Sea of Poppies: A Novel (The Ibis Trilogy)

by Amitav Ghosh

  The Captain looked up to fix his glowing eyes briefly on Zachary. ‘There were many years, believe me, when I smoked no more than a single pipe each month – and if you should happen to think that such moderation is not possible, then I would have you know that not only is it possible, it is even the rule. They are fools, sir, who imagine that everyone who touches a pipe is condemned instantly to wither away in a smoke-filled den. The great majority of those who chase the dragon, I’ll wager, do so only once or twice a month – not for nip-cheesing reasons at that, but because it is that very restraint that produces the most exquisite, the most refined pleasure. There are some, of course, who know with their first taste that they will never leave that smoky paradise – those are the true addicts and they are born, not made. But for the common run of men – and I include myself in that number – to come unballasted over the black mud takes something else, some turn of fate, some vulnerability of fortune . . . or perhaps, as was the case with me, reverses of a personal nature, that happened to coincide with a debilitating illness. Certainly, at the time when it happened, I could not have had a better remedy for my ills . . .’

  The Captain broke off to glance at Zachary. ‘Tell me, Reid: do you know what the most miraculous property of this substance is?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘I will tell you then: it kills a man’s desires. That is what makes it manna for a sailor, balm for the worst of his afflictions. It calms the unceasing torment of the flesh that pursues us across the seas, drives us to sin against Nature . . .’

  The Captain looked down at his hands, which had begun to shake. ‘Come, Reid,’ he said suddenly. ‘We’ve wasted enough breath. Since we are launched on this tack, let me ask: would you not like to try a whiff? You will not be able to avoid this experiment forever, I assure you – curiosity alone will drive you to it. You would be amazed . . .’ – he broke off with a laugh – ‘oh you’d be amazed by the passengers I’ve known who’ve wanted to hoist the smoke-sail: Bible-thumping devil-scolders; earnest Empire-builders; corseted matrons, impregnable in their primness. If you’re to sail the opium route, there will come a day when you, too, will bleed the monkey. So why not now? Is it not as good a time as any?’

  Zachary stared, as if hypnotized, at the pipe and its delicate, polished stem. ‘Why yes, sir,’ he said. ‘I should like that.’

  ‘Good.’

  Reaching into a drawer, the Captain brought out a box which was, in the lacquered sheen of its gloss, every bit a match for his pipe. When he opened the lid, several objects were revealed to be lying inside, on a lining of red silk, nested ingeniously together. One by one, like an apothecary at a counter, the Captain picked the objects apart and placed them on the table in front of him: a needle with a metal tip and a bamboo stem; a long-handled spoon of similar design; a tiny silver knife; a small round container, made of ivory and so ornately carved that Zachary would not have been surprised to see a ruby or diamond lying inside. But instead there was a lump of opium, dull in appearance, muddy in colour and texture. Arming himself with the knife, Captain Chillingworth cut off a minuscule piece and placed it in the bowl of the long-handled spoon. Then, removing the chimney from the lamp, he held the spoon directly over the flame, keeping it there until the gum changed consistency and turned liquid. Now, with the ceremonious air of a priest performing a ritual of communion, he handed Zachary the pipe: ‘Be sure to work your bellows hard when I put the droplet in: a gulp or two is all you’ll get before it’s gone.’ Now, moving with the greatest care, the Captain dipped the needle’s tip into the opium and held it over the flame. As soon as the drop began to sizzle, he thrust it into the pipe’s bulb. ‘Yes! Now! let not a wisp escape!’

  Zachary put the stem to his lips and drew in a breath of rich, oily smoke.

  ‘Work the pump! Hold it in!’

  After Zachary had drawn on the stem twice more, the pipe was exhausted of its smoke.

  ‘Sit back in your chair,’ said Captain Chillingworth. ‘Do you feel it? Has the earth lost its hold on your body yet?’

  Zachary nodded: it was true that somehow the pull of gravity seemed to have eased; his body had become as light as a cloud; every trace of tension had drained out of his muscles; they had become so relaxed, so yielding that he could not be sure that his limbs still existed. To sit in a chair now was the last thing he wanted to do; he wanted to be prone, to lie down. He put out a hand to steady himself, and watched his fingers travel, like slow-worms, to the edge of the table. Then he pushed himself up, half expecting his feet to be unusable – but they were perfectly steady and well capable of supporting his weight.

  He heard the Captain speaking, as if from a great distance: ‘Are you too be-dundered to walk? You are welcome to the use of my cot.’

  ‘My cabin’s just a step away, sir.’

  ‘As you please, as you please. The effects will pass in an hour or two and you will wake refreshed.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ Zachary felt himself to be floating as he moved to the door.

  He was almost there when the Captain said: ‘Wait a minute, Reid – what was it that you wanted to see me about?’

  Zachary came to a stop with his hand on the door; to his surprise he found that the loosening of his muscles and the clouding of his senses had not led to any loss of memory. His mind was, if anything, unnaturally clear: not only did he recall that he had come to speak to the Captain about Serang Ali, he also understood that the opium had saved him from choosing a coward’s course. For it was clear to him now that whatever had happened between himself and the serang had to be resolved between the two of them, and them alone. Was it because the fumes had given him a clearer vision of the world? Or was it because they had allowed him to look into parts of himself where he had never ventured before? Whatever the case, he saw now that it was a rare, difficult and improbable thing for two people from worlds apart to find themselves linked by a tie of pure sympathy, a feeling that owed nothing to the rules and expectations of others. He understood also that when such a bond comes into being, its truths and falsehoods, its obligations and privileges, exist only for the people who are linked by it, and then in such a way that only they can judge the honour and dishonour of how they conduct themselves in relation to each other. It was for him, Zachary, to find an honourable resolution to his dealings with Serang Ali; in this would lie his manumission into adulthood, his knowledge of the steadiness of his helm.

  ‘Yes, Reid? What did you want to talk about?’

  ‘It was about our position, sir,’ said Zachary. ‘When I looked at the charts today, I had the feeling that we had strayed quite a long way eastwards.’

  The Captain shook his head. ‘No, Reid – we’re exactly where we should be. In this season there’s a southerly current off the Andamans and I thought to take advantage of it; we’ll stay on this tack for a while yet.’

  ‘I see, sir, I’m sorry. If you’ll forgive me . . .’

  ‘Yes go, go.’

  Crossing the cuddy, Zachary felt none of the unsteadiness that accompanies inebriation; his movements were slow, but in no wise irregular. Once inside his cabin, he took off his banyan and trowsers and stretched out on his bunk in his underclothing. On closing his eyes he lapsed into a state of rest that was far deeper than sleep, and yet also more awake, for his mind was filled with shapes and colours: although these visions were extraordinarily vivid they were utterly tranquil, being untroubled by sensuality or desire. How long this state lasted he did not know, but his awareness of its waning started when faces and figures entered his visions again. He fell into a state of dreaming, in which a woman kept approaching and receding, keeping her face hidden, eluding him even though he knew her to be tantalizingly close. Just as he was becoming conscious of a distant ringing sound, the veil fell away from her face and he saw that she was Paulette; she was coming towards him, walking into his arms, offering him her lips. He woke to find himself drenched in sweat, dimly conscious that the last chime of the eighth bell had just sounde
d and that it was his watch next.

  A marriage proposal being a sensitive affair, Deeti had to be careful in picking a time and place where she could discuss the matter with Heeru without being overheard. No opportunity arose until early the next morning, when the two women happened to find themselves alone on the main deck. Seizing the moment, Deeti took Heeru’s elbow and led her to the jamna devis.

  What is it, Bhauji?

  It wasn’t often that anyone paid Heeru much attention, and she began to stammer in apprehension, thinking she’d done something wrong and was in for a scolding: Ká horahelba? Is something wrong?

  Under the cover of her ghungta, Deeti smiled: There’s nothing wrong, Heeru – to tell the truth, I am happy today – áj bara khusbáni. I have some news for you.

  News? What news? Ká khabarbá? Heeru dug her knuckles into her cheeks and whimpered: Is it good or bad?

  That’s for you to decide. Listen . . .

  No sooner had Deeti started to explain than she began to wish she’d chosen some other venue for this talk, some place where they could have dropped their ghungtas: with their faces covered, it was impossible to know what Heeru was thinking. But it was too late now, she would have to go through with it.

  When the news of the proposal had been conveyed in full, she said: Ká ré, Heeru? What do you think: tell me?

  Ká kahatbá bhauji? What can I say?

  From the sound of her voice, Deeti knew she was crying, so she put an arm around her, pulling her into a huddle: Heeru, don’t be afraid; you can say what you like.

  Several minutes passed before Heeru could speak, and even then it was in a sobbing, disjointed rush: Bhauji . . . I hadn’t thought, didn’t expect . . . are you sure? Bhauji, they say in Mareech, a woman on her own will be torn apart . . . devoured . . . so many men and so few women . . . can you think what it would be like, Bhauji, to be alone there . . . Oh Bhauji . . . I never thought . . .

  Deeti could not figure out where exactly this was heading. Ágé ke bát kal hoilé, she said sharply. You can talk about the future tomorrow. What’s your answer for now?

  What else, Bhauji? Yes, I’m ready . . .

  Deeti laughed. Arre Heeru! You’re a bold one!

  Why do you say that, Bhauji? said Heeru anxiously. Do you think it’s a mistake?

  No, said Deeti firmly. Now that you’ve decided, I can tell you: I don’t think it’s a mistake. I think he’s a good man. Besides, he has all those followers and relatives – they’ll look after you. You’ll be the envy of everyone, Heeru – a real queen!

  It was not unusual for Paulette, when going through her washing, to come upon a shirt, banyan, or pair of trowsers that she recognized as Zachary’s. Almost unconsciously, she would slip these garments to the bottom of her pile, saving them for the last. When she came to them, depending on her mood, she would sometimes subject them to an angry scrubbing, even beating them upon the deck-planks, with all the vigour of a washerwoman at a dhobi-ghat. But there were times also when she would linger over their collars and cuffs and seams, going to great lengths to scrub them clean. It was in this fashion that she was cleaning a shirt of his one day when Baboo Nob Kissin Pander appeared at her side. Goggling at the garment in her hands, he said, in a furtive whisper: ‘I do not wish to trespass into your preserves, Miss, but kindly may I inquire if that shirt belongs to Mr Reid?’

  Paulette answered with a nod, whereupon he said, even more furtively: ‘Just for one minute can I feel?’

  ‘The shirt?’ she asked in astonishment, and without another word, the gomusta snatched the damp twist of cloth from her and pulled it this way and that before handing it back. ‘Seems he has been wearing from times-immemorial,’ he said with a puzzled frown. ‘Cloth feels extremely aged. Strange, no?’

  Although Paulette was by now well-accustomed to the gomusta’s oddities, she was puzzled by this cryptic statement. ‘But why is it strange that Mr Reid should have old clothes?’

  ‘Tch!’ The gomusta clicked his tongue, as if mildly irritated by her ignorance. ‘If avatar is new, how clothes can be old? Height, weight, privates, all must be changing, no, when there is alteration in externalities? Myself, I have had to buy many new clothings. Heavy financial outlay was required.’

  ‘I don’t understand, Nob Kissin Baboo,’ said Paulette. ‘Why was that necessary?’

  ‘You cannot see?’ The gomusta’s eyes grew even rounder and more protuberant. ‘You are blind or what? Bosoms are burgeoning, hair is lengthening. New modalities are definitely coming to the fore. How old clothes will accommodate?’

  Paulette smiled to herself and lowered her head. ‘But Baboo Nob Kissin,’ she said, ‘Mr Reid has not undergone such a change; his old clothes will surely suffice for a while yet?’

  To Paulette’s astonishment, the gomusta responded with startling vehemence: his face seemed to swell in outrage, and when he spoke again, it was as if he were defending some deeply cherished belief. ‘How you can make such sweeping-statements? At once I will clear this point.’ Thrusting a hand through the neckline of his flowing tunic, he pulled out an amulet and unrolled a yellowing piece of paper. ‘Come here and see.’

  Rising to her feet, Paulette took the list from him and began to examine it under the glowing, sunlit penumbra of her ghungta.

  ‘It is crew-list for Ibis from two years ago. Look at Mr Reid’s good-name and you will see. Cent-per-cent change is there.’

  As if mesmerized, Paulette’s eyes ran back and forth along the line until they came to the word ‘Black’ scribbled beside Zachary’s name. Suddenly so much that had seemed odd, or inexplicable, made perfect sense – his apparently intuitive sympathy for her circumstances, his unquestioning acceptance of her sisterly relationship with Jodu . . .

  ‘It is a miracle, no? Nobody can deny.’

  ‘Indeed, Baboo Nob Kissin. You are right.’

  She saw now how miraculously wrong she had been in some of her judgements of him: if there was anyone on the Ibis who could match her in the multiplicity of her selves, then it was none other than Zachary. It was as if some divine authority had sent a messenger to let her know that her soul was twinned with his.

  There was nothing now to stop her from revealing herself to him – and yet the mere thought of it made her cringe in fear. What if he assumed that she had chased him on to the Ibis? What else indeed could he assume? What would she do if he laughed at her for humiliating herself? She could not bear to think of it.

  She lifted her head to look at the sea, rushing by, and a glimmer of memory flashed through her head: she remembered a day, several years ago, when Jodu had found her crying over a novel. Taking the book out of her hands, he had flipped through it in puzzlement, even shaking it by the spine, almost as if he were expecting to dislodge a needle or a thorn – some sharp object that might account for her tears. Finding nothing, he said at last – it’s the story, is it, that’s turned on the flow? – and on this being confirmed, he had demanded a full recounting of the tale. So she’d told him the story of Paul and Virginie, growing up in exile on an island, where an innocent childhood attachment had grown into an abiding passion, but only to be sundered when Virginie was sent back to France. The last part of the book was Paulette’s favourite, and she’d described at length the novel’s tragic conclusion, in which Virginie is killed in a shipwreck, just as she is about to be reunited with her beloved. To her outrage, Jodu had greeted the melancholy tale with guffaws of laughter, telling her that only a fool would cry over this skein of weepy nonsense. She had shouted at him, telling him that it was he who was the fool, and a weakling too, because he would never have the courage to follow the dictates of his heart.

  How was it that no one had ever told her that it was not love itself, but its treacherous gatekeepers which made the greatest demands on your courage: the panic of acknowledging it; the terror of declaring it; the fear of being rebuffed? Why had no one told her that love’s twin was not hate but cowardice? If she had learnt this earlier she would have known
the truth of why she had gone to such lengths to stay hidden from Zachary. And yet, even knowing this, she could not summon the courage to do what she knew she must – at least not yet.

  It was late in the night, shortly after the fifth bell of the midnight watch, that Zachary spotted Serang Ali on the fo’c’sle-deck: he was alone and he seemed to be deep in thought, looking eastwards, at the moonlit horizon. All through the day, Zachary had had the feeling that the serang was avoiding him, so he lost no time now in stepping up to stand beside him at the rail.

  Serang Ali was clearly startled to see him: ‘Malum Zikri!’

  ‘Can you spare a moment, Serang Ali?’

  ‘Can, can. Malum, what-thing wanchi?’

  Zachary took out the watch Serang Ali had given him and held it in his palm. ‘Listen, Serang Ali, it’s time you told me the truth about this timmyknocky here.’

  Serang Ali gave the ends of his drooping moustache a puzzled tug. ‘What Malum Zikri mean? No sabbi.’

  Zachary opened the watch’s cover. ‘Time’s come to cut playing the fool, Serang Ali. I know you been putting me on about Adam Danby. I know who he was.’

  Serang Ali’s eyes went from the watch to Zachary’s face and he gave a shrug, as if to indicate that he was weary of pretence and dissimulation. ‘How? Who tell?’

  ‘That don matter none: what counts is I know. What I don’t know is what you had in mind for me. Were you planning on teaching me Danby’s tricks?’

  Serang Ali shook his head and spat a mouthful of betel-juice over the deck rail. ‘No true, Malum Zikri,’ he said in a low, insistent voice. ‘You cannot believe all what the buggers say. Malum Aadam, he blongi like son for Serang Ali – he my daughter husband. Now he hab makee die. Also daughter and all they chilo. Serang Ali ’lone now. When I look-see Malum Zikri, my eyes hab done see Malum Aadam. Both two same-same for me. Zikri Malum like son also.’