‘And still he has won, hasn’t he?’ said Bahram. ‘At least this battle is his, is it not?’ He had no other words in which to express his desolation, his sense of betrayal. He could not bear to look at Captain Elliott any more: how could he ever have imagined that this man would somehow conjure up an outcome that was favourable to himself?
Mr Burnham had swivelled around in his chair, and he broke in with a broad smile.
‘But Mr Moddie, don’t you see? The Commissioner’s victory – if such it is – will be purely illusory. We will get back everything we give up, and more. Our investors stand to make handsome profits. It is just a matter of waiting.’
‘That is just it,’ said Bahram. ‘How long will we have to wait?’
Captain Elliott scratched his chin. ‘Perhaps two years. Maybe three.’
‘Two or three years!’
Bahram remembered the angry letters that had been accumulating in his office; he tried to think of how he would explain the circumstances to his investors; he thought of the reactions of his brothers-in-law when the news reached them; he could almost hear them exulting, in their discreet way; he could imagine what they would say to Shireenbai: We warned you; he’s a speculator, you shouldn’t have let him squander your inheritance…
‘Surely your investors would wait, Mr Moddie, would they not?’ Burnham insisted. ‘It is just a question of a little time after all.’
Time!
Every man in the room was looking in Bahram’s direction now. He was too proud to tell them that time was the one thing he did not have; that a delay of two years would mean certain default; that for him the results of Captain Elliott’s betrayal would be ruin, bankruptcy and debtor’s prison.
None of this could be said, not here, not now. Somehow Bahram managed to summon a smile. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Of course. My investors will wait.’
The heads nodded and turned away. Once freed of their scrutiny Bahram tried to sit still, but it was impossible – his limbs would not obey him. Gathering the skirts of his angarkha together, he slipped noiselessly out of the library. With his head down he walked blindly through the Consulate’s corridors and out of the compound. He passed the Co-Hong merchants without sparing them a glance and was halfway across the Maidan when he heard Zadig’s voice behind him: Bahram-bhai! Bahram-bhai!
He stopped. Yes, Zadig Bey?
Bahram-bhai, said Zadig breathlessly. Is it true that Captain Elliott has asked everyone to surrender their opium?
Yes.
And they have agreed to do it?
Yes. They have.
So what will you do, Bahram-bhai?
What can I do, Zadig Bey? Tears had come to his eyes now, and he brushed them away. I will surrender my cargo, like everyone else.
Zadig took hold of his arm and they began to walk towards the river.
It is only money, Bahram-bhai. Soon you will recover your losses.
The money is the least of it, Zadig Bey.
What is it then?
Bahram could not speak; he had to stop and choke back a sob.
Zadig Bey, he said in a whisper, I gave my soul to Ahriman… and it was all for nothing. Nothing.
*
‘Ah Neel! Ah Neel!’
Neel was crossing the Maidan when Young Tom called out to him from the linkisters’ tent: ‘Ah Neel, have got message for you, from Compton. He say tomorrow you come Old China Street, at noon. He meet there.’
‘At the barricade?’
‘Yes. At barricade.’
‘All right.’
The next day, at the appointed time, Neel made his way to Old China Street. The barricade at the far end was a formidable-looking affair, and looked all the more so because the street was deserted and all the shops were shut: it was made of sharpened bamboo staves and the soldiers who were deployed around it were armed with matchlocks and cutlasses.
Neel’s steps slowed involuntarily as he walked up to the picket: on the far side, on Thirteen Hong Street, a large crowd of curious onlookers had gathered. The spectators were packed closely together and Neel would not have caught sight of Compton if he hadn’t held up a hand to wave: ‘Hei! Neel! Ah Neel! Here!’
Compton was carrying a wooden chop, with a row of characters painted on it. When this was presented to the officer on duty, the barricade parted and Neel was allowed to go through.
After he had stepped across, Neel said: ‘What’s this, Compton? How is it that I was allowed to pass?’
‘Something important. Gam you will see.’
They stepped into the print-shop and Compton opened a locked cabinet. Taking out a sheet of paper, he handed it to Neel. ‘Here, Ah Neel; look at this.’
It was a list of eighteen names, each with a number beside it: the lettering was in Chinese, but there were annotations alongside each entry, in English. Neel saw at a glance that the names were those of Canton’s leading foreign merchants.
‘What do the numbers mean, Compton?’
‘This how much opium they say have on their ships. You think is true ah?’
The first name was that of Lancelot Dent; his declared stock was by far the largest, numbering over six thousand crates. The second name was Bahram’s and the figure beside it was 2,670 chests.
Seeing Neel hesitate, Compton said: ‘Cheng-mahn, Ah Neel, you must be honest. Is this all opium he has got on his ship?’
‘I can only guess,’ said Neel, ‘for I don’t know the details. But my feeling is that the figure is right. I heard our purser say once that the Seth lost a little more than a tenth of his cargo in storm damage. Another time he mentioned that over three hundred crates had been lost. So if you work it out, the tally would be right.’
Compton nodded. ‘It is a big loss for him – almost a million silver taels, cha-mh-do.’
‘Really?’ Neel gasped. ‘As much as that?’
‘Hai-bo! Big loss.’ Compton tapped the sheet of paper. ‘And what about others? Wa me ji – anyone else?’
Only one other name on the list was of interest to Neel: B. Burnham. The figure listed beside the name was relatively small:
1,000.
Neel smiled, exulting inwardly: here at last was an opportunity to exact a small measure of revenge for all he had suffered at the hands of Mr Burnham. ‘This number is wrong,’ he said.
‘Dim-gaai? How you know that, Ah Neel?’
‘Because Mr Burnham’s accountant is my friend. He told me Mr Burnham’s stock this year is bigger even than Seth Bahramji’s.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. I’m sure of it.’
‘Dak! I will see that the Commissioner knows.’
*
As the days passed, sleep became harder and harder for Bahram. No matter how carefully the khidmatgars closed the shutters, the bright lights in the Maidan somehow filtered through, throwing shadows across his bedroom. When patrolling soldiers or guardsmen trooped past the Fungtai Hong, their ghostly reflections would flicker over his ceiling and his walls. Their voices too were impossible to shut out: even with the windows closed, the echoes of their cries and commands would waft through the room.
Every few hours Bahram would wake to the din of gongs and cymbals and lie still, watching ghostly shadows and listening to voices. Sometimes, the sounds seemed very close: he would hear footsteps in the corridors and whispers around his bed: there were moments when he found it hard not to reach for the bell-rope. But Vico was
