From the evidence of Robin’s voice it seemed to Paulette that his accent had changed just as much, if not more than his appearance: he had lost all trace of a Bengali intonation. When he cried out: ‘And Paulette? Where is she?’ it was in the rounded tones of the English pucka sahib.
‘Waiting for ee up there,’ said Fitcher, pointing to the quarter-deck. ‘Go on up. I know the two of ee have a lot to talk about so I’ll give ee a few minutes on eer own.’
Now, Robin uttered a little shriek – ‘Why there she is, my darling Puggly!’ – giving Paulette a glimpse of her friend’s earlier more familiar self. And then, as he came racing up the companion ladder he was almost the Robin of old, chattering away in Bengali: Are Pagli, toke kotodin dekhini! – haven’t seen you in so long! Come here, you…
Paulette threw her arms around him and the feel of his soft and bosomy embrace was like a remembered taste, dissolving upon the tongue; she recalled the savour of the times they had spent together, bantering, teasing, arguing and gossiping and she understood, all of a sudden, that Robin was perhaps the closest friend she had ever had – for Jodu was more a sibling than a friend.
Oh Robin, I’m so happy to see you – it’s been so long.
Too long; far too long! cried Robin. ‘I’ve missed you so much my sweet, dear Puggly.’
Have you forgiven us, Robin? Jodu and me?
‘Oh yes,’ said Robin, releasing her from his embrace. ‘It is all in the past now. You were just children, and not, if I may say so, my dear Miss Pugglesford, particularly distinguished in your tastes, so how could you be expected to understand Art? The fault was mine really, I blame myself… although I cannot deny that your vandalism was indeed something of a blow at the time. I had invested a great deal in that painting and the loss of it sent me into something of a decline – and that, I am sorry to say, led to a most unfortunate outcome. My poor, sweet mother, who was, as you know, too good and trusting a soul for this world, became so alarmed at my state that she arranged – would you believe it, Puggly dear? – for me to be married!’
Really? And what came of it?
‘I’m afraid it didn’t take, Puggly dear, for I’m not a marrying kind of man, besides which she – my bride – was a perfect fright and inspired utter terror in all who crossed her path.’
Eki? So what did you do?
‘I did what any Chinnery would have done, Puggly dear: I took to my heels. And of course the first thought in my mind was to escape to Canton, just as Mr Chinnery had done, for it is the one place where a sahib may count on being safe from mems. To get away was no easy feat though, I can tell you that, for a passage to China is not cheap, by any means… but fortunately I had a couple of paintings at hand, done in the Chinnery manner and lacking only a signature. Once that was rectified I had no trouble selling them and I was sure Mr Chinnery would forgive me this desperate measure. But alas, nothing has turned out quite as I had expected: Mr Chinnery positively berated me for forging his signature – and worse still, it turned out that he was not living in Canton after all, but in Macau, which is nothing but a dull, mofussil town. It is the kind of place where everyone pretends to be exceedingly genteel and this fever seems to have seized Mr Chinnery as well: my arrival put his nose severely out of joint – would you credit it, Puggly dear, he insists that I pretend to be his nephew, and has absolutely forbidden me to appear in public in any but the dullest kinds of costume. I try to be obedient but he still keeps haranguing me to go back to Calcutta – to be reconciled with my wife he says, although he knows perfectly well that she has run off to Barrackpore with a bandmaster. Of course I am no fool, and I know full well that he only wants to be rid of me – but I was determined not to leave without spending a season in Canton, and he could not shake me from my resolve.’
But why, Robin? Why is it so important to you to go to Canton?
Robin let out a long sigh. ‘I shrink from telling you, Puggly dear. I fear you will laugh at me.’
Certainly not. Bol! Tell me.
‘Well Puggly dear, mine has not been, as you know, a life that could properly be described as happy – and to no one is this state more attractive than to those whom it is consistently denied: suffice it to say that I have become quite convinced that Canton is the place where I am most likely to find some small measure of contentment.’
‘In Canton?’ cried Paulette. ‘But why there, of all places?’
‘Well Puggly dear, I am old enough now to know that I am not destined to enjoy any of the usual forms of domestic felicity. In all likelihood I will live out my days as a bachelor, and I fear that mine may be a lonely lot unless I succeed in finding a Friend – someone to whom I may be a true and devoted Companion. All the artists I most admire had Friends to sustain them in their endeavours – Botticelli, Michelangelo, Raphael, Caravaggio. In reading about them it has become apparent to me that the lack of a Friend has been a tragic want in my life: without one, I shall never achieve anything of significance. But as you know, Puggly dear, it has never been easy for me to make friends – I am not like other men and people do sometimes tend to think me a little odd. Even when I was a little chokra no one would play with me, not even my brother – oh if only I had a penny for all the times I was beaten by the other boys! I’d be a rich man, I promise you.’
‘But Robin, is it not a strange thing to go to Canton in search of friendship?’
‘Oh by no means, my dear Puggly! I have it on excellent authority that there is no better place on earth for Friendships than Canton’s foreign enclave: nowhere else is there such a number of incorrigible bachelors. It is no hardship for them, you know, to live in an enclave that is forbidden to women; since there is also a great deal of money to be made in Canton, it is, I believe, a most amenable place for confirmed solitaries like myself. I am told that at certain times of year bachelors flock there like birds to a wintering hole: indeed some of Mr Chinnery’s own friends have told me so. I have often quoted them to him but this only seems to infuriate him – he says that I am exactly the kind of man who is likely to succumb to the temptations of Canton and he can never countenance such a fate for his own flesh and blood. He was so adamant that I despaired of going. Indeed he would never have agreed, I suspect, if I had not threatened to use the only weapon in my quiver: I told him that if he did not use his influence to obtain a chop for me, I would expose him to his genteel friends and reveal everything about his treatment of my mother, my brother and myself. At that he relented and so, Puggly dear, it has all been arranged: I am to spend the season at Markwick’s Hotel in Canton!’
‘Oh how I envy you, Robin!’ said Paulette. ‘I wish I could be there with you.’
Putting an arm around her, Robin gave her a hug. ‘And so you shall be, my sweet, sweet Pugglagolla. I shall write to you as often as I can – boats go back and forth between Canton and the Outer Islands all the time so I will have no difficulty in sending letters. I will make sure that you see Canton through my eyes!’
‘Will you really, Robin? Can I hold you to it?’
‘Of course you can – you must not doubt it for a moment.’ As if to seal the pledge, Robin gave her hand a squeeze. ‘And now Puggly dear, I want to hear all about you… You and that budmash brother of yours. Tell me all – I must know everything!’
*
Bahram and Zadig had their first glimpse of the General as they came around a corner: Bonaparte was standing amidst a copse of trees, surveying the valley below. He was a thick-set man, a little shorter than Bahram, and he was leaning forward a little, with his hands clasped behind his back. He was much stouter than Bahram had been led to expect: his belly was a sizeable protuberance and seemed scarcely to belong on someone whose life had been so extraordinarily active. He was dressed in a plain green coat with a velvet collar and silver buttons, each imprinted with a different device; his breeches were of nankeen, but his stockings were of silk, and there were large gold buckles on his shoes. On the left side of his coat was a large star, emblazoned with the Imperial Eagle, and on his head he was wearing a cocked, black hat.
At the approach of his visitors, Bonaparte removed his hat and bowed briskly, in a manner that might have seemed perfunctory in another man, but which in his case seemed merely to indicate that time was short, and there was nothing to be gained by wasting it on superfluous niceties. It was his gaze, most of all, that Bahram was to remember, for it was as penetrating as a surgeon’s knife, and it cut into him as if to lay bare the flimsy nakedness of his bones.
Once he began to speak it was evident that the General, military man that he was, had been at some pains to inform himself about his two visitors: he clearly knew that Zadig was to be the interpreter for it was to him that he turned after the introductions had been completed.
You are named ‘Zadig’ hein? he said, with a smile. Is it taken from Monsieur Voltaire’s book of the same name? Are you too a Babylonian philosopher?
