Some of these articles of clothing came from the impecunious pilgrims, missionaries, soldiers and travellers who passed through the port. But many arrived from much farther afield, having been robbed, purloined or pirated at distant corners of the Indian Ocean – for amongst those who regularly plied these waters, it was well known that there was no better place than the Wordy-Market in which to dispose of stolen garments. Here, even more than in other bazars, buyers were well-advised to examine their goods carefully because many were marked by bloodstains, bullet holes, dagger punctures and other unsightly disfigurements. Caution was especially necessary with the more sumptuous garments – panelled chaopao coats and embroidered chang-fu robes – for many of these were retrieved from tombs and graves, and would often, upon inspection, be found to have been gnawed by worms. But if there were risks in shopping here, they were amply offset by the rewards: in what other place could a deserter exchange his tricorn and gorget for a suit of English clothes? That such a place would not be allowed to continue for ever was clear enough, but while it lasted, the Wordy-Market was recognized to be a godsend by all.
It was Neel who heard of the clothes bazar, from a Kalinga boatman who lived in the Chulia kampung. It was welcome news, for he and Ah Fatt had arrived wearing whatever clothes they had been able to acquire in the outer islands – pyjamas, vests and some threadbare sarongs. These bedraggled garments clearly would not do if they were to avoid drawing attention to themselves but their purses had dwindled by this time and the clothes that were on offer in the town’s shops were far beyond their means.
The Wordy-Market was the perfect solution to their plight: the first items they bought were cloth bags, and these they proceeded to fill, going from one stall to another, haggling in a mixture of tongues. Neel bought a European-style coat and some pyjamas, narrow and broad, a few sirbands and bandhnas to serve as turbans, and three or four light cotton angarkhas. Ah Fatt collected a similarly eclectic mix: a paletot, some shirts and breeches, several tunics, black and white, and a couple of Chinese gowns.
They were heading towards the shoe stalls when a voice came booming at them, loud enough to be heard over the din of the marketplace. ‘Freddy! Bloody bugger…!’
Ah Fatt froze and the blood drained from his face. He kept on walking, without looking back, prodding Neel to keep pace. After a few steps, he said, in an undertone: ‘Look-see who it is. What he look like?’
Glancing over his shoulder, Neel caught sight of a heavy-bellied man, impeccably dressed in European clothes: the face under the hat was very dark, the eyes white and protuberant, and he was hurrying after the two of them with an armload of newly purchased clothing.
‘How he look?’
Before Neel could say anything, the voice boomed at them again: ‘Freddy! Arre Freddy you bloody falto bugger! It’s me, Vico!’
From the side of his mouth Ah Fatt hissed at Neeclass="underline" ‘You go on. Keep walking. We talk later.’
Neel gave him a nod and walked on at a steady pace, not stopping till he was a good distance away. Then, from the shelter of a stall, he turned to watch the two men.
Even from that distance it was clear that Vico was pleading with Ah Fatt, who seemed unconvinced and unresponsive. But in a while he unbent a little, and Vico, visibly relieved, gave him a hug before hurrying off towards the creek, where an elegant ship’s cutter awaited him.
Neel waited a bit before intercepting Ah Fatt. ‘Who was that?’
‘Father’s purser, Vico. I tell you about him, no?’
‘What did he say?’
‘He say, Father sick. He want me very much. I must go see him.’
‘And you agreed?’
‘Yes,’ said Ah Fatt in his laconic way. ‘I go to ship. Later today. They send boat for me.’
For reasons that he could not quite understand, Neel was deeply disquieted by Ah Fatt’s plan. ‘But we have to talk about this, Ah Fatt,’ he said. ‘What will you tell your father? When he asks where you’ve been these last few years what will you say?’
‘Nothing,’ said Ah Fatt. ‘Will tell him nothing. Will tell him that I join ship and leave China three years before. At sea all this time.’
‘But what if he finds out that you were in India? And about your jail sentence and all that?’
‘Impossible,’ said Ah Fatt. ‘He can-na! After I leave Canton, all time I use different name. In jail they have only my body: no proper name, nothing. Nothing to connect me with all that.’
‘And after that? What if he wants to keep you with him?’
Ah Fatt shook his head. ‘No. He will not want me with him. He too much afraid Elder Wife will find out. About me.’
Then Ah Fatt had one of his odd moments of almost uncanny perceptiveness. Throwing his arm around Neel’s shoulder he said: ‘You afraid I am going to leave you alone, eh Neel? Do not worry. You my friend, no? I can-na leave you all lone in this place.’
That evening, after Ah Fatt had left to visit the Anahita, Neel went back to the kitchen-boat and sat waiting for a while. As the hours passed he began to doubt that Ah Fatt would return that night and he grew increasingly impatient with himself: what reason was there to feel that his own future hinged upon the outcome of Ah Fatt’s meeting with his father? If it came to a parting of their ways, he would have to manage as best he could – that was all there was to it. He rose to his feet, and made his way aft, to the covered ‘house’ in the stern of the kitchen-boat. This was where he had spent the last couple of nights and he fell asleep almost as soon as he lay down.
Some hours later, he woke up, urgently needing to relieve himself. Opening the door, he found the moon shining brightly upon the river. Afterwards, as he was making his way back to the cabin, his eyes strayed to the prow of the boat – he saw now that two figures were seated there, reclining in the bows.
Instantly, Neel was fully awake. He made his way quietly forward, until the two figures were only a couple of yards away. They were reclining against the moonlit bulwark: one was Ah Fatt and the other was the girl who did the cooking.
‘Ah Fatt?’
All he got in answer was a subdued grunt.
Stepping up to the bows, Neel saw that Ah Fatt was cradling a pipe in his hands.
‘What’s this you’re doing, Ah Fatt?’
‘Smoking.’
‘Opium?’
Ah Fatt tilted his head back, very slowly; his face was pallid in the moonlight and there was a look in his eyes that Neel had not seen before, subdued and dreamy, yet not somnolent. ‘Yes, opium,’ he said softly. ‘Vico give me some.’
‘Have a care Ah Fatt – you know what opium does to you.’
Ah Fatt shrugged. ‘Yen have catch me today: must bite bowl; must have tonight.’
‘Why?’
‘Father tell me something.’
‘What?’
There was a pause and then Ah Fatt said: ‘Mother dead.’
Neel gasped: he could see nothing of Ah Fatt’s face, and nor was his voice expressive of any emotion. ‘How did it happen?’
‘Father say, thieves maybe.’ He shrugged again, and said, on a note of finality, ‘No use talk about such-thing.’
‘Tell me more,’ said Neel. ‘You can’t stop there. What else did your father say?’
Ah Fatt’s voice seemed to fade, as though it were retreating down the shaft of a well. ‘Father happy see me. He cry and cry. He say he worry about me too much.’