The Two Hearts of Kwasi Boachi: A Novel (17 page)

“I’m a dumb dirty nigger,” I blurted, and my tormentors let me go with a look of regret. “But . . .” I said. I was so anxious that my voice would falter that I ended up almost shouting: “. . . but this has got to stop.”

“Really?” Verheeck said coolly. Toorenaar chuckled.

“Yes,” I went on, lowering my voice. “Because if Cornelius hears of this you’ll be the ones getting a beating.”

“And who do you suppose would tell him?”

“Not you by any chance?” scoffed Mus, and he rose on tiptoe so his face would be level with mine.

“I’m not saying anything yet,” I said, tipping my head back slightly like Caesar. “Not yet.”

Mus looked at Toorenaar, who in turn was staring at Verheeck. Their silence gave me the courage to go on.

“It should never have happened,” I said. “It is wrong. But now things have changed. First it was my shame, now it is yours. If you ever do it again I shall tell him everything.”

“You do that,” grinned Verheeck. “You do that, then he’ll know what a tell-tale you are.” And he punched me harder than he had ever done before.

Now I had evidence. Torn clothes. Cuts and grazes. Injuries I could show. There was even some blood in my urine. I staggered home and heaved myself upstairs. Boys on their way to a ball game in the courtyard stormed down the stairs as I went up. Upon reaching the landing on the first floor I bumped into Cornelius. He was in a hurry to catch up with the other boys, and I was in his way.

“What’s the matter?” he asked. I opened my mouth to tell him but my words were stifled by sobs.

“Now now, my friend. Tell me what is the matter,” he said sternly, putting his hand on my shoulder. He was not given to smiling on the best of days, but this time his lips curled encouragingly at the corners. His hand on my shoulder! Cornelius was treating me as no other white man had ever treated me before. He had called me his friend. He considered me his equal. At least that was how it seemed to me—he deemed me worthy of his friendship!

Suddenly it was unthinkable that I should tell Cornelius the truth about my humiliation. He would be so disappointed in me!
I
am a dumb dirty nigger!
The words meant nothing when I was taunted with them, but had I not spoken them myself? I had learnt them by heart; they were on the tip of my tongue. Now that I was fluent in Dutch and had learnt a little French, German and English, I began to comprehend the potency of language. My mindless repetition of those lies had made them true, and they had made me feel ashamed of myself. How could I ever say those words again without forfeiting the last grains of respect? Of course they were just words, but I was terrified that Cornelius, too, would believe them, just as I had myself. That he and everyone else would see me for what I evidently was. That would mean Verheeck had got the better of me. The words would have won.

I stepped aside, shook my head and started climbing the next flight as steadily as I could. He merely shrugged his shoulders. Behind me I could hear the clatter of his footsteps as he plunged down the wooden staircase on his way to the courtyard to join the other boys.

Batavia, Buitenzorg, Sukabumi, Bandung, Garut, Semarang,
Surabaja, Madiun

I did not come to my senses until spring. I must have been blind. One morning when I got up Kwame stayed in bed, which was unusual. Most days he was awake before I was; he would jump out of bed and wake me up. This time I washed and put on my clothes alone. Then I opened the shutters, but he was still lying there motionless. I asked him how he felt, but there was no reply. I pounced on his legs and tickled the soles of his feet, the way we did for fun sometimes. He drew them up. I bounced on the bed, trying to reach the beams in the ceiling. He did not react. I dropped down beside him, flung open the covers and was about to grab his shoulders to give him a good shake when I recoiled in shock. There were blisters on his arms—burns! Two of them were moist and ragged, a third one was still inflated. The surrounding skin was puckered, black and scabby. I had seen this before. I had the scars of the same kind of burns on my ankle, and some more on my right arm. I curled up in grief and rolled off the bed. I cursed myself and sobbed, banging my head against the bedposts. Kwame’s eyes were wide open the whole time. Unable to bring himself to look at me, he stared blankly at the wall.

What fired my spirit at last was his look of utter defeat. I was flooded with a great rage. I stormed down the corridor to the boys’ dormitory, where Cornelius was just getting out of bed.

“This afternoon,” I said, turning on my heel, and although it was a long time since he had made his offer he knew at once what I meant. I went down to Bertha in the kitchen to fetch some warm water, clean cloths and a spoonful of butter to clean and treat Kwame’s wounds. I knew from personal experience that this would make him feel better. I applied a poultice with cold water from the pitcher but he still refused to meet my eyes. When I was done I hugged him, but could not help feeling that something was wrong. Never had we needed words, but now that they could have helped we could not find them. It was as though the shameful silence we had both observed far too long had wedged itself between us, keeping us apart. I drew up the covers and left Kwame in bed. I ran down to tell van Moock he was ill, came back upstairs again and flung open the door to the second dormitory. I was after Verheeck, but he was already downstairs, so I opened the locker by his bed and turned it upside down. I did not find what I was looking for. Then I ripped open the ticking of his mattress and plunged my hands into the straw. In the stuffing I found the remainder of a cigar, short and thick, just like the one he had used to brand Kwame and me. I took it with me to the dining room and deposited it in Verheeck’s bowl of porridge. His companions held their breath. He kept his head down over his breakfast and fished out the soggy brown mess with great concentration. Then he paused, as if unable to make up his mind whether to take another spoonful or not. He took his time considering the options, while his shoulders twitched as if with stifled laughter. Finally he leaped to his feet and lunged at my throat. Chairs were knocked over as we wrestled and rolled over the floor. That morning he was stronger than I. I was obliged to give up because my eye was flooded with blood, but the tide had turned and his defeat had set in.

Later in the day, Cornelius gave me my first boxing lesson, and it was clear to everyone what this was for. I practised day in day out: punching sandbags, tree trunks and even Mrs. van Moock’s petticoat, which Cornelius had stolen off the washing line and stuffed with a cushion, and which he aimed at my head at the oddest moments to keep me alert. Once I had had enough practice, I stood my ground during the six assaults by my tormentors that followed, and when I braced myself for the seventh encounter Verheeck spat on the ground at my feet and all three of them turned away, as if they had lost interest.

Tell me, Muse, of a man weary of his lengthy travels and far from
home . . .

I kept up my sparring sessions with Cornelius all through the summer. My body grew stronger. It was fun developing my muscles for such an obvious purpose. I tried persuading Kwame to join in, but to no avail. I kept a wary eye on Verheeck at all times, but from then on neither Kwame nor I suffered harassment.

Six months later we had still not breathed a word to each other about the humiliations we had endured, nor indeed about my antidote. Then one night when Kwame was tossing and turning, unable to sleep, I asked him what was the matter.

“It’s the boxing,” he said, as if that were an answer.

“What about it?”

“It’s stupid.”

That was all. I said nothing, but was filled with childish rage at my cousin’s obstinate refusal to acknowledge my effort, let alone to show any gratitude. He dropped off to sleep eventually, but I was so infuriated by his indifference that I had to shake him awake to make him listen.

“At least it has helped us!”

“Don’t be silly, Kwasi,” he said wearily.

“At least we belong now, sort of.” I punched him, but he did not seem to mind. He clasped my wrists, tightly at first so that I could not wrench myself free, then gently and warmly so that I did not want him to release his hold.

“They put up with us, and that is not the same.”

“I come from a large family, and we were by no means wealthy— and there is nothing wrong with that, I’d have you know—but when we had visitors, they would be offered some refreshment!”

Mrs. van Moock wore a frock of green silk which crackled like a bunch of dry twigs. She swept to and fro through the salon. Her nerves were playing up after spending the entire morning fussing over our outfits. The announcement that the carriage from the Ministry of Colonies had come for us had sent her upstairs in a panic. She had come down wearing this frock, which was too tight for travelling. Twice during the ride she ordered the coachman to stop, and then again when we passed a sluice-keeper’s dwelling, because she needed to relieve herself.

“Having to wait all this time, how distressing. After all we have not come on our own behalf, we are merely complying with a royal summons. Surely a small tray of
petits fours
would have been appropriate under the circumstances.” Taking each of my hands in turn, she smoothed down my splayed fingers one after another to make the gloves fit snugly. Then she did the same for Kwame, straightened our caps and instructed us to hold our little silk parasols loosely in our hands. She had spent our entire clothing allowance, which the Dutch government provided twice yearly, on fitting us out for the occasion.

“So that your father, Aquasi, when he receives your portrait, will say: Look how well the headmaster’s wife has taken care of my beloved sons!”

The artist lived in a canalside mansion in The Hague. The room in which we were kept waiting for more than an hour was his studio. There were wax models and two plaster torsos. To Mrs. van Moock’s horror there was also a human skeleton, which was wired up to allow it to strike a variety of poses. The walls were lined with glass cabinets containing sea shells and geological specimens. There were also natural history exhibits, and several glass jars containing fleshy insects and small rodents floating in preserving fluid, including some exotic ones which we recognized from home. Kwame stared at the small creatures, awed by their nakedness: the fur was bleached, the skin pulpy and flaked. I was especially fascinated by the fact that they had been sliced open, so you could see their insides. Mrs. van Moock shuddered. When I came upon a pair of babies’ heads with lace collars in formalin, she flounced off to the far end of the room and ordered us to stop looking in the cabinets.

We sat on a bench facing three paintings of volcanoes, one of which was smoking. Their slopes were fronted by a patchwork of small, wet fields and clusters of huts on piles. Dutch ladies holding parasols strolled amid the greenery, which reminded us of home. We stared at the scenes from Java for such a long time that we got tired of them, and were relieved when notice was finally taken of our presence.

“Now remember,” Mrs. van Moock whispered urgently as she rose to her feet and tugged at her bodice, “you are his equal in rank, since he is a prince himself, but you had better make a little bow all the same. He is a famous artist! All the royals of Europe have had their portraits painted by him.”

“And so now it’s our turn!” I said proudly, nudging Kwame.

All he said was: “Who’s paying for this?”

Silhouetted against the sun that poured in through the conservatory windows we saw a small figure sitting quite still on a low couch, with one leg folded beneath him and the other knee drawn up. His elbow rested on his raised knee, so that his hand hung down loosely. Mrs. van Moock gave him her version of a curtsey.

“Come now, boys, greet Raden Saleh!”

We came closer and bowed. He inclined his head and motioned us to approach. His look was gentle and his round-cheeked face seemed longer than it was due to the receding hairline. His hair was as black as ours, but not curly. It had been brushed to stand out on both sides of his face. Most arresting of all were his eyes: narrow and with a downward slant at the corners, like the tail of an ornamental fish. The pupils were the colour of his skin, which was darker than that of any white man, but still considerably paler than ours. He ran his eyes over our foreheads, cheekbones, chins and mouths, and then up again, without meeting our eyes.

Then he sighed and exclaimed in a high-pitched, soft voice, “So very dark!” He sounded dispirited. He looked past us at Mrs. van Moock, as though she were to blame.

“Black skins have so little definition,” he sighed.

“The boys know some poems by heart,” she ventured, in the hope of mollifying him. “Perhaps it would be interesting if they . . .”

“A white skin, at least, glows with life. It can be given depth, and also transparency.” Clearly the prospect of painting our portraits inspired little enthusiasm in him. “A white skin can be painted—provided the artist is skilful enough—to look as though one can see through it.”

Mrs. van Moock took a step back and laid her hands on our shoulders. She gave us a little squeeze of complicity, and spoke in a cool voice.

“I have had the honour of viewing your self-portrait with my own eyes, at the exhibition in The Hague two years ago. Now I see you in the flesh, I must say it was an exceptionally good likeness. Quite remarkable.”