River of Smoke - Amitav Ghosh [125]
Bahram had never once had any dealings with the legions of unsavoury people who were involved in the inner workings of the trade. That someone from that world should seek an interview with him, in his own daftar, was as astonishing to him as the fact that Vico had actually allowed him in.
Vico, have you gone mad? Since when have people like that been permitted to enter this hong?
Vico patiently stood his ground. Listen, patrão, he said. You know as well as I do that we haven’t been able to move any maal these last few weeks: it’s not like it used to be before. I’ve spoken to this man and he has an interesting proposal. I think you should listen to it.
But here? In my daftar?
Where else, patrão? It’s better here, no, than outside, where you might be seen by anyone?
And what if someone had seen him coming here?
No one saw, patrão: I brought him the back way. He’s waiting downstairs. Now tell me: what do you want me to do? If you’re scared to take the risk I will tell him to go.
Bahram went to the window again and looked down at the hurrying porters and eager food-vendors; the bustling beadles and quick-fingered jugglers. The Maidan’s brashness and energy were a reproach to his own caution: he could not abide the thought that he had lost his venturesomeness – wasn’t it his appetite for risk that had brought him to where he was? He took a deep breath and turned around. All right, he said to Vico: show him in. But make sure the munshi and the others don’t see him.
Yes, patrão.
On one side of the daftar there was an arrangement of straight-backed Chinese armchairs. This was where Bahram liked to receive visitors, and he had just seated himself when the door opened to admit Vico and the visitor: a small man, he was dressed unostentatiously, but not inexpensively, in a quilted jacket and a gown of plain, dove-coloured silk. His waist-length hair was dressed with a red ribbon and his head was crowned with a round, black hat.
‘Chin-chin, Mister Barry,’ he said, stepping jauntily across the room. ‘Fa-tsai! Fa-tsai!’
It was his stride rather than his face that Bahram recognized, suddenly recalling a stocky little fellow, walking on the balls of his feet and looking as though he might, at any minute, fall face-forwards on his nose. The snub-nosed face had grown plump and middle-aged but the walk had somehow retained its sprightly spring. The wheedling cadences of his voice had not changed either: hearing him speak, Bahram was reminded of the days when he would materialize suddenly from within the crowds of the Maidan and whisper: ‘Chin-chin, Mister Barry, Number-One-Sister tolo come tonight ah …’
These memories, so unexpected in this context, provided a kind of jolt that made it impossible for Bahram to be quite as stiffly formal as he would have liked. ‘Chin-chin Allow! Chin-chin. Fa-tsai!’
This seemed to delight the visitor, who cried: ‘Waa! Mister Barry remember, ah?’ He smiled, showing several gold teeth and made a rowing motion with both hands. ‘Allow take Mister Barry and Number-One Sister to White Swan Lake. Remember?’
‘Yes.’ Bahram recollected now, with painful clarity, that it was this fellow who had rowed Chi-mei and him to the lake when they went there for the first time: he had sat in the stern, patiently working the yuloh, while he and Chi-mei lay together in the cabin below, awkwardly tugging at each other’s clothes.
‘Remember, later I come to Mister Barry house and he give me cumshaw? Big cumshaw?’
‘Yes. Remember.’
In the meanwhile Allow’s face had turned grave, as if to reflect Bahram’s expression. ‘Allow too muchi sad inside, Mister Barry. Too muchi sad Number-One Sister makee die.’
Bahram narrowed his eyes. ‘What happen to Number-One Sister? Allow savvy, no-savvy?’
Allow answered with a vehement shake of his head. ‘No savvy. Allow that-time go Macau. Too muchi sorry, Mister Barry.’
‘So talkee me,’ said Bahram. ‘Sittee, sittee here. Allow what thing wanchi? Tell maski, chop-chop. No time have got.’
Hai-le! came the answer, accompanied by a vigorous affirmative nod. ‘Allow