admirals, the generals and all other officials.
What is the reason for that?
Sethji, it is because the Emperor has specifically entrusted him with the job of ending the opium trade. Apparently when the Emperor gave Lin Tse-hsu the appointment he told him, with tears in his eyes, that after his death he would not be able to face his father and grandfather if opium smoking had not been eradicated from the land.
Bahram came to a halt by the window: Are you sure this is not just gossip, munshiji?
Ji, Sethji. The outgoing Governor and Lieutenant-Governor have issued a joint notice. A very stern proclamation, addressed to foreign merchants. I’ve picked out some bits.
Go on.
‘ “In times past edict after edict has been directed against opium, and we, the Governor and Lieutenant- Governor, have often reiterated our commands and admonitions. But even to the last, gain alone has been your aim, and our words have filled your ears as the empty wind. At this time, the great Emperor, in his bitter detestation of the evil habit, has his thoughts hourly bent on washing it clean away. In the capital he has commanded the ministers of his court to deliberate and to draw up plans. Besides all this the Emperor has just now appointed a high officer as his special Commissioner, to repair to Canton in order to examine and adopt measures in reference to the affairs of the sea-port. The Commissioner is now not far off; his arrival is expected shortly. His purpose is to cut off utterly the source of this noxious abuse, to strip bare and root up this enormous evil; and though the axe should break in his grip or the boat should sink from beneath him, he will not stay his hand till the work is accomplished.”’
‘Does he say anything about what measures the Commissioner has in mind?’
Ji, Sethji.
‘ “We have already received, with the deepest respect, an edict commanding the admirals of every station, along with the commanders of the different garrisons and military stations, to dispatch squadrons of warships to seize the native smuggling boats and drive out the loitering foreign ships. It appears that several hundred seizures have already been made. As for those villains who have grown grey in this nefarious traffic, to them shall be awarded the most awful penalty of the law, as was the case with the criminal Ho Lao…”’
This time the munshi interrupted himself, without Bahram’s having to say a word.
Maaf karna, Sethji; please excuse me.
Perversely, the apology only deepened Bahram’s disquiet: what did the munshi know? Had the staff been discussing these matters below stairs?
His head began to throb and he decided to lie down for a bit.
That’s enough for now, munshiji. I’ll call you when I’m ready.
Ji, Sethji.
Not long after this there was a rare piece of good news: foreign-owned boats were once again being issued permits to leave and enter Canton. But when the traffic resumed it was learnt that the opium fleet, still at anchor off the outer islands, had been joined by several more vessels, recently arrived from Bombay and Calcutta.
Soon there was a slew of letters; among them were some that commented on the state of the markets in India. Bahram discovered to his shock that the poppy harvest of the last year had turned out to be the most bountiful ever; the markets of Calcutta and Bombay were awash with opium and the price of the drug had crashed. A great number of would-be merchants were now leaping into the trade.
For Bahram, the news was disastrous on many counts: it was galling enough to know that he could have purchased his cargo at half the price if only he had waited a few months; it was worse still that he no longer had the option of taking his consignment back to Bombay, in the event of its remaining unsold – the Indian prices were now so low that he would not recoup even a fraction of his costs.
A few days later a large new contingent of Bombay merchants poured into Canton. They were mostly Parsis with a sprinkling of Muslim and Hindu traders: the majority were young men, small-time businessmen who had no prior experience of Fanqui-town. Among them was a relative of Shireenbai’s, Dinyar Ferdoonjee, a boy Bahram had not met in many years: he was taken by surprise when a tall, athletic young man, square-jawed and strikingly good-looking, walked into his daftar.
Dinyar?
‘Yes, Fuaji.’ Holding out his hand he gave Bahram an energetic handshake. ‘How are you, Fuaji?’
Bahram saw now that he was wearing a a pair of well-cut trowsers and a coat made of the finest Nainsook; his cravat was perfectly tied and on his head, instead of a turban, there was a glossy black hat.
Dinyar had brought presents from Shireenbai and his daughters, mostly new clothes for Navroze, the Persian New Year, which was coming up in March. After handing them over, he wandered around the daftar, examining its contents with a slightly amused smile. All the while he kept up a flow of chatter, in English, passing on greetings and messages from various people in Bombay.
Amazed by his fluency, Bahram said, in Gujarati: Atlu sojhu English bolwanu kahen thi seikhiyu deekra – Where did you learn to speak English so well, son?
‘Oh Puppa kept a tutor for me – Mr Worcester. Do you know him?’
No.
Dinyar in the meanwhile had made his way over to the window and was looking down at the Maidan. ‘Grand view, Fuaji! I’d love to rent this room some day.’
Bahram smiled: You’ll have to get your business going first, deekra – a room like this is expensive.
‘It’s worth it, Fuaji. From here you can keep an eye on everything that’s going on.’
That’s true.
‘That affair in December: you must have seen it all from up here, no?’
What affair?
‘When they tried to execute someone down there? What was his name – Ho-something, wasn’t it?’
Kai nai – Never mind.
Bahram sank back into his armchair and wiped his forehead. ‘Sorry, beta – I have some work to finish…’
‘Yes of course, Fuaji. I’ll come by again later.’
For the rest of the day Bahram averted his eyes from the Maidan and stayed away from the windows. But just as he was about to go to bed, he heard an unfamiliar noise outside, a kind of chanting, accompanied by the tinkling of cymbals.
It was impossible not to look out now. Parting the curtains he saw that some dozen people had gathered at the centre of the Maidan. A clump of flickering candles was planted in front of them and the flames threw a dim light on their faces: they were all Chinese but not the kind of men who usually came to the Maidan – a couple of them were dressed in the robes of Taoist priests, including the man who was leading the chanting.
Suddenly Bahram remembered witnessing something similar on one of Chi-Mei’s boats: she had always had a great dread of unquiet spirits and hungry ghosts and some trivial incident had led her to summon a priest. Looking out of the window now, Bahram began to wonder whether the men in the Maidan were performing an exorcism. But for whom? And why there – at the very spot where the gibbet had been erected that day?
He reached for the bell cord and tugged it hard, setting off an insistent clanging in the kitchen downstairs.
A few minutes later Vico came running up, wearing a look of concern. Patrao? What’s the matter?
Bahram beckoned to him to come to the window.
Look at those people down there, Vico. See how they’re chanting? And look there – isn’t that some kind of priest, waving his hands and lighting incense?
Maybe, patrao. Who knows?
Isn’t that exactly the place where they had brought that fellow that day?
Vico shrugged and said nothing.
What are they doing down there, Vico? Is it an exorcism?
Vico shrugged again and would not look into his eyes.
What does it mean, Vico? said Bahram insistently. I want to know. Have other people seen what I saw that night, in the fog? Have you heard of anything like that?
Vico sighed and pulled the curtain shut. Listen, patrao, he said, in the kind of tone that men use to soothe children. What is the point of thinking about all this? What good will it do, ha?
