him to the ground. Raising his head from the dust he saw that dozens, maybe hundreds, of townsmen had come pouring into the Maidan: they were tearing up the fences that surrounded the enclave’s gardens, arming themselves with uprooted posts and palisades. Then he caught a glimpse of some half-dozen men running in his direction with upraised staves. Scrambling to his feet he raced towards the Fungtai Hong; he could hear footsteps pounding behind him and was grateful, for once, that the enclave was so small – the entrance was only a few paces from where he had fallen.
He could see the doors being pulled shut as he ran towards them. He did not have the breath to call out but someone recognized him, and held a door open, beckoning, gesturing, shouting: Bhago munshiji bhago! Run! Run!
Just as he was about to go through something struck him hard on the temple. He staggered in and collapsed on the floor.
He came to consciousness in his cubicle, on his bed. His head was throbbing, from the shamshoo as well as the blow. He opened his eyes to find Vico peering at him, with a candle.
Munshiji? How are you feeling?
Terrible.
His head began to pound when he tried to sit up. He fell back against his pillow.
What time is it?
Past seven at night. You were out for all of it, munshiji.
All of what?
The riot. They almost broke in, you know. They attacked the factories with battering rams.
Was anyone killed?
No. I don’t think so. But it could have happened. Some of the sahibs had even brought out their guns. Can you imagine what would have happened if they’d shot at the crowd? Fortunately the police arrived before they could open fire. They put a quick end to it – cleared everyone out of the Maidan in a matter of minutes. And then, just as it was all settling down who should arrive?
Who?
Captain Elliott, the British Representative. He got word of the trouble somehow and came hurrying down from Macau with a team of sepoys and lascars. If the mob had still been in the Maidan his men would probably have opened fire. Who knows what would have happened then? Luckily it was all over by that time.
So what did he do, Captain Elliott?
He called a meeting and gave a speech, what else? He said the situation was getting out of control and that he was going to see to it personally that British boats were no longer used to bring opium into Canton.
Oh?
Sitting up slowly, Neel put a hand to his head and found that a bandage had been wrapped around it.
And Sethji? Is he all right?
Yes. He’s fine. He’s gone to the Club to have dinner with Mr Dent and Mr Slade. Everything’s quiet now, the trouble’s over. Except for the uprooted fences and broken glass in the Maidan, you wouldn’t know it had happened.
*
‘It is going exactly as I had predicted,’ said Dent gloomily, looking at his plate. ‘Instead of protecting our liberties Captain Elliott intends to join hands with the mandarins to deprive us of them. After his speech of today there can be no doubt of it; none at all.’
A steward had appeared at Dent’s elbow as he was speaking, bearing a tray of Yorkshire pudding: Bahram was no lover of this concoction but it did not escape his notice that the version being offered today was quite different from the dining room’s usual soggy staple – it was steaming hot and freshly risen.
Bahram had never known the Club’s staff to be as solicitious as they had been that evening: it was as if they were trying to make amends for the chaos of the day. Earlier, one of the stewards had come up to him and whispered in his ear: knowing of his fondness for Macahnese food he had offered him items that were not usually served in the Club – crisp fritters of bacalhau, char-grilled octopus and roast-duck rice. Bahram had accepted gladly but now that the rice was in front of him, topped with succulent slices of mahogany-coloured duck, he found he had lost interest in it.
Slade’s appetite, on the other hand, seemed only to have been whetted by the riot: having already wolfed down an enormous helping of roast beef, he now helped himself to some more.
‘It is unconscionable, I tell you! Completely and utterly unconscionable that Captain Elliott should take it upon himself to issue these fiats. Why, it seems to be his intention to offer himself to the Celestials as the chief officer of their police and customs!’
‘Shocking, is it not,’ said Dent, ‘that he should direct his strictures specifically at British traders?’
‘It is but proof of his ignorance of the situation in China,’ said Slade. ‘He seems to be unaware that this so- called system of “smuggling” was pioneered by the Americans. Was it not a Boston schooner, the Coral, that first sent her boats upriver with opium?’
‘So indeed it was!’
‘And in any case Captain Elliott has no legal authority to issue extravagant pronouncements on our behalf. There has never been any express diplomatic convention between England and China. Ergo he is not invested with any consular powers. He is assuming powers he does not possess.’
Dent nodded vigorously. ‘It is appalling that a man whose salary we pay should take it upon himself to impose Celestial misrule upon free men.’
Bahram happened to be facing a window and he noticed now that several brightly illuminated flower-boats had appeared on the misted waters of White Swan Lake; one passed close enough that he could see men lounging on pillows and girls plucking at stringed instruments. It was as if the turmoil of the day had never happened; as though it were all a dream.
Even at the time, as the events were unfolding under his own window, Bahram had found it hard to believe that these things were really happening: that a gibbet was being erected in the Maidan; that some poor wretch was to be executed within sight of his daftar. The semblance of unreality had grown even more acute when the condemned man was carried in. At one point, while twisting and writhing in his chair, the man had turned his head in the direction of the Fungtai Hong. Very little was visible of his face because of the hair that was matted on it, but Bahram had noticed that his eyes were wide open and seemed almost to be staring at him. The sight had shaken him and he had stepped away from the window. When he returned, the melee was already under way and the execution party had disappeared.
‘What happened to that fellow?’ Bahram said suddenly, interrupting Slade. ‘The one they were going to strangle? Was he let off?’
‘Oh no,’ said Slade. ‘I believe his reprieve lasted only an hour or two. He was taken to the execution grounds and quickly dispatched.’
‘Sorry little wretch,’ said Dent, ‘he was nothing but a minion; a tu’penny ha’penny scoundrel like hundreds of others.’
Bahram glanced out of the window again: somewhere on the other side of White Swan Lake a village was celebrating a wedding with a display of fireworks; rockets were arcing upwards, each seeming to travel on two planes simultaneously, through the sky, and over the misted mirror of the lake’s surface. Gazing at the spectacle, he was reminded of that night, many years ago, when he and Chi-mei had lain beside each other in a sampan that seemed to be suspended within a sphere of light; he remembered how he had reached for the silver in his pocket and poured it into her hands and how she had laughed and said: ‘And Allow? Why no cumshaw for Allow?’
Bahram could not bear to look at the lake again. He glanced down at his plate and saw that the fat had begun to congeal on his untouched slices of duck. He pushed his chair back. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said. ‘Please forgive me. I am not feeling quite pucka tonight. I think I should retire.’
‘What?’ said Slade. ‘No custard? No port?’
Bahram smiled and shook his head: ‘No, not tonight, if you please.’
‘Of course. A good night’s sleep will give you back your appetite.’
‘Yes. Good night, Lancelot. John.’
‘Good night.’
Bahram went quickly down the stairs, pulling his choga tight around his shoulders. On stepping outside the
