blue-devils have been banished, and I am so Happy I do not know how I shall ever bring myself to leave this place…
And do not imagine for a moment, my dear Puggly, that I have forgotten about your camellias – I have not! The moment the river is opened again I shall make another foray in the direction of Fa-Tee.
Oh, and I cannot send this off without mention of the incident you described in your last letter (your little squabble with the Redruth’s cook). You must not take it too much to heart, dear: it was not at all wrong of you to tell him that the galley smelled like a creperie! The fault was entirely his for taking offence. I suspect the fellow has no French and did not understand that you were merely complimenting him on his pancakes. If he was upset it was probably because he thought (quite wrongly, of course) that you were comparing his kitchen to a tottee-connah (sometimes vulgarly spoken of in English as a ‘crappery’).
Really, dear, I would have loved to see the cook’s face when you told him that you liked nothing better than the smell of fresh crepes, warming in the pan. I am sure the Redruth has never seen its like!
*
Although Bahram was deeply attached to his faith, he was not fervently religious; nor did the practical considerations of his busy life allow him to be as meticulous in his observances as he would have liked. He was always careful, however, to keep a copy of the Khordeh Avesta beside his bed and he was never without a sadra and a kasti. When in Bombay he often accompanied Shireenbai on her daily visits to the Fire Temple and when Mullah Feroze delivered his homilies he made every effort to be in attendance. While in Canton, he tended personally to the altar in his bedroom, daily lighting incense under the portrait of the Prophet, regularly changing the flowers and fruit that lay under it and making sure that the wick of the divo was always lit. But most of all he tried, in his own acknowledgedly fallible way, to keep in mind the guiding principles that had been instilled in him in childhood -Humata, Hukhta, Hvarshta – ‘good thoughts, good words and good deeds’.
In his easy-going, yet respectful, approach to religion Bahram was not unusual amongst his peers; where he did differ from them was in a certain lack of credulity – in his circle of merchants he was one of the few who never sought the guidance of augurers, astrologers, fortune-tellers and the like. If he was an exception in this, it was mostly because he had always placed more trust in his own intelligence and foresight than in the divinations of kismet-doctors.
But now, as the chill of December turned into the numbing cold of January, he began to doubt, as never before, his ability to look ahead. Everywhere he turned there was confusion; every day there was a new pronouncement or edict to add to the uncertainty.
Sometimes, at night, when the fog came swirling in from the river, he would look out of his bedroom window and imagine that he was seeing Allow, down in the Maidan: the figure would appear to wave in the direction of his window, beckoning with his finger, signalling to Bahram to follow him to the water. In some part of his mind, Bahram knew his eyes were playing tricks on him – and yet, in that other part of him that had now become prey to all kinds of fears and fancies, Allow seemed always to be waiting in the shadows. Even in his head he could not bear to pronounce his names: Ho Lao-kin, Allow – the syllables, in their various iterations, had taken on the character of mantras that could summon the dead.
But no matter how hard he tried to expel them from his head, the echoes of those names kept making themselves heard.
One morning, at breakfast, the munshi said: Sethji, Mr Slade has written a long piece; he has strongly criticized Captain Elliott.
What for?
He is incensed that Captain Elliott openly spoke against the smuggling of opium on the river.
Read it out munshiji.
‘ “The clear inference of Captain Elliott’s words is that he, and the English government, while they reprobate the smuggling of opium on the river, approve and encourage smuggling outside the river and on the coasts of China. To smuggle a hundred chests outside the Bogue is neither an offence nor a degradation; but to smuggle one chest or a few balls inside is both! Admirable consistency in the principles of government and public men! Admirable consistency in political and commercial morality! And how will Captain Elliott explain these orders of the English to the local government without implicating the whole of the opium trade in the question?” ’
Here the munshi stopped to glance at Bahram. Shall I go on, Sethji?
Yes. Go on.
‘ “We have just heard that Captain Elliott has dispatched a petition to the Governor of Canton through the Hong merchants. He has thus betrayed the property and disgraced the character of British subjects to this lying, corrupt and unjust government. It is reported indeed that he has petitioned the Governor to place him in command of a Chinese cruiser in order that he may, in person, expel the British-owned boats from the river. This proceeding appears to us very likely a felony injurious to the Queen’s prerogative, being the offence of serving a foreign prince without permission.
‘ “By custom, as is well known, virtually all the Chinese laws were suspended in the case of foreigners, except in capital offences. Let then the Chinese enjoy their opium pipes and the Emperor and his magnates proceed in their cruel and indefensible policy of sacrificing human life for the mere indulgence of a luxurious and debilitating habit until ‘the spears and lances arise to avenge the misrule’ of the dynasty.” ’
Now the munshi looked up again.
Sethji, he has mentioned you too.
Me? Bahram pushed his plate aside and rose quickly from the table. What does he say?
“We never expected to see a superintendent of British trade lackeying the heels of the Governor of Canton, proffering his services against those whom by his office he is bound at least to endeavour to protect. When Captain Elliott has distinguished himself in the service of the mandarins, the next duty His Excellency will impose on him will probably be to deport Messrs Dent, Jardine and Moddie.” ’
What was that? said Bahram. Did Mr Slade say ‘deport’?
Ji, Sethji. That is what Mr Slade has written. He implies that the execution of Ho Lao-kin was a signal…
Stop! Bahram clapped his hands to his ears. Munshiji – bas!
Yes, Sethji, of course.
Bahram glanced at his hands and saw that they were trembling slightly. To give himself time to recover, he dismissed the munshi.
You may go to your room, munshiji, he said. I will call you when I need you.
Ji, Sethji.
When the door had closed, Bahram walked over to the window and looked down at the Maidan. Of late it was less crowded than it had been and some of the men who came there did not seem to belong: they were not like the loiterers of old; they seemed alert and vigilant, as though they were keeping watch on the residents.
Now, as he stood by the window, Bahram had the impression that several pairs of eyes had turned to look in his direction. Had they been posted there to watch him? Or was it all in his head?
The worst of it was that it was impossible to know.
His gaze strayed towards the pole where the American flag had once hung. It had not been hoisted again since the day of the riots; nor had any of the other flags. Their absence had changed the appearance of the enclave, denuding it of some essential element of colour. The bare flagpoles were like reminders of that day – that morning when the gibbet was set up and the chair was carried in with…
The fellow’s name was almost on his tongue when he bit it back: it was as if his mouth had been soiled by something unclean and alien: feeling the need to wash it out he crossed the corridor and opened the door of his bedroom. In keeping with Parsi custom, the doorway was garlanded with a toran – a beaded drapery that had been given to him by his mother at the time of his marriage. The toran had travelled with him on all his trips to China and over the years it had become a link with his past, a personal good-luck charm.
Bahram was about to step inside when he saw that the toran had slipped from its place, above the lintel, and had somehow become entangled in the door jamb. As he was trying to pull it free, the frail old threads broke and a shower of beads rained down on him. Bahram recoiled, in shock, mumbling under his breath: Dadar thamari madad… Help me, Almighty God.
Falling on his knees he began to pick up the tiny pieces of glass, digging them out of the cracks in the wooden floor and slipping them into the chest pocket of his choga.
One of the peons came to help. Sethji, let me do it…
