River of Smoke

Nine

Markwick’s Hotel, November 21

My dear, dear Begum of Pugglabad, Good news! At last I am able to report some progress in the matter of your camellia. It is not a great step, but it is a step nonetheless – and I am hopeful, not just in regard to your painting but to that other quest, even closer to my heart…!

But I will come to that later: suffice it to say that none of this would have come about if I had not done something I should have done ages ago: I have finally summoned the courage to visit the most celebrated artist in Canton: Mr Guan Ch’iao-chang.

And now that I have done it, I positively berate myself for not having gone earlier: how could I have been such a gudda? But I must not be too hard on myself for the fault is not mine alone: the blame goes, in large part, to my Uncle.

You will have heard from Mr Penrose that Mr Chinnery holds the painters of Canton in utter scorn and positively bridles if they are spoken of as Artists. He regards them as the merest craftsmen, no better than the potters and tinkers who set up shop by the roadside. And in this he is not alone: this is the opinion also of Chinese connoisseurs; they too are dismissive of the Canton style of painting which is indeed utterly different from the manner that commands admiration in China. Nor are the painters of Canton of the same ilk as the great Chinese artists of old: they are not from famously cultivated families and they are neither great scholars nor high-ranking officials nor illuminati. They are the kind of people whose forebears were malis and peasants and khidmatgars and labourers in workshops – humble, strong and virile. Mr Karabedian has made a study of the subject, for some of the craftsmen he buys watches from are of the same stock. He says that the Canton studios grew out of – would you believe it? – porcelain kilns, the very ones that made China-ware famous around the world! It was the practice for fanquis to send patterns and pictures to Chinese porcelain-makers; these were then used to decorate the pottery that was made here for European markets (is it not the most delightful absurdity to think of all those hausfraus rushing out to buy ‘China’ thinking it to be marvellously foreign when all the while the designs were provided by their own countrymen?).

These workmen became expert at creating images that appealed to Occidentals and in time they turned their hands to other things: they made paintings on snuff-boxes and trays and tiles and sheets of glass; they copied portraits from lockets and amulets and made little miniatures – and these trifles so delighted the sailors and sea-captains who visited Canton that they brought them their favourite pictures to copy: miniatures of their wives and children, as well as landscapes and portraits – some brought etchings of famous Euopean paintings and these too were reproduced with extraordinary skill. Mr Karabedian says that some Canton painters have gained so intimate a familiarity with the Masters of Europe that it is no great matter for them to invent Tiepolos and Tintorettos that have never before seen the light of day – and in so perfect a manner that if the artists themselves were to behold these paintings they would think them to be their own! Many such paintings have already been taken to Europe and sold says Mr Karabedian; he is even willing to wager that a day will come when many a canvas thought to have been painted in Venice or Rome will be found to have been made in China! Yet Canton painters are without honour in their own country for their work does not accord at all with Chinese High Taste.

You can imagine, dear Puggly, the effect these revelations had on me! I understood at once why Mr Chinnery held these artists in such low regard: it is because Canton’s studios produce a bastard art – a thing no more likely to be loved by its sire than is its human avatar (and who could know this better than I?).

You will understand why a sense of kinship with these artists began to germinate within me: I felt myself to be utterly in sympathy with them – and this bond was greatly strengthened by the knowledge that some of them had even learnt from the same teacher as I: none other than Mr Chinnery himself! Yes, my dear Puggly, in light of what I have said about my Uncle’s opinion of these painters it may amaze you to learn that a good number of them have served as apprentices in the Chinnery atelier. But in Mr Chinnery’s eyes this earns them no more merit than is gained by the paintbrushes that pass through his hands – for these apprentices serve merely as instruments (just as I and my brother once did) filling in here a patch of paint and there a lick of colour: not for a moment could he imagine them to be partaking of that feast to which he gives the name ‘Art’.

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 collected (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.

Patrao! Patrao!

Vico? What is it?

The door opened just wide enough to admit Vico’s head: Patrao, 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.

Patrao, it is one Ho Sin-saang. His full name is Ho Lao-kin.

This did nothing to mollify Bahram: Ho Sin-saang? Who’s that? Never heard of him.

Advancing a little further into the room Vico made a barely discernible gesture, with his forefinger, to indicate that he could say no more while the new munshi was in the room.

Bahram turned reluctantly to Neel: That’s all for now, munshiji – you can go to your cumra. I will send for you when I am ready.

Ji, Sethji.

Bahram waited till the door had closed again: So what is this about, Vico? Who is this ‘Ho Sin-saang’?

Patrao, he says you used to know him many years ago.

Arre, Vico, there are thousands of Ho Sin-saangs in Canton. How can I remember every one I’ve met? Especially if it was long ago?

Vico shifted his feet uncomfortably: Patrao, he says he was related to Madame…

To Chi-mei? Bahram’s eyes widened in surprise. But I don’t remember that she had any relatives with the surname Ho.

Maybe you knew him by a different name, patrao. These Chinese fellows are always changing their names – one minute it’s Ah-something and next minute it’s Sin-saang this and Sin-saang that.

Did he mention any other name?

Yes, patrao. He said you might remember him as Ah-Lau or Allow or something like that.

Allow? The name stirred a ripple of recollection in Bahram’s memory. Turning his back on Vico he went to the window to look down on the Maidan. As usual, swarms of snot-nosed mosquito-boys were roaming about, in their grey mud-spattered clothes and conical hats, besieging strolling foreigners with cries of: ‘I-say! I-say! Achha! Mo-ro-chaa! Gimme cumshaw lan-tau!’

Suddenly he remembered the face of one such urchin, a waist-high jai with a tripping walk – the fellow who had acted as a messenger for Chi-mei.

Bahram turned back to Vico: I think I remember this fellow Allow. But it must be over twenty years since I last saw him. Where did you come across him?

In the Maidan, patrao. He came up to me and asked if I worked for you. I said yes, so then he said he needed to see you on an urgent matter.

What kind of matter?

Business, patrao.

What kind of business? What does he do?

He does maal-ka-dhanda, patrao – deals in the kind of cargo we need to sell. Middle-level I think; not a wholesaler. Has a couple of dens of his own, and also owns a pleasure-boat.

Bahram had been pacing furiously for the last few minutes but now he came to a sudden stop. A dealer, Vico? he said, his voice rising in anger. You let a dealer into my house?

Between the two of them it had always been understood that no one associated with the lower end of the trade would be allowed to enter their own premises. Business of that kind was taken care of outside the hong, by Vico – and in years past even Vico had rarely had to deal with small-time vendors, den-keepers and the like, since the cargo was usually disposed of offshore, either at Lintin Island or even further out to sea.

Bahram had never once had any dealings with the legions of unsavoury people who were involved in the inner workings of the trade. That someone from that world should seek an interview with him, in his own daftar, was as astonishing to him as the fact that Vico had actually allowed him in.

Vico, have you gone mad? Since when have people like that been permitted to enter this hong?

Vico patiently stood his ground. Listen, patrao, he said. You know as well as I do that we haven’t been able to move any maal these last few weeks: it’s not like it used to be before. I’ve spoken to this man and he has an interesting proposal. I think you should listen to it.

But here? In my daftar?

Where else, patrao? It’s better here, no, than outside, where you might be seen by anyone?

And what if someone had seen him coming here?

No one saw, patrao: I brought him the back way. He’s waiting downstairs. Now tell me: what do you want me to do? If you’re scared to take the risk I will tell him to go.

Bahram went to the window again and looked down at the hurrying porters and eager food-vendors; the bustling beadles and quick-fingered jugglers. The Maidan’s brashness and energy were a reproach to his own caution: he could not abide the thought that he had lost his venturesomeness – wasn’t it his appetite for risk that had brought him to where he was? He took a deep breath and turned around. All right, he said to Vico: show him in. But make sure the munshi and the others don’t see him.

Yes, patrao.

On one side of the daftar there was an arrangement of straight-backed Chinese armchairs. This was where Bahram liked to receive visitors, and he had just seated himself when the door opened to admit Vico and the visitor: a small man, he was dressed unostentatiously, but not inexpensively, in a quilted jacket and a gown of plain, dove-coloured silk. His waist-length hair was dressed with a red ribbon and his head was crowned with a round, black hat.

‘Chin-chin, Mister Barry,’ he said, stepping jauntily across the room. ‘Fa-tsai! Fa-tsai!’

It was his stride rather than his face that Bahram recognized, suddenly recalling a stocky little fellow, walking on the balls of his feet and looking as though he might, at any minute, fall face-forwards on his nose. The snub-nosed face had grown plump and middle-aged but the walk had somehow retained its sprightly spring. The wheedling cadences of his voice had not changed either: hearing him speak, Bahram was reminded of the days when he would materialize suddenly from within the crowds of the Maidan and whisper: ‘Chin-chin, Mister Barry, Number-One-Sister tolo come tonight ah…’

These memories, so unexpected in this context, provided a kind of jolt that made it impossible for Bahram to be quite as stiffly formal as he would have liked. ‘Chin-chin Allow! Chin-chin. Fa-tsai!’

This seemed to delight the visitor, who cried: ‘Waa! Mister Barry remember, ah?’ He smiled, showing several gold teeth and made a rowing motion with both hands. ‘Allow take Mister Barry and Number-One Sister to White Swan Lake. Remember?’

‘Yes.’ Bahram recollected now, with painful clarity, that it was this fellow who had rowed Chi-mei and him to the lake when they went there for the first time: he had sat in the stern, patiently working the yuloh, while he and Chi-mei lay together in the cabin below, awkwardly tugging at each other’s clothes.

‘Remember, later I come to Mister Barry house and he give me cumshaw? Big cumshaw?’

‘Yes. Remember.’

In the meanwhile Allow’s face had turned grave, as if to reflect Bahram’s expression. ‘Allow too muchi sad inside, Mister Barry. Too muchi sad Number-One Sister makee die.’

Bahram narrowed his eyes. ‘What happen to Number-One Sister? Allow savvy, no-savvy?’

Allow answered with a vehement shake of his head. ‘No savvy. Allow that-time go Macau. Too muchi sorry, Mister Barry.’

‘So talkee me,’ said Bahram. ‘Sittee, sittee here. Allow what thing wanchi? Tell maski, chop-chop. No time have got.’

Hai-le! came the answer, accompanied by a vigorous affirmative nod. ‘Allow have ear-hear Mister Barry have come China-side with plenty, plenty big cargo. Is, is-not true? Mister Barry have, no-have plenty cargo ah?’

‘Is true. Cargo have got. Plenty big cargo-la.’

‘Galaw, Mister Barry talkee allo is inside his heart: what-thing he thinki do with cargo? This-time cannot do-pidgin in Canton. Cannot sell. Mister Barry savvy, no-savvy ah?’

‘Savvy. Savvy.’ Bahram gave him a nod.

‘One piece mandarin have got in Canton, makee too muchi bobbery-la? Floggee, nik-ki, cuttee head. He too muchi damn sassy, galaw. This time cargo no can sell-la.’

Bahram looked at Allow carefully, sizing him up: it was clear that he was referring to the present Governor and his attempts to enforce the embargo – but he was also probably probing to see how much Bahram knew about the situation.

Bahram shrugged in a casual way, to indicate that he was not particularly worried. ‘Allow have no ear-hear? This piece mandarin go back soon-soon. Mister Barry can waitee. Maybe new mandarin blongi better. No makee bobbery.’

‘Haih me?’ Allow made a face of almost comical alarm. ‘Mister Barry no savvy ah? After this piece mandarin go, next one maybe muchi more bad galaw. My friend come Beijing. He say people there talkee that Pili-pili – that mean Empe-ro – have chosen already one-piece mandarin. He come soon-soon. He blongi next…’

Here, unable to retrieve the word he needed, Allow broke off to take a small pamphlet out of the sleeve of his gown. This was not the first time that Bahram had seen someone consulting this booklet, so he knew what it was – a glossary called ‘Foreign Devil-Talk’.

Bahram waited patiently until his visitor had leafed through hundreds of Chinese characters to arrive at the one that he needed.

‘Governor. Pili-pili have find new Governor for Canton. He this-time Governor Hukwang. In that-place he stoppee allo opium-pidgin. Pili-pili wanchi do same-same Guangdong. So new Governor come. His name Lin Zexu.’

The mention of a name aroused Bahram’s suspicions: the likelihood that a man like Allow would be in possession of such detailed information, seemed very small: it was probably just another bargaining tactic. He decided to call his visitor’s bluff and smiled broadly: ‘Allow savvy name also?’

To Bahram’s surprise Allow nodded vigorously. ‘Savvy, savvy.’

‘Can write name?’

‘Can. Can.’

At a gesture from Bahram, Vico fetched a piece of paper and a pencil and Allow laboriously drew a couple of characters on it. Handing the sheet to Bahram, he said: ‘This piece mandarin, Lin Zexu, he too muchi iron-face – teet-meen man. After he come Mister Barry will be in tiger-mouth la. Allow also. Cargo no can get. Allo pidgin finish – leih jan – no makee joke, Allow. More better, Mister Barry sell this-time, fitee-fitee. Before Lin Zexu come.’

Allow’s knowingness and insistence had begun to irk Bahram. His tone sharpened. ‘What-for Allow talkee so fashion? He wanchi makee pidgin? Wanchi buy cargo?’

Allow answered with a gesture of self-deprecation. ‘No can buy allo cargo. Allow small man – no can catchi so muchi cash. Allow wanchi hundred-piece case la. No can take more. What you wah ah? Do, no-do pidgin?’

The number gave Bahram pause: one hundred cases was less than a twentieth of his cargo, but at this point it would represent a substantial sale. Yet the most important problem remained unchanged: how was the shipment to be brought to Canton?

‘How Allow can bring hundred-piece case from ship to Canton ah? Mandarin can catchi no? Then too muchi bobbery for Mister Barry.’

Here Allow glanced at Vico who leant forward to intervene.

Listen, patrao, he said to Bahram in an urgent undertone: I have already discussed all this with our friend here. There’s only one man who is bringing cargoes down at this time – Mr James Innes. His lascars have been transporting it to Whampoa, in his own cutters, hidden under other goods – cotton, furs, coins and so on. He has an understanding with one of the big dealers. They’ve paid off all the officials along the route. He has had no trouble so far and now he is planning to bring a shipment directly to Canton – we can arrange for him to bring ours too. If you give permission, I will go to the Anahita and oversee the whole thing. You won’t have to get involved too much. All you have to do is to go to Mr Innes’s apartment for a few minutes, at the end, to confirm delivery. Mr Innes will let you know when the time comes. That’s all – I’ve worked it out.

Bahram paused to consider this: he had done business with distasteful people before, and he would certainly be able to deal with Innes, if it came to that. But it would only be worth the risk if the price was right. Without looking in Allow’s direction, he said to Vico: How much is our friend offering?

Vico smiled and pushed himself up from his chair. He’ll tell you himself, he said. It’s best you settle it with him; I’ll wait outside.

As Vico stepped away, Bahram turned to Allow. ‘For one-piece chest how muchi dollar?’

Allow smiled and held up a hand with the thumb turned down and four fingers extended.

‘Four?’ said Bahram in a carefully neutral voice. ‘Four thousand dollars? Sei-chin maan?’

Allow’s smile grew wider as he nodded in affirmation.

Bahram rose to his feet, crossed the room, and pushed the window open, allowing the crisp air to cool his face.

The sum was even higher than Dent had suggested, more than six times the usual price. The proceeds would go a long way to paying off his creditors; he could almost see himself dictating the letters he would send them: Your faithful servant is pleased to report that despite a very dull market he is able to honour some of his obligations…

‘Mister Barry…’

He spun around to find Allow standing right behind him, smiling thinly. ‘Mister Barry,’ he said, in a quietly suggestive voice, ‘Mister Barry savvy no-savvy Allow have buy boat blongi Number-One Sister ah?’

‘You? You have buy boat blongi Chi-mei?’

Allow bowed and grinned. ‘Yes, Allow have buy. After Number-One Sister makee die. Why Mister Barry no come on boat one day ah? Go White Swan Lake, like olo time? Catch one-two piece pipe la? Have got number-one-chop gai-girlie. Mister Barry can do all waan. Man must do laap-pidgin sometime or catchi sick, get too muchi olo. Allow give Mister Barry top-chop sing-song girlie, just like Number-One Sister…’

To hear Chi-mei spoken of in this way was more than Bahram could tolerate. He spun around to face Allow, his eyes blazing: ‘Wailo Allow!’ he shouted. ‘What-thing you talkee? Number-One Sister no blongi sing-song girl. She blongi good woman – work hard; care for boy-chilo. She no blongi sing-song girlie. Allow savvy no-savvy ah?’

Allow backed away, his eyes widening. ‘Sorry! Very sorry, Mister Barry. Me too muchi sad inside, say bad thing.’

The door flew open and Vico burst in. Kya hua? he said. What’s happened, patrao?

Bahram was shaking now, and he leant towards the window again, turning his back on his visitor.

Take him away, Vico, he said, with a brusque gesture of dismissal. Tell him I can’t do it. I don’t want to get mixed up with people like Innes and this fellow here. There are just too many risks.

As you say, patrao.

At the door Allow stopped to look back. ‘Mister Barry,’ he said, ‘you thinkee what I say. You wanchee, still can do-pidgin. Any time, Allow ready. Better do-pidgin before new Governor come.’

Bahram was so angry now that a slew of half-remembered Cantonese obscenities spewed from his lips: Gaht hoi! Puk chaht hoi…

A few minutes later Vico came back, accompanied by the new munshi, and Bahram exploded: What sort of staff have I got? Why do I never get any proper news from either of you? Why do I have to find out everything from others?

What do you mean, patrao? What news?

The news about the new Governor; this Lin Jiju or Zexu or whatever. Why didn’t I hear about this from one of you?

*

It was Vico who showed Neel a way to stay ahead of the news: See, munshiji, the Register comes out every Tuesday, but the printing and preparation are done on Sunday and Monday. Sometimes even earlier.

But what good is that to me? said Neel.

Obvious no? said Vico. You have to go where it is printed.

There were only two English printing presses in Canton, Vico explained. One was in the American Hong and belonged to Protestant missionaries; the other was on Thirteen Hong Street and was owned and run by a Chinese man who had for many years worked as an apprentice to a well-known Macau printer, Mr De Souza, Goan by origin. Vico knew him well, and through him had also come to be acquainted with his assistant, Liang Kuei-ch’uan, who went by the fanqui-name of Compton. Vico knew for a fact that Compton was always looking for proof-readers.

Can you read proofs in English munshiji?

Neel had, for a while, co-edited a literary magazine; he was able to answer, with some confidence: Yes, I can.

Then I’ll take you to meet Compton, said Vico. His shop is like a bazar for the news.

Compton’s shop was on Thirteen Hong Street, the road that separated Fanqui-town from the city’s southern suburbs. One side of the street was lined by the rear walls of the foreign factories, some of which were fitted with small doorways to connect them with the busy thoroughfare. On the other side stood innumerable shops and shop-houses, large and small, each of them bedecked with banners and pennants that advertised the goods within: silk, lacquerware, ivory carvings, false teeth and the like.

Compton’s print-shop differed from its neighbours in that it had no counters and no goods on offer. Visitors stepped into a room that smelled of ink and incense, and was crammed with reams of paper. The press was nowhere in sight; the printing was done somewhere deep inside the building.

Neel and Vico entered to find a boy dozing upon a pile of old Registers. A glance at the visitors was enough to send the fellow scampering through a door; when next seen he was hiding behind the legs of the portly, harried-looking man who presently emerged from within.

‘Mr Vico! Nei hou ma?’

‘Hou leng, Mr Compton. And you?’

Compton had a round full face, the shape of which was perfectly echoed by the lenses of the spectacles that sat precariously upon the end of his nose. He was dressed in a grey gown that was partly covered by an ink-smeared apron, and his queue was coiled into a tight and workmanlike bun.

‘And is this your pang-yauh, Mr Vico?’ Compton squinted at Neel with the worried frown of the chronically short-sighted. ‘Who is he, eh?’

‘Mr Anil Munshi. He is Seth Bahramji’s letter-writer. You are looking for a proof-reader, no?’

Compton’s eyes grew unnaturally large behind his thick glasses. ‘Gam aa? Proof-reader! Is true?’

‘True.’

Within minutes Neel was sitting on a bale of paper, scrutinizing the proofs of the next issue of the Register. By the end of the day, he and the printer were on first-name terms: Compton had asked him to drop the ‘Mr’ and he had become Ah-Neel. He left the shop with a string of cash wrapped around his wrist and was back again the next day.

Compton had another set of proofs ready, and while looking through them Neel asked: ‘Have you heard anything about a new Governor? One Lin Tse-hsu?’

Compton glanced at him in surprise: ‘Haih-a! Gam you have heard the talk also?’

‘Yes. Do you know about him?’

Compton smiled. ‘Maih-haih! Lin Zexu is great man – one of best poet and scholar in China. He is man with big mind, open mind – always want to learn new things. My teacher his friend. Speak of him a lot.’

‘What does he say?’

Compton lowered his voice: ‘Lin Zexu not like other mandarin. He is a good man, honest man – best officer in country. Wherever there is trouble, there he is sent. He never take cumshaw, nothing – jan-haih! He become Governor of Kiangsi while he is still very young. In two years he stop all opium trade in that province. People there call him Lin Ch’ing-t’ien – that means “Lin the Clear Sky”.’

Compton paused and put a finger on his lips. ‘Better not tell this to your master bo. He will get too much worried. Dak?’

Neel nodded: Dak! Dak!

Soon Neel took to dropping by the print-shop when he had time to spare, and sometimes Compton would lead him down the passageway that separated his shop from his living quarters. This part of the building was two storeys high, with the rooms arranged around a courtyard. Although the courtyard was paved with stone tiles, a profusion of potted plants, trees and vines gave it the feel of a garden. The washing that fluttered overhead, strung between the rails of the upstairs balconies, provided a canopy of shade; on one side was a cherry tree, with leaves that were beginning to turn colour.

When Neel entered this part of the house the womenfolk would disappear, but the children, of whom there were many, would remain. Often Neel would see faces he had not seen before, and this gave him the impression of an extended family, frequently augmented by visitors: he was not surprised when Compton told him that his ancestral village lay at the mouth of the Pearl River, at Chuenpi, which was why he often had to play host to visiting relatives.

Compton himself was not Canton-born and nor had he grown up in the city. As a boy he had spent much of his time on the water: his father had made his living as a ship’s comprador, and the family had usually spent the trading season travelling between the Bogue and Whampoa, in the wake of foreign vessels.

The job of a ship’s comprador was different from that of a factory comprador; the latter, like the dubashes of India, were responsible for providing supplies to foreign traders after they had taken up residence in Canton. Ships’ compradors were more like ship chandlers, procuring provisions and equipment for the vessels that engaged their services. Unlike factory compradors, who had close links with the merchants of the Co-Hong, ships’ compradors worked on their own and had no powerful patrons to rely on. Theirs was a fiercely competitive business: as a boy, at the start of each season, Compton and his father would take it in turns to keep a lookout for the opium fleet, from a hill near their house. When the first vessel was spotted, they would go running down to the harbour to unmoor the family sampan. Then would begin a wild race against the rest of the bumboat fleet. The first boat to reach the incoming vessels stood the best chance of being taken on as the comprador, especially if the captain happened to be known to the family; if they were quick and lucky, they would secure a contract that would keep them busy for the next several weeks.

Compton’s family had been in the business long enough to be known to the skippers and crews of many foreign ships and some would hire them every time they returned to southern China. Among their oldest and most loyal customers were the vessels of a Boston-based firm, Russell amp; Co. Through them their family had acquired a large American clientele, many of whom gave them letters of recommendation to show to other American ships; some of their customers stayed in touch with them long after they had stopped sailing, and some even sent them little gifts and tokens with younger seafaring relatives. In this way the family had acquired letters from a Mr Coolidge, a Mr Astor and a Mr Delano, all of whom, they had later discovered, were from families that were of the first importance in America. A Canton trader called William Irving had even given them a book, Tales of the Alhambra written by his uncle, Washington Irving: unfortunately Compton had no memory of this man; to him he was just one amongst hundreds of friendly travellers who had given him lessons in English.

From the time he could walk, Compton had accompanied his father on his visits to foreign vessels. He was a winning child and was always made much of by the seamen and ship’s officers. At Whampoa, where inbound ships had to spend several weeks at anchor, time always hung heavy on the hands of the crewmen and they would amuse themselves by speaking English with the boy. A quick learner, Compton became an invaluable asset to his family, winning them many clients with his fluency. In time this talent also earned him a job at the De Souza print-shop, in Macau. But printing was not all he did there: during his apprenticeship, he had also conceived the idea of combining his knowledge of English and Chinese to produce a glossary of the Canton jargon, for the use of his own countrymen.

The title of this short booklet was translated for Neel as ‘The-Red-Haired-People’s-Buying-and-Selling-Common-Ghost-Language’. It was more commonly known however as ‘Ghost-People-Talk’ – Gwai-lou-waah – and it sold very well, far better than its author could ever have imagined, and the proceeds had allowed Compton to set up his own print-shop in Canton.

Several years after its publication the popularity of ‘Ghost-People-Talk’ was still undiminished: many vendors and shopkeepers kept a copy at hand, for reference, so its cover was a familiar sight in Fanqui-town. It featured a drawing of a European in eighteenth-century costume, with knee-breeches, stockings, a three-cornered hat and a buckled coat. The figure held a thin cane in one hand, and in the other something that might have been a handkerchief – this at least was the surmise of Compton himself. Handkerchiefs had once been an object of fascination for people in China, he explained to Neel; many had believed that Europeans used them to store and transport their snot – in much the same way that thrifty Chinese farmers carried their excrement to the fields.

The cover of ‘Ghost-People-Talk’ had caught Neel’s eye long before he met Compton and he had sometimes wondered about the booklet’s contents. He was astonished to learn that it was a glossary – and was delighted also to discover that the author was none other than his part-time employer.

Of the book itself, Neel understood very little since it was written entirely in Chinese. But being besotted with words of all kinds, Neel had fallen headlong in love with Chinese writing: for him Canton offered no greater pleasure than the ubiquitous presence of the ideograms, on shop-signs, doorways, umbrellas, carts and boats. He had already learnt to recognize a few of them: the character for example, which was easy to remember because its two legs represented its meaning – ‘man’. Similarly ‘big’, which was, in its mysteriously evocative way, merely a man with arms extended; and ‘dollar’, the sign for which was omnipresent in Fanqui-town being featured on innumerable shop-signs. Having once come to know the characters, he saw them everywhere: they would leap out at him from the most unexpected places, waving their limbs as if to catch his attention.

In leafing through ‘Ghost-People-Talk’ Neel was surprised to find that the first entry featured two ideograms he had learnt to recognize: one was the character for ‘man’ and the other the sign for ‘dollar’. The pairing of ‘man’ and ‘dollar’ puzzled him. Was it perhaps a subtle philosophical statement?

Compton laughed at this. ‘Mat-yeh?’ he said. ‘What, don’t you see? “Dollar” is maan in Cantonese.’

Neel was greatly taken by the ingenuity of this: instead of using phonetic symbols, Compton had suggested the pronunciation of the English word by using a character that sounded similar when pronounced in the Cantonese dialect. For longer and more complicated words, he had joined together two or more one-syllable Cantonese words: thus ‘today’ became ‘to-teay’ and so on.

‘And all this you did yourself?’

Compton nodded proudly and added that it was his practice to revise and enlarge the booklet every year, thus ensuring its continuing sale.

Thinking about this later, in the privacy of his cubicle, Neel realized that there was something providential about his meeting with Compton: it was as if Fate had conspired to bring him into the orbit of a kindred spirit, a man who valued words just as much as he did himself. Looking through Ghost-People-Talk it occurred to him to wonder why no glossary of pidgin existed for the benefit of people who spoke English. Or for that matter Hindusthani? Surely the foreigners who sojourned in Fanqui-town needed to understand the enclave’s lingua franca just as much as their hosts did? And if an English version of Ghost-People-Talk could be produced, surely it would also command a substantial market?

In the middle of the night, he sat up in his bed. Of course such a book had to be written – and who better to do it than he himself, in collaboration with Compton?

The next day, as soon as his duties in the daftar were done, he went hurrying over to Thirteen Hong Street. On reaching Compton’s shop he announced: ‘I have a proposal.’

‘Ngo? What is it then?’

‘Listen, Compton…’

It turned out that the idea of producing an English version of ‘Devil-Talk’ had already occurred to Compton. Looking for a collaborator, he had approached several Englishmen and Americans. They had all laughed at him, contemptuously dismissing the idea.

‘They think-la, pidgin is just broken English, like words of a baby. They do not understand. Is not so simple bo.’

‘So will you let me do it?’

Yat-dihng! Yat dihng!

‘What does that mean?’ Neel inquired a little nervously.

‘Yes. Certainly.’

Do-jeh Compton.

M’ouh hak hei.

Neel could already see the cover: it would feature a richly caparisoned mandarin. As for the title, that too had already come to him. He would call it: The Celestial Chrestomathy, Comprising A Complete Guide To And Glossary Of The Language Of Commerce In Southern China.

*

Collecting plants on Hong Kong proved to be more of a challenge than either Fitcher or Paulette had expected. The island’s slopes were precipitous on every side and the ridge that ran along most of its eight-mile length was nowhere less than five hundred feet in height: it was topped with several peaks that rose to over a thousand feet, and the tallest of them, in Fitcher’s estimation, was perhaps only a little under two thousand feet. The soil was granitic and glinted underfoot with quartz, mica and felspar; on steep slopes it had a way of slipping and sliding so that a slightly misplaced shoe could send an avalanche roaring down a treeless gully. In some stretches the decomposed granite was covered with mould and ferns, which gave it a deceptive look of solidity; a moment’s carelessness could lead to a nasty slip or a fall.

The steep gradients and rocky slopes were hard on Fitcher’s ageing joints and at the end of a day’s collecting he was often in pain. By refusing to acknowledge the physical toll of his advancing years he frequently made matters worse for himself: he would plan miles-long expeditions, insisting that he was accustomed to walking such distances on the Cornish moors and making no allowances for the difference in terrain. Having once set off he would soldier on to the very end, despite Paulette’s remonstrances, earning himself hours of agony afterwards.

As the weather turned colder, Fitcher’s hips and knees grew still stiffer and his pains worsened to the point where even he had to accept that if he was going to continue collecting on the island, it would not be on foot. But there were no vehicles on Hong Kong and no roads either; even paths were few, for the island’s villages and hamlets were dotted along the shoreline and their inhabitants travelled between them mainly by boat.

Horses would have provided an easy solution to their predicament, but there were none on the island – at least not to their knowledge: the only draught animals on the fields were bullocks and buffaloes. A sedan chair might also have provided a solution, but Fitcher would not hear of it: ‘Botanizing in a carry-cart? I hope eer funning, Miss Paulette…’

The answer arrived with Robin’s next letter: the courier was a louh-daaih or ‘laodah’- the master of a junk, and not much different in appearance from the other leathery Cantonese seamen who skippered the vessels of those waters. Sturdy of build, he had the bow-legged gait and weather-sharpened gaze of an experienced sailor. He was dressed in the usual boatman’s pyjamas and quilted tunic. His queue was short and flecked with grey, and his head was topped with a conical sun hat of the kind that was to be seen on every boatman’s head.

But when he began to speak Paulette was struck dumb. Nomoshkar, he said in Bengali, joining his hands together. Are you Miss Paulette? Your friend, Mr Chinnery, has sent you a letter, from Canton.

It took Paulette a few seconds to recover from her surprise. Then, after thanking him profusely, she said: Apni ke? Who are you? Where did you learn to speak Bangla?

I lived in Calcutta for a long time, he said with a smile. I went there as a sailor and jumped ship, to get married. Over there people called me Baburao.

And now you live in Canton, do you, Baburao-da?

Yes; when I’m not out on my boat that is.

He turned to point to his vessel, which was anchored nearby, and explained that he travelled regularly between Canton and Macau and frequently acted as a courier, dropping off letters and packages at various points along the way.

If you need anything let me know; I may be able to help.

Paulette could tell, from his demeanour, that this was not an idle boast: he looked like the kind of man who was spoken of, in Bengali, as jogare – a resourceful improviser, with his ears close to the ground.

Tell me, Baburao-da, she said, do you think it might be possible to find a couple of horses here, on the island?

Baburao scratched his head and thought a little. Then his face brightened: Why yes! he said. I know a man who lives on the island. He has some horses. Would you like to meet him?

So it was arranged: the next day Baburao came by in a sampan and rowed Paulette and Fitcher to a picturesque little village on the shores of an inlet. The horse-owner was duly found, the horses were examined and a reasonable price was quickly arrived at. But when everything was almost settled an unforeseen problem arose: the owner possessed only two saddles and both were of the Chinese type, with a high pommel and cantle.

Fitcher took one glance and shook his head: ‘Ee’ll never be able to manage that in eer skirts, Miss Paulette.’

Paulette had already thought of a solution but she knew she had to be careful about how she put it across.

‘Well sir,’ she said, ‘skirts are not the only clothes in my possession.’

‘Eh?’ Fitcher frowned.

‘You will remember, sir, that when we met at Pamplemousses, I was wearing a shirt and a pantalon. Mr Reid had lent them to me and I still have them.’

‘What?’ barked Fitcher. ‘Dress up as a man? Is that what ee’ve got in mind?’

‘Please sir, it is the only sensible thing. Is it not?’

Fitcher’s face went into a deep scowl, tying itself into so tight a knot that the tip of his beard came within a few inches of touching the twitching tips of his eyebrows. But then, having thought the matter through, he unclenched his jaws.

‘Since ee’ve set eer mind on it – we’ll try it tomorrow.’

So they returned the next day, with Paulette dressed, once again, in Zachary’s clothes, and even Fitcher had to concede that it was a happy solution. The horses carried them to a height of over a thousand feet, where they came upon more orchids: pale rose ‘bamboo orchids’, Arundina chinensis, and a small primrose-yellow epiphyte, growing in a nullah – the first was already familiar to Fitcher, but not the second.

‘Why Miss Paulette, I think ee may have found something new there. What’d ee like to call it?’

‘If it were up to me, sir,’ she said, ‘I would call it Diploprora penrosii.’