Sea of Poppies (63 page)

The kitchen-boat was a gift from Ah Fatt's father, and it was a step up in the world for the family: before the boy was born they had lived in a snail-boat that was half the size. Barry would have liked to do still better by his son, the guilt of whose illegitimacy lay heavy on him: he would gladly have bought Chi Mei and her family a house, in the city or in one of the nearby villages – Chuen-pi, for instance, or Whampoa. But this was a Dan family, bred to the river and unwelcome on land. Barry knew this, and raised no objection, although he did make it clear that he would have liked them to
acquire a vessel that did him some credit: a big, colourful pleasure-barge, for instance, of the kind that he could have boasted of to his comprador, Chunqua. But Chi Mei and her mother were of thrifty stock, and a dwelling that provided no income was, to them, as useless a thing as a barren sow. Not only did they insist on buying a kitchen-boat, they moored it within sight of the Fanqui-town, so it happened that when Ah Fatt was put to work, helping with customers – which began almost as soon as he learnt to keep his footing on a tilted deck – he could be seen clearly from the windows of the White-hat factory.

Kyá-ré?
the other Parsis would laugh; fine fellow you are, Barry – letting your bastard grow up like a boat-boy. For your daughters you're building mansions on Queensway – nothing for this bugger? True he's not one of us, but there's something there, no? Can't just turn your back on him . . .

This was unjust, for it was patent for all to see, Parsis and others alike, that Barry was an indulgent and ambitious father, who had every intention of providing his only son with the wherewithal to set himself up as a gentleman of good standing: the boy was to be erudite, active and urbane, as handy with rod and gun as with book and pen; a Man who spouted Manliness like a whale exhales spray. If schools refused to accept the illegitimate son of a boatwoman, then he would hire special tutors, to teach him reading and penmanship, in Chinese and English – that way, he could always make a career for himself as a linkister, translating between the Fanquis and their hosts. There were many such in Canton, but most were utterly incompetent; the boy could easily learn to outdo them all and might even make a name for himself.

To find tutors who were willing to teach in a Dan kitchen-boat was no easy matter, but through Chunqua's good offices, some were found. Ah Fatt took readily to his lessons and every year when his father returned to Canton for the season, the records of his progress grew longer and longer, the calligraphy ever more stylish. Every year, Barry would bring extravagant gifts from Bombay, to thank his comprador for keeping an eye on the progress of the boy's education; every year Chunqua in turn would reciprocate with a present of his own, usually a book for the boy.

In Ah Fatt's thirteenth year, the present was a fine edition of that famous and beloved tale,
Journey to the West
.

Barry was much enthused when the name was translated for him: ‘It'll do him good to read about Europe and America. Some day I will send him on a visit.'

Not without some embarrassment, Chunqua explained that the West in question was somewhat nearer at hand; in fact it was intended to be none other than Mr Moddie's very own homeland – Hindusthan, or Jambudvipa as it was called in the old books.

‘Oh?' Although no longer so enthusiastic, Barry gave the boy his present anyway, little knowing that he would soon regret this offhand decision. Later, he came to be convinced that it was this book that was responsible for the fancies that entered Ah Fatt's head: ‘Want to go West . . .'

Every time the boy saw him, he would plead to visit his father's homeland. But this was the one indulgence Barry could not grant: to think of letting the boy sail to Bombay on one of his father-in-law's ships; to imagine him walking down the gangplank, into a crowd of waiting relatives; to conceive of presenting his mother-in-law, his wife, his daughters, with fleshly evidence of his other life, in Canton, which they knew of only as a provenance for finely embroidered silks, pretty fans and torrents of silver – none of these notions could be entertained for more than a moment; why, it would be like unloosing an army of termites on the parqueted floors of his Churchgate mansion. The other Parsis in Canton might know about the boy, but he knew he could trust them to be discreet back home: after all, he, Barry, was not the only one to lapse from bachelordom during these long months of exile. And even if a whisper or two were to reach his hometown, he knew people would ignore them so long as the evidence was kept safely hidden from view. If, on the other hand, he were to bring the boy back, for people to see with their own eyes, then a great flame of scandal would erupt from the doors of the fire-temple, to light a conflagration that would ultimately consume his lucrative living.

No, Freddy, listen to me, he said to Ah Fatt. This ‘West' you've got in your head is just something that was made up in a silly old book. Later, when you're grown up, I'll send you to the real West – to France
or America or England, some place where people are civilized. When you get there you'll be able to set yourself up as a prince or a foxhunting man. But don't think of Hindusthan; forget about it. It's the one place that's not good for you.

‘And he was right,' said Ah Fatt. ‘Was not good for me.'

‘Why? What did you do?'

‘Robbery. Did robbery.'

‘When? Where?'

Ah Fatt rolled away, burying his face. ‘Nother time,' he said, in a muffled voice. ‘Not now.'

The turbulence of the open sea had a calamitous effect on Baboo Nob Kissin's processes of digestion and many days passed before he was able to make his way from the midships-cabin to the main deck. But when at last he stepped into the open air and felt the moisture of the sea on his face, he understood that all those days of dizziness, diarrhoea and vomiting were the necessary period of suffering that precedes a moment of illumination: for he had only to look at the spindrift that was flying off the schooner's bows to know that the
Ibis
was not a ship like any other; in her inward reality she was a vehicle of transformation, travelling through the mists of illusion towards the elusive, ever-receding landfall that was Truth.

Nowhere was this transformation more evident than in himself, for the presence of Taramony was so palpable within him now that his outer body felt increasingly like the spent wrappings of a cocoon, destined soon to fall away from the new being that was gestating within. Every day offered some fresh sign of the growing fullness of the womanly presence inside him – for example, his mounting revulsion at the coarseness of the maistries and silahdars with whom he had perforce to live: when he heard them speaking of breasts and buttocks, it was as if his own body were being discussed and derided; at times, his need to veil himself was so intense that he would pull a sheet over his head. His maternal stirrings too had now grown so exigent that he could not walk across the main deck without lingering awhile over that part of it which lay above the convicts' cell.

This proclivity earned him many earfuls of galis from the las-cars, and several angry tirades from Serang Ali: ‘What for you standi here likee cock-a-roach? Bugger too muchi foolo – nevva hit any use.'

Mr Crowle was even more direct: ‘Pander, y'spigot-sucking gobble-prick! With all the wide welkin around us, why d'ye always have to be beating the booby right here? I tell yer, Pander, I see yer here again and I'm going to splice a cuntline to yer arse.'

To these assaults on his dignity the gomusta tried always to respond with queenly self-possession. ‘Sir, I must deplore to your fulsome remarks. There is no need to pass dirty-dirty comments. Why all the time you are giving dagger-looks and criticizing? Only I have come to take air and refresh. If you are busy you need not bestow undue attention.'

But the semi-proximity of his lingering presence on deck was galling not just to the sailors, but also to Taramony, whose voice was now often in Baboo Nob Kissin's head, urging him to enter the very precincts of the chokey, to bring her closer to her adopted son. These promptings precipitated a raging conflict between the emergent mother, seeking to comfort her child, and that part of Baboo Nob Kissin which continued to be a worldly gomusta, bound by all manner of everyday proprieties.

But I can't go down there! he would protest. What will people think?

How does it matter? she would respond. You can do what you like: aren't you the ship's supercargo?

There was no denying that Baboo Nob Kissin was one of the few people on the
Ibis
who had the right of access to every part of the ship. As the supercargo, he often had business with the Captain and was regularly to be seen making his way into the officers' part of the ship, where he would sometimes lurk at Zachary's door, in the hope of hearing his flute once again. In his official capacity, he had also been empowered, by Mr Burnham, to inspect the other parts of the vessel, and he even had in his possession a set of spare keys for the chokey.

None of this was a secret from Taramony, and as the days passed it became clear to Baboo Nob Kissin that if she was ever to
manifest herself in him, then he would have to embrace every aspect of her being, including her capacity for maternal love. There was no getting out of it: he would have to find a way to the chokey.

Like an animal returning to its natural element, the
Ibis
seemed to grow ever more exuberant as she went lasking along on the open sea. The schooner had been on the Bay of Bengal for exactly a week when Paulette looked up from her washing one afternoon, and noticed that the sky above was a luminous, radiant blue, its colour deepened by flecks of cloud that mirrored the crests on the water below. The wind was blowing strong and hard, and the waves and clouds seemed to be racing each other across a single, vast firmament, with the schooner straining in pursuit, her timbers groaning with the effort of the chase. It was as if the alchemy of the open water had endowed her with her own will, her own life.

Leaning over the rail, Paulette gingerly lowered her balty to draw some water. As she was pulling the bucket up again a flying fish came rocketing out but only to leap back into the waves. The flutter of its wings drew a squeal of laughter from Paulette and startled her into tipping her balty over, spilling the water partly on herself and partly on the deck. Alarmed at the mess, she fell to her knees and was busily pushing the water down the scuppers when she heard a peremptory shout: ‘You there – yes you!'

It was Mr Crowle, and much to Paulette's relief, he was shouting not at her, but at someone else: since his voice was pitched to the tone he commonly employed with the lowest of the lascars, Paulette assumed that he was shouting at some unfortunate launder or topas. But such was not the case; looking aft, she saw that it was Zachary who had been thus addressed. He was on the quarter-deck, heading back to his cabin after the end of his watch. His face went red as he came to the fife-rails. ‘Were you speaking to me, Mr Crowle?'

‘That's right.'

‘What is it?'

‘What's this hugger-mugger business over here? Were y'fuckin asleep on yer watch?'

‘Where, Mr Crowle?'

‘Come'n see for yer own bleedin self.'

This being a mealtime, the deck was about as noisy as it ever was, with dozens of girmitiyas, overseers, lascars and bhandaris talking, jostling and arguing over the food. The exchange between the mates brought the hubbub to an abrupt end: that there was bad blood between the malums was a secret to no one, and every eye turned to watch as Zachary made his way forward, towards the bows.

‘What's wrong, Mr Crowle?' said Zachary, stepping up to the fo'c'sle-deck.

‘You tell me.' The first mate pointed at something ahead and Zachary leant over the bows to take a look. ‘D'ye have the eyes to see it, Mannikin – or do you need it explained?'

‘I see the problem, Mr Crowle,' said Zachary straightening up. ‘The traveller is unseized and the jib and martingale are afoul of the dolphin-striker. How it happened I cannot imagine, but I'll fix it.'