by Amitav Ghosh
‘And did he find it, sir?’
‘It’s possible, but no one knows …’
On his way back to England, after his second visit to China, Cuninghame had vanished without trace, off the coast of southern India. His collections had perished with him, and it came to be whispered later that he might have met an untimely end because of certain protected plants that were in his possession. Those rumours were further fuelled when a packet of his papers reached England intact: they had been mailed shortly before he embarked on his last voyage and they included a small picture of an unknown flower.
‘The Golden Camellia?’
‘Ee can see for eerself,’ said Fitcher, in his laconic way. Reaching for a folder he extracted a card-like square of paper and handed it to Paulette.
The card was not large, and the picture inside was only about six inches square: it was painted with a fine brush, on paper that was covered with a faint yellow wash. In the background, lightly etched, was a landscape of mist-covered mountains; in the foreground was a twisted cypress tree, and under it, the seated figure of an old man with a bowl cupped in his hands. Next to him lay a branch with a few brilliantly coloured blossoms. The scale was too small for the precise shape of the petals to be outlined in any detail, but the blossom’s colouring was strikingly vivid: a mauve that turned gradually into a sunburst of gold.
Facing the picture, on the opposite leaf of the card, were two columns of Chinese characters, running from top to bottom.
Paulette pointed to the writing: ‘Is the meaning of these lines known, sir?’
Fitcher nodded and turned the card over. Written on the other side, in a faint but distinctive copperplate hand, was an English translation:
The petals on their green tinged stem shine like the purest gold.
A purple eye looks up from the centre, setting the bloom aglow,
It remedies the pain of ageing bones and quickens the memory and mind,
It puts to flight the death that festers in the lungs.
Inscribed under these lines were the words: Hsieh Ling-yun, Duke of Kang-lo.
The Duke of Kang-lo, said Fitcher, was apparently a real person, not some mythical hero. He had lived in the fifth century of the Christian era and was regarded as one of the greatest of Chinese naturalists; these lines of his were thought to mean that not only could this flower reverse the effects of ageing, it could also be used to battle one of humanity’s most dreaded enemies: that scourge of the lungs – consumption.
Many years after Cuninghame’s death his papers had come into Sir Joseph’s hands. He too had come to be convinced that the Golden Camellia might be one of the greatest of all botanical discoveries: the plant-hunter’s Grail. This, said Fitcher, was one of the reasons why he had decided to send a trained horticulturist to Canton, at public expense – William Kerr.
‘But Mr Kerr did not find the camellia?’
‘No – but he did find evidence of it.’
The last consignment of plants that Kerr had sent back to Kew was exceptionally large, and to make sure of its safe arrival he had hired a young Chinese gardener to escort it to London. This boy’s name was Ah Fey, and although only in his teens he was exceptionally clever and remarkably skilled – he had succeeded in transporting the collection almost intact. On arriving at Kew he had also handed Sir Joseph a small ‘painted garden’ – a set of several dozen botanical illustrations made by Cantonese artists. Amongst them Sir Joseph had found a picture of an unknown flower, a camellia that was remarkably like the bloom depicted in Cuninghame’s painting.
Now, pulling another folder off the shelf, Fitcher took out a picture and handed it to Paulette. ‘Here – have a look.’
The picture was painted not on paper but on another material, something thicker, stiffer and of a pristine and polished smoothness: it was a substance made from the pith of a reed, Fitcher explained, and was much favoured by Cantonese painters. The sheet was about the size of a foolscap page and at its centre was a startlingly vivid burst of colour. The vibrancy of the image was enhanced also by the manner in which the painting had been crafted, with many layers of paint being applied upon the pith so that the subject seemed to stand out in relief against the smooth surface – it was a perfectly formed double blossom, with its petals arranged in several concentric circles. At the heart of the bloom lay a closely packed whorl of stamens that seemed to be lit from beneath by a glowing circle of mauve; this tint spilled over into the base of the petals, with the colours changing gradually as they moved away from the centre. The outer part of the corolla was a brilliant sunburst of gold.
Paulette had never seen such extraordinary variations of colour in a single bloom. ‘It is very beautiful, sir – so much that one must doubt that such a flower really exists.’
‘Can’t fault ee for that,’ said Fitcher. ‘But if ee look at the way the parts are drawn ee’ll see that they seem to be sketched from a live specimen. Wouldn’t ee say?’
Now, looking at the picture again, Paulette saw that the picture’s composition was not unlike that of a European botanical illustration: it had been so configured as to include many telling details. She focused her gaze on the leaves, of which two were depicted in the painting: they were elliptical in shape with beautifully defined drip-tips; the petioles were carefully drawn and the mid-ribs and veins were clearly indicated under the shining, glossy epidermis. A bud was also featured, with its head emerging from a wrapping of sepals, packed tightly together like fish-scales.
‘Was it Sir Joseph who showed this picture to you?’
‘So it was.’
Shortly after Ah Fey’s arrival at Kew, Fitcher had once again received a summons from Sir Joseph Banks. On presenting himself before the Curator he had learnt that apart from plants and pictures, William Kerr had also sent a letter with Ah Fey, asking to be relieved of his post in Canton. He had spent several years there already and was desperate to leave. Since he had collected more than two hundred new species, Sir Joseph had decided to reward him by granting his wish: a new post would be created for him in Ceylon.
‘But much useful work remains to be done in Canton,’ said Sir Joseph. ‘Indeed I have received intelligence of a flower that may be a greater prize than any of Kerr’s discoveries. For this reason, among others, I have decided that the next man I send to China will go not as a representative of Kew, but as the emissary of a group of private investors.’
With that Sir Joseph had handed Fitcher the recently received picture of the Golden Camellia.
‘I need hardly tell you, Penrose, that all this is in the strictest confidence.’
‘No, sir.’
‘So what do you say, Penrose? You’re a steady kind of fellow, aren’t you? Are you of a mind to make a name for yourself? And some money too?’
Fitcher knew right then that one way or another the offer would upend his life: three years had passed since his first voyage to China. On his return, he had been given a job at Kew, and had risen to the rank of foreman. On the strength of that he had married the girl he had set his heart on years before, in Falmouth, and she was now pregnant. Fitcher was loath to leave his wife at such a time, but it was she who persuaded him to accept the Curator’s offer: she could go back, she said, to her parents for the two or three years it would take for Fitcher to return. In Falmouth, where a great number of women were married to sailors, this was a predicament shared by many and she would manage well enough; an opportunity like this was not to be forgone.
So, it happened that Fitcher set off on his second voyage to Canton. After two years he returned with the trove of plants that was to make his reputation and lay the foundations of his fortune – but the Golden Camellia was not in that collection.
‘So you never found any trace of it sir?’
‘No,’ said Fitcher.
Sir Joseph had not been willing to entrust either of the camellia paintings to Fitcher: he had travelled instead with copies of the originals. Neither was particularly well-executed, and both h
ad deteriorated during the long trip to China.
‘It’s different now that I’ve got the pictures,’ said Fitcher as he put the paintings back in their folders. ‘I know where to start.’
*
Within a minute of stepping on board, Neel saw that it was no exaggeration to describe the Anahita as a ‘palace-boat’. Not that she was exceptionally large, or imposing in size: at a mere hundred and twenty feet, she was smaller than many of the long-keeled European and American ships that were anchored in Singapore’s outer harbour. But these larger ships, well-trimmed and trusty though they might be, were all workaday trading vessels; the Anahita had more the appearance of a pleasure yacht, a rich man’s folly. Her brass fittings gleamed in the sunlight and her holystoned decks glowed with polish. Except for the absence of a figurehead, no sign of the damage she had recently suffered was anywhere to be seen. Not a rope or hawser was out of place, and a newly fitted bowsprit jutted proudly from her prow.
As he looked around the main deck, Neel’s eyes were drawn to the bulwarks: from the outside they had looked like solid lengths of timber, but now that he was on board, he saw that they were ornamented, on the inner side, with a series of panels that featured motifs from the art of ancient Persia and Mesopotamia: winged lions, fluted columns and striding spear-bearers. He would have liked to examine the designs more closely, but there was no time for Vico kept hurrying him towards the poop-deck. ‘Come, Munshiji. Patrão waiting.’
With its saloons, cabins and staterooms, the poop-deck was by far the most lavishly appointed part of the vessel. During the day, much of it was lit by a soft, natural light, filtering in from above through a series of ornamental skylights. As a result, the interior was free of the gloomy dankness that was so common inside wooden ships: instead it had a spacious, airy feel. The main corridor was panelled in mahogany and was hung with framed etchings of the ruins of Persepolis and Ecbatana. Here too Neel would have liked to linger, but Vico moved him briskly along until they came to the door that led to the Owners’ Suite. Then he raised a hand to knock.
Patrão, the munshi’s here – Freddy sent him.
Bring him in.
Bahram was at his desk, dressed in a light cotton angarkha and jootis of silver-threaded brocade; the beard that framed his jaw was neatly trimmed and he was wearing a simple, but impeccably tied turban.
In the Seth’s face, with its fine, high-bridged nose and dark brow, Neel could see the provenance not only of Ah Fatt’s good looks, but also of some of his other attributes – his sharp-eyed intelligence, for instance, as well as a certain element of will: a determination that bordered upon ruthlessness. But there the resemblance ended for in Bahram there was no trace of Ah Fatt’s wounded vulnerability: his manner was voluble, good humoured and disarmingly effervescent. This, Neel could see, was no small part of his charm.
Arré, munshiji, he cried out, gesticulating with both his hands. Why are you standing there like a tree? Come closer, na?
The cadences of his voice instantly dispelled Neel’s memories of his meetings with his father: he saw at once that Bahram bore no resemblance at all to the old zemindar – or indeed to any of the wealthy and influential men he had known in his previous life. In Bahram there was none of the world-weary boredom and sensual exhaustion that marked so many of those men; on the contrary, his restless manner, like his rustic accent, spoke of an energetic and unaffected directness.
‘What is your good-name?’
Neel had already decided to name himself after his new trade: Anil Kumar Munshi, Sethji.
Bahram nodded and pointed to a straight-backed chair. Achha, munshiji, he said. Why don’t you sit on that kursi over there, so we can look each other in the eye?
As you wish, Sethji.
In stepping up to the chair, Neel had a vague intuition that this was a test of some kind – a gambit which Bahram used in interviewing certain kinds of employees. What exactly was being tested he could not think, so he did as he had been instructed and seated himself on the chair, without preamble.
This was evidently the right thing to do, for Bahram responded with an outburst of enthusiasm. Good! he cried, giving his desk a delighted slap. Ekdum theek! Very good!
What exactly he had done right, Neel did not know, and it was Bahram himself who enlightened him. ‘Glad to see’, he said in English, ‘that you can manage chair-sitting. Can’t stand those floor-squatting munshis. In my position, how to put up with daftari-fellows who are always crawling on the ground? Foreigners will laugh, no?’
Ji, Sethji, said Neel. He bowed his head deferentially, mimicking the manner of the munshis he had himself once employed.
‘So you have seen the world a little, eh munshiji?’ said Bahram. ‘Done a chukker or two? Tasted something other than daal-bhat and curry-rice? Munshis who can manage chair-sitting are not easy to find. Can you handle knife-fork also? Little-little at least?’
Ji, Sethji, said Neel.
Bahram nodded. ‘So you met Freddy, my godson, here in Singapore, is it?’
Ji, Sethji.
‘And what you were doing before that? How you arrived here?’
Neel sensed that this question was intended not only as an inquiry into his past, but also as a test of his English – so it was in his clearest accents that he recounted the story he had prepared: that he was a member of a family of scribes from the remote kingdom of Tripura, on the borders of Bengal; having fallen out of favour with the court, he had been forced to make a living in commerce, working for a succession of merchants as a munshi and dubash. He had travelled from Chittagong to Singapore with his last employer who had died unexpectedly: this was why his services were now available.
The story seemed to hold little interest for Bahram, but he was clearly impressed by Neel’s fluency. Pushing back his chair he rose to his feet and began to pace the floor. ‘Shahbash munshiji!’ he said. ‘Phataphat you are speaking English. You will put me to shame no?’
Neel understood that he had unwittingly put the Seth on his mettle. He decided that from then on he would use Hindusthani whenever possible, leaving it to Bahram to speak English.
‘You can write nastaliq, also?’
Ji, Sethji.
‘And Gujarati?’
No, Sethji.
Bahram seemed not at all displeased by this. ‘That is all right. No need to know everything. Gujarati I can manage myself.’
Ji, Sethji.
‘But reading-writing is not all it takes to make a good munshi. Something else also there is, no? You know about what I am talking?’
I’m not sure, Sethji.
Bahram came to a halt in front of Neel, clasped his hands behind his back, and leant down so that his eyes were boring into Neel’s. ‘What I am talking is trust – shroffery – or sharaafat as some would say. You know the words no, and meanings also? For me munshi is the same as shroff, except that he deal with words. Just as shroff must lock the safe, so must munshi lock the mouth. If you are working for me, then everything you read, everything you write, all must be locked inside your head. That is your treasury, your khazana.’
Then, Bahram walked around the chair, placed his hands on Neel’s neck and turned his head from side to side.
‘You understand no, munshiji? Even if some dacoit tries to twist your head off, safe must stay closed?’
The tone of Bahram’s voice was playful rather than threatening, yet there was something in his manner that conveyed a faint sense of menace. Although discomfited, Neel managed to keep his composure. Ji, Sethji, he said. I understand.
Good! said Bahram cheerfully. But one more thing you should know: writing letters will not be the biggest part of your job. More important by far is what I call ‘khabar-dari’ – getting the news and keeping me informed. People think that only rulers and ministers need to know about wars, politics and all that. But that was only in the old days. Nowadays we are in a different time: today a man who does not know the khabar is a man who is headed for the kubber. This is what I alw
ays say: the news is what makes money. Do you understand me?
I’m not sure, Sethji, Neel mumbled. I don’t understand how the news can be of help in making money.
All right, said Bahram, pacing the floor. I will tell you a story that may help you understand. I heard it when I visited London with my friend, Mr Zadig Karabedian. It was twenty-two years ago – in 1816. One day someone took us to the Stock Exchange and pointed out a famous banker, one Mr Rothschild. This man had understood the importance of khabar-dari long before anyone else, and he had set up his own system for sending news, with pigeons and couriers and all. Then came the Battle of Waterloo – you have heard of it, no?
Ji, Sethji.
The day the battle was fought everyone was nervous in the London Stock Exchange. If the English lost, the price of gold would fall. If they won it would rise. What to do? Buy or sell? They waited and waited, and of course this banker was the first to know what had happened at Waterloo. So what do you think he did?
He bought gold, Sethji?
Bahram gave a belly-laugh and clapped Neel on the back. See, that is why you are a munshi and not a Seth. Arré budhu – he began to sell! And when he started to sell everyone thought, wah bhai, the battle is lost, so we’d better sell too. So the price of gold went down, down, down. Only when the time was right did Mr Rothschild step in to buy – and then he bought and bought and bought. You see? It was just that he knew the news before anyone else. Later some people told me the story is not really true – but what does it matter? It is a story for the times we live in, na? I tell you, if I had had the courage, I would have gone up to that man and touched his feet. You are my Guruji! I would have said.
Bahram had been pacing all this while, but now he came to a stop in front of Neel: So do you see munshiji, why khabar-dari is important for a businessman like me? You know, no, that we are going to Canton? When we get there you will have to be my eyes and ears.
