See, Sethji? It says: ‘a transgressor should be punished by the exclusion of his children and grandchildren from the public examinations, in addition to the penalty of death…’
‘Bas! You think I can’t read Angrezi or what?’
Bahram’s frown deepened as he scanned the passage, but then suddenly his face cleared and his eyes lit up. ‘But it is just a memorial, no? Written by some bloody bandar of a baboo. Hundreds of these they must be writing. Emperor will throw and forget. What he cares? He is Emperor, no, busy with his wives and all? Mandarins will not tolerate any change – or else where they will get cumshaw? How they will fill their pipes? Those bahn-chahts are the biggest smokers of all.’
*
Bahram had known Hugh Hamilton Lindsay, the current President of Canton’s General Chamber of Commerce for many years. A rubicund man with a silken blandness of manner, he was connected to the Earls of Balcarra, a prominent Scottish dynasty. He had been in China some sixteen years and was widely liked, being universally regarded as a good fellow who never gave himself any airs. Bahram had dined with him many times and knew him to be an excellent host: what was more, he knew him also to be a discerning judge of food.
It was thus with a pleasurable sense of anticipation that Bahram picked out his clothes for Mr Hamilton’s dinner. In place of an angarkha he chose a knee-length white jama of Dacca cotton: it was discreetly ornamented with jamdani brocade, and the neck and cuffs were lined with bands of green silk. Instead of pairing this with the usual salwar or paijamas, Bahram settled on a pair of black Acehnese leggings, shot through with silver thread. The weather being still quite warm he picked, as an outer garment, a cream-coloured cotton choga embroidered with silver-gilt karchobi work. The ensemble was completed by a turban of pure malmal muslin. Then, as Bahram picked up a slim cane with an ivory knob, the valet-duty khidmatgar misted the air with a puff of his favourite raat-ki-rani attar; after lingering in the fragrant cloud for a moment, Bahram made his way to the door.
The dinner was to be held in the Chamber’s dining room, which was only a five-minute walk from the Achha Hong. But it was the custom, in Canton, for people to hire lantern-bearers to light their way when they were invited out to dine, even if they were going only a short distance. Bahram had employed the same bearer for decades: known to foreigners as Apu, this man had an uncanny ability to divine when he was needed. He also seemed to possess some occult faculty of persuasion that enabled him to keep at bay the cadgers and chawbacons of the Maidan. This evening, as on so many before, Apu arrived punctually, just before sundown, and Bahram set off shortly afterwards: with his embroidered choga flapping in the breeze, and a paper lantern glowing above his white turban, he was about as striking a figure as any – but such were his lantern-bearer’s powers that he was the only passer-by not to be besieged with importuning cries of ‘Cumshaw, gimme cumshaw!’
The bustle and noise of the Maidan transported Bahram’s spirits, taking him back to his earliest days in Canton: he paused to look around him – at the looming bulk of the Sea-Calming Tower, in the far distance; at the grey walls of the citadel, running like a curtain, behind the enclave; and at the narrow-fronted factories, glowing in the last light of day: the hongs’ arched windows seemed to be winking at him, their colonnaded porticoes smiling as if to greet an old friend. The sight made Bahram’s chest swell in proprietorial pride: after all these years it still thrilled him to think that he was as much a part of this scene as any foreigner could ever hope to be.
At the gates of the Danish Hong, two turbaned chowkidars were standing guard. They were from Tranquebar, near Madras, and they bowed when they saw Bahram: as the doyen of the Achha community of Canton, he was well known to them. Murmuring salaams they ushered him through the gates and into the factory.
Crossing the courtyard that led to the Chamber’s premises, Bahram could see that many of Mr Lindsay’s guests had already gathered in the Club: the reception room and the dining room were both brightly lit and he could hear voices and the clinking of glasses. At the entrance to the reception room Bahram paused to peek in: few colours other than black and white could be seen on the men inside and he knew that with the candlelight sparkling on the silver and gold threads that were woven through his garments, his entrance would make a considerable impression; he ran a hand over the skirt of his choga, fanning it out so as to show it off to best advantage.
On stepping in, Bahram met with a warm reception. He knew almost everybody present and greeted many of them with hugs and even kisses. He knew there was no danger of being rebuffed: such exuberance might be looked upon askance in a European but in an Oriental of sufficient rank it was likely to be seen rather as a sign of self- assurance. As a young Achha in Canton Bahram had noticed that such effusions were almost a prerogative of seniority amongst the Seths; he had noticed also that his elders often imposed their physical presence on others as an expression of their power. It was oddly satisfying to know that he too had arrived at a point in his life when his hugs and thumps and kisses were universally welcomed, even by the starchiest Europeans.
Now the host, Mr Lindsay, appeared at Bahram’s side, murmuring his congratulations and welcoming him into the Committee. Soon Bahram was led off to admire the full-length portrait of Mr Lindsay that was now hanging amongst the pictures of the Chamber’s past presidents.
‘You will recognize, of course,’ said Mr Lindsay proudly, ‘the hand of Mr Chinnery.’
‘Arre, shahbash!’ said Bahram, dutifully admiring the painting. ‘So nicely he has done, no? Put sword in your hand and all. Like a hero you are looking!’
A glow of pleasure suffused Mr Lindsay’s rosy face. ‘Yes, it is rather fine is it not?’
‘But why so soon, Hugh? Your time as President is not over, no?’
‘Actually,’ said Mr Lindsay, ‘I have just a few months left.’ Now, leaning closer, he whispered: ‘Between the two of us, Barry, that is the occasion for this dinner – I intend to announce the name of my successor.’
‘The next President?’
‘Yes exactly…’
Mr Lindsay was about to say more but he happened to look over Bahram’s shoulder and immediately cut himself short. With a quick ‘Excuse me’ he took himself off and Bahram turned around to find himself facing Lancelot Dent.
Dent’s appearance had changed considerably since Bahram had seen him last; a slight man, with a narrow face and receding jawline, he had grown a sandy goatee, probably to extend the length of his chin. He was now brimming with an affability that Bahram had never seen in him before.
‘Ah Mr Moddie! Congratulations on your appointment – we are delighted to have you amongst us. My brother Tom sends you his very best wishes.’
‘Thank you,’ said Bahram politely. ‘I am extremely glad to have your blessings and good wishes. And of course you must call me Barry.’
‘And you must call me Lancelot.’
‘Yes. Certainly, Lance…’ The name was not easy to say but Bahram managed to get through it in a rush: ‘Of course, Lancelot.’
The gong rang, to summon the guests to the dining room, and Dent immediately slipped his arm through Bahram’s. There were no place cards on the table, and Bahram had no option but to take the chair next to Dent’s. Seated to his left was John Slade of the Canton Register.
Slade had long been a fixture on the Committee so his presence at the dinner came as no surprise. Apart from editing the paper, he also dabbled in trade – although without much success. He was reputed to have run up significant debts, but such was the fear inspired by his acid tongue and scathing pen that rare indeed was the creditor who attempted to reclaim a loan from the Thunderer.
But there was no thunder in Mr Slade’s mien now as he greeted Bahram: his large, flushed face creased into a smile and he muttered: ‘Excellent… excellent… very pleased indeed to have you on the Committee, Mr Moddie.’
Then his eyes wandered across the room and his face hardened. ‘Which is more than I can say of the Bulgarian.’
This completely baffled Bahram. Following Slade’s gaze he saw that the Thunderer was looking at Charles King, of Olyphant amp; Co.: this was an American firm, and Bahram knew for sure that Mr King was an American himself.
‘Did you say “vulgarian”, Mr Slade?’
‘No. I said Bulgarian.’
‘But I thought Mr King was from America. You are sure he’s Bulgarian?’
‘It is not impossible, you know,’ said Slade darkly. ‘To be both.’
‘Baap-re-baap! American and Bulgarian also? That is too much, no?’
