Amitav Ghosh - Flood of Fire

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.