Allow bowed and grinned. ‘Yes, Allow have buy. After Number-One Sister makee die. Why Mister Barry no come on boat one day ah? Go White Swan Lake, like olo time? Catch one-two piece pipe la? Have got number-one-chop gai-girlie. Mister Barry can do all waan. Man must do laap-pidgin sometime or catchi sick, get too muchi olo. Allow give Mister Barry top-chop sing-song girlie, just like Number-One Sister…’
To hear Chi-mei spoken of in this way was more than Bahram could tolerate. He spun around to face Allow, his eyes blazing: ‘Wailo Allow!’ he shouted. ‘What-thing you talkee? Number-One Sister no blongi sing-song girl. She blongi good woman – work hard; care for boy-chilo. She no blongi sing-song girlie. Allow savvy no-savvy ah?’
Allow backed away, his eyes widening. ‘Sorry! Very sorry, Mister Barry. Me too muchi sad inside, say bad thing.’
The door flew open and Vico burst in. Kya hua? he said. What’s happened, patrao?
Bahram was shaking now, and he leant towards the window again, turning his back on his visitor.
Take him away, Vico, he said, with a brusque gesture of dismissal. Tell him I can’t do it. I don’t want to get mixed up with people like Innes and this fellow here. There are just too many risks.
As you say, patrao.
At the door Allow stopped to look back. ‘Mister Barry,’ he said, ‘you thinkee what I say. You wanchee, still can do-pidgin. Any time, Allow ready. Better do-pidgin before new Governor come.’
Bahram was so angry now that a slew of half-remembered Cantonese obscenities spewed from his lips: Gaht hoi! Puk chaht hoi…
A few minutes later Vico came back, accompanied by the new munshi, and Bahram exploded: What sort of staff have I got? Why do I never get any proper news from either of you? Why do I have to find out everything from others?
What do you mean, patrao? What news?
The news about the new Governor; this Lin Jiju or Zexu or whatever. Why didn’t I hear about this from one of you?
*
It was Vico who showed Neel a way to stay ahead of the news: See, munshiji, the Register comes out every Tuesday, but the printing and preparation are done on Sunday and Monday. Sometimes even earlier.
But what good is that to me? said Neel.
Obvious no? said Vico. You have to go where it is printed.
There were only two English printing presses in Canton, Vico explained. One was in the American Hong and belonged to Protestant missionaries; the other was on Thirteen Hong Street and was owned and run by a Chinese man who had for many years worked as an apprentice to a well-known Macau printer, Mr De Souza, Goan by origin. Vico knew him well, and through him had also come to be acquainted with his assistant, Liang Kuei-ch’uan, who went by the fanqui-name of Compton. Vico knew for a fact that Compton was always looking for proof-readers.
Can you read proofs in English munshiji?
Neel had, for a while, co-edited a literary magazine; he was able to answer, with some confidence: Yes, I can.
Then I’ll take you to meet Compton, said Vico. His shop is like a bazar for the news.
Compton’s shop was on Thirteen Hong Street, the road that separated Fanqui-town from the city’s southern suburbs. One side of the street was lined by the rear walls of the foreign factories, some of which were fitted with small doorways to connect them with the busy thoroughfare. On the other side stood innumerable shops and shop-houses, large and small, each of them bedecked with banners and pennants that advertised the goods within: silk, lacquerware, ivory carvings, false teeth and the like.
Compton’s print-shop differed from its neighbours in that it had no counters and no goods on offer. Visitors stepped into a room that smelled of ink and incense, and was crammed with reams of paper. The press was nowhere in sight; the printing was done somewhere deep inside the building.
Neel and Vico entered to find a boy dozing upon a pile of old Registers. A glance at the visitors was enough to send the fellow scampering through a door; when next seen he was hiding behind the legs of the portly, harried-looking man who presently emerged from within.
‘Mr Vico! Nei hou ma?’
‘Hou leng, Mr Compton. And you?’
Compton had a round full face, the shape of which was perfectly echoed by the lenses of the spectacles that sat precariously upon the end of his nose. He was dressed in a grey gown that was partly covered by an ink-smeared apron, and his queue was coiled into a tight and workmanlike bun.
‘And is this your pang-yauh, Mr Vico?’ Compton squinted at Neel with the worried frown of the chronically short-sighted. ‘Who is he, eh?’
‘Mr Anil Munshi. He is Seth Bahramji’s letter-writer. You are looking for a proof-reader, no?’
Compton’s eyes grew unnaturally large behind his thick glasses. ‘Gam aa? Proof-reader! Is true?’
‘True.’
Within minutes Neel was sitting on a bale of paper, scrutinizing the proofs of the next issue of the Register. By the end of the day, he and the printer were on first-name terms: Compton had asked him to drop the ‘Mr’ and he had become Ah-Neel. He left the shop with a string of cash wrapped around his wrist and was back again the next day.
Compton had another set of proofs ready, and while looking through them Neel asked: ‘Have you heard anything about a new Governor? One Lin Tse-hsu?’
Compton glanced at him in surprise: ‘Haih-a! Gam you have heard the talk also?’
‘Yes. Do you know about him?’
Compton smiled. ‘Maih-haih! Lin Zexu is great man – one of best poet and scholar in China. He is man with big mind, open mind – always want to learn new things. My teacher his friend. Speak of him a lot.’
‘What does he say?’
Compton lowered his voice: ‘Lin Zexu not like other mandarin. He is a good man, honest man – best officer in country. Wherever there is trouble, there he is sent. He never take cumshaw, nothing – jan-haih! He become Governor of Kiangsi while he is still very young. In two years he stop all opium trade in that province. People there call him Lin Ch’ing-t’ien – that means “Lin the Clear Sky”.’
Compton paused and put a finger on his lips. ‘Better not tell this to your master bo. He will get too much worried. Dak?’
Neel nodded: Dak! Dak!
Soon Neel took to dropping by the print-shop when he had time to spare, and sometimes Compton would lead him down the passageway that separated his shop from his living quarters. This part of the building was two storeys high, with the rooms arranged around a courtyard. Although the courtyard was paved with stone tiles, a profusion of potted plants, trees and vines gave it the feel of a garden. The washing that fluttered overhead, strung between the rails of the upstairs balconies, provided a canopy of shade; on one side was a cherry tree, with leaves that were beginning to turn colour.
When Neel entered this part of the house the womenfolk would disappear, but the children, of whom there were many, would remain. Often Neel would see faces he had not seen before, and this gave him the impression of an extended family, frequently augmented by visitors: he was not surprised when Compton told him that his ancestral village lay at the mouth of the Pearl River, at Chuenpi, which was why he often had to play host to visiting relatives.
Compton himself was not Canton-born and nor had he grown up in the city. As a boy he had spent much of his time on the water: his father had made his living as a ship’s comprador, and the family had usually spent the trading season travelling between the Bogue and Whampoa, in the wake of foreign vessels.
The job of a ship’s comprador was different from that of a factory comprador; the latter, like the dubashes of India, were responsible for providing supplies to foreign traders after they had taken up residence in Canton. Ships’ compradors were more like ship chandlers, procuring provisions and equipment for the vessels that engaged their services. Unlike factory compradors, who had close links with the merchants of the Co-Hong, ships’ compradors worked on their own and had no powerful patrons to rely on. Theirs was a fiercely competitive business: as a boy, at the start of each season, Compton and his father would take it in turns to keep a lookout for the opium fleet, from a hill near their house. When the first vessel was spotted, they would go running down to the harbour to unmoor the family sampan. Then would begin a wild race against the rest of the bumboat fleet. The first boat to reach the incoming vessels stood the best chance of being taken on as the comprador, especially if the captain happened to be known to the family; if they were quick and lucky, they would secure a contract that would keep them busy for the next several weeks.