River of Smoke it-2

by Amitav Ghosh

  Although she remembered Robin with great warmth, and had often regretted the loss of his friendship, she knew also that he had a waspish, gossipy side and was perfectly capable of inventing stories that might cause a rift between herself and Fitcher. In considering all this, she let slip the moment when it would have been easiest to speak frankly to Fitcher about her connection with Robin. Something else came up and the opportunity was lost.

  *

  At Bahram’s insistence, both Neel and Ah Fatt stayed with him while the Anahita’s repairs and refurbishments were being completed: each had a cabin to himself – an almost unimaginable luxury after the privations of the last many months. Day and night they were plied with food: every morning at breakfast, Bahram would summon his personal khansamah, Mesto – a dark giant of a man with a shining bald head and well-muscled arms – and confer with him on what was to be served to his godson for lunch and dinner. Each meal was a feast of a different kind, sometimes Parsi, with mutton dhansak and brown rice; okra cooked with fish roe and patra-ni-machhi, fillets of fish steamed in banana leaves; sometimes Goan, with shrimp rissoles and chicken xacuti and fiery prawn xeque-xeques; sometimes East Indian, with a mutton-and-pumpkin curry and sarpatel.

  But the situation was not without its discomforts: Neel had to be careful at all times to maintain the pretence that he and Ah Fatt were casual acquaintances who had met by chance in Singapore; and he also had to be vigilant about concealing his awareness of Ah Fatt’s real relationship with Bahram. This was not always easy for there were times when Bahram was himself unable to keep a firm hold on his god-parental mask: being spontaneous and affectionate by nature he would suddenly fold Ah Fatt into his arms and give him a huge hug; or else he would call him ‘beta’ or ‘deekro’ and pile food on his plate.

  The fact that Ah Fatt was often unresponsive, and sometimes even resentful, of these displays of affection seemed to have little effect on Bahram. It was as though he were living, for the first time, the life he aspired to – in which he was a patriarch in his own right, passing on his wisdom and experience to his son.

  To Neel there was something touching about the very clumsiness and excess of Bahram’s expressions of affection. He understood why they irritated Ah Fatt, and he understood too why he might regard them as scant compensation for the long years of neglect during which he had felt himself to be disowned and unacknowledged by his father.

  But to Neel what was most striking about Bahram’s relationship with Ah Fatt was not its faults but rather the fact that it existed at all. In his previous life, in Calcutta, Neel had known many men who had fathered illegitimate children: not one of them, so far as he knew, had shown any trace of kindness in their treatment of their mistresses and their progeny; he even knew of some who, fearing blackmail, had had their babies strangled. His own father, the old Zemindar, was said to have begotten a dozen bastards, with a succession of different women: his method of dealing with the situation was to pay the women a hundred rupees and pack them off to their villages. Amongst men of his class this was considered normal and even generous; Neel himself had taken it so much for granted that he had never given it any thought – it had certainly never occurred to him to think of his father’s bastards as his own half-siblings. On succeeding to the Zemindari he could easily have inquired into the fate of his illegitimate half-brothers and sisters – yet the notion had never so much as crossed his mind. Looking back, Neel could not avoid acknowledging his own failings in regard to this aspect of his past, and this in turn led him to recognize that Bahram’s conduct in relation to Ah Fatt and his mother was not just unusual but quite exceptional for a man of his circumstances.

  None of this was easy to explain to Ah Fatt.

  ‘For Father “Freddy” like pet dog. That why he pat and hug and squeeze. Father care only for himself; no one else.’

  ‘Listen, Ah Fatt, I know why you might think that. But believe me, most men in his situation would just have abandoned you and your mother. That would have been the easy thing to do; it is what ninety-nine men in a hundred would have done. It says something for him that he didn’t do it. Don’t you see that?’

  Ah Fatt would dismiss these arguments with a shrug – or at least he would pretend to – but it was clear to Neel that despite all his grievances his friend was exhilarated to find himself where he had never been before: at the centre of his father’s attention.

  As the days passed, Ah Fatt seemed to grow quieter and more despondent, and Neel knew that it was not just the prospect of being parted from his father that was gnawing at him but also the knowledge that he would not be travelling to Canton. One day, while they were pacing the quarter-deck, Ah Fatt said, with more than a trace of envy in his voice: ‘You lucky man. You go to Canton – number-one city in whole world.’

  ‘In the world?’ said Neel in surprise. ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘No place like it, anywhere. You look-see for yourself.’

  ‘You miss it, don’t you?’

  Ah Fatt allowed his chin to sink slowly into his chest. ‘Too much. Miss too much, Canton. But can-na go.’

  ‘Is there anyone you would like to send a message to? Anyone I should meet?’

  ‘No!’ Ah Fatt spun around on his heels. ‘No! In Canton you can-na talk about me. Must take care, too much care, all times. No lo-lo-so-so. Can-na talk of Ah Fatt.’

  ‘You can trust me Ah Fatt. But I wish you were coming too.’

  ‘Believe me, Neel. I also wish.’ Ah Fatt put a hand on Neel’s shoulder. ‘But be careful there, my friend.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘In China people say ‘everything new comes from Canton’. Better for young men not to go there – too many ways for them to be spoiled.’

  Six

  For the last stretch of the journey to China, Fitcher set a circuitous course, keeping the Redruth clear of notorious pirate haunts like the Ladrone Islands. This stretch of water was unlike any that Paulette had ever beheld, dotted with thousands of craggy, apparently deserted islands. The islets were wild and wind-blown, with clumps of greenery clinging to their steep, rocky slopes; some were as picturesque as the names by which they were identified on the charts: ‘Mandarin’s Cap’, ‘the Quoin’, ‘Tortoise Head’ and ‘the Needle Rocks’.

  As the coastline approached, many vessels of unfamiliar shape and rigging hove into view: lorchas, junks, batelos and stately Spanish Manilamen. Occasionally English and American vessels would also appear, and one morning Fitcher recognized a passing brigantine. The vessel’s skipper was an acquaintance of his, so he decided to go over to have a word with him. He was rowed across in a gig and returned an hour later, looking unusually perturbed, his brow fretfully a-twitch.

  ‘Bad news, sir?’ said Paulette.

  Fitcher nodded: the brigantine’s skipper had told him that it had become very hard to procure the chops that permitted foreign vessels to enter the Pearl River. Even to enter the harbour at Macau had become a tricky affair and most foreign ships were choosing instead to take shelter at the opposite end of the river mouth, in the strait that separated the island of Hong Kong from the promontory of Kowloon.

  After some thought, Fitcher decided to follow the course that had been recommended to him by the skipper: instead of making for Macau, as originally planned, the Redruth tacked about and headed in another direction.

  Soon a ridge of jagged mountains came into view, rising sheer out of the sea. This, said Fitcher, was Hong Kong: few houses were visible on the shore and even fewer trees; it was a wild, gale-swept place, not unlike the other islands nearby, only bigger, steeper and taller. The name Hong Kong, Fitcher said, meant ‘fragrant harbour’: this struck Paulette as a strangely whimsical description for such a desolate and forbidding place.

  The Redruth dropped anchor in a bay that was overlooked by the tallest peak in the island. There were several other foreign ships there; a small flotilla of bumboats and pilot-boats was swarming around them, ferrying provisions and passengers between the ships a
nd the mainland.

  Early the next morning Fitcher took a pilot-boat to Macau, leaving Paulette in charge of the Redruth’s floating garden. He returned a day later, looking thoroughly despondent.

  Captain Charles Elliott, the British Representative in Macau, had treated him to a gloomy summation of the present situation. It appeared that the Emperor had sent down a series of edicts, commanding the provincial government to act forcefully against the opium trade. In response they had seized and burned the ‘fast-crab’ boats that had once roamed the Pearl River, transporting opium directly from ship to shore. Many English traders had assumed that the situation would soon go back to normal again – in the past too there had been brief periods of increased vigilance, but they had never lasted for more than a few months. But it was different this time: a few dealers had tried to rebuild their boats and the mandarins had burned them again. That was just the beginning. Next the mandarins had begun to arrest local opium-dealers; some were thrown in prison, some were executed. Their shops and dens were seized and the opium was burned. Then the regulations for travel on the Pearl River were tightened and as a result chops had become very difficult to obtain. Only those foreigners who were vouched for by the merchants’ guild, in Canton, could hope to get chops at this time: since Fitcher had no such connections he was unlikely to be granted one in the immediate future. Such being the circumstances, Captain Elliott had recommended that Fitcher keep the Redruth at anchor near Hong Kong for the time being, to await a more favourable turn of events.

  All through Fitcher’s recital, Paulette had been listening for the name ‘Chinnery’. Not having heard it, she said: ‘And did you meet anyone else, sir?’

  Fitcher glanced at her, and after a moment’s silence, muttered: ‘So I did. I also went to see Mr Chinnery.’

  ‘Oh? And it was a useful visit, sir?’

  ‘Yes. But not in the way I had expected.’

  Mr Chinnery had received Fitcher in his studio, which was on the uppermost floor of his residence, at number 8, Rua Ignacio Baptista: a large, sunlit room, it was hung with several excellent portraits and landscapes, including one that was in the process of being finished by a pair of Chinese apprentices.

  Within a few minutes Fitcher understood that Mr Chinnery had invited him into his studio in the expectation of receiving a commission for a portrait. When Fitcher explained that he had come in regard to an entirely different matter – a mission that concerned a pair of plant-pictures from Canton – the artist’s expression had grown a little peevish. He favoured the camellia paintings with no more than a cursory glance before declaring them to be inconsequential little gew-gaws: the daubings of Canton’s painters were not worthy of the attention of a serious man, he had declared; indeed, the scribblers who produced botanical illustrations and the like could scarcely be called artists at all – they were but counterfeiters and copyists who produced cheap souvenirs for travellers and seamen.

  ‘Art is a dead letter in China, sir, a dead letter…!’

  Fitcher had understood that he had found the artist in one of his dark moods: he had decided to excuse himself, perhaps to return another day. But when he stood up to leave, the artist, perhaps repenting of his ill-humour, had asked if Fitcher knew the way to the jetty, where he was to catch his boat. When Fitcher said no, he did not, Mr Chinnery offered to send someone with him, to show him the way: it so happened, he said, that he had a nephew staying with him, his brother’s son; he had arrived from India some time ago and had quickly learnt his way around the city.

  Fitcher had gratefully accepted this offer, whereupon Mr Chinnery had summoned his nephew, who proved to be a young man in his mid-twenties. He bore a close family resemblance to the artist: their faces, with their prominent eyes and knob-like noses, were so similar that they could have been avatars of each other, separated only by age, and also, perhaps, by a slight tint of complexion, which in the case of the younger man, was a little swarthier. So alike, in fact, were the two Chinnerys that if Fitcher had not known better he would have taken them to be father and son rather than uncle and nephew: nor was the likeness merely a matter of appearance – on the way to the jetty Fitcher learnt that the young man was also an artist, much in the mould of the senior Mr Chinnery. Indeed Mr Chinnery had been his first teacher, said the youth: now following in his footsteps, he was planning to go to Canton in search of commissions; through his uncle’s influence he had already secured a chop and intended to leave in a few days.

  On hearing this, Fitcher had been struck by an idea: he had shown young Chinnery the two camellia paintings and had asked him if he might be interested in making inquiries about them while he was in Canton. Young Chinnery had responded enthusiastically and in the course of the short walk to the jetty they had reached an agreement: Fitcher would pay him a retainer in exchange for regular reports on his progress; in the event of success there would be a substantial reward.

  The one thing about the arrangement that had worried Fitcher was the prospect of being parted from his paintings. But this concern too had been quickly addressed: it turned out that the younger Mr Chinnery prided himself on his skills as a copyist. He had asked to keep the pictures only for a couple of days: it would take him no longer than that to make copies of them, he had said, and as soon as he was done he would deliver the originals to the Redruth in person.

  ‘And may I ask sir,’ said Paulette hesitantly, ‘what was the name of this nephew of Mr Chinnery?’

  ‘Edward – Edward Chinnery.’ Here Fitcher paused to tug awkwardly at his beard. ‘But he said ee’d know him as Robin.’

  Paulette caught her breath: ‘Oh did he?’

  ‘Young Chinnery was very pleased, I might say, to hear that ee were here; said ee’d been like a sister to him once but there’d been a falling-out over some trivial thing. Said he’d sorely missed eer company – but he called ee by some other name – what was it? Pug-something?’

  ‘Puggly?’ Paulette had clasped her hands to her cheeks in mortification, but she dropped them now. ‘Yes – he has many nicknames for me. Robin was… is… indeed a close friend. Please forgive me sir. I should have told you – but there was a most unfortunate incident. Shall I tell you of it?’

  ‘Ee needn’t trouble eerself with that Miss Paulette,’ said Fitcher with one of his rare smiles. ‘Mr Chinnery has told me already.’

  *

  The cry caught everyone unawares: Kinara! Land ho! China ahead! Maha-Chin agey hai!

  Bahram and Zadig were up on the Anahita’s quarter-deck when the lascar on lookout duty began to wave and shout. They went to the dawa bulwark and shaded their eyes and soon enough the straight line of the horizon began to crack and splinter, giving way to the silhouette of a jagged landscape. Ahead lay the tip of Hainan, China’s southernmost extremity, and for a while the Anahita sailed close enough to the island that Bahram was able to study it through a spyglass: it was not much different, in appearance, from Singapore and some of the other islands they had passed on the way, with steep hills, dense forests and fringes of golden sand along the shores.

  Shortly after the sighting the officers called all hands on deck and put them on high alert: the waters around Hainan were notorious for pirates, and every vessel that came into view had to be treated as suspect. Lookouts were posted agil and peechil and the topmen were sent scrambling aloft.

  Tabar lagao! Gabar uthao!

  With stu’nsails on the yardarms and sky-sails atop every mast, the Anahita leapt before the wind, her cutwater plunging between swell and trough, her beams banking steeply as she tacked. The island vanished as the ship swung out to sea, but only to reappear towards sunset, when a cloud-wreathed mountain was spotted again.

  The sight exhilarated Bahram, reminding him of another journey and another island he had visited, on the far side of the globe, some twenty-two years before.

  Tell me, he said to Zadig. Do you remember that time? When we met the General?

  Zadig laughed: Of course, Bahram-bhai. Who could forge
t it?

  It happened in February 1816, when Bahram and Zadig were on their way to England on the HCS Cuffnells. Two months after leaving Canton they reached Cape Town where they were met by a startling piece of news: Napoleon Bonaparte had been exiled to a tiny island in the Atlantic. This came as a surprise, since the rumour, at the time of their departure from Macau, was that the Duke of Wellington had hanged the Emperor from a tree, at Waterloo. They were now astonished to learn that Bonaparte was being held captive on St Helena. This was their next port of call and the possibility of catching a glimpse of the erstwhile dictator caused a ferment of excitement among some of the ship’s passengers.

  Bahram’s knowledge of European politics was quite limited at the time, and he was not among those who were greatly affected by the news. But for Zadig it was as if a bolt of lightning had struck the timbers beneath his feet: at the time of Bonaparte’s invasion of Egypt, Zadig was a boy of fifteen, living in his family house, which was in Masr al-Qadima or Old Cairo. He remembered vividly the panic that had gripped this suburb when it came to be known that a French army had seized Alexandria and was marching on the capital. When the dust of battle rose above the pyramids, he was among the many who scaled the Church of the Mu’allaqa to listen to the sound of cannonfire, booming across the river.