Sea of Poppies

As for Jodu, his eyes went from Paulette's face to Zachary's and he knew at once, from the stiffness of their attitudes, that something of significance had passed between them. Having lost everything he owned, he had no qualms in using their new-found friendship to his advantage. O ké bol to ré, he said in Bengali to Paulette: Tell him to find me a place on this ship's lashkar. Tell him I have nowhere to go, nowhere to live – and it's their fault, for running down my boat…

Here Zachary broke in. 'What's he saying?'

'He says that he would like to gain a place on this ship,' said Paulette. 'Now that his boat is destroyed, he has nowhere to go…'

As she was speaking, her hands had risen to toy with the ribbons of her bonnet: in her awkwardness she presented a picture that was so arresting to Zachary's starved eyes that there was nothing he would not have done for her at that moment. She was, he knew, the boon promised by the rediscovery of his penny-whistle, and if she had asked him to throw himself at her feet or take a running jump into the river, he would have paused only to say: 'Watch me do it.' An eager flush rose to his face as he said: 'Consider it done, Miss: you can count on me. I will speak to our serang. A place on the crew won't be hard to arrange.'

Just then, as if summoned by the mention of his office, Serang Ali came stepping down the ladder. Zachary lost no time in drawing him aside: 'This fellow here is out of a job. Since we've sunk his boat and given him a laundering, I think we have to take him on, as a ship's-boy.' Here, Zachary's eyes strayed back to Paulette, who flashed him a smile of gratitude. Neither this, nor the shy grin with which it was reciprocated, eluded Serang Ali's notice; his eyes narrowed in suspicion.

'Malum hab cuttee he head?' he said. 'What for wanchee this-piece boy? He blongi boat-bugger – no can learn ship-pijjin. Better he wailo chop-chop.'

Zachary's voice hardened. 'Serang Ali,' he said sharply; 'I don need no explateratin here: I'd like you to do this, please.'

Serang Ali's eyes darted resentfully from Paulette to Jodu before he gave his reluctant assent. 'Sabbi. Fixee alla propa.'

'Thank you,' said Zachary with a nod, and his chin rose in pride as Paulette stepped up to whisper in his ear: 'You are too kind, Mr Reid. I feel I should give you an explanation more complete – for what you have seen, of me and Jodu.'

He gave her a smile that made her sway on her feet. 'You don't owe me no explanation,' he said softly.

'But maybe we can speak – as friends, perhaps?'

'I would be…'

Then suddenly Mr Doughty's voice went booming through the hold: 'Is that the gooby you fished out of the water today, Reid?' His eyes bulged as they took in Jodu's newly clothed form. 'Well I'll be damned if the blackguard hasn't squeezed his wedding-tackle into a pair of trowsers? There he was, a naked little cockup half a puhur ago, and now he's tricked out like a wordy-wallah!'

*

'Ah! I see you've met,' said Mr Burnham as Zachary and Paulette emerged from the booby-hatch into the heat of the sunlit deck.

'Yes, sir,' said Zachary, taking good care to keep his eyes away from Paulette, who was holding her bonnet over the spot where her dress had been dampened by Jodu's wet loincloth.

'Good,' said Mr Burnham, reaching for the ladder that led to his caique. 'And now we must be off. Come along now – Doughty, Paulette. You too, Baboo Nob Kissin.'

At the mention of this name Zachary glanced over his shoulder and was perturbed to see that the gomusta had cornered Serang Ali and was conferring with him in a manner so furtive, and with so many glances in his own direction, that there could be no doubt of who was being talked about. But the annoyance of this was not enough to eclipse his pleasure in shaking Paulette's hand again. 'Hope we'll meet again soon, Miss Lambert,' he said softly as he released his hold on her fingers.

'Me also, Mr Reid,' she said, lowering her eyes. 'It would give me much pleasure.'

Zachary lingered on deck until the caique had faded completely from view, trying to fix in his mind the lineaments of Paulette's face, the sound of her voice, the leaf-scented smell of her hair. It was not till much later that he remembered to ask Serang Ali about his conversation with the gomusta: 'What was that man talkin to you about – what's his name? Pander?'

Serang Ali directed a contemptuous jet of spit over the deck rail. 'That bugger blongi too muchi foolo,' he said. 'Wanchi sabbi allo foolo thing.'

'Like what?'

'He ask: Malum Zikri likee milk? Likee ghee? Ever hab stole butter?'

'Butter?' Zachary began to wonder whether the gomusta was not some kind of investigator, looking into a report of misplaced or manarveled provisions. Yet, why would he concern himself with butter of all things? 'Why the hell'd he ask bout that?'

Serang Ali tapped his knuckles on his head. 'He blongi too muchi sassy bugger.'

'What'd you tell him?'

'Told: how-fashion Malum Zikri drinki milk in ship? How can catch cow on sea?'

'Was that all?'

Serang Ali shook his head. 'Also he ask – hab Malum ever changi colour?'

'Change colour?' Suddenly Zachary's knuckles tightened on the deck rail. 'What the devil did he mean?'

'He say: Sometimes Malum Zikri turn blue, no?'

'And what'd you say?'

'I say: maski, how-fashion Malum blue can be? He is sahib no? Pink, red, all can do – but blue no can.'

'Why's he asking all these questions?' said Zachary. 'What's he up to?'

'No need worry,' said Serang Ali. 'He too muchi foolo.'

Zachary shook his head. 'I don't know,' he said. 'He may not be as much of a fool as you think.'

*

Deeti's intuition that her husband would not be able to go back to work was soon confirmed. Hukam Singh's condition, after his seizure at the factory, was so enfeebled that he had not the strength to protest even when she took away his pipe and his brass box. But instead of initiating an improvement, deprivation provoked a dramatic turn for the worse: he could neither eat nor sleep and he soiled himself so often that his bed had to be moved out of doors. Drifting in and out of consciousness, he would scowl and mutter in incoherent rage: Deeti knew that if he had possessed the strength, he would not have stopped at killing her.

A week later, Holi arrived, bringing neither colour nor laughter to Deeti's home: with Hukam Singh muttering deliriously, on his bed, she did not have the heart to step outside. In Chandan Singh's house, across the fields, people were drinking bhang and shouting 'Holi hai!' The joyful cheers prompted Deeti to send her daughter over, to join in the fun – but even Kabutri had no appetite for merrymaking and was back within the hour.