For all these reasons Zhong Lou-si’s work was long overlooked. Compton says that he was able to continue with it only because he succeeded in gaining the ear of a former governor of Guangdong Province who was interested in learning about foreign traders and their countries. He gave Zhong Lou-si a job in a prestigious new academy of learning in Guangzhou and it was there that Compton entered his orbit.
Compton is not from the kind of family that generally produces scholars and officials: he is the son of a ship-chandler and has grown up on the Pearl River, in close proximity to foreign sailors and businessmen: it was they who had taught him English; it was from them too that he learnt about the world overseas; they also gave him his English name.
But Compton isn’t the only one who has learnt about the world in this way: along the banks of the Pearl River there must be hundreds of thousands of people who make their living from trade and are in close contact with foreigners. Millions of them also have relatives who have settled overseas; they too are privy to reports about what is going on in other countries. But knowledge such as theirs rarely filters through to the scholars and bureaucrats who are at the helm of this country’s affairs. Nor are ordinary Chinese at all eager to be noticed by officialdom: what business is it of theirs, what the mandarins make of the world? Compton says that for centuries people in Guangdong have taken comfort in the thought that saang gou wohng dal yuhn — ‘the mountains are high and the Emperor is far away’. What is the sense of stirring a pot that is sure to scorch you if it spills over?
I suppose this is much how things were in Bengal and Hindustan at the time of the European conquests, and even before. The great scholars and functionaries took little interest in the world beyond until suddenly one day it rose up and devoured them.
Zachary’s only consolation for the snub that he had been dealt at the Doughties’ tiffin was his memory of the glance that Mrs Burnham had directed at him as he was leaving — if not for that fleeting look, he would have begun to believe that the tendernesses of his night in the boudoir were indeed imaginary; that he really was a ‘nobody, just a mystery’.
It was that memory too that made him suddenly alert when a khidmatgar came to the budgerow a few days later, bearing a tray of pale yellow sweets.
But what were they for?
A few questions were enough to establish that they had been sent to mark an important festival, in honour of which the mansion’s staff had been given a special holiday, by the Burra Beebee herself.
The tray could not be refused of course, so Zachary accepted it and took it inside. Placing it on the dining table he stared at the sweets, which were covered in a layer of silver foil.
What did the gift mean? Was there a message encoded in it? The khidmatgar had not said explicitly that Mrs Burnham had sent it — but Zachary knew that nothing happened in that house without her being aware of it.
He went to his bed, lay down, and closed his eyes so that they would not stray towards the boudoir — on no account, none at all, could he allow his thoughts to wander in that direction. To relive the torments of the last few weeks was unthinkable; he knew he would not be able to endure it.
He lay on his back and tried to shut his ears to the sounds of the mansion’s staff as they poured out of the compound.
Soon the grounds would be all but deserted …
The thought had no sooner occurred to him than he tried to erase it from his mind. When this proved impossible he decided that it would be best to leave the budgerow and go into town. Pocketing his last few coins, he walked all the way to Kidderpore where he stopped at a sailors’ doasta-den, near the docks, and spent an anna on a dish of karibat and a glass of thin grog. Trying to draw out the hours, he struck up conversations with strangers, buying them watery drinks until his pockets were empty. He would have stayed till dawn, but, as luck would have it, the grog-shop shut its doors early, because of the festival, and he found himself back at the budgerow shortly before midnight.
The mansion was in darkness now and the staff seemed to have disappeared except for a couple of chowkidars, who were drowsing by the gate. Zachary was about to walk up the budgerow’s gangplank when his eye was caught by a glimmer of light, somewhere in the distance. He looked again but saw nothing this time. It struck him that an intruder might have stolen into the Burnham compound and it seemed imperative that he go to investigate. Before he knew it his feet were taking him towards the house; he promised himself that he was only going to take a quick look, to make sure that all was well.
The route that he had staked out was still fresh in his memory; with practised stealth he slipped through the shadows and crept up to the tree that faced the boudoir: a thin trickle of light was spilling out from the edges of the curtained window.
He saw no sign of an intruder but it struck him now that having come this far he might as well make sure that the servants’ door, at the side of the house, was properly secured.
Tiptoeing over the gravel border he put a hand on the knob: the door swung open at the first touch. There was a candle inside, placed exactly where it had been the last time. He latched the door and picked up the candle.
It was too late to stop now. Stealing softly up the stairs, he paused to breathe the perfumed air of the powder room before stepping towards the luxuriant, golden glow that was spilling out of the boudoir.
She was standing on the far side of the bed, dressed in a simple white nightgown; her hair was untied, falling over her shoulders in chestnut curls; her arms were clasped across her breasts.
They stared at each other, and then, under her breath, she said: ‘Mr Reid … good evening.’
‘Good evening, Mrs Burnham,’ he said, and added quickly, ‘I just wanted to make sure that everything was all right.’
‘That was very thoughtful of you.’
She stepped around the bed and came towards him. ‘Your shirt’s torn, Mr Reid.’
He looked down and saw that the tip of her finger had vanished into a rent in his shirt. A moment later he felt her nail brushing lightly against his skin — and then, all of a sudden, their bodies collided and they tumbled into the luxurious embrace of the bed’s satin sheets and feathery pillows.
Soon it was as if his night-time imaginings had sprung to life, becoming almost too real to be true: so intense was the pleasure that he almost forgot the fears that had tormented him these last many weeks. But those apprehensions would not be quelled; they broke upon him without warning, so that suddenly he heard her voice in his ear, exclaiming in dismay: ‘Oh but what’s this? Why have you stopped? You have not spent yourself already, have you?’
‘No,’ said Zachary hoarsely. ‘I cannot go on, I must not — it is too dangerous, the risks are too great. After the last time I was haunted by the fear that you were with child.’
She pulled his head down and kissed him. ‘You should not have worried,’ she whispered in his ear. ‘It was perfectly safe.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because of my monthlies.’
‘Oh thank heaven!’ A great wave of relief swept through him.
‘And providentially, we are safe now too. You may spend when and where you will.’
‘No.’ He grinned and shook his head. ‘Not till you do.’
After that it was a while before either of them had the breath to say another word — and it was only when she snuggled up to him afterwards, to whisper endearments into his ear, that he recalled the pain he had suffered these last many weeks.
‘You say all these fine things as we lie here now, Mrs Burnham,’ he said abruptly. ‘And yet that day, at the Doughties’, you pretended not to know me — he’s just a mystery, you said, a nobody.’