The Armenian
Batavia (now Jakarta), September 1696.
Isabella Nicolaes, more than other women in the town, disgusted me. As she left the church - saliva, coloured crimson from betel leaves, creeping out from behind her teeth - her slave, a youth from Malacca, knocked orange dirt from the silken flaps of her dress. Frederick and van Basel, our newest arrivals, waited awkwardly before moving to greet her, slightly ashamed. Such a spectacle, after the admonishments of the afternoon, would usually send me home in a hurry, my eyes deep in the shadows, kicking up clouds of dust. Not, this Sabbath, however, as I knew.
Beckoning me over with a big hand flap, Governer Riemsdijk smiled broadly as I approached, delighted with my gloom. He knew that, despite everything, I liked him. “The old man will remember you”, he laughed. And, as it was, we had barely said another word before the Chinese boys next to us scampered off towards the port, chattering loudly in broken Malay. Our extraordinary visitor, who had set off from Sumatra the previous week, had now arrived. I was to feign something other than contempt for the whole thing.
*****************************
Riemsdijk stood by himself, grinning as the Armenian’s bizzare cargo came into view. Next to me though, van Basel pressed me for an opinion. Was this a man, he insisted, who we could trust, like the Macassar? After all, trading with those people he had already amassed a swift and honest fortune for the Company, which it would do well to exploit further.
Whilst caring nothing for the Macassar, I too worried about Khodja Murad, the wizened old man claiming to be an envoy of Prester John, ‘King of the Abyssins’. As he shook Riemsdijk’s hand, his thin servants unloaded his by now familiar offering of exotic livestock behind him. I stared at his white beard and face, and thought he looked weaker, much weaker than five years before. When he came to me - Riemsdijk, next to him, being hardly able to contain his pleasure at my discomfort - his eyes failed to meet my gaze.
*****************************
Three days later I made my usual walk across town towards the Governer’s estate, by the banks of the Ciliwung. Crossing over the canal so as not to see the bamboo boxes where our women bathed themselves - their never-ending provocation - I spotted Riemsdijk already out in front of the plantation. He was giving his new chosen girl, a young Celebes, playful blows on the shoulder, sending her back into the house with a half-run. We soon followed, happy to be in the cool and the other’s company.
“What’s your news?”, he asked, and I gave him my opinion that van Basel would soon try and marry Isabella. He would, moreover, succeed and acquire much influence in the Company. Even becoming the next Governer. My friend chuckled in satisfaction, and searched my lowered features for signs of bitterness.
******************************
A year later, back in the Governer’s house, I was angry. The Amsterdam Gentlemen had written back, telling him to execute Murad’s scheme. Two Batavians, “decorous and modest”, would go with the Armenian to Zeila, and wait there for the old man to bring them the Prester’s coffee. The ambassador’s great trick was nearly complete; only the day before I had seen him in town with some bare-footed Portuguese, drinking kolak , a reed sleeping mat laid out beside him.
Riemsdijk poured himself some wine and explained easily that, when asked, van Basel had been only too happy to go. A more decorous Dutch man with more useful ambition could never, of course, be found. His marriage would wait. Far be it from him, moreover, the Governer added - attempting a serious glance in my direction - to sit in Judgment on the Gentlemens’ intentions. Furious, I nodded my agreement, and left.
***************************
Isabella Nicolaes appeared unbothered by the departure of the Armenian’s vessel for Mokha. Every Sunday, still, I would grit my teeth through her half-mocking, uncomprehending thanks for the service. Pretending not to notice the soberly dressed suitors in attendance, she continued her arrogant procession. When van Basel’s letters arrived, each impotently confirming Murad’s deception, the Governor, out of some merciful instinct, attempted to conceal them from my knowledge. In truth, however, I no longer cared. Walking, I began to think. The women bathed and men drank as I passed.
***************************
The army of the Negus was far to the south, and his agents would not make the journey to Missiwa until the summer rains were over. Khodja Murad tied the last of the cloth sacks and blew out the two candles still burning in the room. Stepping quietly over his son, fast asleep in the middle of the room, he laid himself down, happier than he had been since he was a child.
In the morning, they walked to freedom; a tired man waiting for his beautiful death.
***************************
Reference: E. J. van Donzel ed., Foreign Relations of Ethiopia 1642-1700: Documents Relating to the Journeys of Khodja Murād, (Leiden, 1979).
Map reference: Nicolaum Visscher, Indiae Orientalis, (1681-1690): http://www.nationaalarchief.nl/amh/detail.aspx?page=dafb&lang=en&id=3231
No comments:
Post a Comment