I took him into my confidence.

  “Osei Tutu was my great-grandfather. Did I ever tell you that, Ahim?”

  “Only three times since this morning, tuan.”

  “You are a liar,” I said. “I just happen to have these old letters in front of me. Pure coincidence. Memories. I have not given that old tale a thought in years.”

  Ahim said nothing and made to dust off the portrait of the young Queen Wilhelmina, which I keep on the ornamental easel by my desk. But his smile stung me like a nettle. So I barked: “Have you been to the post?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You are lying!” I roared.

  I am not in the habit of raising my voice against servants. Not that I have any others besides Ahim.

  “You have been stealing my letters, to sell at the thieves’ market behind the madhouse. Don’t think I don’t know. Or flogging them to that man on Gunung Batu. You think my letters contain state secrets in code and that the assistant resident’s spies will pay good money for them. I know what you’re up to. I’ll have you arrested and whipped this very afternoon.”

  I am well aware that it is at least six months since I received any letters, and even then there was no message from our young queen, although I have written to The Hague three times already and maybe even four. Not a word from Weimar, either, although I send a lengthy missive there each week. The grand duchess is dead. She died years ago. I learned this from the Saxon envoy, whom I meet regularly in the Botanical Gardens, where we sit on a bench under the casuarina tree and converse in what little German I can still remember. But he assures me that her poor Carl Alexander still thinks of me and even asks after me now and then. Sasha is a man of honour who would not forget an old friend, so where have his letters got to?

  Of course I know that Ahim is not embezzling anything—he is too dense to be wicked—but his insolent grin riled me, and I was only paying him back for going out of his way to torment me, a defenceless old man.

  “So what did you pilfer this time? Post from The Hague, I shouldn’t wonder. Disappointing, was it? Those royal dispatches contain nothing but kind words,” I sneered. “They are tokens of respect. From your queen to your master!”

  “The letters have stopped,” he had the effrontery to say. He was right, of course, but there was no need to rub it in. I lowered my voice ominously so as to intimidate him.

  “Do you know what we Ashanti used to do with liars?”

  “Indeed I do, tuan. Cut out the tongue and impale the body by the palace gate so that it may be pissed on by the people,” the villain replied, as if I was beginning to bore him.

  “Quite right,” I said, as coolly as I could. “Those were the days.”

  “And yet I go all the way to the post office every week. Even though I know there will be nothing.”

  “You’re lying. From now on I will go myself.”

  “You are too old, tuan.”

  “And you can call me by my rightful name, you cur.”

  “As you wish: you are too old, Prince Aquasi.” Ahim bowed his head, but not low enough to my taste. I am amazed at how little it takes for me to lose my temper nowadays.

  “You can stuff your Judas ways you know where. Ahim, pay attention! The letters. I have written three to the young queen and two to the grand duke, all of them unanswered.”

  “They have forgotten you.”

  “If you have already been to the post, then it must have been too early. What do you care whether you do a decent day’s work? Go back there, I tell you.”

  “The courier from Batavia had already been and gone by the time I arrived. Your wife was there. Ask her.”

  “Wayeng?”

  “No, Lasmi. She was on her way to see the doctor with little Quamina. There was a package for him, which the clerk asked her to deliver.”

  I have never heard of the post from Batavia arriving at Buitenzorg later than two o’clock, not even in the rainy season, but I was beyond reasoning.

  “I want you to go anyway.”

  “I am not getting any younger,” Ahim protested. “It takes me an hour on foot. Do you expect me to make the return journey in the dark?”

  “That is immaterial to me. It will teach you not to tell a pack of lies and leave me empty-handed.” A pity that a man see
ms the weaker for his show of strength. Ahim was unimpressed.

  “I’ll go for the next delivery, as I always do, Raden.”

  “Are you saying you won’t do as I say?”

  “There is no point.”

  “I shall have you beaten.”

  Ahim sighed and retorted wearily, as if to a slow-learning child: “In that case I will lodge a complaint with the resident. There will be a court case. Nothing but trouble. And who will go to the post office for you next week? Times have changed, Raden Aquasi, Prince. Not for me, though. I am the last slave in Java. Just my luck.”

  “What do you know about slavery, you simpleton? When I was a boy I had slaves of my own. Not just one, over a hundred. They were men, tall and broad-shouldered. Not soft-bellied like you, with your womanly wrists. They had big teeth, not filed into little points like yours. A hundred strong men, just for me. Do you know what I would have done with you then?”

  “Yes, their heads rolled every day.”

  “And do you suppose they cared?”

  His indifference enraged me, and I started shouting. “That they cared, is that what you think? Not on your life. They were proud to be dispatched to their ancestors at my hands. They stood in line with patient faces. Strong features, sincere smiles— wide, not like those girlish half-smiles of yours, which do not even hide your contempt. No, they were glad to die for me. They were men. You wouldn’t understand. You were born to be a hindrance.”

  And as if to substantiate my accusation he had the impertinence to answer back. “If I were merely your servant, Prince, you know I would have left long ago. If I were looking for a well-paid position, or had to support a family, I would have packed up and left when we were still at Suka Radya. I would have stopped working when my wages stopped. Just like the others. And if I had borne a grudge against you . . . No, whether you like it or not, we are doomed to stay together. I saw you when you first came. I saw how you struggled. And I will see you go, too.” With these words the old fool shambled off, as if I had signalled the end of the conversation. He let down the remaining blinds, muttering: “I will stay. And tomorrow, tomorrow I suppose I shall go to the post office again.”