The Two Hearts of Kwasi Boachi - Hardcover

Japin, Arthur; Rilke, Ina

 
9780375406751: The Two Hearts of Kwasi Boachi
Hardcover
ISBN 10: 0375406751 ISBN 13: 9780375406751
Verlag: Alfred a Knopf Inc, 2000

Inhaltsangabe

Their arrival in Holland in 1837 causes a deep disturbance among two African princes, Kwame and Kwasi, who find their innocence stripped away as they attend boarding school and learn European ways.

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

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 Amsterdam.

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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 affair . . . 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 rootstocks 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...

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Verlag
Alfred a Knopf Inc
Erscheinungsdatum
2000
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
0375406751
ISBN 13 
9780375406751
Einband
Gebundene Ausgabe
Anzahl der Seiten
384
Kontakt zum Hersteller
Nicht verfügbar
Verantwortliche Person
Nicht verfügbar

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