by Amitav Ghosh
Compton glanced at him in surprise: ‘Haih-a! Gam you have heard the talk also?’
‘Yes. Do you know about him?’
Compton smiled. ‘Maih-haih! Lin Zexu is great man – one of best poet and scholar in China. He is man with big mind, open mind – always want to learn new things. My teacher his friend. Speak of him a lot.’
‘What does he say?’
Compton lowered his voice: ‘Lin Zexu not like other mandarin. He is a good man, honest man – best officer in country. Wherever there is trouble, there he is sent. He never take cumshaw, nothing – jan-haih! He become Governor of Kiangsi while he is still very young. In two years he stop all opium trade in that province. People there call him Lin Ch’ing-t’ien – that means “Lin the Clear Sky”.’
Compton paused and put a finger on his lips. ‘Better not tell this to your master bo. He will get too much worried. Dak?’
Neel nodded: Dak! Dak!
Soon Neel took to dropping by the print-shop when he had time to spare, and sometimes Compton would lead him down the passageway that separated his shop from his living quarters. This part of the building was two storeys high, with the rooms arranged around a courtyard. Although the courtyard was paved with stone tiles, a profusion of potted plants, trees and vines gave it the feel of a garden. The washing that fluttered overhead, strung between the rails of the upstairs balconies, provided a canopy of shade; on one side was a cherry tree, with leaves that were beginning to turn colour.
When Neel entered this part of the house the womenfolk would disappear, but the children, of whom there were many, would remain. Often Neel would see faces he had not seen before, and this gave him the impression of an extended family, frequently augmented by visitors: he was not surprised when Compton told him that his ancestral village lay at the mouth of the Pearl River, at Chuenpi, which was why he often had to play host to visiting relatives.
Compton himself was not Canton-born and nor had he grown up in the city. As a boy he had spent much of his time on the water: his father had made his living as a ship’s comprador, and the family had usually spent the trading season travelling between the Bogue and Whampoa, in the wake of foreign vessels.
The job of a ship’s comprador was different from that of a factory comprador; the latter, like the dubashes of India, were responsible for providing supplies to foreign traders after they had taken up residence in Canton. Ships’ compradors were more like ship chandlers, procuring provisions and equipment for the vessels that engaged their services. Unlike factory compradors, who had close links with the merchants of the Co-Hong, ships’ compradors worked on their own and had no powerful patrons to rely on. Theirs was a fiercely competitive business: as a boy, at the start of each season, Compton and his father would take it in turns to keep a lookout for the opium fleet, from a hill near their house. When the first vessel was spotted, they would go running down to the harbour to unmoor the family sampan. Then would begin a wild race against the rest of the bumboat fleet. The first boat to reach the incoming vessels stood the best chance of being taken on as the comprador, especially if the captain happened to be known to the family; if they were quick and lucky, they would secure a contract that would keep them busy for the next several weeks.
Compton’s family had been in the business long enough to be known to the skippers and crews of many foreign ships and some would hire them every time they returned to southern China. Among their oldest and most loyal customers were the vessels of a Boston-based firm, Russell & Co. Through them their family had acquired a large American clientele, many of whom gave them letters of recommendation to show to other American ships; some of their customers stayed in touch with them long after they had stopped sailing, and some even sent them little gifts and tokens with younger seafaring relatives. In this way the family had acquired letters from a Mr Coolidge, a Mr Astor and a Mr Delano, all of whom, they had later discovered, were from families that were of the first importance in America. A Canton trader called William Irving had even given them a book, Tales of the Alhambra written by his uncle, Washington Irving: unfortunately Compton had no memory of this man; to him he was just one amongst hundreds of friendly travellers who had given him lessons in English.
From the time he could walk, Compton had accompanied his father on his visits to foreign vessels. He was a winning child and was always made much of by the seamen and ship’s officers. At Whampoa, where inbound ships had to spend several weeks at anchor, time always hung heavy on the hands of the crewmen and they would amuse themselves by speaking English with the boy. A quick learner, Compton became an invaluable asset to his family, winning them many clients with his fluency. In time this talent also earned him a job at the De Souza print-shop, in Macau. But printing was not all he did there: during his apprenticeship, he had also conceived the idea of combining his knowledge of English and Chinese to produce a glossary of the Canton jargon, for the use of his own countrymen.
The title of this short booklet was translated for Neel as ‘The-Red-Haired-People’s-Buying-and-Selling-Common-Ghost-Language’. It was more commonly known however as ‘Ghost-People-Talk’ – Gwai-lou-waah – and it sold very well, far better than its author could ever have imagined, and the proceeds had allowed Compton to set up his own print-shop in Canton.
Several years after its publication the popularity of ‘Ghost-People-Talk’ was still undiminished: many vendors and shopkeepers kept a copy at hand, for reference, so its cover was a familiar sight in Fanqui-town. It featured a drawing of a European in eighteenth-century costume, with knee-breeches, stockings, a three-cornered hat and a buckled coat. The figure held a thin cane in one hand, and in the other something that might have been a handkerchief – this at least was the surmise of Compton himself. Handkerchiefs had once been an object of fascination for people in China, he explained to Neel; many had believed that Europeans used them to store and transport their snot – in much the same way that thrifty Chinese farmers carried their excrement to the fields.
The cover of ‘Ghost-People-Talk’ had caught Neel’s eye long before he met Compton and he had sometimes wondered about the booklet’s contents. He was astonished to learn that it was a glossary – and was delighted also to discover that the author was none other than his part-time employer.
Of the book itself, Neel understood very little since it was written entirely in Chinese. But being besotted with words of all kinds, Neel had fallen headlong in love with Chinese writing: for him Canton offered no greater pleasure than the ubiquitous presence of the ideograms, on shop-signs, doorways, umbrellas, carts and boats. He had already learnt to recognize a few of them: the character for example, which was easy to remember because its two legs represented its meaning – ‘man’. Similarly ‘big’, which was, in its mysteriously evocative way, merely a man with arms extended; and ‘dollar’, the sign for which was omnipresent in Fanqui-town being featured on innumerable shop-signs. Having once come to know the characters, he saw them everywhere: they would leap out at him from the most unexpected places, waving their limbs as if to catch his attention.
In leafing through ‘Ghost-People-Talk’ Neel was surprised to find that the first entry featured two ideograms he had learnt to recognize: one was the character for ‘man’ and the other the sign for ‘dollar’. The pairing of ‘man’ and ‘dollar’ puzzled him. Was it perhaps a subtle philosophical statement?
Compton laughed at this. ‘Mat-yeh?’ he said. ‘What, don’t you see? “Dollar” is maan in Cantonese.’
Neel was greatly taken by the ingenuity of this: instead of using phonetic symbols, Compton had suggested the pronunciation of the English word by using a character that sounded similar when pronounced in the Cantonese dialect. For longer and more complicated words, he had joined together two or more one-syllable Cantonese words: thus ‘today’ became ‘to-teay’ and so on.
‘And all this you did yourself?’
Compton nodded proudly and added that it was his practice to revise and enlarge the booklet
every year, thus ensuring its continuing sale.
Thinking about this later, in the privacy of his cubicle, Neel realized that there was something providential about his meeting with Compton: it was as if Fate had conspired to bring him into the orbit of a kindred spirit, a man who valued words just as much as he did himself. Looking through Ghost-People-Talk it occurred to him to wonder why no glossary of pidgin existed for the benefit of people who spoke English. Or for that matter Hindusthani? Surely the foreigners who sojourned in Fanqui-town needed to understand the enclave’s lingua franca just as much as their hosts did? And if an English version of Ghost-People-Talk could be produced, surely it would also command a substantial market?
In the middle of the night, he sat up in his bed. Of course such a book had to be written – and who better to do it than he himself, in collaboration with Compton?
The next day, as soon as his duties in the daftar were done, he went hurrying over to Thirteen Hong Street. On reaching Compton’s shop he announced: ‘I have a proposal.’
‘Ngo? What is it then?’
‘Listen, Compton …’
It turned out that the idea of producing an English version of ‘Devil-Talk’ had already occurred to Compton. Looking for a collaborator, he had approached several Englishmen and Americans. They had all laughed at him, contemptuously dismissing the idea.
‘They think-la, pidgin is just broken English, like words of a baby. They do not understand. Is not so simple bo.’
‘So will you let me do it?’
Yat-dihng! Yat dihng!
‘What does that mean?’ Neel inquired a little nervously.
‘Yes. Certainly.’
Do-jeh Compton.
M’ouh hak hei.
Neel could already see the cover: it would feature a richly caparisoned mandarin. As for the title, that too had already come to him. He would call it: The Celestial Chrestomathy, Comprising A Complete Guide To And Glossary Of The Language Of Commerce In Southern China.
*
Collecting plants on Hong Kong proved to be more of a challenge than either Fitcher or Paulette had expected. The island’s slopes were precipitous on every side and the ridge that ran along most of its eight-mile length was nowhere less than five hundred feet in height: it was topped with several peaks that rose to over a thousand feet, and the tallest of them, in Fitcher’s estimation, was perhaps only a little under two thousand feet. The soil was granitic and glinted underfoot with quartz, mica and felspar; on steep slopes it had a way of slipping and sliding so that a slightly misplaced shoe could send an avalanche roaring down a treeless gully. In some stretches the decomposed granite was covered with mould and ferns, which gave it a deceptive look of solidity; a moment’s carelessness could lead to a nasty slip or a fall.
The steep gradients and rocky slopes were hard on Fitcher’s ageing joints and at the end of a day’s collecting he was often in pain. By refusing to acknowledge the physical toll of his advancing years he frequently made matters worse for himself: he would plan miles-long expeditions, insisting that he was accustomed to walking such distances on the Cornish moors and making no allowances for the difference in terrain. Having once set off he would soldier on to the very end, despite Paulette’s remonstrances, earning himself hours of agony afterwards.
As the weather turned colder, Fitcher’s hips and knees grew still stiffer and his pains worsened to the point where even he had to accept that if he was going to continue collecting on the island, it would not be on foot. But there were no vehicles on Hong Kong and no roads either; even paths were few, for the island’s villages and hamlets were dotted along the shoreline and their inhabitants travelled between them mainly by boat.
Horses would have provided an easy solution to their predicament, but there were none on the island – at least not to their knowledge: the only draught animals on the fields were bullocks and buffaloes. A sedan chair might also have provided a solution, but Fitcher would not hear of it: ‘Botanizing in a carry-cart? I hope eer funning, Miss Paulette …’
The answer arrived with Robin’s next letter: the courier was a louh-daaih or ‘laodah’– the master of a junk, and not much different in appearance from the other leathery Cantonese seamen who skippered the vessels of those waters. Sturdy of build, he had the bow-legged gait and weather-sharpened gaze of an experienced sailor. He was dressed in the usual boatman’s pyjamas and quilted tunic. His queue was short and flecked with grey, and his head was topped with a conical sun hat of the kind that was to be seen on every boatman’s head.
But when he began to speak Paulette was struck dumb. Nomoshkar, he said in Bengali, joining his hands together. Are you Miss Paulette? Your friend, Mr Chinnery, has sent you a letter, from Canton.
It took Paulette a few seconds to recover from her surprise. Then, after thanking him profusely, she said: Apni ke? Who are you? Where did you learn to speak Bangla?
I lived in Calcutta for a long time, he said with a smile. I went there as a sailor and jumped ship, to get married. Over there people called me Baburao.
And now you live in Canton, do you, Baburao-da?
Yes; when I’m not out on my boat that is.
He turned to point to his vessel, which was anchored nearby, and explained that he travelled regularly between Canton and Macau and frequently acted as a courier, dropping off letters and packages at various points along the way.
If you need anything let me know; I may be able to help.
Paulette could tell, from his demeanour, that this was not an idle boast: he looked like the kind of man who was spoken of, in Bengali, as jogaré – a resourceful improviser, with his ears close to the ground.
Tell me, Baburao-da, she said, do you think it might be possible to find a couple of horses here, on the island?
Baburao scratched his head and thought a little. Then his face brightened: Why yes! he said. I know a man who lives on the island. He has some horses. Would you like to meet him?
So it was arranged: the next day Baburao came by in a sampan and rowed Paulette and Fitcher to a picturesque little village on the shores of an inlet. The horse-owner was duly found, the horses were examined and a reasonable price was quickly arrived at. But when everything was almost settled an unforeseen problem arose: the owner possessed only two saddles and both were of the Chinese type, with a high pommel and cantle.
Fitcher took one glance and shook his head: ‘Ee’ll never be able to manage that in eer skirts, Miss Paulette.’
Paulette had already thought of a solution but she knew she had to be careful about how she put it across.
‘Well sir,’ she said, ‘skirts are not the only clothes in my possession.’
‘Eh?’ Fitcher frowned.
‘You will remember, sir, that when we met at Pamplemousses, I was wearing a shirt and a pantalon. Mr Reid had lent them to me and I still have them.’
‘What?’ barked Fitcher. ‘Dress up as a man? Is that what ee’ve got in mind?’
‘Please sir, it is the only sensible thing. Is it not?’
Fitcher’s face went into a deep scowl, tying itself into so tight a knot that the tip of his beard came within a few inches of touching the twitching tips of his eyebrows. But then, having thought the matter through, he unclenched his jaws.
‘Since ee’ve set eer mind on it – we’ll try it tomorrow.’
So they returned the next day, with Paulette dressed, once again, in Zachary’s clothes, and even Fitcher had to concede that it was a happy solution. The horses carried them to a height of over a thousand feet, where they came upon more orchids: pale rose ‘bamboo orchids’, Arundina chinensis, and a small primrose-yellow epiphyte, growing in a nullah – the first was already familiar to Fitcher, but not the second.
‘Why Miss Paulette, I think ee may have found something new there. What’d ee like to call it?’
‘If it were up to me, sir,’ she said, ‘I would call it Diploprora penrosii.’
Ten
Markwick’s Hotel, Nov 26
Lamqua has given me the run of his studio and I have spent many joyful hours there. I sit beside Jacqua, on the apprentices’ bench, and have become an expert in the art of using stencils. He has taught me some of his little tricks, like that of painting flesh tones on the reverse side of the paper – you would not believe what a marvellously lifelike translucence this lends to the skin! But some of the things he can do I do not think I could even attempt. His pictures are not large, yet when he paints clothing you sometimes have the impression of being able to see the very threads of the garments. If you could see how it is done I warrant you would declare it an astounding sight: he holds not one but two brushes in his hand, the first being just thick enough to hold a droplet of colour. The second is so fine that it has no more than a single hair and by flicking this against the other brush he transfers the paint to the paper – in such a manner as to create filaments of paint that are scarcely visible to the eye!
Sometimes Jacqua and I go for walks, in Fanqui-town and the suburbs beyond, and he tells me a little about his Family. He has such an elfin look that I had taken him to be younger than I – can you imagine my surprise when I learnt that he is actually a little older, in his mid-twenties, and is not only married, but also the father of two children – a boy of seven and a girl of five (he has shown me their portraits, which he has painted himself: they are perfect angels and would not be in the least out of place on the ceiling of a Mantegna chapel). His wife has bound feet and I should so love to see a picture of her but he pretends that he does not have one (or if he does he will not show it to me) because of course she is in purdah (which seems to be almost as strict here as it is at home amongst certain classes). Their house is, I think, not unlike the rambling family compounds of Calcutta, with many courtyards, and more uncles and aunts and cousins than you can count – but with this difference: that many of Jacqua’s brothers and cousins are also painters – for they too are a Studio family.
