36

The carriage turned into the gates of Brieswijk and rounded the final curve, past the trees. Home, Takouhi thought, at last.

She was content. She had spent every day at the graveyard, sitting near the cupolas on a bench which she had caused to be placed under the shade of the tamelan trees, watching the workmen build George’s tomb. During this time she had taken up embroidery, which she had done as a child with her stepmother. She would no longer dance, as she once had, the Javanese dances of the court. She had begun to feel age creep on her, knew it was because George was gone and there would never be another man, but she did not mind. To have had George’s unswerving love for so long. To have loved him and found together a late, youthful passion with him. It was more than enough.

She had spent a great deal of time with Teresa Crane and her sisters and cousins. The da Silva family was one of great generosity and hospitality—too much, sometimes, when she simply wanted to be left alone with memories. She had gone more often to the Armenian church and found that prayer, especially in this place, gave her solace, for she was as close to George here as she could be. She had felt enclosed in his hands, his mind, remembering the building of this beautiful offering to the glory of God and the continuation, in faith, of a dispossessed people.

She had been part of a sewing circle, which good-hearted Evangeline had started when she discovered Takouhi’s new pastime, to beguile her friend from sorrow. There were ten to fifteen women who had come after supper several times in the week. Some embroidered, some sewed children’s garments and christening gowns. Evangeline made lace, the most exquisite lace: needle lace, bobbin lace. Her family came from Calais and had been lace-makers for generations. There were machines now, of course, but Evangeline still enjoyed the pleasures of la dentellerie, which she sold to raise money for the new church. Her lace and crochet work were so exquisite that she could command almost any price. The Arab and Chinese ladies, she had found, liked to wear lace under their garments as much as the European ladies did.

Robert and Teresa had dined once a week. She had had news of the birth of Tigran’s second son, Adam, though strangely, Charlotte had not written to her for a long time.

Billy Napier, John Connolly and several of George’s friends had come every Sunday to take tea and talk about old times and George. They had all promised George this: not to abandon Takouhi, no matter what.

Billy had proposed to Maria, and she had accepted him. He would adopt George’s boy after the wedding. Takouhi had been glad, though she felt, in some measure, sorry for Maria. To pass from the arms of George to those of Billy … but women often had few choices. George’s son would have a good father, who would love him as he had loved his friend.

She rarely saw Maria, despite the proximity of their houses. If their carriages passed sometimes or they met, shopping, in the Chinese town, Maria would turn away. She had come, once, to the cemetery and seen Takouhi and turned back. Takouhi had been sorry and through Billy had told Maria the times when she would be there so that Maria could come to George’s grave if she wished. She had realised that she needed to leave soon so she would stop haunting this young woman’s life.

Finally the day had come when George moved residences and the ceremony had been completed with a memorial service at the church. She had laid great garlands of white perfumed jasmine flowers on his tomb and in the cupolas and written to Tigran and asked him to send Queen of the South for her and her things. She had left instructions with Billy to sell the house and everything in it. There were memories here, and for months she had walked the rooms and the garden, basking in them.

Then it was time. From the sitting room of Tir Uaidhne, she had heard the church bells ring out for Billy and Maria’s wedding and knew little George would be safe.

And now she was home. She had heard little from Batavia for these many months. Tigran wrote of the children and work and some of their acquaintance. Charlotte he mentioned as “well.” She had written not at all, and now, as Takouhi got down from the carriage, she had a sudden sense of foreboding.

She stepped inside the hall, and Jantzen came forward to greet her, his hands raised to his forehead. She was very happy to see him so well. She smiled at him and asked where the master was, the mistress. A slight shadow seemed to pass across his face.

She had known this man most of her life. He had come when she was sixteen, living back in Brieswijk, her vicious husband gone to Macassar. He had been a small slave boy who had grown up in Brieswijk. When Takouhi made Tigran free all the slaves, he had become Tigran’s servant and took the name of the mestizo cook who adopted him and taught him the ways of the house. Within a few years, he had taken over the duties of the whole household. He now received a generous salary, and his wife made exquisite batik cloth which Takouhi bought at above-market price, for it was the finest in Batavia, and kept for herself or gave as gifts. They had five children. He knew he owed his freedom and much of his small fortune to this woman, and she knew he was a good, kind and irreplaceable man.

“What is it? Is something wrong?” Takouhi asked urgently

He bowed. “Mistress, the master said he will come soon from the Kota. The mistress is at the river. The children are with their babus in the garden.”

Takouhi frowned. Something was going on here. She asked Jantzen to send some tea to the verandah and went out to look for the children. She found them under a tree to one side of the house. Alexander had grown tall. He was almost three, she calculated. She went up and looked at him, then sat on the grass, and he came up to her and sat in her lap. He remembered her, she could see, and she hugged him and kissed his cheeks and neck. He showed her the straw elephant which the babu had made for him, talking to her in Javanese, calling her bibi, auntie, and they chatted amiably. Then he got up and chased some birds from the grass, running fast, screaming, his babu in pursuit, calling to him frantically. She smiled. He was beautiful and strong. She could see his Chinese blood, but it would not be obvious to most people, for his eyes had something of Charlotte’s, a lightness. She had seen Zhen in the town sometimes. Now she could see his height, his build, the strength of his face, in his son.

She went over to the hammock which Adam’s babu was swinging gently and looked inside. The baby was fast asleep. She could not make out who he resembled, but he looked something like Meda when she had been a baby, his hair dark and unruly. She told the babu to stop and picked him up. He lay in her arms, and she rocked him and kissed him. It was wonderful, this constancy that nature gave. George had died, but his son lived. Meda had died, but somehow here she was reflected in this child’s face. She put him back into the hammock. It was good to be back. She never wanted to go away from these children again.

Returning to the verandah, Takouhi sat, pouring tea and looking out over the grounds. She took from her bag a cardboard picture wrapped in silk. It was a daguerreotype which Gaston Dutronquoy had made of her and George.

She remembered with what excitement and almost trepidation they had set foot in his studio, which was in George’s house at No. 3. George had taken a look around his old house and declared it quite splendid. There was a small theatre for amateur theatricals, and a production of the farce The Spectre Bridegroom was that night, the 14th of March. She would never forget that date. Robert and Billy had appeared, and it was hilarious, as such a play can be in a small settlement where everyone knows each other. Charlotte had laughed to tears, she remembered, at the sight of her brother in make-up. George had loved the idea of his house as a place of ribald humour.

There had been a taproom stocked with barrels of beer and wine where his inner hall had once been, and he liked it very well. They had giggled like children. They had posed for a brief time, and then, miraculously, they had this image of them both. Thirteen days later, he was dead.

Now she gazed at the picture, touched his hair, ran her finger down his cheek. It was, she thought, the most beautiful thing, better than any painting. It was the finest invention of mankind. With this miraculous machine, you could keep the ones you loved with you always. She desperately wished she had a picture of Meda. Faces faded, no matter how you strove to hold on to them. Now Adam would remind her of Meda, blessedly. And with this picture, she could see George’s face at any time. It gave her the greatest comfort. Later she would take it to show Meda.

Finally she heard footsteps and raised her head. Tigran came out onto the verandah and she stood at his entrance, shocked. He looked gaunt. She took him in her arms.

Tigran held on to his sister, glad she had come. When he had received her letter to send the brig, he had closed his eyes in relief. He loved her. She understood everything about him, about Charlotte. Surely she would know what to do.

They sat down, and she poured him some tea. “What is happening here, Tiga?” she demanded.

Tigran took off his coat, trying to think how to explain this, where to start. He told her of his discovery of Charlotte’s affair with the Chinese man. Takouhi looked down. She had known about this and had not told her brother. She was as complicit as Charlotte; she had been heedless of everything but George. It had been as if no one else existed.

She kept silent as he related the whole story: his punishment of her, the terrible voyage, the hard birth, the opium. On the third day after the birth, she had lapsed into a fever. Madi had given her jamu drinks, cleansing baths. It had lasted five days, and when it finished, she was very weak. But she had recovered. Tigran had determined then to put an end to their estrangement. She had nearly died. He had horrible dreams of Surya. Charlotte asked for the opium, and he wanted to give her what she wanted. With it she rested; he could see that, and she was in good humour when they were together; she ate well.

Louis brought her supplies and spent days at her side. She took no interest in either Alexander or Adam, however, and he had grown concerned. She had recovered her health and a degree of vitality. He wanted her to come back to him, to his bed, but when he had said this, she had simply looked at him as if he were demented. “Come to your bed!” she had said and laughed. “Make another child, so you can finally kill me.”

He had been struck as if by a thunderbolt. Everything had gone terribly wrong. Once, Charlotte had even disappeared into Chinatown with Louis, to smoke opium, like the Chinese do. The damn stuff had taken over her life. He wanted to confine her, to stop this, but he did not dare. Once before he had done it, and he felt ashamed. It had turned her against him.

Takouhi took Tigran’s hand. “I know opium. It is good for pain and for sadness. I took this when was I young and had trouble. Usually it is good. I sometimes make poppy tea. After George died, it was helpful for me to rest my mind. Maybe she is taking too much?”

“Taki, I don’t know, but something … we must do something. Charlotte and I have no life, no wedded life, no family life, no social life.”

Takouhi rose and looked down towards the river. She could see the carriage pulling away, bringing Charlotte back to the house.

The moment she saw Takouhi, Charlotte ran into her arms, thrilled to see her friend. She had had such a lovely day at the river. The colours and shadows blended into phantasmal shapes, and even the wind could speak.

That night, in her room, Takouhi brushed Charlotte’s hair. “Charlotte, Tigran is worried about you.” she said.

Charlotte turned to face her. “Tigran is worried about everything. He worries too much.” She laughed and turned back to the mirror.

Takouhi thought a moment. “Alexander and Adam look well. Do you think? Alex so big now.”

Charlotte frowned. She was starting to feel agitated. She had taken her last pill before lunch, and now it was time for sleep. She wished Takouhi would go away so she could get into bed. She yawned.

Takoui stopped brushing, kissed Charlotte on the cheek and said goodnight. She went to Tigran, who was sitting disconsolately on the terrace.

“It seems that she has come to need opium to sleep. She became anxious when she was ready to take the next pill. Tiga, you and I take opium. Many people we know use opium from time to time. Why can we stop and ignore it, and she cannot?”

“I don’t know.” He looked at his sister. “Is it because she is so very unhappy? Do you think? You can die from unhappiness. Surya did.”

He put his head in his hands. “It began on the ship,” he said. “She was so pregnant and so distressed and, no matter what the reason, I made everything unbearable for her and Louis came and gave her something which made her feel well. Then the birth, which was hard …” He raised his head as if something had suddenly occurred to him.

“I am responsible. She sees me and remembers misery. God help me. That is the truth.”

He looked at Takouhi. “Should I bring happiness to her? Should I ask this Chinese man to come?

Brother and sister stared at each other. Neither spoke for a long time.

“You and I have not had easy lives,” Tigran said finally. “We lost our mothers young. You had a vicious marriage. But we both had happiness too. I had Surya for a while. You had George and Meda a long time. These are blessings. And Charlotte, I wanted her. She did not want me.”

He stopped.

“But she learned to care for me, give herself to me, because I was generous and patient. I don’t know, Taki, but I think I have to ask him to come.”

The memory of the first time he saw Charlotte came flooding back. He had been complacent, his wealth assured, his children grown, a man who strove for nothing more than a peaceful life, and she had walked into the room. She had been dressed in a robe the colour of her eyes; she was like a scent made corporeal, a whisper of lavender turned to woman. He had been lost to her from that moment. Now he had half-killed her.

He made up his mind.

He rose and went to his sister, leaned down and kissed her cheek. “Good night, Taki, thank you for coming home.”

In his room, he took up his pen. He wrote to Robert, telling him of Charlotte’s state of health, how for one reason or another she had come to depend on opium. He asked him, confidentially, to speak to the man who was Baba Tan’s son-in-law, ask him to come to Batavia. He knew that Charlotte cared for this man; Robert must understand that this was all that was important now. Zhen was Chinese; they knew about opium, and he was also a man who knew about Chinese medicines. Tigran knew Madi used some of the remedies from the Chinese herbalists in Glodok, but he could not trust her with this. He had gone beyond pride or righteous anger. Perhaps if she saw a face of one she loved and trusted, as clearly she no longer did him, this would help. He was at the end of his tether, and for Charlotte’ sake, he wrote… .

Tigran could hardly believe he was inviting this man into his house. He put down his pen, stretched his neck and stared at the candle.