The Shallow Seas (12 page)

Charlotte smiled at this English expression, which Takouhi had clearly learned from George. Then her mind suddenly turned to the night before. It had been an exhilarating evening, and then in the coach, something had happened. She had vague memories of the wind, of her body next to Tigran's, then nothing.

“Takouhi, did I do something silly last night at the dinner or … later? Where is Tigran?”

Takouhi handed her another drink and helped her sit up. “Tigran has gone to Buitenzorg. It is tea plantation up in the hills. He has business there. We go there later, after the wedding. Soon hot season begin. Cool in the hills.”

Charlotte felt an irrational disappointment. She would not see Tigran today. Gone? For how long? Until the wedding, which was two weeks away? It felt like a long time.

Takouhi opened the windows wide on both sides of the bedroom. A breeze billowed the gauzy curtains. Tigran had told Takouhi about last night, her calling of the Chinese man's name. He wanted to get away for a while, leave Charlotte to her thoughts; perhaps she would begin to miss him.

Takouhi could see in Charlotte's face that in some measure she missed him already. Charlotte had grown used to weeks of constant and affectionate attention from him; now it was time for her to feel its loss. Tigran was a wise man, and she smiled to herself. She knew he had a village girl in the hills, though she had no intention of mentioning this. He needed to relieve the tension. Also, Charlotte needed less upheaval and violent emotion. A period of calm was good for her and the baby. She was, Takouhi calculated, just over two months pregnant. An important time for rest.

“Tigran come back before wedding. We take visit to town. I show you my house. We go to Harmonie Club and go to theatre. You like this. French company always do good play at the Shouwberg. Forget about man for little while.”

Charlotte lay back, slightly uneasy. She knew something had happened last night in the coach but could not quite think what. What had she done to make Tigran leave? She felt sure that was why he had disappeared without even a good-bye.

A thought had wormed its way into her mind. She did not want to lose Tigran; she needed this marriage. Did she want him or need the marriage? Which one mattered more? A week before, she would not have cared, but now she had a sudden realisation of what she would lose if she lost him. He had not left her a note.
Saya cintamu
, she remembered, but he had not left her a word.

“Takouhi, have I hurt him? Is he angry with me?”

Takouhi took her friend's hand. “Not angry, cannot be angry with you. Look at time, afternoon. You sleep very late, and he go early. Long ride to Buitenzorg. No worry. He come back.”

Takouhi was now concerned that Charlotte would be anxious, fall back on her old memories. Perhaps Tigran should not have gone after all. She sighed.

“
Alamak
, all well. We go to river and bathe, feel much better.”

Charlotte relaxed as Takouhi left to make preparations. She drank the honey drink and revived.

Within the hour, they had taken the pony trap down to the river. The bathing pavilion was set among tall trees with deeply buttressed trunks of whitish bark. The drooping branches of long, delicate leaves swept down in a cascade, throwing the river into deep shade. The wooden path from the road to the river ran between and around these giant trees.

“Arjuna trees,” said Takouhi as they looked up into their great height. “Tigran's mother, Valentijna, was born in Jaffnapatnum, in Ceylon. Her mother half-Indian woman. First husband was VOC man, bring her here. She love this tree, which she say is Sita's favourite tree. You know, Sita suffer a lot, like many women. So she plant many tree here and pray to gods for son. When Tigran come, she call him Arjuna, the white prince. This is our name for him when he is little boy. This place is Tigran's special place. Everybody in Batavia know this story. Many children come here to play with Tigran when he is boy.”

Takouhi pulled a little of the fibrous bark from the trunk.

“This make medicine for fever. Good for heart when heart is sick.”

As she said this she smiled and passed the bark to Charlotte. Charlotte understood Takouhi's meaning.

The bathing pavilion turned out to be the ideal proposition for improving spirits. Takouhi knew that in the steamy heat of the day a stream of cold water healed a thousand things. It washed away not merely the dust and heat but weariness too, and vexatious thought. A wooden verandah stood over the riverbank, with steps which led to the small, sandy beach. Here were bamboo and rattan chairs, small tables and divans covered in cloths and cushions.

With the Javanese maids surrounding them, they stepped into the river in their sarongs. The water was shallow, but there were deeper pools in which it was possible to sit and feel the cool water moving gently around them. From here they could gaze down the river towards the Japanese bridge, watching the water grow stronger, rushing and spilling in foamy waves down to the town. The maids had brought some baskets to the small beach, and Charlotte watched from her watery seat as they cut open long, spiky plants and squeezed the sap into a dish. Takouhi let her hair down, and the maids began to massage this sap into her scalp.

“Charlotte, this is aloe vera. George told me name of this plant. We call
lidah buaya
, ‘crocodile tongue'. Please, you rest and let maids take care of hair. Feel very good.”

The maids rinsed her hair and massaged her scalp, bringing a sudden feeling of relaxation. The sap was cooling and tingling. Her mind drifted to Zhen's hands, running through her hair, massaging the herbs into it, combing it. She closed her eyes, willing tears not to come. Would every single thing always remind her of him?

When the maid had finished, she took a pin and deftly tied up Charlotte's hair into a roll. Charlotte looked at Takouhi.

“Now leave little bit. Then wash with
kemiri
oil and
tuaru
leaves. Rinse with lime water. I use ginseng and
merang
also, but you no need. Use to stop white hair. I use but still have some.
Alamak
, big problem.”

Charlotte smiled at Takouhi's annoyed expression, as if grey hair had been sent to aggravate her good temper.

Charlotte watched the sunlight play a melody on the shifting rills and the eddying sands of the river bottom. When the heat began to leave the air, Takouhi called the maids, for she liked to leave the riverside long before dusk.

In her room later, Charlotte felt as fresh as a naiad in a shimmering stream. River bathing was a ridiculous proposition in Singapore, even more so in Scotland. But here it seemed so natural. All the villagers used the river to bathe.

She looked in the mirror. The maid had brushed her hair and it shone. She now understood why Tigran and Takouhi had such youthful appearances. She was dressed in a loose silk gold-and-black batik robe which Tigran had given her. It felt like liquid on her skin. She had never worn so much silk as here, for Tigran spoiled her with shawls and exquisite garments.

The sun was setting on the rim of the trees, casting long shadows into the golden light across the lawn and into her room. In half an hour, the maid would come and help her dress. This evening she had chosen to dress Java style: a plain, dull blue bodice and an exquisite sarong, her favourite of all those she had. It featured a muted blue background covered in dark blue and rust-red flowers—large peonies and small blooms—surrounding spread-winged phoenixes. It was a Chinese motif, she knew, so different to the austere Javanese batiks, which had their own restrained beauty. Cirebon batiks were exuberant.

Charlotte smiled, thinking of how quickly she had become the Indies maiden, how much some ladies in Singapore would have disapproved. But in the indolent heat it was so easy to relax into this undemanding way of life. She went to the balcony to watch the rapid fall of darkness. No sooner had the sun dropped below the horizon and dusk begun its dominion of the sky than, in an instant, it was gone. The shade of night was drawn, and the streaming jewels of the Milky Way flooded the sky. In this starry canopy, the brilliance of the great cross of the South appeared. The beauty and elegance of this constellation, the
crux australis
, that sailors steered by in the vast darkness of the southern ocean, had an aura of mystery and romance. For the Christian sailor, it was a symbol of faith in the sky, the divine manifest in the stars.

Charlotte recalled reading something about how these stars had been known to the ancient Greeks. The gradual procession of the equinoxes had lowered them below the skyline so that they were lost to Northern eyes and knowledge for a thousand years. The thought was, somehow, very moving.

Bowls of sandalwood and lemon-grass incense swirled smoke on the air to chase insects. A booming, croaking orchestra of frogs performed in the gloom. She looked along the verandah to Tigran's door.

She took a candle and went into his room. She was curious to see his things, his bed. It was very dark, and she could see no lamp to light. His bed stood, like hers, near the windows, surrounded by a gauzy net. It felt stuffy and hot. She felt her skin pearl with sweat. She could see almost nothing and went back to her room. She had not felt him in there. She looked around her own room. This was the room he had slept in, she was sure of it. It was here he would make love to her, on their wedding night, with the breeze billowing the curtains.

Charlotte sat at her mirror. She was in a turmoil, uncertain of what she felt. Loyalty, love, curiosity, obligation were all mingled into a vast web of uncertainty. She looked into her reflected eyes. What was she doing? She shook her head and sighed. What choice did she have?

The following day, she felt better than she had for a long time. Today Takouhi had planned a visit to the town, a little shopping in the French “quartier”, lunch at Raffles's old home, now the Hotel Royale, and a tour of Koningsplein.

They alighted first at the bakery and pâtisserie of Leroux & Fils on Rijswijkstraat. As they pulled up, Jacques Leroux himself opened the door of his emporium and rushed out to welcome them. Takouhi said a few words in French. M. Leroux beamed with pleasure and ushered them inside.

The smell of fresh bread and cakes assailed them. As they sat, Charlotte asked M. Leroux about his life in Batavia. He was delighted to chat with this lovely lady who spoke French. He told her he had arrived on a ship as a cook's assistant in the fleet which brought Marshal Daendels to Batavia. “So long ago!” he exclaimed. He had served in Daendels's household and later in Raffles's, for excellent bakers were hard to find. When Raffles left, he decided to set up on his own account, for he had saved a great deal of money. Raffles had encouraged him to buy this piece of land, for he had been told the street would become one of the most fashionable in Batavia. And so it had turned out to be.

His two sons worked with him, and he had many other staff. Everyone came to buy here, for he was the finest pâtissier in all Java. He said this with a Gallic flourish, and Charlotte could not help but like this short, corpulent man with his beaming smile and obvious
joie-de-vivre
.

The two sons came from the back of the shop to bow. Then Takouhi, sipping the coffee and seated like a memsahib, whispered something to M. Leroux, and he clapped his hands.

Two young men came forward bearing large platters, which they presented to Charlotte and Takouhi. On each tray lay eight miniature, beautifully decorated cakes.

“Voilà, mademoiselle. A vous de choisir, s'il vous plait,” said M. Leroux.

Charlotte looked at Takouhi, who smiled with delight at her friend's expression. “These are small cakes for you to choose the one you want. This will be your bride cake.”

Charlotte looked at the small masterpieces in flour and eggs, each a miniature marvel. Some were layered, and some were single, but all were decorated with a profusion of white icing roses or piped flowers, trailing leaves, small hearts. She had never seen such elaborate confectionery. It was impossible to choose, and Charlotte was having trouble keeping her emotions in check. She was getting married. Here were the arrangements before her eyes. Marrying, but not the man she wanted. She swallowed and gazed at the cakes.

The silence lengthened, and M. Leroux frowned. Did she like none of the designs? “Mademoiselle,” he said gently in English. “If you do not like these, I make others for you.”

Charlotte came to her senses. “No, no, monsieur. Every one is so lovely it is difficult to choose.”

She examined the cakes carefully. One simple design caught her eye. The cake itself was a deep square covered in plain white icing, unadorned except for a wide ribbon of intricate Dutch lace tied around the cake into an elaborate raised bow. She put out her hand and was astonished to see that the ribbon was itself made of spun sugar. It looked incredibly real.

“This is lovely,” she said and looked at M. Leroux. Takouhi smiled, and M. Leroux himself beamed broadly.

“My son has made this design.” He called out, and a young man with his father's prominent nose and, she guessed, his mother's tawny skin, came forward to bow over Charlotte's hand.

“Quelle artiste, monsieur; merci beaucoup,” she said. He bowed again and retreated somewhat awkwardly to the kitchen.

“Well, Mr Leroux,” said Takouhi rising. “This is the cake. I will send detail about guest number later today.”

As Charlotte and Takouhi climbed into the barouche, he bowed extravagantly.

Next they made a stop at Lapeyroux et Dudogne, the jewellers, where Takouhi urged Charlotte to look at some stones for a comb to hold her veil. Charlotte realised that she had no idea what she was to wear on her own wedding day. After a short examination of some pearls she said in a low voice, “Takouhi, What on earth shall I wear? Have you chosen a dress? Should I not see it?”

Takouhi was pleased. Her little ruse had worked. Charlotte was finally taking an interest in the details of the wedding.