River of Smoke

by Amitav Ghosh

  You will see why the discovery that these apprentices are perfectly capable of creating canvases of their own would be discomfiting for him; you will understand why his distrust and dislike would be directed most particularly at the one who enjoys the greatest renown: Mr Guan – who is known to fanquis as Lamqua. (Why always the ‘qua’ you might ask? Some say the syllable originated in the surname Guan and some claim that it is a version of some title – it is impossible to make any sense of it so I have ceased to try. But this I can tell you – that no place has such an abundance of quas and quacks and quiddities as Canton – Howqua, Mowqua, Lamqua, why there may well be a Jenesequa for all I know!).

  But to return to Lamqua: he too spent time at the atelier on the Rua Ignacio Baptista, and Mr Chinnery claims the credit for having taught him everything. But this cannot be accurate for Lamqua is himself from a family of painters: his grandfather was one of the most famous of Canton’s artists – Guan Zuolin, who is known to fanquis by the most absurd name you could ever conceive: Spoilum (Mr Karabedian has shown me a few of his works, which are scattered around Fanqui-town, and I can attest that they are indeed quite extraordinary, particularly some portraits painted on glass). But Mr Chinnery will not allow that Lamqua may have learnt anything from his forebears; he insists that he came to him in the guise of a house-boy with the explicit intention of stealing his secrets. Whether there is any truth to this I cannot say, but this I can tell you – that when I was preparing to leave for Canton Mr Chinnery gave me to understand that there now exists between the two of them a great bitterness: he warned me not to enter Lamqua’s studio on any account for I would most assuredly be rudely evicted and might even be set upon with cudgels. And nor was this the whole of it: most of Canton’s painters are related to each other, he said, so I would do best to stay away from all of them.

  So there you have it, my darling Pugglee-beebee: you will understand now why I was careful to avoid the very people whom I should have sought out immediately upon arrival – and if it were not for Mr Karabedian I might still be slinking past their studios with my face half-hidden. But good, kind man that he is, Zadig Bey (as I have learnt to call him) took it on himself to persuade me that I have nothing to fear: Lamqua is a most amiable man, he said, and harbours no resentment against his old teacher – the grudge is held entirely by Mr Chinnery who is furious because Lamqua has made enough of a name for himself that some clients who might otherwise have made their way to the Rua Ignacio Baptista now seek him out instead (that Lamqua charges less than half the price Mr Chinnery demands probably plays some part in this).

  You can imagine then with what an eagerly beating heart I followed Zadig Bey to Lamqua’s studio. This establishment was not of course unknown to me: it is only a short distance from my hotel, and as a matter of fact it is quite impossible to walk through Old China Street without noticing it. For right above the door there hangs the most intriguing sign: it says – ‘Lamqua: Handsome Face-Painter’.

  The studio is a three-tiered shop-house like many others on the street: the front is made of wood, and the upper floors have sliding windows of finely carved fretwork. During the day, the windows are often pulled back and you can see the bowed heads of the apprentices inside, bending over their tables with their brushes and pencils – and I swear to you, dear Puggly, that it is apparent at a glance that they are exactly what is promised by the sign below: handsome face-painters.

  Can you think, my darling Pugglepuss, how thrilled I was to walk through that door? Aladdin at the entrance of his cave could not have been more excited than was I! And nor was I disappointed – for everywhere I looked there was something either curious or interesting or utterly novel. In glass-fronted cases lay dozens of paintings, all made in the studio: pictures of everything that might interest visitors, both Chinese and foreign – for just as foreigners want pictures of Fanqui-town because it looks to them so indescribably Celestial, so too do the Chinese covet them because the same sight is in their eyes utterly Alien. Between the two of them they have created an enormous market for views of Canton – and apart from these there are innumerable pictures of animals, rural scenes, pagodas, plants, catgut-scrapers, monks and fanquis. Some of these pictures are painted on little cards, not much larger than your palm, and are sold for a few cash; they have become such a craze they are being copied everywhere – Zadig Bey says in Europe they are all the rage and are spoken of as ‘postal cards’.

  Also offered for sale are laquered paint-boxes and bundles of paper: I had always thought this was rice-paper, but Zadig Bey revealed to me that rice has nothing to do with it – the pith of a certain reed is taken out and beaten flat; it is then treated with alum, which preserves the colours and keeps them marvellously vivid over many years. Then there are brushes: some have no more than a single hair and some are as thick as my wrist; and they are made from the hairs of a fantastic bestiary of animals, some of them completely unknown to the world.

  From the shop you ascend to the next floor by means of a narrow staircase – a ladder really, with banisters running along one side. You step off it to find yourself in the very heart of the workshop. There are several long tables, like those used by carpenters and tailors. The apprentices are seated on benches and each has his own work-space on which all his materials are neatly arranged; nowhere do you see a careless splash of colour or an unmindful smudge of ink. They sit with their heads bent over, their queues coiled around their caps, and they do not in the least mind being observed – for they are so intent upon their work that they are totally unaware of your presence.

  And now was revealed one of the most important secrets of their picture-making: stencils! There is a stencil for everything – for the outlines of ships, trees, clouds, scenery, clothing. Zadig Bey says these stencils are sold by the dozen and can be bought in the market: every studio keeps hundreds of them at hand. By varying their placement and position, the painter can achieve all manner of interesting effects.

  To watch the progress of a single painting is an astonishing thing: it starts its journey at one end of the table, as a blank sheet of paper, and is quickly prepared with a wash of alum. As it passes down the bench, going from hand to hand, it acquires outlines, colours and more washes of alum and yet more colours, until it arrives at the other end as a complete painting! And all this in a matter of minutes. It is breathtaking – a veritable manufactory of image-making!

  Zadig Bey says the methods of these studios hark back to the porcelain kiln, where a single cup or saucer may pass through as many as seventy hands, one tracing outlines, one painting the rim, one applying the blues and another the reds – and so on. He insists that the world owes these studios a great debt because they have made possible what people of modest means could only ever dream of: to possess likenesses of themselves and their dear ones, and to have real paintings on their walls. (I cannot understand why we have no such studios in Bengal: indeed, Puggly dear, I think it quite possible that my fortune may lie in creating something similar there …).

  All this and you have yet to meet Lamqua himself: you climb another ladder, not unlike the one before, and suddenly you are in the sanctum sanctorum of this temple of Art, right inside the Master’s studio. He has a sitter present – a ruddy-faced Swedish sea-captain, in this instance – so you have a few minutes leisure in which to observe him at his work. The artist has a look of prosperity, with a full face, a comfortable stoutness in the waist, and a high-domed head. He is wearing a plain, workmanlike gown, and he has tied his queue into a glistening black bun. But his way of working is not much different from that of a European painter: he has a palette and brush in his hands and stands in front of a canvas that is placed upon an easel. The studio is small, but there is a skylight overhead that fills it with brightness: everything is neat and in its place – there is no disorder, no impatient brush-smudges nor any unruly splashes of colour. On the walls hang dozens of portraits, some recently finished and others that have, for one reason or another, never been collect
ed (among these is a most melancholy portrait of a midshipman – it is unfinished and destined to be forever so because the boy died of the typhus while it was being painted).

  Yet the one thing Lamqua will not do – and a very strange thing it is too, considering the sign that hangs above his door – is to make a man handsomer than he is. On no account will he leave out blemishes, warts, birthmarks, yellowed teeth, rheumy eyes, cauliflower ears, noses a-bloom with grog-blossom and so on – indeed some of the men on his wall are perfect frights.

  And as I was looking around who should I see? Myself! Or rather Mr Chinnery, painted in a most engaging way: one has only to look at the picture to know that the painter harbours no grudge against the sitter.

  Lamqua must have seen me looking at the likeness, for he pointed to the picture and said to me: ‘Same-same.’ Then, even without my being introduced he proceeded to chin-chin me, folding his hands together and addressing me as ‘Mr Chinnery’: he said that he had heard that I had come to Canton and would have invited me to visit his studio but had refrained from doing so for fear of further annoying my Uncle. He then proceeded to inquire after Mr Chinnery’s health and asked about his work, saying that it was a matter of great regret to him that he was no longer able to visit his studio, especially because he had heard that Mr Chinnery had recently completed a most unusual landscape, which he would dearly have loved to see.

  I confess I found this most affecting for I do consider it utterly unjust that Mr Chinnery should treat Lamqua in such a fashion: so strong was this feeling that I felt I had to do something about it, so I asked for a piece of paper and a pencil.

  As you know, my dear Pugglovna, I have been blessed with an excellent memory for pictures, so I was able, in a short while, to conjure up a perfectly passable impression of the painting in question (a view of Macau). Zadig Bey said afterwards that it was indiscreet of me to do this as one of Mr Chinnery’s chief complaints against Lamqua is that he copies the style of his paintings. But I own that I do not give a fig for this argument: it seems to me that a man who is shamefully neglectful of the Lives that issue from his loins has no right to be protective of the Works he creates with his hands.

  And this brings me, my dear Puggly, to the matter which is of greatest interest to you: your camellias. For Lamqua was so delighted with my little offering that he asked at once if there was anything he could do for me. This emboldened me to hand him Mr Penrose’s picture: I told him that it belonged to a friend who was keen to know about the subject and provenance of this painting.

  It took Lamqua but a moment to declare that he had never seen this particular flower – but that did not prevent him from minutely examining the picture. He turned it over, again and again, feeling the paper and even moistening the edges. He said he was almost certain, from the style, that the picture had been painted in Canton; and the condition of the paper suggested to him that it was about thirty years old. Yet he was hesitant to hazard a guess as to who the painter might be: he gave me to understand that the illustrators who make a speciality of botanical and zoological paintings have always been a little removed from the general run of Canton’s artists; they do not as a rule serve apprenticeships in studios as do most others; instead they are employed by visiting European botanists and collectors, who train them in the methods that are particular to their work. For this reason too their work is rarely seen in China – their pictures are usually shipped off to Europe along with the accompanying botanical collections.

  Here Lamqua paused to reflect for a while. Then he said that although he could assist me no further himself, he knew of someone who might be able to do so: he was a collector of plants and pictures and an authority on both subjects. He, if anyone, would be able to point me in the right direction.

  And who, pray, was this collector? Zadig Bey knew his name although I did not: he is one of the great magnates of the Co-Hong guild, a fabulously wealthy merchant who goes by the name of Punhyqua. Lamqua knows him well and said one of his apprentices would make arrangements to take me to him.

  This apprentice was then sent for – and that, Puggly dear, was when it happened! When he stepped in I knew, within minutes, that this was no ordinary meeting: a Palpitation went through me, and my hands flew to my chest, as if to quell the pounding of a drum.

  His name is Jacqua and you must not think that I am speaking of an Adonis, or of a golden, peach-plucking Botticelli youth: no, not at all. Jacqua is not tall and nor is he athletic in build, but there is in his face a luminous quality, in his eyes a glitter of calm and directed intelligence that no paintbrush could ever capture. Indeed I confess there is no image in my memory, no picture nor portrait, to which Jacqua conforms! It is not often that I meet such a person (no one knows better than you, Puggly dear, how many pictures are stored in my head) but when I do it is always strangely thrilling, for I know that I am in the presence of the New, standing upon the precipice of a discovery, a fall, an adventure …

  Oh my sweet Princess of Pugglovia, if I thought you knew how, I would ask you to pray for me … for I do think it possible that I may at last have encountered the One – the True Friend I have always sought.

  And I should add that this was not the only heaven-sent encounter of the week: I have also found the most astonishing courier – you will see for yourself when you meet him.

  *

  One morning, when the air was brisk but not yet cold, Bahram looked out of the daftar’s window and saw that most of the locals had exchanged their summer wardrobes for heavier clothing: gone were the cotton tunics and pyjamas, the light slippers and silk caps – they had been replaced by quilted robes and embroidered leggings, thick-soled shoes and fur hats.

  Bahram knew exactly what had happened: the Governor of the province must have been seen in his winter clothes the day before: this was always the signal for everyone else to follow suit and unpack their winter clothes. It was just like the British in India – except that here the Governor had to await a signal from faraway Peking. The strange thing was that considering how far the capital was and how different the climate, the change of wardrobe in Canton was never out of kilter with the north by more than a few days.

  Sure enough, a couple of days later a chilly wind began to blow from the north and the temperature suddenly plummeted: in the daftar it was so cold that charcoal-burning braziers had to be brought in.

  The change in weather brought in its train rumours of changes of another kind. In the afternoon Zadig dropped in to say that he had picked up some interesting gossip: the present Governor of the province, who had been so zealous about seizing opium, burning crab-boats and prosecuting dealers, was being recalled to the capital: apparently a new official was to be appointed in his place.

  Fanqui-town had been so beset by rumours, of late, that Bahram was careful not to invest too much hope in this report. For a few days he asked around discreetly and although he was unable to find any direct confirmation, he did learn that many others had heard the same reports – indeed there was so much speculation on this subject that the rumour seemed to have crossed the boundary that separates conjecture from news. And the consensus, at least among the Committee, was that the change was a hopeful sign.

  This was hugely encouraging to Bahram. Over the last couple of weeks he had received several anxious inquiries from the Bombay businessmen who had invested in the Anahita’s cargo: they had heard reports of the damage the vessel had suffered and had written to ask when they might expect to recoup their funds. Bahram’s answers had been apologetic but reassuring, informing them that the Canton market had been unusually dull of late but was expected to improve soon. He had not had the heart to tell them that the Anahita was still anchored near Hong Kong, with her holds almost full; nor had he let them know that he had yet to receive a single feeler from an interested buyer. Now, emboldened by the rumours of changes in the provincial administration, he decided that the time had come to inform his investors that some positive portents had at last been glimpsed on the
Chinese firmament.

  Take a new letter, he said to Neel. Start with the usual opening and then continue with this: As you know, the Canton markets have been very dull of late because of certain policies pursued by the present Governor. But your humble servant wishes to inform you that a change of direction has been signalled by the highest authorities in China. It is widely believed that the present Governor is soon to be recalled to the capital. The name of his replacement is not yet known, but I need hardly explain that this is a most welcome sign. It is possible that conditions here may soon return to normal, in which case it is not unreasonable to expect that we may also be able to dispose of our cargoes at a time when there is a great deal of pent-up demand …

  At this point there was a loud knocking on the daftar’s door.

  Patrão! Patrão!

  Vico? What is it?

  The door opened just wide enough to admit Vico’s head: Patrão, there’s someone to see you.

  Now?

  Bahram was both surprised and annoyed by the interruption: it had long been his practice to reserve the first hours of his workday for his correspondence, and his standing instructions to his staff were that no visitors were to be admitted to his daftar until after his mid-morning chai break.

  What is this nonsense, Vico? A visitor at this time? I’ve just started a letter.