Sea of Poppies (17 page)

Now, on arriving at the table, there was a long pause during which Neel and his guests stayed on their feet, waiting for their chairs to be pushed forward. Catching Parimal's eye, Neel realized that the boatmen had not been told about this part of the ceremony: they, in turn, were waiting for the guests to come to them; clearly they were under the impression that the diners were to be seated at a distance of several feet from the table – and how indeed were they to know, it occurred to Neel to wonder, that chairs and tables belonged in much closer proximity?

In the interim, one of the young boatmen took the initiative and gave Mr Doughty's elbow a helpful tap, to indicate that his chair was empty and waiting to be occupied, some three feet to the rear. Neel saw the pilot reddening and intervened hastily in Bengali,
ordering the boatmen to bring the chairs closer. The command was so sharply uttered that the youngest of the boatmen, a boy who happened to be attending upon Zachary, brought his chair forward in a startled rush, as though he were pushing a dinghy down a mudbank. The lip of the chair caught Zachary from behind, scooping him up and delivering him to the table – breathless, but otherwise unharmed.

Although he apologized profusely, Neel was pleased to see that Zachary was more amused than offended by the incident: in the short time they had spent together, the young American had made a considerable impression on him, as much for the innate elegance of his person as for the reserve of his bearing. The provenance and origins of strangers often provoked Neel's curiosity: in Bengal it was so easy to know who was who; more often than not, just to hear someone's name would reveal their religion, their caste, their village. Foreigners were, by comparison, so opaque: it was impossible not to speculate about them. Mr Reid's demeanour, for example, suggested to Neel that he might be descended from an old, aristocratic family – he remembered having read somewhere that it was not unusual for the European nobility to send their younger sons to America. This thought led him to remark: ‘Your city, Mr Reid, am I not right to think it was named for a certain Lord Baltimore?'

The answer was oddly unsure – ‘May . . . maybe – I'm not sure . . .' – but Neel persisted: ‘Lord Baltimore was an ancestor of yours, perhaps?' This elicited a startled shaking of the head and an abashed denial – which served only to persuade Neel all the more firmly of the noble origins of his reticent guest. ‘Will you be sailing back to Baltimore soon . . . ?' Neel asked. He was about to add ‘my lord' but caught himself just in time.

‘Why no, sir,' Zachary responded. ‘The
Ibis
is bound first for the Mauritius. If we make good time, we may sail to China later in the year.'

‘I see.' This recalled to Neel's mind his original purpose in hosting this meal, which was to discover whether there was any immediate prospect of a change in his chief creditor's fortunes. He turned to Mr Burnham: ‘There is an improvement, then, in the situation in China?'

Mr Burnham answered with a shake of his head: ‘No, Raja Neel Rattan. No. Truth to tell, the situation has worsened considerably – to the point where there is serious talk of war. Indeed that may well be the reason for the
Ibis
's voyage to China.'

‘A war?' said Neel in astonishment. ‘But I have heard nothing about a war with China.'

‘I am sure you haven't,' said Mr Burnham, with a thin smile. ‘Why indeed should a man like you concern yourself with such matters? You have more than enough to occupy you, I'm sure, with all your palaces and zenanas and budgerows.'

Neel knew that he was being sneered at and his hackles rose, but he was saved from an intemperate response by the timely appearance of the first course – a steaming soup. The silver tureen having been stolen, the soup was presented in the one remaining utensil that was made of the same metal: a punch-bowl shaped like a seashell.

Mr Doughty permitted himself an indulgent smile. ‘Do I smell duck?' he said, sniffing the air.

Neel had no idea of what was to be served, for the cooks on the kitchen-boat had been foraging for provisions almost till the last. Having reached the final leg of its journey, the budgerow's stocks of food had begun to run low: the news that there was to be a grand dinner had caused panic among the cooks; an army of piyadas, paiks and boatmen had been dispatched to fish and forage – with what results, Neel did not know. So it was Parimal who confirmed, in a whisper, that the soup had been made from the flesh of the very animal whose fat had been used to polish the table – but the latter part of the tale Neel kept to himself, conveying only that the soup was indeed concocted from the remains of a duck.

‘Excellent!' said Mr Doughty, tipping back his glass. ‘And a fine sherry-shrub too.'

Although glad of the interruption, Neel had not forgotten Mr Burnham's dismissive jibes about his preoccupations. He was convinced now that the shipowner was exaggerating in order to persuade him of the extent of his firm's losses. Taking care to keep his voice even, he said: ‘You will no doubt be surprised to know, Mr Burnham, that I have been at some pains to be keeping myself informed – yet I know nothing about this war you speak of.'

‘Well then, it falls to me to inform you, sir,' said Mr Burnham, ‘that of late the officials in Canton have been moving forcefully to end the inflow of opium into China. It is the unanimous opinion of all of us who do business there that the mandarins cannot be allowed to have their way. To end the trade would be ruinous – for firms like mine, but also for you, and indeed for all of India.'

‘Ruinous?' said Neel mildly. ‘But surely we can offer China something more useful than opium?'

‘Would that it were so,' said Mr Burnham. ‘But it is not. To put the matter simply: there is nothing they want from us – they've got it into their heads that they have no use for our products and manufactures. But we, on the other hand, can't do without their tea and their silks. If not for opium, the drain of silver from Britain and her colonies would be too great to sustain.'

Here, Mr Doughty suddenly joined in: ‘The trouble, you know, is that Johnny Chinaman thinks he can return to the good old days, before he got his taste for opium. But there's no going back – just won't hoga.'

‘Going back?' said Neel, in surprise. ‘But China's hunger for opium dates back to antiquity, does it not?'

‘Antiquity?' scoffed Mr Doughty. ‘Why, even when I first went out to Canton, as a lad, there was just a trickle of opium going in. Damned hard-headed gudda is Johnny Long-tail. I can tell you, it wasn't easy to get him to take to opium. No sir – to give credit where it's due, you would have to say that the yen for opium would still be limited to their twice-born if not for the perseverance of English and American merchants. It's happened almost within living memory – for which we owe a sincere vote of thanks to the likes of Mr Burnham.' He raised his glass to the shipowner. ‘To you, sir.'

Neel was about to join in the toast when the next course appeared: it consisted of fledgling chickens that had been cooked whole. ‘I'll be damned if it isn't a roast of Sudden-Death!' cried Mr Doughty, in delight. Spearing a bird's tiny head with his fork, he began to chew on it in dreamy contentment.

Neel stared at the bird on his plate in glum resignation: he was suddenly very hungry and had he not been in plain view of his retainers he would certainly have set upon the chicken – but he
distracted himself instead by belatedly raising his glass to Mr Burnham. ‘To you, sir,' he said, ‘and your successes in China.'

Mr Burnham smiled. ‘It wasn't easy, I can tell you,' he said. ‘Especially in the early days, when the mandarins were somewhat less than amenable.'

‘Really?' Not having given much thought to commerce, Neel had imagined that the traffic in opium enjoyed official approval in China – this seemed only natural since in Bengal the trade was not merely sanctioned but monopolized by the British authorities, under the seal of the East India Company. ‘You amaze me, Mr Burnham,' he said. ‘Is the sale of opium frowned on by the Chinese authorities, then?'

‘I'm afraid so,' said Mr Burnham. ‘Trafficking in opium has been illegal there for some time. But they've never made a tumasher about it in the past: their mandarins and chuntocks always got their ten-per-cent desturees and were glad to shut their eyes to it. The only reason they're making a fuss now is that they want a bigger share of the profits.'

‘It's simple,' Mr Doughty announced, chewing on a wing. ‘The Long-tails have got to be given a taste of the lattee.'

‘I'm afraid I have to agree, Doughty,' said Mr Burnham, nodding. ‘A timely dose of chastisement is always to the good.'

‘So you are convinced then,' said Neel, ‘that your government will go to war?'

‘It may well come to that, alas,' said Mr Burnham. ‘Britain has been nothing if not patient but there's a limit to everything. Look at what the Celestials did to Lord Amherst. There he was, on the very threshold of Pekin, with a shipload of presents – and the Emperor wouldn't so much as receive him.'

‘Oh, don't speak of it, sir, it is not to be borne!' said Mr Doughty indignantly. ‘Wanted his lordship to kowtow in public! Why, they'll be asking us to grow long-tails next!'

‘And Lord Napier fared no better either,' Mr Burnham reminded him. ‘The mandarins paid him no more attention than they would this chicken.'

The mention of the bird drew Mr Doughty's attention back to his food. ‘Speaking of chicken, sir,' he murmured. ‘This certainly is a most excellent roast.'

Neel's eyes wandered back to the untouched bird on his own plate: even without tasting it, he could tell that it was a toothsome little morsel, but of course it was not his place to say so. ‘You are too generous in your praise, Mr Doughty,' he said, in a flourish of hospitable self-deprecation, ‘it is no more than a verminous little creature, unworthy of such guests as yourselves.'

‘Verminous?' said Zachary in sudden alarm. It was only now that he noticed that Neel had not touched any of the food that had been placed in front of him. Laying down his fork, he said: ‘But you haven't touched your chicken, sir. Is it . . . is it not advisable, in this climate?'

‘No,' said Neel, and quickly corrected himself. ‘I mean yes – it is perfectly advisable for yourself . . .' He broke off, trying to think of a polite way to explain to the American why the chicken was forbidden to the Raja of Raskhali, but perfectly edible for an unclean foreigner. No words came to him, and in a mute plea for help, he glanced at the two Englishmen, both of whom were well aware of the dietary rules of the Halders. Neither of them would meet his gaze, but at length Mr Doughty made a bubbling sound, like a kettle coming to the boil. ‘Just eat the bish, you gudda,' he hissed at Zachary. ‘He was only foozlowing.'

The matter was resolved by the entry of a platter of fish: a crumbed fillet of bhetki, with an accompaniment of crisp vegetable pakoras. Mr Doughty subjected the dish to careful scrutiny. ‘Cockup, if I'm not mistaken – and with fuleeta-pups too! Why, sir, your bobachees have done us proud.'

Neel was about to mouth a polite demurral when he made a discovery that shocked him to his core. His eyes having strayed to the wilted water lilies at the centre of the table, he realized to his utter horror that the flowers were sitting not in a vase, as he had thought, but in an old porcelain chamber-pot. Evidently the budgerow's present generation of boatmen had forgotten the function and history of this vessel, but Neel remembered very well that it had been purchased expressly for the use of an elderly district magistrate whose intestines had been sorely beset by worms.

Stifling an exclamation of disgust, Neel tore his eyes away and cast about for a subject that would keep his guests distracted. When one such suggested itself, he uttered a cry in which a lingering trace
of revulsion could still be heard. ‘But Mr Burnham! Are you saying the British Empire will go to war to force opium on China?'

This elicited an instantaneous response from Mr Burnham, who placed his wineglass forcefully on the table. ‘Evidently you have mistaken my meaning, Raja Neel Rattan,' he said. ‘The war, when it comes, will not be for opium. It will be for a principle: for freedom – for the freedom of trade and for the freedom of the Chinese people. Free Trade is a right conferred on Man by God, and its principles apply as much to opium as to any other article of trade. More so perhaps, since in its absence many millions of natives would be denied the lasting advantages of British influence.'

Here Zachary broke in. ‘How so, Mr Burnham?'

‘For the simple reason, Reid,' said Mr Burnham patiently, ‘that British rule in India could not be sustained without opium – that is all there is to it, and let us not pretend otherwise. You are no doubt aware that in some years, the Company's annual gains from opium are almost equal to the entire revenue of your own country, the United States? Do you imagine that British rule would be possible in this impoverished land if it were not for this source of wealth? And if we reflect on the benefits that British rule has conferred upon India, does it not follow that opium is this land's greatest blessing? Does it not follow that it is our God-given duty to confer these benefits upon others?'

Neel had been listening to Mr Burnham with less than half a mind, his attention having been thoroughly distracted: he had just realized that the business of the chamber-pot might well have turned out a great deal worse than it had. What, for instance, would he have done if it had been presented at the table as a tureen, filled to the brim with steaming soup? Considering all that could have happened, he had every reason to be grateful for his deliverance from social ruin: indeed, the matter smacked so much of divine intervention that he could not help saying, in a tone of pious rebuke: ‘Does it not trouble you, Mr Burnham, to invoke God in the service of opium?'