Flood of Fire

by Amitav Ghosh

  And then one night he was seized by a paroxysm of shivers as a thought flashed through his mind. Could it be that she was avoiding him because their night together had resulted in a pregnancy?

  This possibility ripped apart the last shreds of his peace of mind. He had been working on the budgerow’s stem-cheeks that day but now he put down his tools and began to brood, trying to think of some way in which he might contrive to meet Mrs Burnham, in private. It occurred to him that he might be able to break into her boudoir by picking the lock on the door that led to the servants’ staircase. But he could not summon the courage to go ahead with it – his fevered mind kept returning to her pistol, conjuring up reasons why she might elect to shoot him.

  One day, as he was agonizing over what to do next, Mr Doughty dropped by. It turned out that he had come to invite Zachary to a tiffin the following week.

  In his present state of mind Zachary had no inclination to go to a nuncheon at the Doughties’: but so disordered were his emotions that he could not summon the wit to make a convincing excuse. ‘Oh thank you, Mr Doughty,’ he stammered, ‘but I don’t think I have the proper rig …’

  Mr Doughty gave a hearty laugh. ‘Well then, my dear young chuckeroo, you can always tog yourself up in a toga again. I’m sure Mrs Burnham would be most diverted – she had a grand old cackle about it the last time. Said you looked like the rummest Rum-johnny she’d ever seen.’

  At the mention of Mrs Burnham’s name, Zachary’s mind began to race. He scratched his chin and said, with an off-handed air: ‘Oh? So, Mrs Burnham will be there too?’

  ‘Yes – and a few other mems, missies and larkins as well. But we’re a little short of launders and chuckeroos which is why Mrs Doughty sent me over to puckrow you.’

  ‘I’ll be there,’ said Zachary. ‘Thank you, Mr Doughty.’

  ‘Good. And if you’re looking to tog yourself out on the cheap you couldn’t do better than to visit the auction houses on Sunday. They often sell off the estates of the recently deceased – you’ll get all you need for a copper or two.’

  Zachary decided to heed Mr Doughty’s advice, and when Sunday came he reached under his mattress and pulled out his purse. The coins in it were miserably few: counting them out one by one, it seemed to Zachary that all his other travails would have been bearable if only he had not been so damned poor.

  His eyes strayed to the gilded sconces that lined the interior of the budgerow and it occurred to him that it would be easy to sell a couple of them in the market: nobody would notice. He rose to his feet and went to take a closer look. Prying them off would be simple enough, just a matter of extracting a few nails.

  He fetched an awl and was about to dig into the wood when a sudden qualm made him withdraw his hand. Behind that gilded sconce he could see a tunnel that led to some mysterious unknown – thievery – and he could not bring himself to go in. He put aside the awl and stuffed his meagre few coins into the pocket of his breeches.

  A long walk brought Zachary to the centre of Calcutta from where he asked his way to the doors of one of the auction houses on Russell Street. At the cost of almost empyting his pocket, he was able to acquire a suit that had belonged to a recently deceased apothecary by the name of Quinn.

  Not till the morning of the Doughties’ tiffin did it occur to him that the suit had a strange smell – of mildew and sweat mingled with the odour of something medicinal – but of course it was too late to do anything about it. He put it on, hoping that no one would notice – in vain, for the khidmatgar who opened the door for him, at the Doughties’ residence, recognized the suit immediately and gave a shriek, as if he’d seen a ghost: Quinn-sahib? Arré dekho – Quinn-sahb ka bhoot aa giya!

  The noise brought Mr Doughty to the door and he too uttered a cry of surprise: ‘Good God, Reid! Those aren’t old Quinn’s togs you’re wearing, are you? He had only one suit, you know, and his shop was around the corner so we saw him in it every day. Mrs Doughty and every other memsahib in the city bought their laudanum from him.’

  Zachary spluttered in protest: ‘Well, it was you, Mr Doughty, who said to go to the auctions. How was I to know?’

  ‘Oh well, never mind. You can hardly take it off now. Come into the bettuck-connuh and put your bottom to anchor.’

  Zachary had taken only a few steps into the receiving room when he caught sight of Mrs Burnham. She was on the far side of the room, seated on a settee, wearing an airy gown of pink tulle, with trimmings the colour of rich, red wine; her face, with its tumbling halo of curls, was framed by the rim of a heart-shaped bonnet. The feather on the bonnet’s crown was swaying gently under the punkah that was swinging overhead, stirring the sultry air.

  Although Zachary was well within Mrs Burnham’s field of vision she seemed to be oblivious to his presence: she was chatting to two severe-looking memsahibs with her usual air of languid indifference.

  Almost at once Zachary’s eyes dropped to her midriff. Seven weeks had passed since that night and it was conceivable that if it had led to the outcome that he most feared – a pregnancy – some sign of it would already be visible. He saw nothing to confirm his fears – but he could not wrench his gaze away. And then his eyes played a cruel trick on him: they stripped away the frothing pink fabric of her dress to reveal what lay beneath. He beheld once again the slope of her belly, curving steeply down towards a forest of soft, downy curls. He remembered the ease with which he had slipped through that silken canopy and how the warmth of his welcome had led him to plunge deeper and deeper until he reached what seemed to be an unattainable extremity; he remembered how joyfully he had been received in that haven and how this had created the illusion that he had been accepted into an empire where he had never thought he would belong; and as that fantasy faded, and his nose caught, once again, the musty smell of his threadbare suit, he wondered how it was possible that the most secret parts of himself could have been given so warm a welcome by someone who would not grant the least gesture of recognition to his clothed body.

  The injustice of it kindled a spark of defiance in him, propelling him to move towards the settee. It was only natural, he told himself, that he should make his salaams to her – it was no secret, after all, that he was an employee of her husband’s, almost a retainer: and had she not danced with him in public, at the ball?

  Mrs Burnham was still gossiping airily with her companions and showed no signs of having noticed his presence. As he approached the settee, he caught the fluting sound of her voice: ‘Oh I assure you, my dear Augusta, the trouble in China is due solely to Commissioner Lin – he’s a monster, Mr Burnham says, an absolute dragon …!’

  She seemed to be intent on her story and took not the slightest notice of Zachary until he was directly in front of her, bowing. Then she gave a little start and glanced up. ‘‘Pon my civvy! Oh it’s you … Mr … Mr …? Never mind …’

  She inclined her head slightly, to give Zachary a perfunctory nod: the gesture was not so much a greeting as a sign of dismissal. Then, turning her shoulder on him, she resumed her conversation.

  The snub stunned Zachary: he turned on his heels quickly, to hide his flaming cheeks, and shambled off in the other direction. As he was making his retreat he heard her say, in a piercing whisper: ‘I’m sorry I didn’t introduce him, Augusta dear, but I can’t for the life of me remember his name. Anyway it doesn’t signify – he’s a nobody, just one of Mr Burnham’s mysteries.’

  ‘A mystery, is he? From the smell of him, I’d have taken him for a druggerman.’

  ‘Whatever made the Doughties think of asking him?’

  ‘Really, I must have a word with them – they’ll be inviting the malis and moochies next.’

  It was all that Zachary could do not to clap his hands over his ears: if a whip had landed on his back it could not have had a harsher sting.

  To remain in that room another minute was more than he could bear. Giving Mr Doughty the slip he headed straight for the door. But as he was picking up his hat he threw a gla
nce over his shoulder – and at exactly that moment Mrs Burnham’s eyes happened to look in his direction. Their eyes met for only an instant but it was enough for her gaze to lodge in his head like an anchor-fluke.

  *

  For several weeks after Shireen’s visit to Bassein there was no word from Zadig Bey: knowing that he was due to leave for Colombo soon, she began to wonder whether she would see him again before his departure.

  As the days went by this question assumed an urgency that confused Shireen: it seemed shameful to her that her mind should dwell so much on this subject. She tried to persuade herself that it was only because of his connection with Bahram that Zadig figured so often in her thoughts; sometimes she told herself that his entry into her life was a sign; that Bahram himself had sent his friend to her, to open a window at the darkest hour of her life, to let a breath of air into the hushed gloom of her existence.

  Had she been able to think of a way to contact Zadig directly, Shireen might have done so. But her only means of reaching him was through Vico, and she fought shy of raising the subject with him.

  A month went by and when there was still no word from Zadig, Shireen assumed that he had already left. So her surprise was all the greater when Vico came by to say that Zadig Bey had asked to meet with her, to take his leave.

  Through Vico it was arranged that they would again meet at the Catholic church at Mazagon. When the day came Shireen set off early and arrived several minutes before the appointed hour. To her surprise Zadig was already there, sitting in the same place where they’d sat before.

  He rose as she approached and bowed formally: ‘Good morning,

  Bibiji.’

  ‘Good morning, Zadig Bey.’

  She seated herself beside him, on the pew, and slipped off her veil. ‘So you are leaving Bombay are you, Zadig Bey?’

  ‘Yes, Bibiji,’ he said, a little awkwardly. ‘Christmas is coming so I must go to Colombo to be with my children and grandchildren. But before leaving I wanted to give you some news.’

  ‘Yes, Zadig Bey – what is it?’

  ‘I have been told in confidence,’ said Zadig Bey, ‘that the decision to send an expeditionary force to China has been taken in London, by Lord Palmerston, the Foreign Secretary. It is from India that the expedition will be launched: half the troops will be sepoys, and much of the money and support will also come from here. Apparently the preparations are already under way, in Calcutta, in secret. The planning started some months ago, but only when everything is ready will it be announced to the public.’

  ‘How do you know this?’ said Shireen.

  ‘Bibiji, I’m sure you know that William Jardine, the big China trader, is the principal partner of Seth Jamsetjee Jejeebhoy, the Parsi merchant?’

  ‘Yes, of course I am aware of that.’

  ‘Well, William Jardine has been helping Lord Palmerston with the planning of the expedition. I have just learnt that he has written to Seth Jamsetjee, asking for the support of the merchants of Bombay. He has made it clear that one of the expedition’s principal goals is to extract compensation for the opium that was confiscated by Commissioner Lin – those who provide help will naturally be paid first.’

  ‘Oh?’ said Shireen. ‘So you think compensation will be paid after all?’

  ‘I am sure of it,’ said Zadig. ‘And as Bahram’s friend, I must tell you, Bibiji, that it is very important that your interests do not go unrepresented in the months ahead. Since you cannot send anyone to China you must go yourself. That is what Bahram-bhai would have wanted, I am sure of it.’

  Shireen sighed. ‘Zadig Bey, you must understand that for a woman and a widow it is very difficult to make such a journey.’

  ‘Bibiji! European women travel in ships all the time. You are educated, you speak English, you are the daughter of Seth Rustamjee Mistrie who built some of the finest ships to sail the ocean. Why should it be difficult for you to go?’

  ‘And if I did go to China, where would I stay?’

  ‘I have friends in Macau. I will write to them to find a place for you to rent.’

  Shireen shook her head. ‘But there are many other practical problems, Zadig Bey. How will I finance such a journey? How will I buy a passage? All I have is some jewellery that I’d hidden away – Bahram left nothing but debts, you know.’

  Zadig wagged a finger to signal his disagreement. ‘That is not true, Bibiji – Bahram-bhai was very generous to his friends and he left behind many things. With me for instance.’

  ‘What do you mean? What has he left with you?’

  ‘Over the years he gave me many presents and did me many favours. In the flow of life, these things too are like loans. Since you are his widow, it is only right that I should discharge those debts by paying for your passage.’

  A startled blush rose to Shireen’s cheeks. ‘Zadig Bey, that was not what I meant. I couldn’t possibly accept money from you.’

  ‘Why not?’ said Zadig insistently. ‘It would be merely a repayment of my debts to Bahram-bhai. Not even that – it would be an investment, rather. When you reclaim Bahram-bhai’s dues, you can pay me back. With ten per cent interest if you like.’

  Shireen shook her head. ‘That’s all very well, Zadig Bey – but what will I tell my family? They will want to know where the money came from.’

  ‘Tell them the truth. Tell them you had some jewellery hidden away and you’ve decided to sell it. That’s all they need to know.’

  Shireen began to fidget with the hem of her sari. ‘Zadig Bey – you don’t understand. Money is only one small part of the problem. I also have to consider my family’s name and reputation. There will be a huge scandal if people hear that I’m thinking of going to China – a widow, travelling alone! The Parsi Panchayat may even expel me from the community. And I have to think of my daughters too. They’ll worry about my safety.’

  Zadig scratched his chin pensively. ‘Bibiji – I too have been thinking about these matters and a solution has occurred to me. As you know, Vico’s cousin Rosa has spent some time in Macau. While she was there she worked in the Misericordía, which is a Catholic charity that runs hospitals and orphanages. The sisters have asked her to return and she is keen to do so but cannot afford the fare. She will gladly travel with you if her passage can be arranged and paid for. I have spoken to her about this. Your family cannot object to your going if you have a companion with you, can they?’

  Instead of calming Shireen, this cast her into despair. ‘A passage for Rosa!’ She struck her forehead with her hand. ‘But Zadig Bey, how could I possibly make all these arrangements? It’s too difficult – I can’t do it on my own.’

  Zadig Bey brushed the back of her hand with his fingertips, very lightly. ‘Please, Bibiji, do not upset yourself. Try to think of it calmly. Vico will help with the arrangements, and so will I. As it happens I myself am due to travel to China next year. I will arrange matters so that I can sail on the same ship as you and Rosa. Whichever ship you take from Bombay, it is sure to stop in Colombo. I will join you there – Vico will let me know so that I can book my passage accordingly.’

  ‘You!’ The blood rushed to Shireen’s face with such force that it was as if her cheeks had been scalded. ‘But Zadig Bey … what would people say if they found out that we were travelling together? You know how people gossip.’

  ‘There’s no reason why they should find out,’ said Zadig. ‘And if they do, we can tell them that it was just coincidence that we were on the same ship.’ He paused to stroke his chin. ‘For myself, I confess it would be a pleasure to make this journey with you—’

  Cutting himself short, he coughed into his fist. When he resumed it was as if he were correcting himself for having been too forward: ‘What I meant is that it would be a pleasure to be of service to you on the journey. I would particularly like to arrange a meeting between you and Freddie, in Singapore.’

  Shireen clapped her hands to her cheeks. ‘Please stop, Zadig Bey, please stop!’ she cried. ‘I can’t make a
decision like this at the snap of a finger.’ She rose to her feet, pulling the veil over her head. ‘I need more time.’

  Zadig rose too. ‘Bibiji,’ he said quietly, as she was lowering her veil, ‘please do not worry about the details. The difficulties are all in your head. Once you make up your mind everything else will fall in place.’

  These words made so deep an impression on her that she realized that she trusted Zadig completely, perhaps even more than Bahram. But she still could not bring herself to take the leap.

  ‘Let me think about it, Zadig Bey. When I am ready, I will let you know, through Vico. But for now, let us say goodbye.’

  November 18, 1839

  Honam

  The disaster at Humen has galvanized Commissioner Lin and his circle of officials – but no one would know it from the look of the city. In Canton and beyond, everyday life continues unchanged – and this, says Compton, is exactly what the authorities want: that people go about their business as usual. The battle has been underplayed even in official dispatches: Beijing has been informed that it was a minor clash, in which the British also suffered significant casualties. Compton says that it is in order to avoid panic that the battle is being treated as a minor event – but I wonder if it isn’t also meant to save face and avert the Emperor’s wrath?

  Underneath the surface though, the battle has opened many eyes. Compton for one, has been deeply shaken by what we saw that day at Humen. Since then an aspect of him that is usually concealed by his habitually cheerful demeanour has come to the fore: a tendency to fret and worry. He makes no apology for this propensity of his: when teased about it, he quotes a line from Mencius, something to the effect of: ‘It is by worrying about adversity that people survive; complacency brings catastrophe.’

  Nowadays Compton’s fretfulness bubbles over quite often. In the past his attitude towards translation was fairly matter-of-fact. But now it is as if language itself has become a battleground, with words serving as weapons. He sometimes explodes with indignation while reading British translations of official Chinese documents: Look, Ah Neel, look! Look how they have changed the meaning of what was said!