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.’
