when the weather grows hot, I build little huts over them, with my own sparse clothing; when we are beset by tempests and storms I shield them with my own body. At every turn the other crewmen do their best to thwart me. Some are lascars and some are English seamen, and they are often at each other’s throats: the one matter in which they are united is their hatred of me – to them I am little better than a monkey. When we cross the equator I submit tamely to their rituals – dunkings and daubings – but suddenly I find myself pinioned and spreadeagled on the deck. Then I hear a scraping sound: they are shearing off my queue with an unsharpened knife. I struggle at first, but then I realize that I am only making the pain worse; I lie still and let them finish – but I take note of who they are, and afterwards I plan my revenge. The ring-leader is a burly foretopman – late one night, during the dogwatch, when everyone is half-asleep, I make my way up to his foot-rope and scrape it thin. Two days later, in the midst of a gale, the rope snaps and he is lost at sea…
I arrive at Kew bringing with me more Chinese plants than anyone has succeeded in transporting before. These are plants that I myself have obtained for Mr Kerr in Canton: he has no more idea of where to find them than he has of buying opium – in all things I am his pander and procurer. But the successful delivery of the plants is attributed not to me but to Mr Kerr; I am but the monkey who travelled with them.
I say nothing: I have grown almost mute; months have passed since I was able to make myself properly understood. The foreman whose house I live in hands out daily beatings to his own children and I am not exempted from his floggings; the food is a vile pap and I am never free of hunger. In my eyes, Kew is not a garden but an untended wilderness. One night I break into a greenhouse and uproot some shrubs – I half hope to be caught, and I am. I am sent to live with a clergyman who I come to hate even more than the gardeners; one night, while he lies slumped over his brandywine, I help myself to the contents of his purse and make my escape. I walk towards Greenwich, guided by the lights of the fairground; for the first time in months I am able to disappear into a crowd. Under a tent people are dancing; I slip inside unseen and somehow I am drawn into the dance; the people who pull me in are of a kind familiar to me – barrow-pushers and pedlars, costermongers and gypsies. They show no surprise at having me in their midst; at dawn I cross the Thames with them and it is as if I were going from Honam to Guangzhou. In the rookeries of East London everything is familiar: the close-packed hovels, the bare feet, the barrows, the ordure on the streets, the smell of roasting chestnuts, the toffs in their sedan chairs, the nippers running wild: it is as if, after travelling all the way around the world, I had found my way home…
What a journey!
Is it not amazing, Puggly dear, that whenever we begin to congratulate ourselves on the breadth of our knowledge of the world, we discover that there are multitudes of people, in every corner of the earth, who have seen vastly more than we can ever hope to?
I do not know whether it was because of the narcotic effects of the opium or the enchantment of Mr Chan’s narrative, but I was positively crushed when it came time for me to leave. Mr Chan walked me back to the sampan, and before I knew it I was back at Markwick’s Hotel. It was as if weeks, or months, had gone by since I left – yet there was still plenty of daylight outside. My head was spinning and I was about to lie down when my eyes strayed to my desk, to alight upon Charlie’s note. I woke to my senses in a panic, recalling the projected expedition to the cemetery on French Island.
Had Charlie left already? Was he lingering in wait for me? Pausing only to splash some water on my face, I ran to his lodgings in the American Hong. And there, to my astonishment, I learnt that he had yet to return from the meeting of that morning! I was told that he had gone, with Mr Wetmore, the President of the Chamber of Commerce, to deliver a letter to the merchants of the Co-Hong; they had been admitted into the Consoo House several hours before and had not been seen since.
You can scarcely imagine, my dear Pagla-hawa, the alarm that was sowed in me by these reports. For what purpose could my friend have been so long detained? Was he under arrest? And if so, for what offence?
I went at once to the Consoo House but arrived there only to find the gates firmly locked: no one could tell me anything except that the delegates were still inside.
Oh! What a day!
I came back to my room fully expecting to return to the Consoo House an hour later – but evidently the drug had yet to release its grip on me for I fell fast asleep.
On waking this morning I went at once to Charlie’s lodgings and was told that he had been released from the Consoo House late in the night and had gone straight to Mr Wetmore’s house. He had returned to his rooms only at dawn, completely exhausted; he had yet to awake.
So envision if you will, Puggly dear, my state as I write this: my head is in such a whirl that I have omitted to give you a very important piece of news…
… but wait, I hear a knock…
*
The Club was as full that evening as Bahram had ever seen it. Since morning everyone had been waiting to hear, from Mr Wetmore’s own mouth, the tale of the delegation’s extended confinement at the Consoo House. Now, the better part of a day having gone by without a word, a large number of curious members had converged upon the Chamber, fully expecting that Mr Wetmore would emerge from his self-imposed seclusion in time for his accustomed glass of negus.
But that hour came and went and there was no sign of Mr Wetmore or any of the other delegates: all that was learnt of him was that he had been closeted with Mr Fearon through much of the night and most of the day.
This piece of news did nothing to sweeten Mr Slade’s humour. With a quiver of his jowls he issued one of his cryptic pronouncements: ‘Well, if our Achilles is to sulk in his tent, I suppose he cannot be without his Patroclus.’
‘ “Patroclus”?’ Bahram frowned in puzzlement. ‘What is “Patroclus”? Some new kind of medicine, is it?’
‘I suppose some would call it that.’
‘But what about Charlie King?’ said Bahram. ‘Why is he absent? Is he taking Patroclus also?’
‘That possibility’, said Mr Slade gravely, ‘cannot be dismissed, certainly. Ab ore maiori discit arare minor.’
‘Baap-re! What does that mean, John?’
‘“From the older ox the younger learns to plough.” ’
‘My goodness!’ said Bahram. ‘It is unbelievable! Time is running away and they are busy ploughing and all? How much longer before the Commissioner’s ultimatum expires?’
‘Two more days,’ said Mr Slade. ‘But you cannot expect such considerations to weigh with them – Bulgarians are famously heedless of time, you know.’
Dinner was served and removed, and there was still no news of Mr Wetmore or any of the other delegates. After lingering a little over a glass of port, Bahram decided it was time to retire.
It was early yet, so the others were surprised when he made to rise.
‘To bed so soon, Barry?’
‘You’re not keeping country hours nowadays, are you?’
Bahram was already on his feet and he answered with a bow. ‘I am sorry, gentlemen, but today I must end up early. Tomorrow is my community’s most important festival – we call it Navroze. It is our New Year, so I must be up at dawn.’ He smiled as he looked around the table. ‘Of course there will also be a burra-khana. You are most welcome to join us – lunch will be served at noon, in my house.’
Mr Burnham and Mr Slade exchanged glances. ‘Thank you, Barry,’ said Mr Burnham, shifting uneasily in his seat. ‘But for myself I must confess I have no taste for heathenish festivities – and besides we wouldn’t want to get in your way.’
Bahram laughed. ‘Good night, gentleman – and remember, if you change your minds, you are most welcome.’
‘Good night.’
On returning to the Achha Hong, Bahram went immediately to bed. Rising at dawn the next day he lit some incense and made a fumigatory round of his house. Back in his bedroom he set energetically to work, wiping and tidying his altar: from his earliest childhood he had been taught that Navroze was a day for cleansing and cleanliness – the day when the dark shadow of Ahriman was driven from the farthest corners of the house. Even though he knew that his would be only a token effort, the feel of the duster in his hands brought back many warm memories of Navrozes past.
