Flood of Fire (56 page)

Bahram-bhai had helped him get started in business, Dinyar said to Shireen; he owed it to his memory to look after her. Besides, she would be doing him a favour; he had staffed the villa with cooks and stewards from his ship, the
Mor
, but being only in his
mid-twenties, he was unaccustomed to running a household; he would be most grateful if Shireen could take charge.

Attractive as the offer was, Shireen was reluctant to accept, mainly because she thought Rosa would have trouble finding accommodation for herself. But Rosa told her not to worry; she had a standing invitation to move in with a Goan family of her acquaintance.

After that there was no reason not to accept. Within a week Shireen was comfortably settled in Dinyar's villa. Nor did she regret it: her new living quarters consisted of an entire wing of the villa; and it was pleasant also to be running a household again. Moreover the Villa Nova was in a splendid location, with a fine view of the promenade and the Inner Harbour. Its frontage consisted of a long, shaded veranda: sitting there of an evening, in a rocking chair, Shireen could see the whole town go by on the Praya Grande. Most days Zadig Bey would stroll past too and more often than not she would step outside to join him on his walk.

Dinyar proved to be an unusually congenial and thoughtful host: Shireen had wondered whether he might look askance on her wearing European clothes and going about without a duenna. But it turned out that Dinyar was exceptionally liberal in his views; not only did he applaud her choice of clothing he also declared her to be a pioneer: ‘You'll see, Shireen-auntie, one day all our Bombay girls will want to dress like you.'

At the same time Dinyar was a proud Parsi, observant in his religious practices and fond of the old customs. He was delighted when Shireen made lacy torans and draped them around the doorways of the Villa Nova.

Shireen was by no means the only person to benefit from Dinyar's hospitality: he entertained frequently and prided himself on his table – in this, he liked to say, he was merely emulating Bahram, whose generosity and love of good living was a byword on the China coast. Thus, by living with Dinyar, Shireen was able to glimpse an aspect of her husband's life that she herself had never known.

As the weeks went by other Parsimerchants began to trickle into Macau and the Villa Nova quickly became the community's meeting place: on holidays the seths would assemble for prayers in the
salon; afterwards they would exchange news of Bombay over meals of
dhansak
, steamed fish, stewed trotters and baked dishes of creamy, shredded chicken:
marghi na mai vahala
.

But in the end the conversation would always veer around to the questions that most concerned them all: Would the British be able to extract reparations from the Chinese for the opium they had seized? Would the money be adequate? Would their losses be made good?

Shireen was the only person present who did not fret over these questions: rarely had she felt as content as she was in the Villa Nova.

*

In a few short weeks Zachary became so expert in selling opium to offshore buyers that he started seeking out new markets on his own, in remote coves and bays. Almost always his buyers were smugglers from the mainland, members of cartels affiliated with certain gangs and brotherhoods. Once Zachary had familiarized himself with their signals and emblems he had no difficulty in identifying reliable buyers. Nor did language present any difficulty: the negotiations were usually conducted in pidgin, with which Zachary was already familiar through his dealings with Serang Ali. He was well able to bargain on his own behalf.

As it happened many of Zachary's sales were to a single cartel: the network headed by the tycoon Lenny Chan. But Zachary's dealings were always with Mr Chan's underlings; knowing their boss to be an elusive man, Zachary assumed that he was unlikely to meet him on this voyage.

But he was wrong. One sultry August night, off the coast of Fujian, the
Ibis
was approached by a small, sleek-looking junk; unlike most such vessels, the junk had a canvas lateen sail; at the rear of the maindeck was a large ‘house', with lanterns bobbing in front of it.

As usual, the negotiations were conducted by a linkister who came over to the
Ibis
for that purpose. Afterwards, when a deal had been reached, there was a shout from the junk, in Chinese.

Then the linkister turned to Zachary, with a bow: ‘Mr Chan, he wanchi talkee Mr Reid.'

‘Haiyah!' said Zachary in surprise. ‘Is true maski? Mr Chan blongi here, on boat?'

The linkister bowed again. ‘Mr Chan wanchi Mr Reid come aboard. Can, no can, lah?'

‘Can, can!' said Zachary eagerly.

The
Ibis
's longboat was already loaded and ready to go, with dozens of opium chests stacked inside: usually it was Baboo Nob Kissin who handled the transfer of the cargo, but this time it was Zachary who went.

As the boat approached the junk, an unexpected greeting reverberated out of the darkness: ‘How're you going on there, Mr Reid?'

The voice was English in its intonation, yet the man who came forward to greet Zachary when he stepped on the junk's maindeck looked nothing like an Englishman: he had the appearance rather of a prosperous mandarin. His tall, corpulent form was covered by a robe of grey silk; on his head was a plain black cap; his queue was coiled in a bun and pinned to the back of his head. His face had the sagging, pendulous curves of an overfilled satchel, yet there was nothing soft about it: his nose was like a hawk's beak and his heavy-lidded eyes had a predatory glint. His hand too, Zachary noted as he shook it, was unexpectedly hard and calloused, talonlike in its grip.

‘Welcome aboard, Mr Reid. I'm Lenny Chan.'

‘I'm very glad to meet you, sir.'

‘Likewise, Mr Reid, likewise.' Putting a hand on Zachary's shoulder he guided him aft. ‘I hope you'll take some tea with me, Mr Reid?'

‘Certainly.'

A gust of perfumed air rushed out at them as a sailor held open the door of the junk's ‘house': Zachary found himself looking into a brightly lit, sumptuously appointed cabin, furnished with richly carved tables, couches and teapoys.

Seeing that his host had slipped off his shoes, Zachary bent down to follow suit. But Mr Chan stopped him as he was unlacing his boots: ‘Wait!' He clapped his hands and a moment later a young woman stepped in. She was dressed in an ankle-length robe of shimmering scarlet silk; without looking Zachary in the eye, she sank to her knees, head lowered, and undid his laces. After removing his boots, she disappeared again into the interior of the vessel.

‘Come, Mr Reid.'

Mr Chan led Zachary to a large, square armchair and poured him a cup of tea.

‘We've done a lot of business together haven't we, Mr Reid?' said Mr Chan, seating himself opposite Zachary.

‘So we have, Mr Chan. I think I've sold more than half my cargo to your people.'

Mr Chan's head was cocked to one side, and his eyes seemed almost shut – but Zachary knew that he was being minutely studied.

‘I hope,' said Mr Chan, ‘that some of the goods you sold were on your own account?'

‘Only ten chests I'm afraid,' said Zachary.

‘Well that's not to be laughed at, is it?' said Mr Chan. ‘I'll wager you're much richer than you were.'

‘That I certainly am.'

‘Though not quite so rich as Mr Burnham perhaps?'

‘No.'

‘But I'm sure you will be soon enough.' Mr Chan smiled thinly: ‘People say you're quite the coming man, Mr Reid.'

‘Do they?' Zachary was becoming a little unnerved now.

‘Yes. I hope we will go on doing business with each other, Mr Reid.'

‘I hope so too, Mr Chan.'

‘Good, good,' said Mr Chan meditatively. ‘But enough about business – you are my guest today and I would like to invite you to share a pipe. It is the custom, you know – men who have smoked together can trust one another.'

Taken aback, Zachary did not respond immediately.

His hesitation did not pass unnoticed: ‘You do not smoke opium, Mr Reid?'

‘I smoked once,' said Zachary. ‘A long time ago.'

‘Was it not to your taste?'

‘No,' said Zachary. ‘Not really.'

‘But if I may say so,' said Mr Chan, ‘perhaps the circumstances were not right? May I ask if you were sitting or lying down when you smoked?'

‘Sitting.'

‘There you are,' said Mr Chan, ‘that's no way to smoke. Chasing the dragon is an art, you know – it must be done properly.'

Rising from his chair, Mr Chan went to a nearby shelf, picked out an implement, and brought it to Zachary. It was an ornate pipe, with a stem as long as a man's forearm. It was made of a silvery alloy, like pewter, but the mouthpiece was of old, yellowed ivory, as was the octagonal bulb at the other end of the pipe.

‘This is my best pipe, Mr Reid. It is known as the “Yellow Dragon”. People have offered me thousands of taels for it. You will see why if you try it.'

A shiver passed through Zachary as he ran his fingers along the long metal stem. ‘All right,' he said. ‘I'll try it, this one time.'

‘Good – a man should sample the goods he sells.' Mr Chan smiled. ‘But if you are to do it, Mr Reid, you must do it properly – and it is not possible to smoke properly in a jacket and trowsers. Better you change into Chinese robes.'

He clapped his hands and the girl appeared again; after exchanging a few words with Mr Chan she ushered Zachary through a door, into a room that looked like a large wardrobe. Handing him a dove-grey gown, she bowed herself out.

While he was changing Zachary heard the sound of furniture being moved. He stepped out of the wardrobe to find that the cabin's lights had been dimmed and two couches had been positioned next to each other, in one corner. Between the couches was a marble-topped table, on which lay an array of objects: a box with a lacquered top, a pair of needles with hooked ends, a couple of saucers, and of course, the ‘yellow dragon', which was almost as long as the table itself. The girl was on her knees beside the table, holding a small lamp.

Mr Chan gestured to Zachary to take one of the couches. ‘Please lie down, Mr Reid, make yourself comfortable.'

After Zachary had stretched himself out, Mr Chan lifted the lacquered box off the table. Handing it to Zachary he said: ‘Look – this is freshly cooked opium, we call it chandu. It is made by boiling raw opium, such as you have in your chests.'

Inside the box lay a small, dark brown nugget. ‘Smell it, Mr Reid.'

The odour was sweet and smoky, quite different from the smell of raw opium gum.

Taking the box from Zachary, Mr Chan handed it to the girl,
who was now kneeling between the two couches, with the lamp in front of her. She picked a needle off the table, dipped it into the opium and gave it an expert twirl: it came away with a tiny pellet of the gum, no larger than a pea. This little piece she now stuck into the lamp's flame; when it began to sizzle and blister she handed it to Mr Chan. Resting the mouthpiece of the ‘yellow dragon' on his chest, he twirled and tapped the scorched opium on the implement's ivory cup. This process was repeated twice, without the mouthpiece yet being put to use.

Then Mr Chan said: ‘We're almost ready now, Mr Reid. When I roast the opium again it will catch fire. The smoke will last for one or two seconds. You must be prepared – you must blow out your breath, emptying your chest so you can draw in all the smoke. When the opium begins to burn I will put it on the dragon's eye' – he pointed to the tiny hole in the pipe's octagonal cup – ‘and you must draw hard.'

Handing the pipe to Zachary, he plunged the pellet of opium into the flame again. Suddenly it caught fire, and he cried out: ‘Ready?'

‘Yes.'

Zachary had already emptied the air from his chest: when the flaming pellet was placed on the ‘dragon's eye' he inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with the smoke. Its consistency was almost that of a liquid, dense, oily and intensely perfumed; it poured into his body like a flood, coursing through his veins and swamping his head.

‘You see, Mr Reid? The power that moves the world is inside you now. Lie back. Let it run through you.'

As he leant back against the cushions Zachary suddenly became aware of his pulse – except that it wasn't beating only in his wrist or his neck. It was as if his whole body were pulsating; the drumming of his heart was so powerful that he could feel his blood surging into his capillaries. The sensation was so strong that he looked down at his forearm and saw that his skin had changed colour. It was flushed and red, as if every pore had been awoken and irradiated.

He looked up at the ceiling and suddenly it was as if his eyes had become more sensitive, his gaze more powerful. He could see
minute cracks in the wood; his hearing too seemed to have become more acute and the lapping of water was loud in his ears. He closed his eyes, luxuriating in the feeling of weightlessness, allowing the smoke to carry him away, as if on a tide.

Now it was Mr Chan's turn with the pipe. After he had finished, he laid it on the table and leant back against a bolster. ‘Do you know why I have a yen for the smoke, Mr Reid? It is because I am a gardener by profession. I love flowers – and this smoke is the essence of the kingdom of flowers.'

His voice drifted away.

In a while Zachary became aware that Mr Chan had left the cabin and that he was alone with the girl. Now, for the first time, she raised her head and looked directly at him, with a slight smile on her lips. Zachary stared, unable to tear his eyes from her face: there was something familiar about her – he couldn't figure out what it was so he stretched out his arm and ran his fingertips over her face. Suddenly the answer came to him: she bore an uncanny resemblance to Mrs Burnham. Even the touch of her hands, as they roamed over his body and under his robe, was like hers; even more so was the feel of her limbs against his own.