River of Smoke - Amitav Ghosh [143]
‘No, Allow,’ he said. ‘No wanchi go in there. Wanchi go upstairs. Over there.’
Pointing to the deck above, Bahram started down the gangway that led to the staircase. Only when his hands were on the rails did it occur to him that this too might not be a good idea: the upper deck was the part of the boat he knew best – that was where Chi-mei had had her living quarters and it was there they had been accustomed to sit, of an evening, when he came to visit.
The thought came to him that she had possibly died up there: could it be that her killers too had mounted these stairs? He considered asking Allow if he knew exactly where she had been struck down, in which part of the boat. But as the query took shape in his mind he knew he would not be able to say: ‘What-place Number-One Sister makee die?’ The words seemed to belittle her death.
And besides, what good would it do to know?
Halfway up the stairs, Bahram faltered again: it might be better, he knew, to turn around, to find some other place to sit. But a morbid curiosity had taken hold of him now and he could not go back: he mounted the steps quickly and when his head emerged at the top he was hugely relieved to see that Chi-mei’s room was completely transformed, almost unrecognizable: its walls were painted red and gold and it was lit by an array of tasselled lamps. Her bed, chairs, closets and altar were all gone and their place had been taken by the usual flower-boat furniture – elaborately lacquered couches, stools, teapoys and the like.
Bahram walked straight through the room to the canopied divan on the foredeck. He was tired now and the prospect of sitting down was most welcome. Removing his shoes he sank back against a bolster.
Although the river was cloaked in fog the sky was clear. Looking up at the stars Bahram thought what a pity it was that he and Chi-mei had never taken this boat out on the river together. Then Allow came padding up to the divan and bent down to whisper in Bahram’s ear: ‘Mister Barry wanchi gai-girlie? Number One ‘silver chicken’ have got. She sei-méi girlie – first chop in all four flavour, foot-lick also. Anything wanchi, can do.’
Bahram was infuriated by the crudeness of the proposition. ‘No, Allow,’ he snapped. ‘No wanchi sing-song girlie. Mh man fa!’ Heui sei laa!
‘Sorry, Mister Barry. Very sorry.’ He withdrew quickly, leaving Bahram alone.
The boat had begun to move now and as its prow parted the fog the ripples of the bow wave went lapping through the water like misty shadows. Many of the boat’s lanterns had been extinguished and the few that were still lit had been dimmed by the mist, their glow reduced to faint pinpricks of light. The fog was so dense that everything was blurred in outline, and muted too, in colour and sound: the splash of the oars was barely audible.
Now Allow appeared again, bearing a tray that was covered by an embroidered cloth.
‘What-thing have brought?’
Seating himself on the divan, Allow plucked the cloth cover off the tray to reveal a finely carved ivory pipe, a long needle, and a carved opium box.
‘What-for all this thingi?’ said Bahram. ‘I no wanchi eat smoke.’
‘No problem, Mister Barry. Allow sittee here, catch litto-piece cloud. If Mister Barry wanchi, can talkee Allow.’
Bahram tried to keep his eyes fixed on the fog-cloaked water, but his gaze kept returning to Allow as he dipped the point of the needle into the gum and then held it over the wick of a lamp. The opium sputtered and caught fire and then Allow began to draw on the pipe, pulling the smoke into his lungs with a thirsty, whistling sound. A whiff of it blew towards Bahram and the sweetness of the smell astonished him – he had forgotten how different it was from the odour of raw chandu, how fragrant and heady.
‘Mister Barry wanchi little-bit? Too muchi good inside.’
Bahram said nothing, but nor did he object when Allow