River of Smoke it-2

by Amitav Ghosh

  Bahram’s frown deepened as he scanned the passage, but then suddenly his face cleared and his eyes lit up. ‘But it is just a memorial, no? Written by some bloody bandar of a baboo. Hundreds of these they must be writing. Emperor will throw and forget. What he cares? He is Emperor, no, busy with his wives and all? Mandarins will not tolerate any change – or else where they will get cumshaw? How they will fill their pipes? Those bahn-chahts are the biggest smokers of all.’

  *

  Bahram had known Hugh Hamilton Lindsay, the current President of Canton’s General Chamber of Commerce for many years. A rubicund man with a silken blandness of manner, he was connected to the Earls of Balcarra, a prominent Scottish dynasty. He had been in China some sixteen years and was widely liked, being universally regarded as a good fellow who never gave himself any airs. Bahram had dined with him many times and knew him to be an excellent host: what was more, he knew him also to be a discerning judge of food.

  It was thus with a pleasurable sense of anticipation that Bahram picked out his clothes for Mr Hamilton’s dinner. In place of an angarkha he chose a knee-length white jama of Dacca cotton: it was discreetly ornamented with jamdani brocade, and the neck and cuffs were lined with bands of green silk. Instead of pairing this with the usual salwar or paijamas, Bahram settled on a pair of black Acehnese leggings, shot through with silver thread. The weather being still quite warm he picked, as an outer garment, a cream-coloured cotton choga embroidered with silver-gilt karchobi work. The ensemble was completed by a turban of pure malmal muslin. Then, as Bahram picked up a slim cane with an ivory knob, the valet-duty khidmatgar misted the air with a puff of his favourite raat-ki-rani attar; after lingering in the fragrant cloud for a moment, Bahram made his way to the door.

  The dinner was to be held in the Chamber’s dining room, which was only a five-minute walk from the Achha Hong. But it was the custom, in Canton, for people to hire lantern-bearers to light their way when they were invited out to dine, even if they were going only a short distance. Bahram had employed the same bearer for decades: known to foreigners as Apu, this man had an uncanny ability to divine when he was needed. He also seemed to possess some occult faculty of persuasion that enabled him to keep at bay the cadgers and chawbacons of the Maidan. This evening, as on so many before, Apu arrived punctually, just before sundown, and Bahram set off shortly afterwards: with his embroidered choga flapping in the breeze, and a paper lantern glowing above his white turban, he was about as striking a figure as any – but such were his lantern-bearer’s powers that he was the only passer-by not to be besieged with importuning cries of ‘Cumshaw, gimme cumshaw!’

  The bustle and noise of the Maidan transported Bahram’s spirits, taking him back to his earliest days in Canton: he paused to look around him – at the looming bulk of the Sea-Calming Tower, in the far distance; at the grey walls of the citadel, running like a curtain, behind the enclave; and at the narrow-fronted factories, glowing in the last light of day: the hongs’ arched windows seemed to be winking at him, their colonnaded porticoes smiling as if to greet an old friend. The sight made Bahram’s chest swell in proprietorial pride: after all these years it still thrilled him to think that he was as much a part of this scene as any foreigner could ever hope to be.

  At the gates of the Danish Hong, two turbaned chowkidars were standing guard. They were from Tranquebar, near Madras, and they bowed when they saw Bahram: as the doyen of the Achha community of Canton, he was well known to them. Murmuring salaams they ushered him through the gates and into the factory.

  Crossing the courtyard that led to the Chamber’s premises, Bahram could see that many of Mr Lindsay’s guests had already gathered in the Club: the reception room and the dining room were both brightly lit and he could hear voices and the clinking of glasses. At the entrance to the reception room Bahram paused to peek in: few colours other than black and white could be seen on the men inside and he knew that with the candlelight sparkling on the silver and gold threads that were woven through his garments, his entrance would make a considerable impression; he ran a hand over the skirt of his choga, fanning it out so as to show it off to best advantage.

  On stepping in, Bahram met with a warm reception. He knew almost everybody present and greeted many of them with hugs and even kisses. He knew there was no danger of being rebuffed: such exuberance might be looked upon askance in a European but in an Oriental of sufficient rank it was likely to be seen rather as a sign of self-assurance. As a young Achha in Canton Bahram had noticed that such effusions were almost a prerogative of seniority amongst the Seths; he had noticed also that his elders often imposed their physical presence on others as an expression of their power. It was oddly satisfying to know that he too had arrived at a point in his life when his hugs and thumps and kisses were universally welcomed, even by the starchiest Europeans.

  Now the host, Mr Lindsay, appeared at Bahram’s side, murmuring his congratulations and welcoming him into the Committee. Soon Bahram was led off to admire the full-length portrait of Mr Lindsay that was now hanging amongst the pictures of the Chamber’s past presidents.

  ‘You will recognize, of course,’ said Mr Lindsay proudly, ‘the hand of Mr Chinnery.’

  ‘Arre, shahbash!’ said Bahram, dutifully admiring the painting. ‘So nicely he has done, no? Put sword in your hand and all. Like a hero you are looking!’

  A glow of pleasure suffused Mr Lindsay’s rosy face. ‘Yes, it is rather fine is it not?’

  ‘But why so soon, Hugh? Your time as President is not over, no?’

  ‘Actually,’ said Mr Lindsay, ‘I have just a few months left.’ Now, leaning closer, he whispered: ‘Between the two of us, Barry, that is the occasion for this dinner – I intend to announce the name of my successor.’

  ‘The next President?’

  ‘Yes exactly…’

  Mr Lindsay was about to say more but he happened to look over Bahram’s shoulder and immediately cut himself short. With a quick ‘Excuse me’ he took himself off and Bahram turned around to find himself facing Lancelot Dent.

  Dent’s appearance had changed considerably since Bahram had seen him last; a slight man, with a narrow face and receding jawline, he had grown a sandy goatee, probably to extend the length of his chin. He was now brimming with an affability that Bahram had never seen in him before.

  ‘Ah Mr Moddie! Congratulations on your appointment – we are delighted to have you amongst us. My brother Tom sends you his very best wishes.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Bahram politely. ‘I am extremely glad to have your blessings and good wishes. And of course you must call me Barry.’

  ‘And you must call me Lancelot.’

  ‘Yes. Certainly, Lance…’ The name was not easy to say but Bahram managed to get through it in a rush: ‘Of course, Lancelot.’

  The gong rang, to summon the guests to the dining room, and Dent immediately slipped his arm through Bahram’s. There were no place cards on the table, and Bahram had no option but to take the chair next to Dent’s. Seated to his left was John Slade of the Canton Register.

  Slade had long been a fixture on the Committee so his presence at the dinner came as no surprise. Apart from editing the paper, he also dabbled in trade – although without much success. He was reputed to have run up significant debts, but such was the fear inspired by his acid tongue and scathing pen that rare indeed was the creditor who attempted to reclaim a loan from the Thunderer.

  But there was no thunder in Mr Slade’s mien now as he greeted Bahram: his large, flushed face creased into a smile and he muttered: ‘Excellent… excellent… very pleased indeed to have you on the Committee, Mr Moddie.’

  Then his eyes wandered across the room and his face hardened. ‘Which is more than I can say of the Bulgarian.’

  This completely baffled Bahram. Following Slade’s gaze he saw that the Thunderer was looking at Charles King, of Olyphant amp; Co.: this was an American firm, and Bahram knew for sure that Mr King was an American himself.

&nbs
p; ‘Did you say “vulgarian”, Mr Slade?’

  ‘No. I said Bulgarian.’

  ‘But I thought Mr King was from America. You are sure he’s Bulgarian?’

  ‘It is not impossible, you know,’ said Slade darkly. ‘To be both.’

  ‘Baap-re-baap! American and Bulgarian also? That is too much, no?’

  Here Dent came to the rescue and and whispered in Bahram’s ear: ‘You must make some allowances for our good Mr Slade: he is a stickler for proper usage and has a great detestation of corrupted words. He particularly dislikes the word “bugger”, which is so much in use among the vulgar masses. He believes it to be a corruption of the word “Bulgar” or “Bulgarian” and insists on using those instead.’

  This further deepened Bahram’s puzzlement for he had always assumed that ‘bugger’ was the anglice of the Hindusthani word bukra or ‘goat’.

  ‘So Mr King is having goats, is he?’ he said to Mr Slade.

  ‘It would not surprise me at all,’ said Mr Slade mournfully. ‘It is common knowledge that a congenital Bulgar will Bulgarize anything that takes his fancy. Amantes sunt amentes.’

  Bahram had never heard of anyone keeping goats in Fanqui-town, but it stood to reason that if someone did it would be a representative of Olyphant amp; Co. – for that firm had always been the odd one out in Fanqui-town, choosing to do business in eccentric, money-losing ways. What was more, the firm’s managers had even had the effrontery to criticize others for refusing to follow their lead: not surprisingly, this did little to endear them to their peers.

  Bahram was one of the few tai-pans who was actually on good terms with Charles King – but this was because he usually discussed things other than business. He knew very well that the Olyphant agent inspired deep hostility within the upper echelons of Fanqui-town, and was astonished to see him amongst the members of the Committee.

  Bahram turned to Dent with a puzzled frown: ‘Is Charles King also on the Committee?’

  ‘Yes indeed he is,’ said Dent. ‘He was invited to join because he is a great favourite of the mandarins. It was felt that he would be able to represent our views to them. But it must be admitted that it has not turned out well: instead of advocating our issues to them, he unfailingly does exactly the opposite. He is forever trying to bully and hector us into obeying his Celestial patrons.’

  At this point the Club’s stewards entered with the first course. The stewards were all local men, with braided queues, round caps and sandalled feet. Their tunics were in the Club’s colour, blue, and were worn over grey, ankle-length pyjamas.

  Unlike the stewards, many of the Chamber’s cooks were from Macau: when freed from the obligation of producing the kind of fare that was most in demand in the Club’s dining room – roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, haggis, steak-and-kidney pies and the like – they were capable of serving superb Macahnese food. Now, looking at the plate that had been set before him, Bahram was delighted to see that it contained one of his favourite dishes: a bright green watercress soup called Caldo de Agriao. With it was served a variety of condiments and sauces, as well as a fine Alvarinho wine from Muncao.

  Bahram was absorbed in savouring the wine and the soup when Mr Slade’s voice boomed across the table. ‘Well Mr Jardine, since no one else will dare ask, it falls to me to bell the cat. Is it true, sir, that you intend soon to return to England?’

  The soup was suddenly forgotten and every head turned to look towards Mr Jardine who was sitting at the other end of the table, between the host and Mr Wetmore. A quizzical smile appeared on his unlined face and he said quietly: ‘Well Mr Slade, I was planning to make my intentions public at the end of the evening, but since you have presented me with this opportunity, I will seize it. The answer is, in short: Yes, I am indeed planning to return to England. The date has not yet been decided but it will probably be in a month or two.’

  A silence fell, leaving many spoons suspended in the air. Before anything else could be said Mr Lindsay broke in, speaking in his usual rounded, measured tones: ‘The urge to seek the joys of marriage and fatherhood is powerful in all men. We cannot expect Mr Jardine to forever defer his happiness in order to provide us with his unrivalled leadership. We are fortunate in having had him with us for as long as we have. It behooves us now to wish him luck in finding the bride he deserves.’

  This was met with nods and a quiet chorus of Amens and Hear-hears, which Mr Jardine acknowledged with a smile: ‘Thank you, gentlemen, thank you: I will certainly need your good wishes. I have so little experience of the petticoat company that I should consider myself fortunate if I succeed in finding a lady who is fat, fair and forty. It is as much as a man of my age has a right to expect.’

  Amidst the roar of laughter that followed, the soup plates were whisked away and a number of dishes were laid upon the table. Inspecting them closely, Bahram recognized many of his favourite Macahnese specialities: croquettes of bacalhao, boulettes of pork, a spiced salad of avocado and prawns, stuffed crabs and a fish tart.

  The food did not long distract Mr Slade: having made quick work of a couple of glasses of wine and several platefuls of crab, codfish and pork balls, he again addressed Mr Jardine: ‘Well sir, since so many of us at this table are old bachelors and perfectly content with our lot – as indeed you too seemed to be until quite recently – you will perhaps forgive us for wondering whether the attractions of the marital bed are the sole cause of your departure from our midst.’

  Mr Jardine raised an eyebrow. ‘Pray Mr Slade, I am not sure I understand you.’

  ‘Well sir,’ said Mr Slade in his booming voice. ‘Let me put the matter plainly then: it is widely rumoured that you have drawn up a detailed war plan and are hoping to persuade Lord Palmerston, the Foreign Secretary, to make use of it. Is there any truth to this?’

  Jardine’s smile did not waver in the slightest: ‘I fear you overestimate both my foresight and my influence, Mr Slade. Lord Palmerston has not called on me for advice or assistance – although you may be sure that if he did I would not hesitate to offer it.’

  ‘I am glad to hear it, sir.’ Mr Slade’s voice grew louder. ‘And if you should happen to meet Lord Palmerston I beg you to speak your mind to him, on behalf of all of us.’

  ‘What exactly would you have me say, Mr Slade?’

  ‘Why sir,’ said Slade, ‘my views are no secret: I have stated them repeatedly in the Register. I would have you tell His Lordship that he has disappointed us, at every turn. He is no doubt a man of exceptional ability so we had hoped he would understand the importance of trade and commerce to the future of the Empire. Yet every measure he has taken so far for the protection and promotion of the British trade to China has failed utterly and disgracefully. I would urge him to recognize that it was a mistake to appoint a man like Captain Elliott to be the Representative of Her Majesty’s government in China. Captain Elliott has attained his position solely because of his connections in Society and Government – he understands nothing of financial matters and as a military man he can never adequately appreciate the principles of Free Trade. It follows therefore that he cannot honestly represent the interests of men such as ourselves. Yet it is we who, through our taxes, pay the salaries of men like him – a class of official parasites that seems to be forever increasing in number. This is unconscionable, sir, and it must be made plain to His Lordship. I would urge him to change his policy; to stop reposing his trust in soldiers and diplomats and other representatives of the government. This is a new age, and it will be forged and shaped by trade and commerce. His Lordship would do better to make common cause with men like us, who are here and who are acquainted with the conditions of this country; he should trust our leading merchants to represent our own best interests. His Lordship should be cautioned that if he intends to proceed as he began, then the future for British subjects in this country is gloomy and dark indeed: if not for his inaction, the situation here would never have come to the present pass. He should be warned also that if he continues along his
present path he himself will not escape opprobrium. He will find that he has paid too dear for his ministerial whistle if its price is the sacrifice of the honour and interests of his own country.’

  There was a dazed silence, which helped the stewards to serve another course: even though Bahram’s attention had been distracted by Mr Slade’s thunderous peroration, he did not fail to recognize that the dish that had now appeared on the table was the great glory of Macahnese cuisine – Galinha Africana – grilled chicken, napped with a coconut sauce that was redolent of the spices of Mozambique.

  No one else paid any attention to the chicken. From the other end of the table, Mr Lindsay directed a frown at Mr Slade. ‘You must consider yourself lucky, John, that you were born in England. In some countries a man might well lose his head for taking such a tone with his leaders.’

  ‘Believe me, sir,’ said the Thunderer, ‘I know very well the value of my freedoms. Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to see them conferred upon the uncountable millions who groan under the yoke of tyranny – most notably the wretches who suffer the rule of the Manchu despot.’

  ‘But Mr Slade!’ It was the voice of Charles King. ‘If freedom is merely a stick for you to beat others with, then surely the word has lost all meaning? You have blamed Lord Palmerston, you have blamed Captain Elliott, you have blamed the Emperor of China – yet you have not once taken the name of the commodity that has brought us to the present impasse: opium.’

  Slade’s heavy jowls quivered thunderously as he turned to face his interlocutor. ‘No, Mr King,’ he said. ‘I have not mentioned opium, nor indeed have I spoken of any of your other hobby horses. And nor will I until your Celestial friends candidly admit that it is they who are the prime movers in this trade. In supplying them with such goods as they demand we are merely obeying the laws of Free Trade…’

  ‘And the laws of conscience, Mr Slade?’ said Charles King. ‘What of them?’

  ‘Do you imagine, Mr King, that freedom of conscience could exist in the absence of the freedom of trade?’