by Amitav Ghosh
Patrão, it is one Ho Sin-saang. His full name is Ho Lao-kin.
This did nothing to mollify Bahram: Ho Sin-saang? Who’s that? Never heard of him.
Advancing a little further into the room Vico made a barely discernible gesture, with his forefinger, to indicate that he could say no more while the new munshi was in the room.
Bahram turned reluctantly to Neel: That’s all for now, munshiji – you can go to your cumra. I will send for you when I am ready.
Ji, Sethji.
Bahram waited till the door had closed again: So what is this about, Vico? Who is this ‘Ho Sin-saang’?
Patrão, he says you used to know him many years ago.
Arré, Vico, there are thousands of Ho Sin-saangs in Canton. How can I remember every one I’ve met? Especially if it was long ago?
Vico shifted his feet uncomfortably: Patrão, he says he was related to Madame …
To Chi-mei? Bahram’s eyes widened in surprise. But I don’t remember that she had any relatives with the surname Ho.
Maybe you knew him by a different name, patrão. These Chinese fellows are always changing their names – one minute it’s Ah-something and next minute it’s Sin-saang this and Sin-saang that.
Did he mention any other name?
Yes, patrão. He said you might remember him as Ah-Lau or Allow or something like that.
Allow? The name stirred a ripple of recollection in Bahram’s memory. Turning his back on Vico he went to the window to look down on the Maidan. As usual, swarms of snot-nosed mosquito-boys were roaming about, in their grey mud-spattered clothes and conical hats, besieging strolling foreigners with cries of: ‘I-say! I-say! Achha! Mo-ro-chaa! Gimme cumshaw lan-tau!’
Suddenly he remembered the face of one such urchin, a waist-high jai with a tripping walk – the fellow who had acted as a messenger for Chi-mei.
Bahram turned back to Vico: I think I remember this fellow Allow. But it must be over twenty years since I last saw him. Where did you come across him?
In the Maidan, patrão. He came up to me and asked if I worked for you. I said yes, so then he said he needed to see you on an urgent matter.
What kind of matter?
Business, patrão.
What kind of business? What does he do?
He does maal-ka-dhanda, patrão – deals in the kind of cargo we need to sell. Middle-level I think; not a wholesaler. Has a couple of dens of his own, and also owns a pleasure-boat.
Bahram had been pacing furiously for the last few minutes but now he came to a sudden stop. A dealer, Vico? he said, his voice rising in anger. You let a dealer into my house?
Between the two of them it had always been understood that no one associated with the lower end of the trade would be allowed to enter their own premises. Business of that kind was taken care of outside the hong, by Vico – and in years past even Vico had rarely had to deal with small-time vendors, den-keepers and the like, since the cargo was usually disposed of offshore, either at Lintin Island or even further out to sea.
Bahram had never once had any dealings with the legions of unsavoury people who were involved in the inner workings of the trade. That someone from that world should seek an interview with him, in his own daftar, was as astonishing to him as the fact that Vico had actually allowed him in.
Vico, have you gone mad? Since when have people like that been permitted to enter this hong?
Vico patiently stood his ground. Listen, patrão, he said. You know as well as I do that we haven’t been able to move any maal these last few weeks: it’s not like it used to be before. I’ve spoken to this man and he has an interesting proposal. I think you should listen to it.
But here? In my daftar?
Where else, patrão? It’s better here, no, than outside, where you might be seen by anyone?
And what if someone had seen him coming here?
No one saw, patrão: I brought him the back way. He’s waiting downstairs. Now tell me: what do you want me to do? If you’re scared to take the risk I will tell him to go.
Bahram went to the window again and looked down at the hurrying porters and eager food-vendors; the bustling beadles and quick-fingered jugglers. The Maidan’s brashness and energy were a reproach to his own caution: he could not abide the thought that he had lost his venturesomeness – wasn’t it his appetite for risk that had brought him to where he was? He took a deep breath and turned around. All right, he said to Vico: show him in. But make sure the munshi and the others don’t see him.
Yes, patrão.
On one side of the daftar there was an arrangement of straight-backed Chinese armchairs. This was where Bahram liked to receive visitors, and he had just seated himself when the door opened to admit Vico and the visitor: a small man, he was dressed unostentatiously, but not inexpensively, in a quilted jacket and a gown of plain, dove-coloured silk. His waist-length hair was dressed with a red ribbon and his head was crowned with a round, black hat.
‘Chin-chin, Mister Barry,’ he said, stepping jauntily across the room. ‘Fa-tsai! Fa-tsai!’
It was his stride rather than his face that Bahram recognized, suddenly recalling a stocky little fellow, walking on the balls of his feet and looking as though he might, at any minute, fall face-forwards on his nose. The snub-nosed face had grown plump and middle-aged but the walk had somehow retained its sprightly spring. The wheedling cadences of his voice had not changed either: hearing him speak, Bahram was reminded of the days when he would materialize suddenly from within the crowds of the Maidan and whisper: ‘Chin-chin, Mister Barry, Number-One-Sister tolo come tonight ah …’
These memories, so unexpected in this context, provided a kind of jolt that made it impossible for Bahram to be quite as stiffly formal as he would have liked. ‘Chin-chin Allow! Chin-chin. Fa-tsai!’
This seemed to delight the visitor, who cried: ‘Waa! Mister Barry remember, ah?’ He smiled, showing several gold teeth and made a rowing motion with both hands. ‘Allow take Mister Barry and Number-One Sister to White Swan Lake. Remember?’
‘Yes.’ Bahram recollected now, with painful clarity, that it was this fellow who had rowed Chi-mei and him to the lake when they went there for the first time: he had sat in the stern, patiently working the yuloh, while he and Chi-mei lay together in the cabin below, awkwardly tugging at each other’s clothes.
‘Remember, later I come to Mister Barry house and he give me cumshaw? Big cumshaw?’
‘Yes. Remember.’
In the meanwhile Allow’s face had turned grave, as if to reflect Bahram’s expression. ‘Allow too muchi sad inside, Mister Barry. Too muchi sad Number-One Sister makee die.’
Bahram narrowed his eyes. ‘What happen to Number-One Sister? Allow savvy, no-savvy?’
Allow answered with a vehement shake of his head. ‘No savvy. Allow that-time go Macau. Too muchi sorry, Mister Barry.’
‘So talkee me,’ said Bahram. ‘Sittee, sittee here. Allow what thing wanchi? Tell maski, chop-chop. No time have got.’
Hai-le! came the answer, accompanied by a vigorous affirmative nod. ‘Allow have ear-hear Mister Barry have come China-side with plenty, plenty big cargo. Is, is-not true? Mister Barry have, no-have plenty cargo ah?’
‘Is true. Cargo have got. Plenty big cargo-la.’
‘Galaw, Mister Barry talkee allo is inside his heart: what-thing he thinki do with cargo? This-time cannot do-pidgin in Canton. Cannot sell. Mister Barry savvy, no-savvy ah?’
‘Savvy. Savvy.’ Bahram gave him a nod.
‘One piece mandarin have got in Canton, makee too muchi bobbery-la? Floggee, nik-ki, cuttee head. He too muchi damn sassy, galaw. This time cargo no can sell-la.’
Bahram looked at Allow carefully, sizing him up: it was clear that he was referring to the present Governor and his attempts to enforce the embargo – but he was also probably probing to see how much Bahram knew about the situation.
Bahram shrugged in a casual way, to indicate that he was not particularly worried. ‘Allow have no ear-hear? This piece mandar
in go back soon-soon. Mister Barry can waitee. Maybe new mandarin blongi better. No makee bobbery.’
‘Haih me?’ Allow made a face of almost comical alarm. ‘Mister Barry no savvy ah? After this piece mandarin go, next one maybe muchi more bad galaw. My friend come Beijing. He say people there talkee that Pili-pili – that mean Empe-ro – have chosen already one-piece mandarin. He come soon-soon. He blongi next …’
Here, unable to retrieve the word he needed, Allow broke off to take a small pamphlet out of the sleeve of his gown. This was not the first time that Bahram had seen someone consulting this booklet, so he knew what it was – a glossary called ‘Foreign Devil-Talk’.
Bahram waited patiently until his visitor had leafed through hundreds of Chinese characters to arrive at the one that he needed.
‘Governor. Pili-pili have find new Governor for Canton. He this-time Governor Hukwang. In that-place he stoppee allo opium-pidgin. Pili-pili wanchi do same-same Guangdong. So new Governor come. His name Lin Zexu.’
The mention of a name aroused Bahram’s suspicions: the likelihood that a man like Allow would be in possession of such detailed information, seemed very small: it was probably just another bargaining tactic. He decided to call his visitor’s bluff and smiled broadly: ‘Allow savvy name also?’
To Bahram’s surprise Allow nodded vigorously. ‘Savvy, savvy.’
‘Can write name?’
‘Can. Can.’
At a gesture from Bahram, Vico fetched a piece of paper and a pencil and Allow laboriously drew a couple of characters on it. Handing the sheet to Bahram, he said: ‘This piece mandarin, Lin Zexu, he too muchi iron-face – teet-meen man. After he come Mister Barry will be in tiger-mouth la. Allow also. Cargo no can get. Allo pidgin finish – leih jan – no makee joke, Allow. More better, Mister Barry sell this-time, fitee-fitee. Before Lin Zexu come.’
Allow’s knowingness and insistence had begun to irk Bahram. His tone sharpened. ‘What-for Allow talkee so fashion? He wanchi makee pidgin? Wanchi buy cargo?’
Allow answered with a gesture of self-deprecation. ‘No can buy allo cargo. Allow small man – no can catchi so muchi cash. Allow wanchi hundred-piece case la. No can take more. What you wah ah? Do, no-do pidgin?’
The number gave Bahram pause: one hundred cases was less than a twentieth of his cargo, but at this point it would represent a substantial sale. Yet the most important problem remained unchanged: how was the shipment to be brought to Canton?
‘How Allow can bring hundred-piece case from ship to Canton ah? Mandarin can catchi no? Then too muchi bobbery for Mister Barry.’
Here Allow glanced at Vico who leant forward to intervene.
Listen, patrão, he said to Bahram in an urgent undertone: I have already discussed all this with our friend here. There’s only one man who is bringing cargoes down at this time – Mr James Innes. His lascars have been transporting it to Whampoa, in his own cutters, hidden under other goods – cotton, furs, coins and so on. He has an understanding with one of the big dealers. They’ve paid off all the officials along the route. He has had no trouble so far and now he is planning to bring a shipment directly to Canton – we can arrange for him to bring ours too. If you give permission, I will go to the Anahita and oversee the whole thing. You won’t have to get involved too much. All you have to do is to go to Mr Innes’s apartment for a few minutes, at the end, to confirm delivery. Mr Innes will let you know when the time comes. That’s all – I’ve worked it out.
Bahram paused to consider this: he had done business with distasteful people before, and he would certainly be able to deal with Innes, if it came to that. But it would only be worth the risk if the price was right. Without looking in Allow’s direction, he said to Vico: How much is our friend offering?
Vico smiled and pushed himself up from his chair. He’ll tell you himself, he said. It’s best you settle it with him; I’ll wait outside.
As Vico stepped away, Bahram turned to Allow. ‘For one-piece chest how muchi dollar?’
Allow smiled and held up a hand with the thumb turned down and four fingers extended.
‘Four?’ said Bahram in a carefully neutral voice. ‘Four thousand dollars? Sei-chin maan?’
Allow’s smile grew wider as he nodded in affirmation.
Bahram rose to his feet, crossed the room, and pushed the window open, allowing the crisp air to cool his face.
The sum was even higher than Dent had suggested, more than six times the usual price. The proceeds would go a long way to paying off his creditors; he could almost see himself dictating the letters he would send them: Your faithful servant is pleased to report that despite a very dull market he is able to honour some of his obligations …
‘Mister Barry …’
He spun around to find Allow standing right behind him, smiling thinly. ‘Mister Barry,’ he said, in a quietly suggestive voice, ‘Mister Barry savvy no-savvy Allow have buy boat blongi Number-One Sister ah?’
‘You? You have buy boat blongi Chi-mei?’
Allow bowed and grinned. ‘Yes, Allow have buy. After Number-One Sister makee die. Why Mister Barry no come on boat one day ah? Go White Swan Lake, like olo time? Catch one-two piece pipe la? Have got number-one-chop gai-girlie. Mister Barry can do all waan. Man must do laap-pidgin sometime or catchi sick, get too muchi olo. Allow give Mister Barry top-chop sing-song girlie, just like Number-One Sister …’
To hear Chi-mei spoken of in this way was more than Bahram could tolerate. He spun around to face Allow, his eyes blazing: ‘Wailo Allow!’ he shouted. ‘What-thing you talkee? Number-One Sister no blongi sing-song girl. She blongi good woman – work hard; care for boy-chilo. She no blongi sing-song girlie. Allow savvy no-savvy ah?’
Allow backed away, his eyes widening. ‘Sorry! Very sorry, Mister Barry. Me too muchi sad inside, say bad thing.’
The door flew open and Vico burst in. Kya hua? he said. What’s happened, patrão?
Bahram was shaking now, and he leant towards the window again, turning his back on his visitor.
Take him away, Vico, he said, with a brusque gesture of dismissal. Tell him I can’t do it. I don’t want to get mixed up with people like Innes and this fellow here. There are just too many risks.
As you say, patrão.
At the door Allow stopped to look back. ‘Mister Barry,’ he said, ‘you thinkee what I say. You wanchee, still can do-pidgin. Any time, Allow ready. Better do-pidgin before new Governor come.’
Bahram was so angry now that a slew of half-remembered Cantonese obscenities spewed from his lips: Gaht hoi! Puk chaht hoi …
A few minutes later Vico came back, accompanied by the new munshi, and Bahram exploded: What sort of staff have I got? Why do I never get any proper news from either of you? Why do I have to find out everything from others?
What do you mean, patrão? What news?
The news about the new Governor; this Lin Jiju or Zexu or whatever. Why didn’t I hear about this from one of you?
*
It was Vico who showed Neel a way to stay ahead of the news: See, munshiji, the Register comes out every Tuesday, but the printing and preparation are done on Sunday and Monday. Sometimes even earlier.
But what good is that to me? said Neel.
Obvious no? said Vico. You have to go where it is printed.
There were only two English printing presses in Canton, Vico explained. One was in the American Hong and belonged to Protestant missionaries; the other was on Thirteen Hong Street and was owned and run by a Chinese man who had for many years worked as an apprentice to a well-known Macau printer, Mr De Souza, Goan by origin. Vico knew him well, and through him had also come to be acquainted with his assistant, Liang Kuei-ch’uan, who went by the fanqui-name of Compton. Vico knew for a fact that Compton was always looking for proof-readers.
Can you read proofs in English munshiji?
Neel had, for a while, co-edited a literary magazine; he was able to answer, with some confidence: Yes, I can.
Then I’ll ta
ke you to meet Compton, said Vico. His shop is like a bazar for the news.
Compton’s shop was on Thirteen Hong Street, the road that separated Fanqui-town from the city’s southern suburbs. One side of the street was lined by the rear walls of the foreign factories, some of which were fitted with small doorways to connect them with the busy thoroughfare. On the other side stood innumerable shops and shop-houses, large and small, each of them bedecked with banners and pennants that advertised the goods within: silk, lacquerware, ivory carvings, false teeth and the like.
Compton’s print-shop differed from its neighbours in that it had no counters and no goods on offer. Visitors stepped into a room that smelled of ink and incense, and was crammed with reams of paper. The press was nowhere in sight; the printing was done somewhere deep inside the building.
Neel and Vico entered to find a boy dozing upon a pile of old Registers. A glance at the visitors was enough to send the fellow scampering through a door; when next seen he was hiding behind the legs of the portly, harried-looking man who presently emerged from within.
‘Mr Vico! Nei hou ma?’
‘Hou leng, Mr Compton. And you?’
Compton had a round full face, the shape of which was perfectly echoed by the lenses of the spectacles that sat precariously upon the end of his nose. He was dressed in a grey gown that was partly covered by an ink-smeared apron, and his queue was coiled into a tight and workmanlike bun.
‘And is this your pang-yauh, Mr Vico?’ Compton squinted at Neel with the worried frown of the chronically short-sighted. ‘Who is he, eh?’
‘Mr Anil Munshi. He is Seth Bahramji’s letter-writer. You are looking for a proof-reader, no?’
Compton’s eyes grew unnaturally large behind his thick glasses. ‘Gam aa? Proof-reader! Is true?’
‘True.’
Within minutes Neel was sitting on a bale of paper, scrutinizing the proofs of the next issue of the Register. By the end of the day, he and the printer were on first-name terms: Compton had asked him to drop the ‘Mr’ and he had become Ah-Neel. He left the shop with a string of cash wrapped around his wrist and was back again the next day.
Compton had another set of proofs ready, and while looking through them Neel asked: ‘Have you heard anything about a new Governor? One Lin Tse-hsü?’
