River of Smoke - Amitav Ghosh [211]
Nowhere on earth, I suspect, is the importance of portals as well understood as in China. In this country, gateways are not merely entrances and exits – they are tunnels between different dimensions of existence. Here, as at the threshold of Punhyqua’s garden, I was visited by the feeling that I was stepping into a realm that existed on some plane other than the ordinary.
Ahead lay a garden, not unlike Punhyqua’s, an artfully made landscape of streams and bridges, lakes and hills, rocks and forests, with winding pathways and wave-like walls. A part of the enchantment of these gardens is that they amplify the effects of the seasons. I had seen Punhyqua’s garden in November, when it was cloaked in the wistful hues of autumn; now, spring was all around us, and nowhere more so than here – the trees and plants were bright with bloom and the air was perfumed with the scent of flowers.
If not for my escort, I would gladly have wandered for hours among the pathways – but Ah-med would not let me stray from his heels. He led me directly to a ‘hill’ that was topped by what seemed to be a pavilion, built of some unearthly material, translucent in appearance and mauve in colour. Only on approaching closer did I realize that the pavilion was actually an enormous wisteria bush, supported by a kind of pergola. The flowers hung down in thick clusters, emanating a sweet, heady odour; set out in the dappled shade beneath were some chairs, teapoys and a couple of long divans. On one of the couches lay Mr Chan, dressed in his customary gown.
I thought at first that he was asleep, but when I stepped beneath the wisteria he opened his eyes and sat up.
‘Holloa there, Mr Chinnery: are you well?’
The voice no longer came as a surprise, although it was, as ever, strangely at odds with the setting. ‘Yes, Mr Chan,’ said I. ‘And you?’
‘Oh can’t complain, can’t complain,’ he muttered, like some rheumatic old pensioner. ‘And the painting?’
‘I have it here.’
I had brought the canvas still stretched upon its wooden frame: I propped it on a chair and placed it in front of him.
The moment of unveiling commissions to clients is always fraught with worry: you find yourself anxiously scanning their faces in an effort to gauge their response; you hope to see some indication of their feelings, a softening of the eyes perhaps, or a smile. No such signs were visible on Mr Chan’s countenance; for an instant I thought I saw a slight sharpening in his gaze, and then he nodded and motioned to me to seat myself on the other couch. When I had done so he clapped his hands and a couple of minutes later a servant appeared, to lay a covered tray on the table beside him. Removing the cover, Mr Chan picked up a cloth pouch and handed it over: ‘Your fee, Mr Chinnery.’
Abrupt though this was, I was hugely relieved to find that my work had passed muster. ‘Why thank you, sir,’ I said, with unfeigned gratitude (for I will not conceal from you, Puggly dear, that in the last few weeks I have sometimes found myself just a little short).
‘Good,’ said he, ‘and now that I have my painting and you have your fee, perhaps you would like to share a pipe with me?’
It was only now I realized that the tray which had been presented to Mr Chan contained also a pipe, a needle, a lamp, and a small ivory box. The function of these objects was not unfamiliar to me for I have seen their like often enough in my Uncle’s house. I was well aware also that to share an occasional pipe of opium with a guest is considered a courtesy by many Chinese. I could think of no reason to decline – and yet I was not so bold as to throw all caution to the winds. When Mr Chan handed me the pipe I took only a small draught, expecting that it would sting the throat in the same way as tobacco. But it was quite different: the smoke