With his head lowered, Bahram nodded.
Is she Chinese?
Yes.
Is she what they call a ‘sing-song girl’ – a professional?
No! said Bahram vehemently. No. When I met her she was a washerwoman, a widow. She was living on a boat, with her mother and daughter; they made their living by taking in laundry from the residents of the foreign enclave…
Bahram had never talked about this with anyone: to speak of it was such a release that having started he could not stop.
Her name was Chi-mei, he told Zadig, and he, Bahram, was a newcomer to Canton when he met her; as the youngest member of the Parsi contingent he was often asked to run errands for the big Sethjis; sometimes he would even be sent to the waterfront to inquire after their laundry. That was how he first came across Chi-mei; she was scrubbing clothes in the flat stern of her boat. A scarf was tightly tied over her hair, but a few ringlets had escaped their bindings and lay curled on her forehead. Her face was pert and lively, with glinting black eyes, and cheeks that glowed like polished apples. They locked eyes briefly and then she quickly turned her face away. But later, when he was about to head back to the factory he glanced at her over his shoulder and caught her looking in his direction again.
When he was back in his room, her face kept coming back to him. This was not the first time that Bahram had been plagued by fantasies about the girls who worked on the waterfront – but this time his longings had a keener edge than ever before. Something about the way she had looked at him had lodged in his mind and kept pulling him back towards her sampan. He began to visit the laundry-boats on invented errands and it happened a couple of times that he saw her blush and look away on catching sight of him: this was his only way of knowing that she had come to recognize him.
He noticed that her sampan seemed to have only two other occupants, an old woman and a little girclass="underline" there were never any men around. He was obscurely encouraged by this, and finding her alone one day he seized his chance: ‘You name blongi what-thing?’
She blushed: ‘Li Shiu-je. Mistoh name blongi what-thing ah?’
It wasn’t till later that he understood that she’d told him to call her ‘Miss Li’: at that moment it was enough to know that she was fluent in Fanqui-town’s idiom.
‘Me Barry. Barry Moddie.’
She rolled this around her tongue. ‘Mister Barry?’
‘Yes.’
‘Mister Barry blongi Pak-taw-gwai?’
Bahram knew this phrase: it meant ‘White-Hat-Ghost’ and was used to refer to Parsis because many of them wore white turbans. He smiled: ‘Yes.’
She gave him a shy nod and slipped away into the sampan’s cabin.
Already then, he knew that there was something special about her. The boat-women of Canton were utterly unlike their land-bound sisters: their feet were unbound and often bare, and there was nothing demure in their demeanour: they rowed boats, hawked goods, and went about their work with just as much gusto, if not more, than their menfolk. In monetary matters they were often unashamedly grasping, and newcomers like Bahram were always warned to be careful when dealing with them.
Unlike some of the other washerwomen Chi-mei never asked for cumshaws or bakshish. She bargained vigorously for her dues but was content to leave it at that. Bahram tried to overpay her once, pushing a few extra pieces of copper into her hands. She counted it carefully then came running after him. ‘Mister Barry! Give too muchi cash. Here, this piece catchi.’
He tried to give it back but this only made her angry. She pointed to the gaudy flower-boats that were moored nearby. ‘That-piece boat sing-song girlie have got. Mister Barry can catchi.’
‘Mister Barry no wanchi sing-song girlie.’
She shrugged, dropped the coins in his palm and walked away.
He was a little shamefaced when he saw her next and this seemed to amuse her. After the washing had been handed over, she whispered: ‘Mister Barry? Catchi, no-catchi, sing-song girl?’
‘No catchi,’ he said. And then gathering his courage together, he said: ‘Mister Barry no wanchi sing-song girl. Wanchi Li Shiu-je.’
‘Wai-ah!’ she laughed. ‘Mister Barry talkee bad-thing la! Li Shiu-je no blongi sing-song girl ah.’
The strange diction of pidgin was still new to Bahram, and it added an inexplicable erotic charge to these exchanges: he would wake up and find himself talking to her, trying to explain his life: ‘Mister Barry one-piece wife have got; two-piece girl-chilo also have got…’
When he next went to pick up some clothes he found a way of inquiring into her marital status. Pretending that the bundle was too heavy for him, he said: ‘Li Shiu-je have husband-fellow? If have, he can carry maybe.’
Her face clouded over. ‘No have got. Husband-fellow have makee die. In sea. One year pass.’
‘Oh? Mister Barry too muchi sad inside.’
Soon after that Bahram also suffered a bereavement. He received a letter from his mother telling him that his youngest sister had died, in Gujarat. She had been ill for months but they had thought it best not to inform him since he was so far away and would worry to no good effect. But now that the unthinkable had happened there was no reason why he should not know.
Bahram had doted on this sister and he became so distraught that he could not bring himself to share the news with any of the other Parsis in Canton. He retreated into his cubicle and neglected the duties he was expected to perform for the senior members of the Bombay contingent. One day he was berated by a senior Seth for not having paid proper attention to the washing. At the end of the tirade the Seth handed him a torn turban-cloth.
Look – this is all your fault; see what has happened!
Bahram was in no state of mind to argue with the Seth: he walked out of the factory and headed for Chi-mei’s sampan. It was after nightfall but he found his way to the sampan without difficulty. For some reason she was alone.
‘Mister Barry, chin-chin. What thing wanchi?’
‘Li Shiu-je have done too muchi bad thing.’
‘Hai-ah! What thing have done ah?’
‘Have cuttee cloth.’
‘What-place cloth have cuttee ah? Mister Barry can show?’
‘Can. Can.’
The only lamp in the sampan was inside the cabin: it was a cramped, low space, but there were so few possessions in it that it did not feel crowded. Sitting crouched under the hooped roof, Bahram unfolded the fabric, looking for the part that was torn. The turban-cloth was many yards long, and soon it was all over them, tangled around their arms.
Profanities began to pour from Bahram’s mouth – bahnchod! madarchod! – and suddenly she caught hold of his arms.
‘Stop, stop, Mister Barry. Stop.’ Raising a fold of the fabric, she wiped something off his face.
‘Mister Barry trouble have got? Blongi sad inside?’
His throat was dry but he managed to say: ‘Yes. Too muchi sad. Sister have makee die.’
She was sitting close to him, with her shoulders half turned in his direction. He dropped his head on the curve of her neck and to his astonishment she did not push him away. Instead she began to stroke his back with one hand.
Never before had he taken so much comfort in being touched: desire and love-making were nowhere in his thoughts; what he felt above all was gratitude.
Soon it became clear that she had come to some kind of decision in regard to him. She whispered in his ear, telling him he could not stay now, because her mother and daughter would be back in a few minutes. But she would send him word soon, through a messenger: ‘He boy-chilo – my relative. He name blongi Allow.’
Two days later Bahram felt a tug on the hem of his choga. He turned around to find a little boy standing behind him. A drop of mucus hung pearl-like beneath his nose, and he was wearing a dirty tunic and ragged pyjamas. He looked like any of the urchins who wandered around the Foreign Enclave, begging for coins and offering to run errands.