Breakfast in the Ruins

7 Calcutta Flies: 1911: Doing Business

— There! That's more like it, Kadi Ah! Better! Better! Now you're moving!

Karl bucks and bounces, gasps and groans. His muscles ache, but he forces his body to make dramatic responses to every tiny stimulus. The black man cheers him on, yelling with delight.

— Ah! sings Karl. Oh! Ah! Oh!

Up and down and from side to side, whinnying like a proud stallion, he carries the black man round the hotel room on his back. His back is wet, but not from sperm or sweat, for, in spite of all his shouts of pleasure, the black man has not had an orgasm as far as Karl can tell. His back is wet with just a drop or two of blood.

— Now you're moving! Now you're moving! shouts the black man again.—Hurrah!

Karl is twelve. An orphan. Half-German, half-Indian. In Calcutta. In 1911.

— Faster! Faster! The black man has produced a riding crop and with it he flicks Karl's bouncing buttocks.—Faster!

When Karl was fifteen, he left home to become a great painter. He returned home three months later. He had been turned down by the Art School. His mother had been very sympathetic. She could afford to be.

-Faster! That's it! You're learning, Karl! Karl is twelve. The red sun rises over red ships. Calcutta... The riding crop cracks harder and Karl gallops on.

KARL WAS TWELVE. His mother was dead. His father was dead. His two sisters were sixteen and seventeen and he did not often see them. He embarrassed them. Karl was in business for himself and, all things considered, he was doing pretty well.

He worked the docks along the Hooghly. He described himself as an Agent. If something was wanted by the sailors or the passengers off the ships, he would either get it for them or take them somewhere where they might obtain it. He did better than the other boys in the same trade, for he was quite light-skinned and he wore a European suit. He spoke English and German perfectly and was fairly fluent in most other languages, including a fair number of Indian dialects. Because he knew when to be honest and who to bribe, he was popular both with customers and suppliers and people coming from the big red steamers would ask after him when they landed, having been recommended to him by friends. Because he was well-mannered and discreet, he was tolerated by most of the Indian and British policemen on the docks (and he had done several of them good turns in his time, for he knew the importance of keeping in with the authorities). Karl was rumored to be a millionaire (in rupees), but, because of his overheads, he was, in fact, worth only about a thousand rupees, which he banked with his friend in Barrackpore, some fifteen miles away, because it was safer. He was content with his relatively small profit and had worked out that by the time he was twenty he would be quite rich enough to set himself up in a respectable business of some kind in Central Calcutta.

Karl's only concession to his Indian mother was his turban. His turban was virtually his trademark and he was recognized by it throughout Calcutta. It was a black turban, of gleaming silk. Its single decoration was a small pin -an enameled pin he had been given by a rather eccentric English lady who had sought his services a year or two back. The pin was white, gold and red and showed a crown with a scroll over it. On the scroll was written Edward VII. It had been made, the lady had told Karl, to commemorate the Coronation. The pin was therefore quite old and might be valuable. Karl felt it a fitting decoration for his black, silk turban.

Earlier that morning, Karl had been contacted by a young sailor who had offered to buy all the hemp Karl could procure by that afternoon. He had offered a reasonable price—though not an especially good one—and Karl had agreed. He knew that the young sailor had a customer in one of the European ports and that once his hemp arrived in Europe it would be several tunes more valuable than it was in Calcutta. But Karl was not worried. He would make his profit and it would be satisfactory. Everyone would be happy. The young sailor was English, but he was working on a French boat, the Juliette, currently taking on grain and indigo down at Kalna. The young sailor, whose name was Marsden, had come up on one of the river steamers.

Through the confusion of the dock strode Karl, walking as quickly as was sensible in the midday heat, dodging bicycles and donkeys and carts and men who were scarcely visible for the huge bundles on their backs. Karl was proud of his city, enjoying the profusion of different racial types, the many contrasts and paradoxes of Calcutta. When he was cursed, as he often was, he would curse back in the same language. When he was greeted by acquaintances he would give a little bow and salute them with cheeky condescension, aping the manner of the Lieutenant-Governor on one of his ceremonial processions through the city.

Karl swaggered a little as he crossed Kidderpore Bridge and walked across the Maidan. He imagined that London must look very much like this and had heard the Maidan compared to Hyde Park, although the Maidan was much bigger. The trees were mainly of the English variety and reminded Karl of the pictures he had seen of the English countryside. He passed close to the Cathedral, with its Gothic spire emerging from a mass of greenery and a large sheet of water in the foreground. One of his customers, whom he had taken on a tour of the city the year before, had said it recalled exactly the view over Bayswater from the bridge spanning the Serpentine. One day Karl would visit London and see for himself.

He swaggered a little as he crossed the Maidan. He always felt more relaxed and at home in the better part of town. Near Government House, he hailed a rickshaw with a lordly wave and told the boy to take him to the junction of Armenian Street and Bhudab Road. It was really not much further to walk, but he felt in an expansive mood. He leaned back in his seat and breathed the spiced air of the city. He had told Marsden, the sailor, that he could get him a hundred pounds worth of hemp if he wanted it. Marsden had agreed to bring a hundred pounds to Dalhousie Square that afternoon. It would be one of the largest single business deals Karl had pulled off. He hoped that his friend in Armenian Street would be able to supply him with all the hemp he needed.

His friend worked for one of the big shipping firms in Armenian Street. This friend was a messenger and made a number of trips in and out of Calcutta during the week. Almost every one of these trips yielded a certain supply of hemp which Karl's friend then stored in a safe place until contacted by Karl.

The rickshaw stopped at the corner of Bhudab Road and Karl descended to the pavement, giving the rickshaw boy—a man of about fifty—a generous tip.

The bustle in this part of town was of a different quality to that nearer the docks. It was more assured, more muted. People didn't push so much, or bellow at one, or shout obscene insults. And here, too, there were fewer people sharing considerably more money. Karl was considering Armenian Street as the site for his business when he opened it. It would probably be an Import/Export business of some kind. He began to walk, sighing with pleasure at the thought of his future. The bright sunshine and the blue sky served as a perfect background to the solid, imposing Victorian buildings, making them all the more imposing. Karl strolled in their shade, reading off their dignified signs as he passed. The signs were beautifully painted in black script, or Gothic gold or tasteful silver. There was nothing vulgar here.

Karl entered the offices of a well-known Shipping Company and asked for his friend.

When he had completed his business in Armenian Street, Karl took out his steel railway watch and saw he had plenty of time to lunch before meeting the young sailor. Dalhousie Square was only a short distance away. Karl had, in fact, decided on one of his regular meeting places in St. Andrew's Church—the Red Church as the Indians called it—which would be deserted that afternoon. He had chosen a spot not too far from Armenian Street because it was unwise to carry a full case of hemp around for too long. There was always the risk of an officious policeman deciding to find out what was in his case. On the other hand, St. Andrew's was almost next door to the Police Headquarters and therefore one of the least likely places, so Karl hoped the police would reason, to choose for an illegal transaction.

Karl lunched at the small hotel called The Imperial Indian Hotel in Cotton Street. It was run by a Bengali friend of his and served the most delicious curries in Calcutta. Karl had brought many a customer here and his enthusiastic recommendations were always genuine. The customers, too, were well-pleased. In return for this service, Karl could eat at The Imperial Indian Hotel whenever he wished. He finished his lunch and passed the time of day with the manager of the restaurant before leaving. It was nearly three o'clock. Karl had arranged to meet Marsden at seven minutes past three. Karl always arranged to meet people at odd minutes past the hour. It was one of his superstitions.

The curry had settled well on his stomach and he moved unhurriedly through the city of his birth. His suit was as clean and as well-pressed as ever. His shirt was white and crisp and his black silk turban gleamed on his head like a fat, sleek cat. In fact Karl himself was almost purring. In a short time he would have a hundred pounds in his pocket. Fifty of that, of course, would go immediately to his friend in Armenian Street. Then there were a few other expenses, such as the one he had just incurred during his chat with the manager of the hotel restaurant, but there would at the end of the day be about forty pounds to bank with his friend in Barrackpore. A worthwhile sum. His own business was not too far away now.

Dalhousie Square was one of Karl's favorite spots in the city. He would often come here simply for pleasure but when he could he mixed business with pleasure and became an unofficial tourist guide. As this was one of the oldest parts of Calcutta, he could show people everything they expected. The original Fort William had once stood here and part of it was now the Customs House. Karl particularly enjoyed pointing out to the European ladies where the guard room of the Fort had been. This guard room had, in 1756, become the infamous Black Hole. Karl could describe the sufferings of the people more than adequately. He had had the satisfaction, more than once, of seeing sensitive English ladies faint away during his descriptions.

St. Andrew's Scottish Presbyterian Church stood in its own wooded grounds in which there were two large artificial ponds (in common with the Anglo-Indians, Karl called them "tanks") and the one drawback of the place was that it was infested with mosquitoes virtually all the year round. As Karl walked up the paved path between the trees, he saw a great cloud of flies swarming in the bars of light between the Grecian columns of the portico. The clock on the "Lal Girja's" tower stood at six minutes past three.

Karl opened the iron gate in the fence and went up the steps, swatting at mosquitoes as he did so. He killed them in a rather chiding, friendly way.

He entered the relatively cool and almost deserted church. There was no service today and the only other occupant, standing awkwardly in the aisle between the pews of plain, polished wood, was the young sailor, Marsden. His face was red and sticky with sweat. He was wearing a pair of cream-colored shorts, and a somewhat dirty white shirt. His legs and his arms were bare and the mosquitoes were delighted.

Marsden plainly had not wanted to make a noise in the church for fear of attracting someone's attention, so he had not slapped at the mosquitoes which covered his face, arms, hands and legs. Instead he was vainly trying to brush them off him. They would fly up in a cloud and settle immediately, continuing their feast.

Marsden plainly had not wanted to make a noise in the "Good afternoon, Mr. Marsden, sir," said Karl, displaying the carpet bag containing the drug. "One hundred pounds worth, as promised. Have you the money?"

"I'm glad to see you," said Marsden. "I'm being eaten alive in here. What a place to choose! Is it always like this?"

"Usually, I'm afraid to say." Karl tried to sound completely English, but to his annoyance, he could still detect a slight lilt in his voice. The lilt, he knew, betrayed him.

The sailor held out his hand for the bag. Karl saw that red lumps were rising on virtually every spot of the man's bare skin. "Come on, then, old son," said Marsden, "let's see if it's the genuine article."

Karl smiled ingratiatingly. "It is one hundred percent perfect stuff, Mr. Marsden." He put the bag at his feet and spread his hands. "Can I say the. same about your cash, sir?"

"Naturally you can. Of course you can. Don't say you don't trust me, you little baboo! It's me should be worrying."

"Then let me see the money, sir," Karl said reasonably. "I am sure you are an honorable man, but..."

"You're damned right I am! I won't have a bloody darkie..." Marsden looked round nervously, realizing he had raised his voice and it was echoing through the church. He whispered: "I'm not have a bloody darkie telling me I'm a welsher. The money's back at the ship. I'd have been a fool to come here alone with a hundred quid on me, wouldn't I?"

Karl sighed. "So you do not have the money on your person, Mr. Marsden?"

"No I don't!"

"Then I must keep the bag until you bring the money," Karl told him. "I am sorry. Business is business. You agreed."

"I know what we agreed," said Marsden defensively. "But I've got to be certain. Show me the stuff."

Karl shrugged and opened the bag. The aroma of hemp was unmistakable.

Marsden leaned forward and sniffed. He nodded.

"How much money do you have with you?" said Karl. He was beginning to see that Marsden had been exaggerating when he had said he would buy as much as Karl could find.

Marsden shrugged. He put his hands in his pockets. "I don't know. It's mainly in rupees. About four pounds ten."

Karl sniggered. "It is not a hundred pounds."

"I can get it. Back at the ship."

"The ship is nearly fifty miles away, Mr. Marsden."

"I'll give it you tomorrow."

When Marsden jumped forward and grabbed up the bag, Karl didn't move. When Marsden pushed him aside and ran with the bag up the aisle, Karl sat down in one of the pews. If Marsden really did have four pounds ten, then at least Karl would have lost nothing on the deal. He would return the bag to his friend in Armenian Street and wait until he had a proper customer.

A short while later the young Sikh from Delhi came into the church. He was holding the bag. The Sikh had been staying at the Imperial Indian Hotel and had had trouble paying his bill. The manager of the restaurant had told Karl this and Karl had told the Sikh how he could earn the money to pay for his room. The Sikh evidently did not relish working for Karl, but he had no choice. He handed Karl the bag.

"Did he have enough money?" Karl asked.

The Sikh nodded. "Is that all?"

"Excellent," Karl told him. "Where is Marsden now?"

"In the tank. He was probably drunk and fell in there. It happens to sailors, I hear, in Calcutta. He may drown. He may not."

"Thank you," said Karl.

He waited for the Sikh to leave and remained in the church for some minutes, watching the mosquitoes dancing in the light from the windows. He was a little disappointed, he had to admit. But sooner or later another deal would come, even if he had to work a trifle harder, and there was no doubt that his savings would increase, that his ambitions would be realized.

A priest appeared from behind the altar. He saw Karl and smiled at him. "You're early, laddie, if you've come for the choir practice."

— You're learning, says the black man lasciviously. You see, I said you would.

Karl smiles up at him and stretches.—Yes, you said I would. It's funny...

— You were saying about that girl-friend of yours. The black man changes the subject.—How she became pregnant?

— That's right. Before the abortion reforms. It cost me the best part of two hundred pounds. Karl smiles.—A lot of uniforms.

— But the other two were cheaper? The two before?

— They got those done themselves. I was always unlucky. I couldn't use those rubber things, that was the trouble. I'd just lose interest if I tried to put one on.

— None of your children were born?

— If you put it like that, no.

Let the next one be born. The black man puts his hand on the muscles of Karl's upper forearm.

Karl is astonished at this apparent expression of human feeling.—You're against abortion, then?

The black one rolls over and reaches for his cigarettes on the bedside table. They are Nat Sherman's Queen Size Cigaretellos, an obscure American brand which Karl hasn't seen before. Earlier he has studied the packet with some interest. He accepts one of the slim, brown cigarettes and lights up from the tip of the black man's. He enjoys the taste.

— You're against abortion, then? Karl repeats.

— I'm against the destruction of possibilities. Everything should be allowed to proliferate. The interest lies in seeing which becomes dominant. Which wins.

— Ah, says Karl, I see. You want as many pieces on the board as you can get.

— Why not?

You are a refugee fleeing from a government which will kill you and your family if they catch you.

You reach the railway station and in a great deal of confusion manage to get your wife and children onto the train, telling them to find a seat while you get the luggage on board.

After a while you manage to haul your luggage into the train as it is leaving the station. You settle it in the corridor and go to look for your family.

You search both ends of the train and they are not there. Someone tells you that only half the train left, that the other half is going to another destination.

Could they have got into the other half by mistake?

What will you do?

Pull the communication cord and set off back to the station, leaving your luggage on the train?

Wait until you reach the next station, leave your luggage there and catch the next train back?

Hope that your family will remain calm and follow you to your ultimate destination on the next available train?