Shanghai (15 page)

The old man's head stopped shaking, and his eyes welled with dark, viscous tears. “Brother will kill brother,” he said, his voice a harsh whisper.

Richard knelt and, in Hindi, spoke directly into the man's face. “You see that in us?” The man did not answer. Richard repeated his question, but again the man gave no response. Finally Richard grabbed the ancient by his bony shoulders and shouted, “Do you see that in us?”

The old man's hand came up from the yellow dust of the alley. He touched Richard's forehead, then pointed at Maxi with a spindly, yellow-dusted finger.

Richard swiped his hand viciously across his forehead. Maxi noted that the yellow dust was unmoved by his brother's ministrations.

“Damn it, Richard, what's he saying?”

But the toothless man was now walking away. Suddenly he bent over double and laughter spewed out of him—the laughter of utter futility. The laughter of one who has seen the world as it is and realized that he is not important, just a tiny part of a deity's infinite jest.

“Why is the old one laughing? What did he say?” Maxi pressed as the man disappeared into the blackness at the far end of the alley.

“It was hard to translate, his accent …”

“You're a lousy liar, brother mine. Leave that to me. So what did the old fool say?”

“Don't call him an old fool, Maxi.”

“Ah, and why is that?”

Richard didn't answer. He thought of a man who would kill his own brother, then looked at Maxi and began to laugh.

“You too? What the hell are
you
laughing at?”

“Us. Look at us, Maxi. We're just kids, Maxi. Just kids.”

* * *

OVER THE COURSE of the next two months, the young Hordoons made their way, with their stolen opium, to the smallish seaport of Vishakhapatnam, some six hundred miles south of Calcutta. There they found a merchant willing to buy some of their product and purchased two passages on a clipper ship to China—the Celestial Kingdom, where opium turned to gold.

Maxi loved everything about the ship. He was always above deck, learning all he could about the complex block-and-tackle systems and intricate knots that controlled the acres of canvas that drove the vessel ever eastward.

But by the third day out from port Richard had still not conquered his seasickness and sat by an open porthole on the steerage deck trying not to retch.

An hour earlier, desperate to overcome his nausea, he had opened one of their remaining opium packets and thrown some of the drug into his mouth. The grit was still in his teeth as he took in large gulps of sea air through the open porthole.

“Try this, me son.”

Richard recoiled at the knurled brown root and the tiny, filthy hand that held it not an inch from his nose. He looked past the root and the hand and saw a very small, crippled man in a stained black cassock.

“It's ginger root, lad. Chew on't. It'll help.”

“Thank you, but …”

“It's part of God's bounty, me son. God provides for every need, all you have to do is look closely. God provides. Chew on't, lad.”

Richard did, and was immediately astonished by the intense, unusual flavour. He didn't feel like retching so much, but spitting certainly gained a new appeal.

“Don't swallow it, it's nae peeled. Just chew.” Then the ugly, foul-smelling little man sat right beside Richard and asked, “On which of God's quests are you, me son?”

“My brother and I are off to China,” Richard managed to say.

“To do God's work,” the little man said, nodding. It wasn't a question. He rested his largish head against the swaying wall of the ship. “I was much older than you the first time I landed in the Middle Kingdom.”

That perked up Richard's interest. “How many times have you been there?”

“Four. God has granted his servant four lengthy stays.” He nodded again and smiled. “Yes, He has been very kind to His Brother Matthew,” then he added with a further tiny smile, “S.J.”

“S.J.?”

His small hand touched Richard's cheek as he said in a gentle voice, “My poor benighted pagan boy, Society of Jesus.” Then without prompting he added, “The
Irish
Society of Jesus.”

Richard assumed he was supposed to respond so he said, “Ah.”

“I doubt there's any White man alive who knows more about the Middle Kingdom than I do. I even speak what they call the Common Tongue.” Then a brilliant
smile crossed his face. “It's a long voyage. Learning a new language might help you pass the time.”

Richard smiled back, his nausea now in retreat. He wondered if the opium had finally kicked in, or was it the magic of this tiny Irish Jesuit? He didn't care.

Brother Matthew began to speak. He had a vast knowledge of China and of everything that influenced the Chinese.

Every morning they would meet at sunrise just after Brother Matthew had completed his prayers. While Richard prepared their morning meal he had his morning chew of opium. He was aware that each day he was using just a bit more than the day before, but it calmed him and allowed him to concentrate. Besides, it wasn't
Chandra,
smokable opium, just bits of the raw product to keep the seasickness at bay.

As soon as the Jesuit finished eating, which he did forcefully and with surprising gusto for one so small, the lesson would begin. Brother Matthew was pleasantly surprised by Richard's linguistic ability, and after three weeks together they were conversing in rudimentary Mandarin.

Although Richard was pleased to learn the local tongue, he was more interested in learning what Brother Matthew knew about the Middle Kingdom—and the opium trade. And Brother Matthew was an enthusiastic teacher. When they got to a topic that he really liked he would leap to his feet and hobble back and forth in front of his ever-attentive pupil, gesturing with his tiny hands and speaking as if a large conclave had gathered to hang on his every word.

“At Calcutta, the government of India—read the government of sodding England, may the fat cow rot in
Hell—sells the chests of opium at open auction to the likes of the British East India Company …”

The bloody Vrassoons,
Richard thought, catching himself already using the little man's habits of speech.

“… which holds a monopoly on all direct trade from England to China, and whose Indiaman sailing ships are the largest ocean-going vessels in the world.”

That surprised Richard. So the Vrassoons had a monopoly on all direct trade from England to China. It had to have taken some real coin to line enough parliamentary pockets to keep that in place.

“There's also Dent and Company, whose English firm have been China traders since the mid-seventeenth century, as well as Jardine Matheson, the huge Scottish trading company, and the American Oliphant and Company, who claim to be in the missionary delivery business and whose ostentatious
piety
”—he said the word as if it were a ridiculous joke—“gives rise to their nickname, the House of Zion.” At that he laughed aloud and repeated the name “House of Zion” eight or ten times, each time with more relish than the time before. “Apostates one and all! Bound for the fires of Hell they are. Poor misguided souls. Without Rome, what are we? I ask you that! What are we?”

Richard didn't know and said nothing. Brother Matthew happily continued. “You might note that their heretical faith and missionary zeal never got in the way of their opium trading. Wha' think you o' that?”

Again Richard didn't know what to say and was saved by the continuing monologue of his tiny teacher.

“Then there are some smaller independents.”

But behind many of them had to be the money the Vrassoons made from the monopoly granted to them by Parliament,
Richard thought.

Brother Matthew laughed, a high, girlish giggle. “And it's all perfectly legal—in India. But the moment the mango-wood opium chests are onboard ship, the government of India—read England, may she sink in the sea with all the bitch's sterling boys—turns its back, washes its hands like Pontius Pilate, and wonders, ‘Goodness gracious, where do you think all that opium is going?'”

This last was done in a whistling, sibilant, Etonian accent that, at the time, Richard didn't recognize. Clearly the little man liked to imitate aristocrats and government officials, and Richard supposed him good at it.

“Perfectly legal opium leaves India and becomes contraband the moment it approaches its intended market—China.

“From the beginning of the process everyone knows that opium is made specifically for the Chinese market. It's totally adapted to Chinese methods and tastes.” Then he giggled again and said, “It's the only commodity that the English have to trade that the Chinese want—want for their tea. Tea has, from the beginning, been the end goal for the English. Only Chinese black tea can withstand the long sea voyage and keep its potency, son. And it doesn't hurt that the import duties extracted for that potency fills Her Majesty's cunting tax coffers. All that loot must buy the bitch many a fine frock!

“So there is pressure from all sides to trade. Indian opium for Chinese tea—Chinese tea in England for pounds sterling—pounds sterling for Indian opium from the Indian government—England again. Soon the English won't even bother with pounds sterling to India, they'll make the poor Hindus buy the cotton shirts from their Manchester factories. Shirts for opium. Opium for silver. Silver for shirts. And round and round and round, like the Devil and his whore with a keg of rum.”

And at every turn the Vrassoons take their cut,
Richard thought.

That night Richard wrote in his journal.

¨ ¨ ¨

There is always a tremendous demand for dreams. Brother Matthew claims that a Chinese labourer, who makes twenty
taels
a month, from which he needs to feed, clothe, and house his family of six, will often spend as much as ten of those
taels
for his opium.

The little Jesuit just can't understand that.

I can.

Only under the effects of the opium is the labourer no longer just a worker living in poverty, without hope of change. Suddenly he is enjoying the luxuries that life grants only the fortunate. He is no longer poor. He is no longer a two-legged mule. He is a proud lord—for as long as the effects of the drug last.

—

The lesson continued the next morning when Brother Matthew produced a map and pointed out places and names as he spoke. “At the turn of the century the Manchu Emperor in Beijing forbade any European access to the Celestial Kingdom. Twenty years before that, we Jesuits had lost our place of esteem in Beijing and been thrown back into the hinterlands of the vast country, forbidden to approach the big cities. Many of my brethren died in anonymity. Some were martyred. Almost all of us were tortured.”

Richard looked at the hobbled little man. Could his twisted body be the result of Manchu torture?

“To be honest, none of us succeeded in converting much of the population.” He smiled that small smile again, then changed the topic. “Finally, in response to much British grumbling—as a nation they are snivellers and whingers—an edict was finally issued by the Beijing Emperor. It permitted the Foreign Devils,
Fan Kuei,
access to the Middle Kingdom for purposes of trading, but only through the complex river access to Canton called the Bogue.” He pointed out the estuary on the map. “Westerners were not permitted to set foot on the sacred soil of China except deep up the cuts of the Bogue at one small section of Canton Harbour, just past Linten Island.” Brother Matthew pointed out the location on the map.

“Is Canton large?”

“Bigger than Calcutta and London put together.”

Richard had never been to London, but Calcutta was far bigger than Baghdad, so Richard was impressed.

“At Canton the Chinese divided the traders into ‘factories' based on national origin. At their factories, the
Fan Kuei
are permitted to meet only with the Hong merchants who have been assigned to them by Beijing. The Hong merchants rob the fools blind, with Beijing's blessing, as a healthy percentage of the money the Hong merchants steal makes its way up the First Emperor's Grand Canal to Beijing's coffers. But the Hong merchants are both their commercial representatives and their watchdogs. Foreign Devils are never allowed to talk to the real power, the Mandarins, the
Ch'in-ch'ai.
The Hong merchants find themselves between a pillar and a post. They have to make money for Beijing and are personally responsible for the actions of all the
Fan Kuei,
and every servant, translator, cook, or labourer that they supply for the Foreign Devils.”

“What?” Richard asked. “How can they be personally responsible?”

“All of China is set up that way. Everyone is someone else's responsibility. If a farmer does wrong, both the farmer and the village official who is responsible for the behaviour of his people are punished by the Mandarin. Public executions are a common sight. Millstoning or boarding is also much in use.”

When he said those final words, a real darkness crossed his features.
So that's the form of torture he endured,
Richard thought. He had heard tell of this cruel punishment but didn't know the details, except that a heavy millstone or wooden board was put around an offender's neck and it stayed there for as long as the authorities saw fit.

“My son, opium strains the entirety of the Chinese system of social responsibility. Since almost everyone of power in China has his hands in the opium rice bowl, who is there to punish the supposed wrongdoer? And make no mistake, opium is the Devil's work, my son. The Devil's work.”

Richard thought about that for a moment, then noticed that the little Jesuit was looking at him in a new way. “Do not do the Devil's work, Richard Hordoon. Do not do the Devil's work.”

Suddenly the Hindu man's words—”Brother will kill brother”—screamed deep in Richard's mind. He heard it a second time, then a third, until his whole body vibrated with the old man's curse. He closed his eyes tight and balled up his fists—and hoped it would pass.