by Amitav Ghosh
Zadig was, of course, more widely travelled than Bahram and was better informed about courtly procedures – but even for him, this was an unprecedented situation, and on some aspects of protocol he was almost as uncertain as Bahram. What were they to wear, for instance? Both men had a complement of European-style coats and trousers in their trunks but neither of them was at all eager to exchange his accustomed clothing for those tight-fitting, tailored garments. Besides, reasoned Zadig, Napoleon was sure to be disappointed, was he not, if his Persian prince turned up attired like a colonial clerk? Better, then, to dress in familiar attire – and fortunately they were both in possession of a few garments that would not have looked out of place at any court. In Zadig’s case, these consisted of a sumptuous burumcuk caftan and a gold-embroidered Yerevan waistcoat; for Bahram they were a silver-grey ‘Mughalai’ pyjama with an ornamental izarband drawstring; it was worn with a knee-length jama of cream-coloured silk, embroidered with gold badla. This ensemble was completed by a resplendent outer garment, worn in the fashion of a coat – a choga of blue silk, with a raised collar made of strips of golden kimkhab ribbon. As for headgear, for Zadig the question was easily resolved, by the choice of a tall, sable calpac – but for Bahram, this issue threatened to be the trickiest part of the preparations. His ceremonial turban was over ten feet long and he knew it would be no easy feat to deal with so much cloth in a cabin that was barely large enough for two men to turn around in.
But their costuming proved less onerous than they had feared: by serving as each other’s valets they were able to squirm and wriggle into their clothes well before the Captain’s ketch was declared to be ready to ferry their party ashore, to Jamestown.
This was the island’s principal settlement and it presented an appearance that was at once pictureseque and strikingly unusual: the town consisted of a double row of prettily coloured houses that ran along the floor of a steep, V-shaped valley. As it receded into the interior of the island, the valley led the eye directly to a hill that was topped by a modest lodge: here lay the site of Napoleon’s imprisonment.
Transportation, in the form of a train of horses, had already been arranged, and the party set off at a brisk trot, winding their way upwards through the town’s narrow, cobblestoned streets. The house that had been allotted to the former Emperor was called Longwood and it was located on one of the island’s highest elevations, about five miles from the capital. The path was narrow but scenic, and every turn brought into view alternating vistas of a glittering blue sea and wooded hillsides, covered with fern-draped trees. Climbing steeply, the visitors passed through orchards and massed clumps of wild flowers before reaching a point where the way was blocked by a picket of British soldiers. A tumbledown cottage stood nearby: they were informed that this was the residence of the Count Henri Gratien Bertrand, Grand Marshal of the Palace and former commander of the Irish corps of the French army.
Here they dismounted, and their arrival being announced, the Marshal came out to meet them – and he proved to be not at all the ogre that some had feared but a distinguished-looking man with extremely winning manners. After greetings had been exchanged, the Marshal led the visitors towards the cottage, promising to introduce them to someone they would find very interesting. The women interpreted this to mean that they were soon to be in the presence of the Fiend himself and were reduced to fluttering agitation – needlessly it turned out, for the Marshal had merely been teasing them: it was his wife who was waiting inside the shack, and they were all charmed by her engaging manners and fluent English. She seemed particularly pleased to meet Zadig, and brought out a camel-hair shawl: it had been given to her, she said, by the Empress Maria Louisa who had bought it from an Armenian trader for three hundred guineas. This led to a lively discussion and the English passengers were soon on the best of terms with the Countess, who was half-Irish and half-Creole. So charmed, indeed, were they, that they expressed no disappointment when Marshal Bertrand informed them, somewhat apologetically, that it was his duty to now take the two Asiatic visitors to the General, for a private conversation: if the others had no objection to remaining awhile in the Countess’s company, he would briefly take their leave. The English visitors readily gave their assent, so Bahram and Zadig rose to their feet and followed the Marshal out of the cottage.
Longwood stood on the summit of the hill, and the path that led up to it was steep and winding. When the house came into view, the two visitors were taken aback: it was just a bungalow, impressive neither in size nor appearance. Its one distinguishing feature was a steeply gabled portico; if not for the soldiers who were posted around the grounds, it could have been mistaken for the home of a family of modest circumstances.
At the bottom of the garden, there was a tent manned by a platoon of soldiers. Several other visitors were waiting there, but on the Marshal’s word, Bahram and Zadig were waved through before the rest. After a few more steps, the Marshal came to a halt and pointed them in the direction of what seemed to be a flower garden: he now needed to retrace his steps to his own dwelling, he said, but they would have no difficulty in finding the General – at this time of day he liked to stroll in the gardens and they were sure to see him on their way up.
The last part of the climb had been quite strenuous, and both Zadig and Bahram were now breathing heavily and perspiring under their robes.
‘What kind of Emperor he is?’ Bahram muttered, under his breath. ‘No chobdar even to receive his guests.’
Despite the Marshal’s reassurances they saw no sign of the General, and the flowers, when they reached them, proved to be a mere sprinkling of daisies and asters.
‘At least he could put some roses, no?’ said Bahram in disgust. ‘Emperor-shemperor and all?’
They hurried on and were making their way through a vegetable patch when they caught sight of someone approaching. Not only was this man a personage of commanding aspect, he also had a star pinned to his breast. They both assumed that he was Bonaparte himself.
To encounter an Emperor in a manure-strewn cabbage patch was a contingency for which Bahram was wholly unprepared; deciding that he would copy everything that Zadig did, he drew back a little, and kept his eyes fixed upon his friend. Had he proceeded to kneel in the mud, Bahram would certainly have followed suit, no matter what the damage to his clothing; but the gesture that Zadig performed was somewhat more difficult to emulate: reaching for his hat, he bared his head. Only for an instant did Bahram toy with the idea of removing his own headgear; just in time he realized that it would be no easy matter to unravel ten feet of cloth: Emperor or not, he decided he was not going to pull off his turban. Instead he merely bowed deeply from the waist.
Much to their chagrin, their efforts were wasted: the gentleman in question was not Napoleon at all, but an officer-in-waiting – and what was more, he seemed to take no small pleasure in their discomfiture. ‘The General is ready to receive you,’ he instructed them, smiling slyly. ‘So please compose yourselves.’
*
The weather being exceptionally fine, chairs were laid out amongst the pots and plants on the Redruth’s quarter-deck, in preparation for Robin Chinnery’s visit: it was from the shade of the deck’s protective awning that Paulette observed the visitor as he came up the side-ladder to be welcomed on board by his host.
From the moment she set eyes on Robin it was evident to Paulette that he had changed a great deal since she had seen him last – almost as much perhaps as she had herself, except that in his case the alteration was principally a matter of attire and bearing. He was still a small, portly fellow with a knob of a nose, protuberant eyes and pouting, hibiscus-hued lips – but the flamboyantly colourful clothes, the diaphanous scarves and glittering trinkets, were all gone: they had been replaced by a dark, sober suit, of the kind that he himself had once been accustomed to mock as the ‘livery of the English shipping-clerk’. His jacket and trowsers were dull to a fault, the collar of his shirt was neither high nor low, and on his head, he, who had lik
ed to wear sparkling bandhnas and multicoloured pugrees, was now wearing a plain black hat.
The bag that hung from his shoulders was also a far cry from the embroidered satchels and jewelled reticules that he had carried in the past: it was a leather case with a brass clasp. Seeing him reach into it, Paulette listened from afar as he took out a slim portfolio.
‘Your pictures, Mr Penrose: I did not trouble to copy the older one as it is lacking in detail. But here is my copy of the other – I wager you’ll not be able to tell it apart from the original.’
‘Ee’re right there, but I’m not a betting man.’
From the evidence of Robin’s voice it seemed to Paulette that his accent had changed just as much, if not more than his appearance: he had lost all trace of a Bengali intonation. When he cried out: ‘And Paulette? Where is she?’ it was in the rounded tones of the English pucka sahib.
‘Waiting for ee up there,’ said Fitcher, pointing to the quarter-deck. ‘Go on up. I know the two of ee have a lot to talk about so I’ll give ee a few minutes on eer own.’
Now, Robin uttered a little shriek – ‘Why there she is, my darling Puggly!’ – giving Paulette a glimpse of her friend’s earlier more familiar self. And then, as he came racing up the companion ladder he was almost the Robin of old, chattering away in Bengali: Aré Pagli, toké kotodin dekhini! – haven’t seen you in so long! Come here, you …
Paulette threw her arms around him and the feel of his soft and bosomy embrace was like a remembered taste, dissolving upon the tongue; she recalled the savour of the times they had spent together, bantering, teasing, arguing and gossiping and she understood, all of a sudden, that Robin was perhaps the closest friend she had ever had – for Jodu was more a sibling than a friend.
Oh Robin, I’m so happy to see you – it’s been so long.
Too long; far too long! cried Robin. ‘I’ve missed you so much my sweet, dear Puggly.’
Have you forgiven us, Robin? Jodu and me?
‘Oh yes,’ said Robin, releasing her from his embrace. ‘It is all in the past now. You were just children, and not, if I may say so, my dear Miss Pugglesford, particularly distinguished in your tastes, so how could you be expected to understand Art? The fault was mine really, I blame myself … although I cannot deny that your vandalism was indeed something of a blow at the time. I had invested a great deal in that painting and the loss of it sent me into something of a decline – and that, I am sorry to say, led to a most unfortunate outcome. My poor, sweet mother, who was, as you know, too good and trusting a soul for this world, became so alarmed at my state that she arranged – would you believe it, Puggly dear? – for me to be married!’
Really? And what came of it?
‘I’m afraid it didn’t take, Puggly dear, for I’m not a marrying kind of man, besides which she – my bride – was a perfect fright and inspired utter terror in all who crossed her path.’
Eki? So what did you do?
‘I did what any Chinnery would have done, Puggly dear: I took to my heels. And of course the first thought in my mind was to escape to Canton, just as Mr Chinnery had done, for it is the one place where a sahib may count on being safe from mems. To get away was no easy feat though, I can tell you that, for a passage to China is not cheap, by any means … but fortunately I had a couple of paintings at hand, done in the Chinnery manner and lacking only a signature. Once that was rectified I had no trouble selling them and I was sure Mr Chinnery would forgive me this desperate measure. But alas, nothing has turned out quite as I had expected: Mr Chinnery positively berated me for forging his signature – and worse still, it turned out that he was not living in Canton after all, but in Macau, which is nothing but a dull, mofussil town. It is the kind of place where everyone pretends to be exceedingly genteel and this fever seems to have seized Mr Chinnery as well: my arrival put his nose severely out of joint – would you credit it, Puggly dear, he insists that I pretend to be his nephew, and has absolutely forbidden me to appear in public in any but the dullest kinds of costume. I try to be obedient but he still keeps haranguing me to go back to Calcutta – to be reconciled with my wife he says, although he knows perfectly well that she has run off to Barrackpore with a bandmaster. Of course I am no fool, and I know full well that he only wants to be rid of me – but I was determined not to leave without spending a season in Canton, and he could not shake me from my resolve.’
But why, Robin? Why is it so important to you to go to Canton?
Robin let out a long sigh. ‘I shrink from telling you, Puggly dear. I fear you will laugh at me.’
Certainly not. Bol! Tell me.
‘Well Puggly dear, mine has not been, as you know, a life that could properly be described as happy – and to no one is this state more attractive than to those whom it is consistently denied: suffice it to say that I have become quite convinced that Canton is the place where I am most likely to find some small measure of contentment.’
‘In Canton?’ cried Paulette. ‘But why there, of all places?’
‘Well Puggly dear, I am old enough now to know that I am not destined to enjoy any of the usual forms of domestic felicity. In all likelihood I will live out my days as a bachelor, and I fear that mine may be a lonely lot unless I succeed in finding a Friend – someone to whom I may be a true and devoted Companion. All the artists I most admire had Friends to sustain them in their endeavours – Botticelli, Michelangelo, Raphael, Caravaggio. In reading about them it has become apparent to me that the lack of a Friend has been a tragic want in my life: without one, I shall never achieve anything of significance. But as you know, Puggly dear, it has never been easy for me to make friends – I am not like other men and people do sometimes tend to think me a little odd. Even when I was a little chokra no one would play with me, not even my brother – oh if only I had a penny for all the times I was beaten by the other boys! I’d be a rich man, I promise you.’
‘But Robin, is it not a strange thing to go to Canton in search of friendship?’
‘Oh by no means, my dear Puggly! I have it on excellent authority that there is no better place on earth for Friendships than Canton’s foreign enclave: nowhere else is there such a number of incorrigible bachelors. It is no hardship for them, you know, to live in an enclave that is forbidden to women; since there is also a great deal of money to be made in Canton, it is, I believe, a most amenable place for confirmed solitaries like myself. I am told that at certain times of year bachelors flock there like birds to a wintering hole: indeed some of Mr Chinnery’s own friends have told me so. I have often quoted them to him but this only seems to infuriate him – he says that I am exactly the kind of man who is likely to succumb to the temptations of Canton and he can never countenance such a fate for his own flesh and blood. He was so adamant that I despaired of going. Indeed he would never have agreed, I suspect, if I had not threatened to use the only weapon in my quiver: I told him that if he did not use his influence to obtain a chop for me, I would expose him to his genteel friends and reveal everything about his treatment of my mother, my brother and myself. At that he relented and so, Puggly dear, it has all been arranged: I am to spend the season at Markwick’s Hotel in Canton!’
‘Oh how I envy you, Robin!’ said Paulette. ‘I wish I could be there with you.’
Putting an arm around her, Robin gave her a hug. ‘And so you shall be, my sweet, sweet Pugglagolla. I shall write to you as often as I can – boats go back and forth between Canton and the Outer Islands all the time so I will have no difficulty in sending letters. I will make sure that you see Canton through my eyes!’
‘Will you really, Robin? Can I hold you to it?’
‘Of course you can – you must not doubt it for a moment.’ As if to seal the pledge, Robin gave her hand a squeeze. ‘And now Puggly dear, I want to hear all about you…. You and that budmash brother of yours. Tell me all – I must know everything!’
*
Bahram and Zadig had their first glimpse of the General as they came around a corner:
Bonaparte was standing amidst a copse of trees, surveying the valley below. He was a thick-set man, a little shorter than Bahram, and he was leaning forward a little, with his hands clasped behind his back. He was much stouter than Bahram had been led to expect: his belly was a sizeable protuberance and seemed scarcely to belong on someone whose life had been so extraordinarily active. He was dressed in a plain green coat with a velvet collar and silver buttons, each imprinted with a different device; his breeches were of nankeen, but his stockings were of silk, and there were large gold buckles on his shoes. On the left side of his coat was a large star, emblazoned with the Imperial Eagle, and on his head he was wearing a cocked, black hat.
At the approach of his visitors, Bonaparte removed his hat and bowed briskly, in a manner that might have seemed perfunctory in another man, but which in his case seemed merely to indicate that time was short, and there was nothing to be gained by wasting it on superfluous niceties. It was his gaze, most of all, that Bahram was to remember, for it was as penetrating as a surgeon’s knife, and it cut into him as if to lay bare the flimsy nakedness of his bones.
Once he began to speak it was evident that the General, military man that he was, had been at some pains to inform himself about his two visitors: he clearly knew that Zadig was to be the interpreter for it was to him that he turned after the introductions had been completed.
You are named ‘Zadig’ hein? he said, with a smile. Is it taken from Monsieur Voltaire’s book of the same name? Are you too a Babylonian philosopher?
