in their skiffs and wherries, Bahram looked around for his own boat and found, to his annoyance, that it was nowhere to be seen. The surrounding shores were thickly wooded and with nightfall, a fog had begun to rise off the creek. Not much was visible from the jetty and after waiting a few minutes, Bahram went back to the shore and walked a little way along the banks to see if his boatman had perhaps fallen asleep in some quiet mooring spot. His investigations took him first in one direction and then another, but to no avail, and on returning to the jetty, he found it still deserted and wreathed in wisps of fog: the other guests were all gone and the lantern-bearers were on their way back to the estate – their lights could be seen, bobbing up and down on their poles, a long way off.
What was he to do now? This was a place where there were no boats for hire, and no passers-by to ask for help. He was about to turn around, to follow the lantern-bearers back to Punhyqua’s estate, when he heard, to his great relief, a distant tinkling, like the sound of a boat’s bell. It seemed to be coming up the creek, making its way slowly through the fog: the boatman must have wandered off and got lost somewhere; what he needed was a proper dumbcowing, something that would make him forget his mother’s name for a while. As he stood waiting, Bahram began to dredge from his memory every Cantonese obscenity he had ever heard, stringing them together for the tirade that he would unleash when the fellow arrived.
But the boat which presently appeared was not the one that had brought him there: it was brightly illuminated, by a constellation of paper lanterns, and its outlines could be seen, through the fog, as it approached the jetty: its stern was carved to look like a gigantic fishtail, rising out of the water in an elegant curve.
Astounded, Bahram stared at the apparition, wondering whether it might not be part of some sort of wine- induced hallucination. Then he heard a voice calling across the water: ‘Mister Barry! Mister Barry!’
It was Allow again: the bahenchod must have paid off the boatman and sent him away, so that he might have another opportunity to obtain a deal. That was clear enough – what was less plain was how he had known that he, Bahram, would be here, on this out-of-the-way jetty? Why had the lantern-bearers, usually so solicitous, slipped away so quickly? Could it be that Allow had some informer amongst Punhyqua’s people?
Or was it just the wine that was inspiring these visions of plots and conspiracies?
No matter, he was where he was – standing on a jetty in some jungly place – so it was no use getting too prickly. And the truth was that whether out of sheer relief, or because of the warming effects of the wine, he was very glad to see the boat, and Allow too. But of course, it wouldn’t do to betray this, so he cleared his throat and let loose in Cantonese: Diu neih Allow! Diu neih louh mou! Diu neih louh mou laahn faa hai!
‘Sorry, Mister Barry. Very sorry.’
‘Allow, you bloody bahnchoding bahn-chaht, where my boat? You talkee man and send away?’
‘Allow too muchi sorry, Mister Barry. Allow wanchi makee nice surprise – give ride in Allow boat. Just I get little-bit late.’
‘You make too muchi bobbery for Mister Barry. Look-see here: Mister Barry alone in jungle. What if snake did catchi?’
The boat had pulled up to the jetty in the meanwhile, so Allow stepped out and gave Bahram a deep bow. ‘Sorry, Mister Barry, very sorry ah. Come now, Allow takee Mister Barry to Achha Hong.’
There was no option now but to accept this invitation, but Bahram had no intention of pretending to be grateful. Ignoring Allow, he stalked brusquely up the gangplank to the stern of the vessel.
Ahead lay the large, hall-like room that had once housed Chi-mei’s eatery. The entrance had been transformed into an opulent gateway, with dragons and phoenixes writhing upon the door jambs. One of the doors was half-open and Bahram could see the figure of a woman inside, silhouetted against a red lamp. The sight startled him, reminding him suddenly of Chi-mei. He had a vision of her, hurrying through that hallway to greet him, calling out, in her high, tinkling voice: ‘Mister Barry! Mister Barry! Chin-chin.’
He came to a stop but Allow was close behind him and he made as if to usher Bahram towards the entrance. ‘Mister Barry no wanchi come in?’
Bahram turned his eyes away from the shadowed woman: he was not a sentimental man and it did not come naturally to him to dwell on the past; he had tried hard not to waste time in grieving uselessly for Chi-mei and he did not want to be haunted by his memories.
‘No, Allow,’ he said. ‘No wanchi go in there. Wanchi go upstairs. Over there.’
Pointing to the deck above, Bahram started down the gangway that led to the staircase. Only when his hands were on the rails did it occur to him that this too might not be a good idea: the upper deck was the part of the boat he knew best – that was where Chi-mei had had her living quarters and it was there they had been accustomed to sit, of an evening, when he came to visit.
The thought came to him that she had possibly died up there: could it be that her killers too had mounted these stairs? He considered asking Allow if he knew exactly where she had been struck down, in which part of the boat. But as the query took shape in his mind he knew he would not be able to say: ‘What-place Number-One Sister makee die?’ The words seemed to belittle her death.
And besides, what good would it do to know?
Halfway up the stairs, Bahram faltered again: it might be better, he knew, to turn around, to find some other place to sit. But a morbid curiosity had taken hold of him now and he could not go back: he mounted the steps quickly and when his head emerged at the top he was hugely relieved to see that Chi-mei’s room was completely transformed, almost unrecognizable: its walls were painted red and gold and it was lit by an array of tasselled lamps. Her bed, chairs, closets and altar were all gone and their place had been taken by the usual flower-boat furniture – elaborately lacquered couches, stools, teapoys and the like.
Bahram walked straight through the room to the canopied divan on the foredeck. He was tired now and the prospect of sitting down was most welcome. Removing his shoes he sank back against a bolster.
Although the river was cloaked in fog the sky was clear. Looking up at the stars Bahram thought what a pity it was that he and Chi-mei had never taken this boat out on the river together. Then Allow came padding up to the divan and bent down to whisper in Bahram’s ear: ‘Mister Barry wanchi gai-girlie? Number One ‘silver chicken’ have got. She sei-mei girlie – first chop in all four flavour, foot-lick also. Anything wanchi, can do.’
Bahram was infuriated by the crudeness of the proposition. ‘No, Allow,’ he snapped. ‘No wanchi sing-song girlie. Mh man fa!’ Heui sei laa!
‘Sorry, Mister Barry. Very sorry.’ He withdrew quickly, leaving Bahram alone.
The boat had begun to move now and as its prow parted the fog the ripples of the bow wave went lapping through the water like misty shadows. Many of the boat’s lanterns had been extinguished and the few that were still lit had been dimmed by the mist, their glow reduced to faint pinpricks of light. The fog was so dense that everything was blurred in outline, and muted too, in colour and sound: the splash of the oars was barely audible.
Now Allow appeared again, bearing a tray that was covered by an embroidered cloth.
‘What-thing have brought?’
Seating himself on the divan, Allow plucked the cloth cover off the tray to reveal a finely carved ivory pipe, a long needle, and a carved opium box.
‘What-for all this thingi?’ said Bahram. ‘I no wanchi eat smoke.’
‘No problem, Mister Barry. Allow sittee here, catch litto-piece cloud. If Mister Barry wanchi, can talkee Allow.’
Bahram tried to keep his eyes fixed on the fog-cloaked water, but his gaze kept returning to Allow as he dipped the point of the needle into the gum and then held it over the wick of a lamp. The opium sputtered and caught fire and then Allow began to draw on the pipe, pulling the smoke into his lungs with a thirsty, whistling sound. A whiff of it blew towards Bahram and the sweetness of the smell astonished him – he had forgotten how different it was from the odour of raw chandu, how fragrant and heady.
‘Mister Barry wanchi little-bit? Too muchi good inside.’
Bahram said nothing, but nor did he object when Allow handed him the pipe and lit the flame again. He put the mouthpiece between his lips and Allow placed a tiny, sizzling droplet of opium in the bowl. Bahram drew the smoke in once, twice, and almost at once he could feel his body growing lighter. The cares and anxieties that had been rattling around in his head these last many days slowly ceased their remorseless clattering – it was as if he were a ship that was steadying itself after being battered by a furious gale.
Allow removed the pipe from Bahram’s hands and picked up the tray. ‘Mister Barry rest now. Allow come back soon-soon.’ He took himself off, with the implements, and Bahram lay back, revelling in the supreme contentment that only opium could confer: that marvellous god-like lightness in which the body and the spirit were
