When the last wisp of smoke was gone he blew out the candle and lay back against his pillows. He knew he would sleep well that night; he could not understand why he hadn’t thought of doing this before.
The next day when he woke, it was well past the usual time. He could hear the khidmatgars conferring outside his door in hushed, worried voices. Rising quickly from the bed, he hid the pipe, the lacquered box and the container of opium inside one of his trunks. Then, opening the windows, he let the room air out for a couple of minutes before letting the khidmatgars in.
One of them said: Sethji, Mesto is in the daftar. He has served your hazri.
The thought of food made Bahram faintly nauseous. I’m not hungry, he said. Tell Mesto to take it away. All I want is chai.
Sethji, the munshi wanted to know if you have any work for him today. He said there were some letters to be answered.
No. Bahram shook his head. Tell the munshi there’s no work for him today.
Ji, Sethji.
Bahram spent most of the morning in a chair by the window, looking in the direction of the river, gazing at the spot where Chi-mei’s boat had once been moored.
Around mid-day some lascars came to the Maidan and put on a display of acrobatics, climbing up the flagpoles and doing tricks on top. The spectacle pleased Bahram and he thought of asking the shroffs to give the fellows some baksheesh on his behalf. But to get up and pull the bell-rope was too much of an effort and he forgot about it. In the afternoon it was very hot and he decided to take a siesta – but when he went to lie down, it occurred to him that he would rest better after a pipe. So he fetched the paraphernalia and smoked a little before stretching himself out on his bed.
He had never felt so peaceful.
The days and nights began to melt into each other, and sometimes, when the chimes from the chapel came to his ears, it amazed him to think that this bell had once ruled his life.
One day a khidmatgar announced that Zadig had come to see him. Bahram did not much feel like making conversation, but there was nothing to be done for Zadig had already been shown up to the daftar. He changed his clothes and washed his face before crossing the corridor. But despite all that Zadig seemed to be shocked by his appearance.
Bahram-bhai! What has happened to you? You’ve become so thin.
Me? Bahram looked down at himself. Really? But I’ve been eating so much!
This was not a falsehood: nowadays a couple of mouthfuls were enough to make him feel that he was stuffed to bursting.
And you’re so pale, Bahram-bhai. Your khidmatgars tell me you hardly ever leave your rooms. Why don’t you go out more often, take a few turns around the Maidan?
Bahram was nonplussed by this. Go outside? But why? It’s so hot out there. It’s much better here, isn’t it?
Bahram-bhai, there’s always something interesting happening in the Maidan.
The daftar’s window was open and turning towards it now Bahram heard a sound like that of something solid being hit by a plank of wood. He rose and went to the window. A game of cricket was under way in the Maidan: he saw to his surprise that there were several Parsis among the players. The batsman was Dinyar Ferdoonjee, dressed in white trousers and cap.
Zadig had come to stand beside him: Where did Dinyar learn to play cricket?
Here. I can’t think where else he could have learnt.
See, Bahram-bhai. There’s always something going on down there. You should step out and join in. It will be a change.
The thought of going out filled Bahram with a sense of deep fatigue.
What does it have to do with me, Zadig Bey? he said. I know nothing about cricket.
But still…
They watched for a while in silence, and then Bahram said: We’re old men now, aren’t we, Zadig Bey? It’s these fellows who are the future – young men like Dinyar.
Down below there was a burst of applause: Dinyar had hit a ball all the way across the Maidan.
The boy looked splendidly self-confident, absolutely masterful as he leant on his bat and surveyed the field.
Bahram could not help feeling a twinge of envy.
When they make their future, do you think they will remember us, Zadig Bey? Do you think they will remember what we went through? Will they remember that it was the money we made here, the lessons we learnt and the things we saw that made it all possible? Will they remember that their future was bought at the price of millions of Chinese lives?
Down below Dinyar was running furiously between the wickets.
And what was it all for, Zadig Bey? Was it just for this: so that these fellows could speak English, and wear hats and trowsers, and play cricket?
Bahram pulled the window shut, and the sounds faded away.
Perhaps that is what Ahriman’s kingdom is, isn’t it, Zadig Bey? An unending tamasha in a desert of forgetting and emptiness.
Eighteen
June 5, House No. 1, American Hong, Canton
Queridisima Puggliosa, I feel as if an epoch had passed since I last sat down to write to you. During these last six weeks it was impossible for us even to think of corresponding with the outside world – we were warned that any courier who was caught carrying letters for us would be severely punished and under the circumstances it seemed wrong to write letters. Only a most unfeeling person would want anyone to risk the bastinado for the sake of their silly ramblings, wouldn’t they, Puggly dear?
But that is all in the past now. Most of the opium has been rendered up and the Commissioner, in turn, has kept his word: from tomorrow onwards everyone who wishes to leave Canton will be allowed to do so – excepting only the sixteen foreigners who are considered the worst offenders. Zadig Bey will be leaving in a day or two and since I have elected to stay behind he has offered to carry my letters – so here I am, once again at my desk.
So much has happened in the interim, Puggly dear, that I do not quite know where to start. For me the greatest change was that I had to move out of Mr Markwick’s hotel. On the day I last wrote to you, Fanqui-town lost all its workers, coolies and servants – every Chinese employed in the enclave was told to depart by the authorities. After that it became impossible for poor Mr Markwick to carry on and he decided to close down.
You can imagine the spot this put me in: I could not think where I would go. But I need not have worried: Charlie came to see me and offered me a room in his house (is he not the kindest man in existence?). I thought I should pay rent, but he would not hear of it and asked only that I make him some paintings, which I gladly undertook to do. Since then I have been installed in the American Hong, in a room twice as large and far more luxurious than the one I had before: and nor am I deprived of the view that I had at Markwick’s, for here too I have a window that looks out on the Maidan! I have indeed been singularly fortunate: I miss Jacqua terribly, of course, but I do see him from time to time, across the barricades, and sometimes, when it is possible, he sends me things with one of the linkisters – jujubes and candied fruits. And to be living with Charlie is compensation of no small order: our time together has passed so agreeably that I am loath to see it end.
You have no doubt heard rumours about the privations we have had to endure during the last few weeks. You must not believe a word of it, Puggly dear. We have been lavishly supplied with food and drink – the lack of servants is the worst of the hardships we have had to suffer, and if you ask me, this has been in truth a most salutary thing. I can scarcely tell you how much pleasure it gives me to walk around the enclave and see these fanqui merchants, who have all grown rich and lazy on the fruits of their crimes, having to swab their own floors, make their own beds, boil eggs amp;c. amp;c. It is perhaps the only justice they will ever meet with.