Sea of Poppies (76 page)

When Neel's head moved, and Baboo Nob Kissin saw that he was nodding, his joy was beyond containment. You're sure? he said. Sure she's there now? It is time?

Yes, said Neel, looking into his eyes, nodding in confirmation. Yes, she is there. I see her – a mother incarnate: her time has come . . .

The gomusta let go of Neel's hand and wrapped his arms around himself: now that the last shreds of his former being were to be discarded, he was aware of a strange affection, a tenderness for the body that had so long been his. There was no reason for him to remain here any longer: he made his way back to the main deck and took a step towards the deckhouse. His eyes fell on Kalua, and once again, he lowered himself to all fours, and crawled along the bulwarks. Pulling himself level with the drooping figure, he put an arm around him and held on as a wave surged across the deck, almost sweeping his legs out from under him.

Wait, he whispered to Kalua. Wait just a little bit longer, and you too will find your freedom;
moksha
is at hand for you too . . .

Now that Taramony's presence was fully manifest in him, it was as if he had become the key that could unlock the cages that imprisoned everyone, all these beings who were ensnared by the illusory differences of this world. It was the fullness of this insight that carried him, drenched and battered, but ecstatic in the possession of his new self, towards the after-cabins. At Zachary's door, he paused as he so often had, to listen for a flute, and caught instead the sound of whispering voices.

It was here, he remembered, in this very place, that the start of his transfiguration had been signalled, by the sound of a flute: everything had come full circle now, everything was as foretold. His hand went to his amulet and he slipped out the piece of paper that lay inside. Hugging it to his chest, he began to turn around and around; the ship was dancing with him too, the deck heaving to the rhythm of his whirling footsteps. Seized by the transcendent, blissful joy of pure ananda, he closed his eyes.

This was how Mr Crowle found him: turning around and around, with arms raised in the air. ‘Pander, y'fuckin cunt-pensioner . . . !' He stopped the gomusta's dance with a slap across the face. Then his eyes went to the sheet of paper which the gomusta, now cowering, was clutching in his hands. ‘What's this then? Let's have a look.'

Sweeping a hand across her eyes, Paulette brushed away a flurry of tears. She could never have imagined that her meeting with Zachary would take such a hostile turn, but now that it had, it was best not to make things worse than they were already. ‘It is no use, Mr Reid,' she said, rising to her feet. ‘It has clearly been a great meprise for us to speak with each other. I came to tell you that your friends are direly in need of you; I came to speak of my own . . . but it is no use. Everything I say seems only to deepen our misunderstandings. It is best that I leave now.'

‘Wait! Miss Lambert!'

The thought of losing her panicked Zachary. Leaping to his feet, he reached blindly towards the sound of her voice, forgetting, in the darkness, how small his cabin was. Almost as soon as he raised his hand, his fingers brushed against her arm; he made as if to pull away,
but his palm would not move; instead, his thumb pushed back the fabric of her shirt. She was close enough that he could hear her breathing; he could even feel the warmth of her exhalations misting on his face. His hand went along her shoulder, to the back of her neck, pausing between her collar and bandanna, to explore the patch of bare skin that had been exposed by her upswept hair. Strange how he had once been appalled by the thought of seeing her as a lascar; strange that he had wanted to keep her forever wrapped in velveteen. For even though he could not actually see her now, the very knowledge of her guise made her seem more desirable than ever, a creature so changeable and elusive as to be impossible to resist: his mouth was suddenly fastened on hers, and her lips were pressed against his.

Even though they could see nothing in the darkness of the unlit cabin, their absorption was such that they both slowly closed their eyes. When a knock sounded on the door neither of them noticed. It was only when Mr Crowle shouted – ‘Y'in there, Mannikin?' – that they sprang apart.

Paulette flattened herself against the bulwark as Zachary cleared his throat. ‘Yes, Mr Crowle: what is it?'

‘Could y'step out?'

Prising the door apart a few inches, Zachary saw that Mr Crowle was standing outside. Cowering beside him was Baboo Nob Kissin, whose neck was firmly in the first mate's grip.

‘What's going on, Mr Crowle?'

‘I've got something y'need to see, Mannikin,' said the first mate, with a grim smile. ‘Something I got from our friend Baboon here.'

Zachary stepped quickly outside, pulling his door shut behind him. ‘What is it?'

‘I'll show yer, but not here. And not while I've got this Baboon on my hands. Best he cools off in yer cabin.' Before Zachary could say anything, Mr Crowle pushed the door open and kneed the gomusta in the small of his back, propelling him past Zachary, into his cabin. Without looking inside, the first mate pulled the door shut. Then he lifted an oar out of a wall-bracket and thrust the shaft through the looped handles. ‘That should hold him while we're sorting this out.'

‘And where are we going to do that?'

‘My cabin's as good a place as any.'

As with a bear in its den, the reassurance of being in his own space lent an extra heft to the first mate's already formidable physique: once he and Zachary were inside, with the door closed behind them, he seemed to swell and expand, leaving Zachary very little room. The vessel was swaying wildly and they had to stretch out their arms to steady themselves against the sides of the cabin. But even then, standing spreadeagled and chest to chest, bumping against each other with the schooner's every lurch, Mr Crowle seemed intent on using his height and bulk to crowd Zachary into sitting down on his bunk. But this, Zachary would not do: there was something in the first mate's demeanour that spoke of an excess of emotion that was even more disturbing than the overt aggression of the past. In order not to yield any ground to the larger man, Zachary forced himself to stay on his feet.

‘Well then, Mr Crowle? What did you want to see me about?'

‘Somethin ye'll thank me for, Reid.' The first mate reached into his vest and pulled out a yellowing sheet of paper. ‘Got this off that gooby – Pander, innit? He was takin it t'the skipper. Ye're lucky I got a-hold o' it, Reid. Thing like this could do a cove a lot o'damage. Could'appen he'd never work on a ship again.'

‘What is it?'

‘It's the crew-list – for the
Ibis
, on'er run out from Baltimore.'

‘And what of it?' said Zachary, frowning.

‘Take a dekko, Reid.' Holding up the lamp, the mate handed him the tattered slip of paper. ‘Go on – see fer y'self.'

Back when he first signed on to the
Ibis
, Zachary had known nothing of ships' papers or crew manifests, or how the filling-in of them might vary from vessel to vessel. He had walked on board the
Ibis
with his ditty-bag, shouted his name, age and birthplace to the second mate, and that was that. But he saw now that along with a few other members of the crew, there was an extra notation next to his name: he narrowed his eyes, squinting, and suddenly he froze.

‘Y'see, Reid?' said Mr Crowle. ‘See what I mean?'

Zachary answered by nodding mechanically, without raising his eyes, and the first mate continued. ‘Lookat, Reid,' he said, hoarsely, ‘it don't mean anythin to me. Don't give a damn, I don't, if ye're a m'latter or not.'

Zachary answered, as if by rote: ‘I'm not a mulatto, Mr Crowle. My mother was a quadroon and my father white. That makes me a metif.'

‘Don't change nothing, Reid.' Mr Crowle's hand reached up and he brushed a knuckle against Zachary's unshaven cheek. ‘Metif or m'latter, it don't change the colour o'this . . .'

Zachary, still mesmerized by the paper, made no movement, and the hand rose higher still, to flick back a curly forelock with a fingertip. ‘. . . And it don't change this neither. Y'are what y'are, Reid, and it don't make no difference to me. If y'ask me, it makes us two of a kind.'

Zachary looked up now, and his eyes narrowed in puzzlement. ‘Don't get the gist, Mr Crowle?'

The first mate's voice sank to a low growl. ‘Look'ere, Reid, we di'n't get off to a good start, there's no denyin'it. Y'made a fool o'me with yer tofficky trolly-wags and yer buncomising tongue: thought y'was way above my touch. But this'ere paper, it changes everything – I'd never'a thought I could've been so far off course.'

‘What do you mean, Mr Crowle?'

‘Don't y'see, Mannikin?' The first mate put his hand on Zachary's shoulder. ‘We could be a team, the two o'us.' He tapped the paper and took it out of Zachary's hand. ‘This thing – nobbut needs be in the know of it. Not the Captain nor anyone else. It'll stay here.' Folding the manifest, he slipped it under his vest. ‘Think about it, Reid, me as skipper, and y'self as mate. Tie for tye; no lies for y'self and none for me neither: we'd have the jin o'each other, both o'us. What more could two coves like us hope for? No need for gulling, no need for lies: ton for ton and man for man. I'd be easy on yer too, Mannikin; I'm one who knows what o'clock it is and which way the bull runs. When we're in port ye'd be on the loose, free for whatever takes yer fancy: don't make no difference to me, not ashore.'

‘And at sea?'

‘All ye'd have to do is cross the cuddy from time to time. That in't so long a walk, is it? And if it in't t'yer taste, y'can shut yer eyes
and think y'self in Jericho for all I care. Comes a day, Mannikin, when every Tar has t'learn t'work ship in headwinds and bad weather. Y'think life owes y'any different from others just cause ye're a m'latter?'

Despite the brutal roughness of the first mate's tone, Zachary could sense that he was on the verge of an inner disintegration, and he was aware of an unexpected stirring of sympathy. His eyes sought out the piece of paper that he was holding between his fingers, and he was amazed to think that something so slight, so innocuous, could be invested with so much authority: that it should be able to melt away the fear, the apparent invulnerability that he, Zachary, had possessed in his guise as a ‘gentleman'; that it should so change his aspect as to make him appeal to a man who could desire, evidently, only that which he held in his power; that the essence of this transformation should inhere in a single word – all of this spoke more to the delirium of the world than to the perversity of those who had to make their way in it.

He could sense the first mate's mounting impatience for an answer, and when he spoke it was not unkindly, but with a quiet firmness. ‘Look, Mr Crowle,' he said. ‘I'm sorry, but this deal o'yours won't work for me. It may look to you that this piece of paper has turned me inside out, but in truth it's changed nothing. I was born with my freedom and I ain't looking to give any o'it away.'

Zachary took a step towards the door but the first mate moved in front of him, blocking his way. ‘Boat yer oars, Mannikin,' he said, on a note of warning. ‘Won't do yer no good to walk yer chalks now.'

‘Listen, Mr Crowle,' said Zachary, quietly. ‘Neither of us needs to remember this conversation. Once I step out this door, it's over and done with – didn't happen.'

‘Too late to toss up the bunt now, Mannikin,' said the first mate. ‘What's said is said and can't be forgotten.'

Zachary looked him up and down and squared his shoulders. ‘What do you plan to do then, Mr Crowle? Keep me in here till I knock the door down?'

‘Aren't y'forgetting something, Mannikin?' The first mate tapped his finger on the paper that was tucked into his vest. ‘Wouldn't take me more'n a couple o'minutes to run this over to the skipper.'