‘Mister Barry! Mister Barry! We come Jackass Point.’ Allow was standing over him, with a lantern. He grinned playfully as Bahram stirred on the divan. ‘Mister Barry likee?’
Bahram nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said gruffly. ‘Likee.’ He sat up, fumbling with his choga. The dew seemed to have settled heavily on his clothes; everything was damp and smelled faintly of the river. Cloaking himself in his choga, Bahram retied the drawstrings of his clammy pyjamas. He was reaching for the fastenings of his angarkha when his hand brushed against the inner pocket where he carried his money; it was damp, but he could tell from its heft that it was still filled with coins – he had half-expected that it would be empty, and it surprised him to find it untouched. He would not have minded if she had helped herself to the silver – he had promised her a cumshaw after all, and would have gladly given her all his money.
Bahram looked up at Allow: ‘Where girlie have gone? Allow can call?’
‘Call who, Mister Barry?’
‘That-piece girlie. Allow have sent, no?’
A mystified look came into Allow’s eyes.
‘Allow no have sent sing-song girlie. Mister Barry say no wanchi girlie. He angry me, no?’
‘Yes, but Allow have sent anyway, no?’
Allow doggedly shook his head. ‘No. Allow no have sent.’
Bahram put his hands on Allow’s shoulders and shook him gently. ‘Listen: Mister Barry no angry Allow. Mister Barry too muchi happy Allow have sent this piece sing-song girlie. Mister Barry only wanchi know: she blongi who? Name blongi what? Mister Barry wanchi give cumshaw.’
Allow’s snub-nosed face broke into a broad smile.
‘Mister Barry have see smoke-dream,’ he said, with a knowing grin. ‘Opium pipe have bring Mister Barry sing-song girlie.’
Releasing Allow, Bahram fell back against the cushions: his head was still fogged with smoke and he could not think properly. Perhaps Allow was right; perhaps that was all it was – an opium-fuelled dream, conjured up by the pipe. That would explain why he hadn’t seen her face, and also why it had seemed so perfect – like the imaginary night-time couplings of adolescence.
‘Allow talkee tooroo? No have sent girlie?’
‘Tooroo, tooroo,’ said Allow, nodding vigorously. ‘No have sent girlie. Mister Barry have look-see dream. Mister Barry sleepee allo time, after pipe to Jackass Point.’ He pointed at the jetty, which was just visible through the roiling currents of smoke.
Bahram shrugged. ‘All right, Allow,’ he said. ‘Mister Barry go Achha Hong now.’
Allow nodded and bowed. ‘Allow walkee Mister Barry.’
Slipping on his shoes Bahram stood up to go. But with his first step he trod upon a puddle of water and his feet slipped out from under him. He would have fallen if Allow hadn’t caught hold of him.
‘How water have come here? No rain have got.’
Looking down, Bahram saw that there was not just one little puddle on the deck but severaclass="underline" they formed a wet trail, leading from the side of the deck that overlooked the river right up to the corner of the divan.
Allow too had seen the puddles, each separated from the other by the space of a footstep. For an instant his face stiffened into a frightened scowl. But then, recovering quickly, he said: ‘That blongi nothing, Mister Barry. Come from fog. Happen allo time.’
‘But fog no can makee puddle.’
‘Can. Can. Come, we go now. Too muchi late.’
Bahram followed Allow down, to the gangplank and over the jetty. The Maidan was empty of people and wreathed in fog. In the distance, amongst the row of factories, the Achha Hong was the only one that still had many lights burning. Bahram knew that Vico and the others had probably begun to worry about his whereabouts.
They were halfway across the Maidan when Allow broached the subject of opium again: ‘Mister Barry wanchi do cargo-pidgin with Allow? Like we talkee that time? Still can do if Mister Barry wanchi.’
Bahram had been expecting something like this all the while, and had the deal been proposed a few hours ago he would have refused it without hesitation. But somehow it was no longer possible to say no. ‘All right, Allow,’ he said. ‘We do cargo-pidgin. Tomorrow Vico come talkee Allow. Then Vico takee boat to go Anahita, makee bandobast. We do cargo-pidgin.’
Eleven
Markwick’s Hotel, December 2
Dearest Puggly, I was utterly absorbed – and astonished as well – by your letter and your account of the career of poor Mr William Kerr. But I promise you, what I have to tell will surprise you even more – as for Mr Penrose he will be astounded, for I have made the most startling discovery. But I will save that for later; first I must tell you how it came about.
You will remember how the Hongists, Punhyqua and Howqua, had promised to give me an introduction to Lynchong, the nurseryman in Fa-Tee? Well, several days went by with no word from anyone and I was beginning to think I would have to set off for Fa-Tee on my own. But this morning Mr Markwick knocked on my door to announce a Visitor. He was positively glowering: for he has no love of Visitors, you know, especially local people – he thinks many of the townsmen who frequent the Maidan are la-lee-loons (which is ‘dacoit’ in pidgin). As a consequence anyone he considers Undesirable is made to wait at the top of the stairs below. Mr Markwick is often uncharitable in his assessments, but this was one instance in which he could not be accused of being too harsh a judge. The Visitor was a shifty-looking man with a large mole and a long queue: he bowed and smiled in a manner at once obsequious and insistent, as men do when they have something disreputable to offer, and I feared at first that he might be some kind of tout. But it turned out that he had been sent to accompany me to Fa-Tee, by Mr Lynchong, who was, he said, his Dai Lou or ‘Boss-man’.
He introduced himself as Ah-med, but I think his name might be plain old ‘Ahmed’ for he did confide in me that his father was a Black-Hat-Devil, which means that he was probably an Arab or Persian (I certainly would not have suspected it if he had not said so, for I could see nothing in his appearance to suggest that he was anything other than Cantonese).
Half-Arab or not, Ah-med had a sampan waiting on the river, and wanted to leave at once.
I would have liked Jacqua to come too for I could not conceive how I would speak with Mr Lynchong, and nor did I much fancy the prospect of a long boat-ride with Ah-med. But Ah-med brushed this off and said we should leave right now, chop-chop, and no linkister would be needed because ‘Boss-man speakee first-chop English – too muchi good’. Not for a moment did I believe this and nor did I like to be rushed, but there was nothing to be done: I went to my room to fetch the camellia painting and then followed him to his sampan.
Fa-Tee is not far from Fanqui-town, being situated at the tip of Honam Island, where the Pearl River debouches into White Swan Lake. But to get there one must traverse the width of the floating city. Right next to Fanqui-town lies a sandbank called Shamian: moored around it are a number of ‘flower-boats’ – these are vessels where men go to be entertained by women. I know you are no melting Miss, my dear Madame de Puggligny, so I will not mince words with you (although I do not recommend that you read this to Mr Penrose) – these boats are, in point of fact, nothing other than floating bordellos! The sight of them made Ah-med wax lyrical in a way that led me to wonder whether he did not have some connection with them – for the descriptions he gave me and the offers he made were such, Puggly dear, that the thought of repeating them to you brings the blush even to a cheek like mine: suffice it to say that it was revealed to me that I had, for the asking, a choice of ladies from Hubei and Honan and Macau; of wide-bosomed grandmothers and slender maidens; of songstresses whose voices would caress my ears and seamstresses whose nimble fingers would sew me into stitches.
But no, said I, to Ah-med’s evident disappointment. As if in revenge, he pointed to a spot in the distance. ‘Lookee that side,’ he cried; ‘that place cuttee head! Cuttee head!’