River of Smoke it-2

by Amitav Ghosh

  ‘This how much opium they say have on their ships. You think is true ah?’

  The first name was that of Lancelot Dent; his declared stock was by far the largest, numbering over six thousand crates. The second name was Bahram’s and the figure beside it was 2,670 chests.

  Seeing Neel hesitate, Compton said: ‘Cheng-mahn, Ah Neel, you must be honest. Is this all opium he has got on his ship?’

  ‘I can only guess,’ said Neel, ‘for I don’t know the details. But my feeling is that the figure is right. I heard our purser say once that the Seth lost a little more than a tenth of his cargo in storm damage. Another time he mentioned that over three hundred crates had been lost. So if you work it out, the tally would be right.’

  Compton nodded. ‘It is a big loss for him – almost a million silver taels, cha-mh-do.’

  ‘Really?’ Neel gasped. ‘As much as that?’

  ‘Hai-bo! Big loss.’ Compton tapped the sheet of paper. ‘And what about others? Wa me ji – anyone else?’

  Only one other name on the list was of interest to Neel: B. Burnham. The figure listed beside the name was relatively small:

  1,000.

  Neel smiled, exulting inwardly: here at last was an opportunity to exact a small measure of revenge for all he had suffered at the hands of Mr Burnham. ‘This number is wrong,’ he said.

  ‘Dim-gaai? How you know that, Ah Neel?’

  ‘Because Mr Burnham’s accountant is my friend. He told me Mr Burnham’s stock this year is bigger even than Seth Bahramji’s.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. I’m sure of it.’

  ‘Dak! I will see that the Commissioner knows.’

  *

  As the days passed, sleep became harder and harder for Bahram. No matter how carefully the khidmatgars closed the shutters, the bright lights in the Maidan somehow filtered through, throwing shadows across his bedroom. When patrolling soldiers or guardsmen trooped past the Fungtai Hong, their ghostly reflections would flicker over his ceiling and his walls. Their voices too were impossible to shut out: even with the windows closed, the echoes of their cries and commands would waft through the room.

  Every few hours Bahram would wake to the din of gongs and cymbals and lie still, watching ghostly shadows and listening to voices. Sometimes, the sounds seemed very close: he would hear footsteps in the corridors and whispers around his bed: there were moments when he found it hard not to reach for the bell-rope. But Vico was away now – he had gone to the Anahita, to arrange the transfer of her cargo to the Bogue, where the collection depot had been set up – and other than him there was no one that he could have talked to.

  Even laudanum didn’t help: if anything it made the sounds seem louder and the dreams more vivid. One night, after a copious dose, he dreamt that Chi-mei had come to the Achha Hong to see him. This was something she had often threatened to do: it happened all the time, she said, flower-girls were often smuggled into factories. They dressed up in men’s gowns and braided their hair and no one was any the wiser.

  In Bahram’s dream, it was a day like any other in Fanqui-town: he was dressing to go the Club, in the evening, when Vico came into his bedroom.

  Patrao, a Chinese gentleman has come to see you. One Li Sin-saang.

  Who is he? Do I know him?

  I don’t know, patrao. I don’t think he’s been here before. But he said it was important.

  All right then, show him into the daftar.

  The daftar was empty, of course, at that time of day: the munshi was down in his cubicle and the khidmatgars had finished cleaning up. Bahram went to one of the big armchairs and sat down. Soon the door opened and a short, slight figure in a round cap and panelled gown came in.

  The light in the daftar wasn’t bright enough to illuminate the face, so Bahram did not recognize her immediately. With a formal bow, he said: ‘Chin-chin Li Sin-saang.’

  She said nothing until she was sure Vico was gone. Then she burst into peals of laughter. ‘Mister Barry too muchi foolo.’

  He was thunderstruck. ‘Chi-mei? What for come this-place? Chi-mei have done too muchi bad thing.’

  Chi-mei paid no attention: picking up a lamp, she went around the daftar examining the objects that had accumulated in it. It was clear from her expression that not many of them met with her approval.

  ‘Allo olo thing. What-for Mister Barry puttee here?’

  The tone was comforting in its familiarity: she often spoke to him like this, in a register that was at once querulous and indulgent, as though she were trying to correct a child. He laughed.

  The only object that seemed to please her was his desk, with its many locked drawers. She looked it over carefully, then tapped one of the drawers. ‘What thing have got inside?’

  Bahram pulled out a bunch of keys and opened the drawer. Inside was a large lacquered box.

  ‘That box Chi-mei give Mister Barry, no?’

  ‘Yes, Chi-mei have give that-thing.’

  ‘What-for Mister Barry keepee here? No likee?’

  ‘Likee. Likee.’

  She lost interest in the desk and looked around the room again. ‘What-place Mister Barry sleepee?’ she said. ‘Here bed no have got.’

  ‘Sleepee bedroom,’ he said, pointing involuntarily. ‘But Chi-mei can-na go.’

  Ignoring him she opened the door and crossed the corridor. He followed her into the bedroom, haplessly protesting. She paid him no mind: on seeing the bed, with its silken cover, she lay down and unbuttoned the fastenings of her gown. The sight of her breasts, emerging slowly from within the gown, mesmerized him. He went to lie beside her, but when he reached for her she changed her mind.

  ‘Mister Barry bed no good. More better go boat. Come now, Mister Barry. We go boat. Come riverside. Ha-loy!’

  ‘Why?’ he said. ‘Chi-mei here now. More better stay.’

  ‘No,’ she insisted. ‘Time to go river now. Come, Mister Barry. Here no good.’

  He was sorely tempted but something held him back. ‘No. Not time now. Can-na go.’ He reached for her hand. ‘Stay here, Chi-mei; stay with Mister Barry.’

  There was no answer and when he looked towards the window, she was gone: the shutters were open and the curtains were fluttering in the breeze.

  He woke up in a sweat and found that the window had indeed blown open. He got out of bed and pushed it hurriedly shut.

  He was shaking; to go back to bed was impossible in this state. He lit a candle, found his key-ring and carried it into the daftar. He went to his desk and unlocked the drawer: sure enough, the lacquer box that Chi-mei had given him was lying within, covered in dust. He took it out and wiped the dust away before removing the lid. Inside was a finely carved ivory pipe, a metal needle, and a small octagonal box, also made of ivory. The box was empty but Bahram remembered that at the start of the season Vico had brought him a container of prepared opium, as a sample: it was locked in another drawer. He found the key and opened the drawer: the container was still there.

  He gathered everything up in his arms and went to his room. He placed the candle on his bedside table, opened the container and scooped up a droplet of the brown paste with the tip of the needle. Then he roasted the opium over the flame, and when it began to sizzle he placed it in the bowl of his pipe and took a deep draught.

  When the last wisp of smoke was gone he blew out the candle and lay back against his pillows. He knew he would sleep well that night; he could not understand why he hadn’t thought of doing this before.

  The next day when he woke, it was well past the usual time. He could hear the khidmatgars conferring outside his door in hushed, worried voices. Rising quickly from the bed, he hid the pipe, the lacquered box and the container of opium inside one of his trunks. Then, opening the windows, he let the room air out for a couple of minutes before letting the khidmatgars in.

  One of them said: Sethji, Mesto is in the daftar. He has served your hazri.

  The thought of food made Bahram faintly nauseous. I’m not hungry, h
e said. Tell Mesto to take it away. All I want is chai.

  Sethji, the munshi wanted to know if you have any work for him today. He said there were some letters to be answered.

  No. Bahram shook his head. Tell the munshi there’s no work for him today.

  Ji, Sethji.

  Bahram spent most of the morning in a chair by the window, looking in the direction of the river, gazing at the spot where Chi-mei’s boat had once been moored.

  Around mid-day some lascars came to the Maidan and put on a display of acrobatics, climbing up the flagpoles and doing tricks on top. The spectacle pleased Bahram and he thought of asking the shroffs to give the fellows some baksheesh on his behalf. But to get up and pull the bell-rope was too much of an effort and he forgot about it. In the afternoon it was very hot and he decided to take a siesta – but when he went to lie down, it occurred to him that he would rest better after a pipe. So he fetched the paraphernalia and smoked a little before stretching himself out on his bed.

  He had never felt so peaceful.

  The days and nights began to melt into each other, and sometimes, when the chimes from the chapel came to his ears, it amazed him to think that this bell had once ruled his life.

  One day a khidmatgar announced that Zadig had come to see him. Bahram did not much feel like making conversation, but there was nothing to be done for Zadig had already been shown up to the daftar. He changed his clothes and washed his face before crossing the corridor. But despite all that Zadig seemed to be shocked by his appearance.

  Bahram-bhai! What has happened to you? You’ve become so thin.

  Me? Bahram looked down at himself. Really? But I’ve been eating so much!

  This was not a falsehood: nowadays a couple of mouthfuls were enough to make him feel that he was stuffed to bursting.

  And you’re so pale, Bahram-bhai. Your khidmatgars tell me you hardly ever leave your rooms. Why don’t you go out more often, take a few turns around the Maidan?

  Bahram was nonplussed by this. Go outside? But why? It’s so hot out there. It’s much better here, isn’t it?

  Bahram-bhai, there’s always something interesting happening in the Maidan.

  The daftar’s window was open and turning towards it now Bahram heard a sound like that of something solid being hit by a plank of wood. He rose and went to the window. A game of cricket was under way in the Maidan: he saw to his surprise that there were several Parsis among the players. The batsman was Dinyar Ferdoonjee, dressed in white trousers and cap.

  Zadig had come to stand beside him: Where did Dinyar learn to play cricket?

  Here. I can’t think where else he could have learnt.

  See, Bahram-bhai. There’s always something going on down there. You should step out and join in. It will be a change.

  The thought of going out filled Bahram with a sense of deep fatigue.

  What does it have to do with me, Zadig Bey? he said. I know nothing about cricket.

  But still…

  They watched for a while in silence, and then Bahram said: We’re old men now, aren’t we, Zadig Bey? It’s these fellows who are the future – young men like Dinyar.

  Down below there was a burst of applause: Dinyar had hit a ball all the way across the Maidan.

  The boy looked splendidly self-confident, absolutely masterful as he leant on his bat and surveyed the field.

  Bahram could not help feeling a twinge of envy.

  When they make their future, do you think they will remember us, Zadig Bey? Do you think they will remember what we went through? Will they remember that it was the money we made here, the lessons we learnt and the things we saw that made it all possible? Will they remember that their future was bought at the price of millions of Chinese lives?

  Down below Dinyar was running furiously between the wickets.

  And what was it all for, Zadig Bey? Was it just for this: so that these fellows could speak English, and wear hats and trowsers, and play cricket?

  Bahram pulled the window shut, and the sounds faded away.

  Perhaps that is what Ahriman’s kingdom is, isn’t it, Zadig Bey? An unending tamasha in a desert of forgetting and emptiness.

  Eighteen

  June 5, House No. 1, American Hong, Canton

  Queridisima Puggliosa, I feel as if an epoch had passed since I last sat down to write to you. During these last six weeks it was impossible for us even to think of corresponding with the outside world – we were warned that any courier who was caught carrying letters for us would be severely punished and under the circumstances it seemed wrong to write letters. Only a most unfeeling person would want anyone to risk the bastinado for the sake of their silly ramblings, wouldn’t they, Puggly dear?

  But that is all in the past now. Most of the opium has been rendered up and the Commissioner, in turn, has kept his word: from tomorrow onwards everyone who wishes to leave Canton will be allowed to do so – excepting only the sixteen foreigners who are considered the worst offenders. Zadig Bey will be leaving in a day or two and since I have elected to stay behind he has offered to carry my letters – so here I am, once again at my desk.

  So much has happened in the interim, Puggly dear, that I do not quite know where to start. For me the greatest change was that I had to move out of Mr Markwick’s hotel. On the day I last wrote to you, Fanqui-town lost all its workers, coolies and servants – every Chinese employed in the enclave was told to depart by the authorities. After that it became impossible for poor Mr Markwick to carry on and he decided to close down.

  You can imagine the spot this put me in: I could not think where I would go. But I need not have worried: Charlie came to see me and offered me a room in his house (is he not the kindest man in existence?). I thought I should pay rent, but he would not hear of it and asked only that I make him some paintings, which I gladly undertook to do. Since then I have been installed in the American Hong, in a room twice as large and far more luxurious than the one I had before: and nor am I deprived of the view that I had at Markwick’s, for here too I have a window that looks out on the Maidan! I have indeed been singularly fortunate: I miss Jacqua terribly, of course, but I do see him from time to time, across the barricades, and sometimes, when it is possible, he sends me things with one of the linkisters – jujubes and candied fruits. And to be living with Charlie is compensation of no small order: our time together has passed so agreeably that I am loath to see it end.

  You have no doubt heard rumours about the privations we have had to endure during the last few weeks. You must not believe a word of it, Puggly dear. We have been lavishly supplied with food and drink – the lack of servants is the worst of the hardships we have had to suffer, and if you ask me, this has been in truth a most salutary thing. I can scarcely tell you how much pleasure it gives me to walk around the enclave and see these fanqui merchants, who have all grown rich and lazy on the fruits of their crimes, having to swab their own floors, make their own beds, boil eggs amp;c. amp;c. It is perhaps the only justice they will ever meet with.

  You would not believe how helpless, indeed desperate, some of them are: why, just the other day, a fat old fellow came waddling after me in his sleeping gown and positively begged me to become his footman. Why no, sir, said I, drawing myself to my full height. I am the King’s man and would not dream of serving anyone else.

  I find endless amusement in watching the scenes that pass between the fanquis and the linkisters (who take it in turns to sit under a tent in the Maidan, right opposite my window). The linkisters have been instructed to address all our complaints and inquiries, and they are beset by fanquis at all times of day and night: Mr A. has dirtied his shirt and wants it to be sent to the dhobi; Mr B. is enraged because he has not received his daily ration of spring water; Mr C. has split his pantaloons while sweeping the floor and will not rest until the rent is sewn up by a tailor; Mr D. demands a basket of oranges and Mr E. swears that his rooms have been invaded by rats, and all his foodstuffs have been carried away, so he must instantly b
e given three hams and five loaves of bread. Now Mr F. arrives, in a great sweat, and declares he has seen a calf wandering through his corridor; he promises that if it happens again he will let fly with his blunderbuss, consequences be d-d; then comes Mr G. to complain of being insulted by a company of guardsmen; he swears that if the offenders are not suitably chastised he will annihilate them all with his whangee. To all this the linkisters listen with infinite patience, only breaking in to say from time to time: ‘Hae yaw? How can do so? Mandarin too muchi angry, make big-big bobbery…’ They are the most good-natured of fellows and do their utmost to hide their amusement.

  One of the few merchants whose establishment has remained intact through this time is Mr Bahram Moddie, the Seth from Bombay (he travels in his own ship and is thus able to take his staff wherever he goes). Mr Moddie has been one of the greatest losers in the surrendering of opium (more than a tenth of all the chests are said to be his), and he is so downcast that he seldom emerges from his private quarters – even Zadig Bey, who is one of his oldest friends, hardly ever sees him any more.

  But Mr Moddie’s staff are a lively bunch, and through these last few weeks they have held a kind of open house, welcoming everyone who wants to eat at their table. I cannot tell you what a boon this has been to me, Puggly dear, for they have a peerless khansama and the food is unfailingly excellent – not till I ate at their table did I realize how much I miss my dholl and karibat!

  The company too is most congenial: Mr Moddie’s purser goes by the name of Vico and he is a jolly kind of fellow, always thinking of amusing ways to ‘time-pass’ (he has been away lately, supervising the transfer of Mr Moddie’s opium to the authorities, and is much missed). Mr Moddie’s munshi is an intriguing, rather mysterious man: he is a Bengali and claims to be from Tippera – but his Bangla accent speaks of a pure-bred Calcuttan, although he will not on any account admit this. (Speaking of Calcuttans I happened to mention to him that a Calcutta-born Miss, by the name of Paulette Lambert, was in the vicinity – and I swear, my dear Ranee of Pugglipur, that your name could not have been unknown to him. At the sound of it he turned quite pale, or at least as pale as his complexion would allow!)