by Amitav Ghosh
Zachary was careful to make an early start for his appointment with Mrs Burnham.
Bethel, the Burnham residence, was in Garden Reach, a distant suburb of Calcutta where many of the city’s wealthiest British merchants had built palatial homes. The area lay to the south of the dockyards of Kidderpore, on a stretch of shore that overlooked the Hooghly River.
The Burnham estate was one of the grandest in Garden Reach: the house was vast, surrounded by a compound that sprawled over two acres of riverfront. Zachary had been inside the mansion twice before, as a dinner guest. On both occasions, he had been ushered in through the front doorway, by a magnificently uniformed chobdar, and his name had been announced in ringing tones as he stepped into the Burnhams’ glittering sheesh-mull.
But his fortunes had been on the rise at that time: he had just been appointed second mate of the Ibis and he had also been in possession of a trunkful of finery. Since then he had come a long way down in the world, and the change in his circumstances was made amply clear to him from the moment he presented himself at the estate’s gate. He was taken around to a servants’ entrance, where he was handed over to a couple of veiled maids who led him through a series of narrow corridors and staircases to Mrs Burnham’s sewing room – a small sunlit parlour, with sewing boxes stacked on the tables and embroidery hanging on the walls.
Mrs Burnham was seated at one of the tables, dressed austerely in white calico, with a lace cap on her head. She had an embroidery frame in her hand, and did not look up from it when Zachary was shown to the door.
‘Oh, is it the mystery? Send him in.’
Mrs Burnham was a tall, Junoesque woman, with reddish-brown hair and an air of imperious indifference. At their previous meetings she had addressed hardly a word to Zachary which was just as well perhaps, for he had been so thoroughly cowed by her distant, languid manner that he might have found himself at a loss for an answer.
Now, without stirring from her seat or glancing at him, she said: ‘Good morning, Mr …?’ ‘Reid, ma’am. Good morning.’
Zachary took a step towards her, with his hand half-extended, but only to beat a hasty retreat when she failed to look up from her embroidery. He understood now why Mrs Burnham had elected to receive him in her sewing room rather than in one of the many reception rooms on the ground floor: she wanted to impress on him that his position in the house was that of a servant, not a guest, and that he was expected to behave accordingly.
‘Mr Reid, I gather you are a trained mystery?’
‘Yes, ma’am. I apprenticed at Gardiner’s shipyard in Baltimore.’
Mrs Burnham’s eye did not waver from her embroidery. ‘Mr Doughty has no doubt explained the job to you. Do you feel that you will be able to refurbish the budgerow to our satisfaction?’
‘Yes, ma’am. I’ll certainly do my best.’
She raised her eyes now, and looked him over with a frown. ‘You appear rather young to be an experienced mystery, Mr Reid. But Mr Doughty speaks highly of you and I am inclined to trust his word. He has also told me about your financial difficulties; he has led me to believe that you are deserving of our charity.’
‘Mr Doughty is very kind, ma’am.’
Mrs Burnham carried on as if he had not spoken: ‘My husband and I have always endeavoured to be sympathetic to the poor whites of this country. There are sadly too many such in India – they venture out from England in the hope of making their fortunes but only to end up in difficulties. Mr Burnham feels that it is incumbent upon us to do what we can to prevent these unfortunate creatures from becoming a blight on the prestige of the ruling race. We have always made an effort to be generous to those who need it – I am inclined therefore to offer you the job.’
‘Thank you, ma’am,’ said Zachary. ‘You will not regret it.’
Her frown deepened, as if to indicate that his thanks were premature.
‘And may I ask, Mr Reid,’ she said, ‘where you intend to reside if I hire you for this job?’
This took Zachary by surprise and he began to stutter. ‘Why, ma’am … I’ve been renting a room in Kidderpore—’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said sharply, cutting him off. ‘That will not do. Those Kidderpore boarding houses are known to be dens of disease, iniquity and vice. I cannot allow it, in all conscience. Besides, the budgerow needs to be guarded at night and I have no chowkidar to spare.’
It occurred to Zachary now that she was hinting that he should live on the budgerow. He could hardly believe his luck: to be given a chance to escape the flea-bitten flop-houses he had been living in was as much as he could have hoped for.
‘I’d be glad to move into the budgerow, ma’am,’ he said, trying not to sound too eager. ‘If you have no objection, that is.’
Now at last, she put her embroidery aside but only to subject him to a scrutiny that made his forehead pucker with perspiration.
‘It must be clearly understood, Mr Reid,’ she said, her voice growing sharper, ‘that this is a reputable house and we have certain standards to uphold. While living on this estate you will be expected to comport yourself with the utmost propriety at all times. On no account will you be permitted any visitors, male or female. Is that understood?’
‘Yes, ma’am. Clearly understood.’
Her frown deepened. ‘This month I shall be away for a while,’ she said, ‘because I must take my daughter to my parents’ country estate, at Hazaribagh. I trust there will be no laxity in my absence?’
‘No, ma’am.’
‘If there is, you may be sure that I shall learn of it. I know that you have been at sea and I confess that this is a cause of considerable concern to me. I am sure you are aware of the deplorable reputation that sailors have earned in the eyes of respectable people.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘You should be warned, Mr Reid, that you shall be under observation at all times. Although the budgerow is moored at a good distance from this house, you should not imagine that the distance is enough to conceal unseemliness of any kind.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
Now falling silent, she transfixed him with a glare that was as sharp as the needle in her hand: it seemed to go right through his clothes and into his skin. ‘Very well then,’ she said, as he stood squirming in his shoes. ‘Please start at your earliest convenience.’
*
Kesri’s hopes of receiving a letter from home were so much buoyed by Pagla-baba’s prediction that he spurred his horse into a full gallop as he rode to the camp.
He was only a few minutes away when he spotted his servant, Dhiru, running towards him.
Havildarji! Subedar Nirbhay Singh has asked you to go to his tent. At once.
Reining in his horse Kesri said: What does the subedar want? Do you know?
He’s received a letter from his village, said Dhiru. I think it is bad news, havildarji. You’d better hurry.
Kesri gave him a nod and again nudged his horse into a gallop.
By the time Kesri entered the camp dozens of men were filing towards the subedar’s tent. Most of them were close relatives of the subedar’s, and Kesri could tell from their demeanour that there had been some kind of bereavement in the family. He was mildly flattered to be included in this gathering.
Dismounting near the tent, Kesri found himself face to face with the paltan’s munshi.
What’s happened, munshiji? What’s going on?
Haven’t you heard? said the munshi. The subedar’s had very bad news from home. His brother, Bhyro Singhji, is dead.
Kesri started in shock: Bhyro Singh had always seemed to be destined to outlive his contemporaries.
Bhyro Singhji mar goel? He’s dead? But how?
He was killed at sea, many months ago. He had taken a job on a ship, escorting girmitiya migrants. He was on his way to Mauritius when it happened. And there’s some other news too – that’s why the subedar has sent for you. You’d better go.
Kesri put a hand on the munshi’s shoulder: Yes, munshiji,
but first tell me – did a letter come for me in the daak?
The munshi shook his head: No, forgive me, havildarji, there was nothing for you.
Kesri bit his lip in disappointment. Are you sure? Nothing?
Nothing. You’d better go to the subedar now.
Kesri stepped into the tent to find the subedar seated on a mat: he was an imposing-looking man, with a broad, heavy face and a luxuriant, greying moustache.
Subedar-sah’b, said Kesri, you sent for me?
The subedar looked up at him with reddened eyes. Yes, havildar; there is bad news.
I heard about Bhyro Singhji, your brother. It is very sad—
The subedar cut him short. Yes but that’s not all. The letter I received had some other bad news too, concerning my nephew Hukam Singh, who is married to your sister.
Wohke kuchh bhael ba? Has something happened to him?
Hukam Singh mar goel. He too is dead.
This stunned Kesri. Dead? But how? What happened?
There is no explanation in the letter, said the subedar. But some relatives of mine are coming to Assam to meet me. They should reach our base at Rangpur soon – they will tell us everything. But what about you? Has your family sent any news of your sister?
No, subedar-sah’b. Nothing. I was hoping to get a letter in this daak, but the munshiji tells me there is nothing for me.
Kesri lowered his face. He could not believe that his family had not written to tell him that his sister Deeti had been widowed. The silence was bewildering: what could it possibly mean?
On the way to his tent Kesri stopped to vent his disappointment on Pagla-baba: Why did you say there was a letter for me? There was nothing – kuchho nahin!
Pagla-baba answered with a wide grin: I didn’t say you would get a letter, havildarji. All I said was that you’d have news of your relatives. And you did, didn’t you?
Two
Sunset was approaching by the time Zachary stepped on the budgerow, with his ditty bag slung over his shoulder. There was mud everywhere and the companion-ways were blocked by piles of dead leaves, fallen branches and discarded rigging. He almost tripped on a belaying pin as he went to hang his ditty bag on a spar; it was rolling about on the planks, mired in grease and dirt.
Less than a year had passed since Zachary had last set eyes on the budgerow but in that short time the condition of the houseboat had deteriorated so much that he was tempted to think that she had gone into mourning for her lost master, as abandoned dogs and horses are said to do: the colours of the hull had been bleached to dull shades of blue and grey and the Raskhali emblem – the stylized head of a tiger – had faded to a barely visible outline. Yet, even in this state of neglect it was evident that the budgerow was a fine, broad-beamed vessel that had been designed to suit the tastes of a wealthy man.
The first quick inspection proved reassuring: Zachary saw that his work would consist mainly of cleaning, retouching, polishing and making a few replacements. The budgerow’s hull was fundamentally sound and no structural elements would require rebuilding. Many deck-planks needed to be replaced and the head-works and upper stem would have to be retouched and repointed. The intricately carved stem-cheeks had rotted and would need to be replaced and re-carved. Many of the gammonings had come loose and something would have to be done about them; a few of the hawse-timbers, knightheads and bobstay pieces also needed attention. But all in all the situation was not quite as bad as it appeared – with a little luck he’d be able to get the job done in six to eight months. And the best part of it, he reckoned, was that he would be able to manage most of the work on his own.
He decided to start by clearing the decks. Peeling off his shirt, he worked his way down the vessel’s starboard side until he reached the door that led to the main reception room. When he turned the knob the door creaked open: the room smelled of damp and mildew; the chandelier was wrapped in a shroud of cobwebs and the furniture was blanketed in layers of dust.
This was where Zachary had first met the former Raja of Raskhali, Neel Rattan Halder. He remembered how surprised he had been to see that the host was quite young – a sickly-looking man with indolent eyes and a lethargic manner. Looking around the mouldy reception room now, Zachary was aware of a twinge of pity: who would have thought that day, when they were all sipping champagne in this room, that the Raja had but a few more weeks of liberty left and would soon end up feeding the sharks?
Stepping out of the reception room, Zachary set to work on the ladder that led to the open deck on top. Clearing the rungs one at a time, he slowly made his way into the fading sunlight and found himself looking at a fine view of the riverfront. The Burnham mansion was a few hundred yards downriver, on the same shore; on the far bank lay the tree-lined perimeter of Calcutta’s Botanical Garden.
For Zachary the surroundings were steeped in memory, most of all of Paulette Lambert, the Burnhams’ erstwhile ward: the Botanical Garden was where she had grown up and the Burnham mansion was where she had been living when Zachary first met her. Now, glancing at the twilit house, he was reminded of a dinner-party at which he and Paulette had been seated next to each other: he had never imagined then that she would soon run away, to board the Ibis in the garb of a coolie-woman; nor had he imagined that she would come into his cabin one night and that he would hold her in his arms. The recollection was vivid enough to send a pang of yearning through his body. Stepping quickly down the companion-ladder, he went back to the lower deck and began to open the doors of the cabins at random.
The last door was reluctant to yield and he had to force it with his shoulder. When it creaked open he found himself in a palatial stateroom, panelled with fine wood and fitted with brass sconces. This room appeared to have been spared the ravages that had consumed the other parts of the boat: the bed was still covered with sheets, curtained by a dusty mosquito net. Parting the netting, he threw himself backwards on the bed: it was so soft that he bounced a little and began to laugh.
The luxury! It was almost unimaginable after all he’d been through. The bed alone was bigger than his cabin on the Ibis – the very cabin in which he had held Paulette in his arms and briefly kissed her lips.
Through the last many months, in Mauritius and in Calcutta, Paulette had been Zachary’s constant companion: whenever his plight had seemed insupportable he had conjured up her phantom, so that he could quarrel with her. ‘You see, Miss Paulette, what you’ve put me through! Do you ever think about it, Miss Paulette? That I wouldn’t be in the chokey now if it weren’t for you?’
And then her tall slim frame would take shape in the shadows and she would step out of the corners of whatever hell-hole he happened to be in. Gawky, as always, half-tripping over her feet, she would come to sit beside him, just as she had during their last and fiercest argument on the Ibis: when she had pleaded with him not to prevent the escape that was to be attempted that night.
‘You asked me to let the five of them get away, Miss Paulette and so I did – and you see where it got me?’
But sometimes the exchange would take a softer turn and the argument would end as it had that night, when he had thrown his arms around her and pressed his lips to hers. At times her presence would become so real, even in the cramped circumstances of a flop-house, that he would have to banish her from his mind for fear that the men around him would begin to snigger, as they always did when a man was heard to be working his pump.
But now, blissfully alone, for the first time in months, lying in this soft, yielding bed, there was no need to hold her off: his body seemed to be waking from a long sleep, tingling with an almost forgotten urgency of desire. A voluptuousness like he had not felt in an age took possession of him – it was all too easy to imagine that it was not his own hand but Paulette’s that was snaking into his breeches.
Afterwards, as he was drifting off to sleep he thought, as often before, what a providential thing it was that the Creator, having cursed the race of Man with an unruly and headstrong organ, had also been m
erciful enough to give him a handy means of taming it.
He slept as soundly as he ever had and on waking in the morning he shared another brief but ecstatic encounter with Paulette before jumping out of bed, wonderfully refreshed. After making himself some tea and porridge he set to work, scouring the foredeck.
The boat had been so long neglected that it was slow going. Around noon a khidmatgar unexpectedly brought him a tray of leftovers from the Burnham bobachee-connuh and he carried it gratefully inside: there was rice, a large bowl of Country Captain, and relishes of all sorts, enough to last him through lunch and supper as well.
He ate his fill, and the drowsiness induced by the rich food prompted him to return to his cabin. It wasn’t with any conscious intention of summoning Paulette that he lay down, but when she came to him, of her own accord, he could see no reason to push her away.
But afterwards, catching sight of the gluey stains on the bedsheets he was stricken with guilt. Pulling up his breeches, he went back to the foredeck and resumed scrubbing.
This part of the boat had no covering or shade and he was soon uncomfortably hot. Removing his shoes, socks and shirt made little difference: all his clothing was soon soaked in sweat; his breeches, already sticky, seemed to be plastered to his skin.
The river, muddy though it was, looked very appealing now. He cast an appraising glance at the Burnham mansion, wondering if anyone would see him if he stripped down to his underwear and jumped into the water.
The house was a long way away, with a wide expanse of lawn in between. It was siesta time and there was not a soul to be seen, in the house or on the lawn. He decided that the chance was worth taking: there were thick rushes along the shore – he was sure to be well hidden.
Tearing off his banyan and breeches he swung himself over the vessel’s side, dressed in nothing but his knee-length drawers. The water was none too deep and refreshingly brisk: it took only a few minutes to cool off.