River of Smoke - Amitav Ghosh [80]
‘Your pictures, Mr Penrose: I did not trouble to copy the older one as it is lacking in detail. But here is my copy of the other – I wager you’ll not be able to tell it apart from the original.’
‘Ee’re right there, but I’m not a betting man.’
From the evidence of Robin’s voice it seemed to Paulette that his accent had changed just as much, if not more than his appearance: he had lost all trace of a Bengali intonation. When he cried out: ‘And Paulette? Where is she?’ it was in the rounded tones of the English pucka sahib.
‘Waiting for ee up there,’ said Fitcher, pointing to the quarter-deck. ‘Go on up. I know the two of ee have a lot to talk about so I’ll give ee a few minutes on eer own.’
Now, Robin uttered a little shriek – ‘Why there she is, my darling Puggly!’ – giving Paulette a glimpse of her friend’s earlier more familiar self. And then, as he came racing up the companion ladder he was almost the Robin of old, chattering away in Bengali: Aré Pagli, toké kotodin dekhini! – haven’t seen you in so long! Come here, you …
Paulette threw her arms around him and the feel of his soft and bosomy embrace was like a remembered taste, dissolving upon the tongue; she recalled the savour of the times they had spent together, bantering, teasing, arguing and gossiping and she understood, all of a sudden, that Robin was perhaps the closest friend she had ever had – for Jodu was more a sibling than a friend.
Oh Robin, I’m so happy to see you – it’s been so long.
Too long; far too long! cried Robin. ‘I’ve missed you so much my sweet, dear Puggly.’
Have you forgiven us, Robin? Jodu and me?
‘Oh yes,’ said Robin, releasing her from his embrace. ‘It is all in the past now. You were just children, and not, if I may say so, my dear Miss Pugglesford, particularly distinguished in your tastes, so how could you be expected to understand Art? The fault was mine really, I blame myself … although I cannot deny that your vandalism was indeed something of a blow at the time. I had invested a great deal in that painting and the loss of it sent me into something of a decline – and that, I am sorry to say, led to a most unfortunate outcome. My poor, sweet mother, who was, as you know, too good and trusting a soul for this world, became so alarmed at my state that she arranged – would you believe it, Puggly dear? – for me to be married!’
Really? And what came of it?
‘I’m afraid it didn’t take, Puggly dear, for I’m not a marrying kind of man, besides which she – my bride – was a perfect fright and inspired utter terror in all who crossed her path.’
Eki? So what did you do?
‘I did what any Chinnery would have done, Puggly dear: I took to my heels. And of course the first thought in my mind was to escape to Canton, just as Mr Chinnery had done, for it is the one place where a sahib may count on being safe from mems. To get away was no easy feat though, I can tell you that, for a passage to China is not cheap, by any means … but fortunately I had a couple of paintings at hand, done in the Chinnery manner and lacking only a signature. Once that was rectified I had no trouble selling them and I was sure Mr Chinnery would forgive me this desperate measure. But alas, nothing has turned out quite as I had expected: Mr Chinnery positively berated me for forging his signature – and worse still, it turned out that he was not living in Canton after all, but in Macau, which is nothing but a dull, mofussil town. It is the kind of place where everyone pretends to be exceedingly genteel and this fever seems to have seized Mr Chinnery as well: my arrival put his nose severely out of joint – would you credit it, Puggly dear, he insists that I pretend to be his nephew, and has absolutely forbidden me to appear in public in any but the dullest kinds of costume. I try to be obedient but he still keeps haranguing me to go back to Calcutta – to be