“What is it?”
“It is love!”
“Since when was that a sense?”
“It is the love that has accumulated in me . . . like, like the deposit of hairs on the drain in the washroom! There is nowhere for it to go! I know I sound absurd, you must think I’m out of my mind, but what can I do—this is how I feel. My sorrow has made me hypersensitive. I can tell the emotional state of people from afar. Once they come near I can read them, the way one reads the Illustrated Review . Like an open book. I can sense disturbances with a precision that would make the meteorological office in Batavia green with envy.”
I was suddenly worried by the possibility that Ahim had fortified her lemonade with rum. To make matters worse she fell silent at this point and gazed at me, as if she had just revealed a state secret and expected a medal for her service.
“But if the human mind is so transparent to you,” I asked, “why is it hard for you to deal with the members of the Dutch community?”
“Precisely because I can read their minds. I can tell when the ladies and the gentlemen say one thing and think another. About each other. About me. Nothing escapes my notice. I hear a conversation and at the same time I catch the asides, the cries for help from the psyche, and all the underlying signals as well. During the most inconsequential tea party I perceive more agitation and clamour than anyone else would notice at the evening bazaar. It is both a blessing and a cross I must bear. I will say no more.” She rose to her feet. Hearing herself pour her heart out had done her so much good that she was wholly recovered.
“I am only telling you . . .” she said, “and only you, you should be the first to know, because . . .”
“Because?”
“. . . because I recognized something in you.”
“Recognized something?”
“Yes, I recognized myself in you.”
She raised her arm, stabbing the air with her index finger. I was reluctant to let her proceed, because with her sort you find yourself in the middle of a seance before you know it, listening for spirits to knock on the table.
“The love has accumulated. We are incapable of admitting so much emotion, and think we are guarding ourselves against life.”
To stop her from pursuing this train of thought I slipped my arm through hers while we took a turn on the grass. Now and then she stooped to pick a flower, which she tucked into her hair.
“It was my idea to have a celebration. I thought you could do with some distraction. I was mistaken. If you oppose my plans for a fête we will put the whole thing off.”
I was about to say “Please do,” when it struck me that I ought not to begrudge her this pleasure. I mumbled my assent, reluctantly.
“What did you say?”
I mumbled again.
“This won’t do,” she cried. “What did you say? Louder please. I am sensitive, not clairvoyant!”
“I said, madam, that if you are of a mind to mount a feast in honour of an old man, the least he can do is stay alive until the event comes to pass. Be warned, though: I am old. Too old for frivolity. And I shall come wearing the mask I am wearing now.”
She leaned forward and kissed my cheek. She stood still to insert a final flower in her straggling coiffure, which by now resembled the kind of apparition natives dread on a moonless night.
“But I will make no plans without your approval. I shall discuss each and every detail with you.”
“That is not necessary, I assure you.”
“But it is. And all I ask is this: please tell me a little about yourself from time to time.”
“No,” I said firmly.
“Naughty! Naughty!” She gave a little laugh and wagged her finger at me. She took a few steps towards the garden gate, then turned around. “Goodbye, mon Prince , dear Aquasi Boachi, and I beg you—do not take a simple woman’s emotions amiss. Dear Lord, I have really let myself go again this time, ranting like the madwoman of the Moluccas!”
She flounced her skirts
“It is love!”
“Since when was that a sense?”
“It is the love that has accumulated in me . . . like, like the deposit of hairs on the drain in the washroom! There is nowhere for it to go! I know I sound absurd, you must think I’m out of my mind, but what can I do—this is how I feel. My sorrow has made me hypersensitive. I can tell the emotional state of people from afar. Once they come near I can read them, the way one reads the Illustrated Review . Like an open book. I can sense disturbances with a precision that would make the meteorological office in Batavia green with envy.”
I was suddenly worried by the possibility that Ahim had fortified her lemonade with rum. To make matters worse she fell silent at this point and gazed at me, as if she had just revealed a state secret and expected a medal for her service.
“But if the human mind is so transparent to you,” I asked, “why is it hard for you to deal with the members of the Dutch community?”
“Precisely because I can read their minds. I can tell when the ladies and the gentlemen say one thing and think another. About each other. About me. Nothing escapes my notice. I hear a conversation and at the same time I catch the asides, the cries for help from the psyche, and all the underlying signals as well. During the most inconsequential tea party I perceive more agitation and clamour than anyone else would notice at the evening bazaar. It is both a blessing and a cross I must bear. I will say no more.” She rose to her feet. Hearing herself pour her heart out had done her so much good that she was wholly recovered.
“I am only telling you . . .” she said, “and only you, you should be the first to know, because . . .”
“Because?”
“. . . because I recognized something in you.”
“Recognized something?”
“Yes, I recognized myself in you.”
She raised her arm, stabbing the air with her index finger. I was reluctant to let her proceed, because with her sort you find yourself in the middle of a seance before you know it, listening for spirits to knock on the table.
“The love has accumulated. We are incapable of admitting so much emotion, and think we are guarding ourselves against life.”
To stop her from pursuing this train of thought I slipped my arm through hers while we took a turn on the grass. Now and then she stooped to pick a flower, which she tucked into her hair.
“It was my idea to have a celebration. I thought you could do with some distraction. I was mistaken. If you oppose my plans for a fête we will put the whole thing off.”
I was about to say “Please do,” when it struck me that I ought not to begrudge her this pleasure. I mumbled my assent, reluctantly.
“What did you say?”
I mumbled again.
“This won’t do,” she cried. “What did you say? Louder please. I am sensitive, not clairvoyant!”
“I said, madam, that if you are of a mind to mount a feast in honour of an old man, the least he can do is stay alive until the event comes to pass. Be warned, though: I am old. Too old for frivolity. And I shall come wearing the mask I am wearing now.”
She leaned forward and kissed my cheek. She stood still to insert a final flower in her straggling coiffure, which by now resembled the kind of apparition natives dread on a moonless night.
“But I will make no plans without your approval. I shall discuss each and every detail with you.”
“That is not necessary, I assure you.”
“But it is. And all I ask is this: please tell me a little about yourself from time to time.”
“No,” I said firmly.
“Naughty! Naughty!” She gave a little laugh and wagged her finger at me. She took a few steps towards the garden gate, then turned around. “Goodbye, mon Prince , dear Aquasi Boachi, and I beg you—do not take a simple woman’s emotions amiss. Dear Lord, I have really let myself go again this time, ranting like the madwoman of the Moluccas!”
She flounced her skirts
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