Amitav Ghosh - Flood of Fire

The seths gave themselves much of the credit for having persuaded the island’s current administrator, Mr J. Robert Morrison, to hold the auction even before Hong Kong was formally ceded to the British Crown. But Mr Morrison had dragged his feet over the auction and this had aroused their suspicions; they had convinced themselves that he would seize any possible opportunity to keep them from bidding, and being determined to prevent this, they spent their days dogging the tracks of the land surveyors and arguing over which plots they would bid on.

Shireen alone decided to return to Macau with Dinyar, on Zadig’s advice. A south China typhoon was like no storm she’d ever experienced, Zadig told her; she would do well to sit it out within the sturdy walls of Villa Nova.

‘And once the storm blows over,’ Zadig added with a twinkle, ‘maybe we can make the announcement?’

‘Of what?’

‘Our engagement.’

Shireen gasped. ‘Oh Zadig Bey — it’s too soon! I need more time. Please. Nothing can be made public until I’ve spoken to Dinyar — and there just hasn’t been time.’

‘All the more reason then,’ said Zadig, ‘to go to Macau with him. There will be plenty of time to talk during the storm.’

Of late Dinyar had been noticeably cool towards Shireen, as had the other seths. She’d been led to wonder whether they’d heard rumours about Zadig and herself, or whether something else was amiss. She had wanted to probe Dinyar about it, but he had been avoiding her and she hadn’t been able to corner him.

But soon after the Mor hoisted sail Shireen was able to create the opportunity she needed. She had instructed the cook to prepare aleti-paleti — masala-fried chicken gizzards — one of Dinyar’s favourite Parsi dishes. After it was brought to the table she sent the stewards away and served it to Dinyar with her own hands.

Majhanu che? How is it, Dinyar deekro?

He wouldn’t answer and sat sullenly at the table toying with his fork.

After a while Shireen said: Su thayu deekro — what’s the matter, son? Is everything all right?

For the first time since he’d sat down Dinyar looked directly at her. ‘Shireen-auntie,’ he said in English — and this was itself a departure for he usually spoke Gujarati with her — ‘is it true that Mr Karabedian’s godson has been buried next to Bahram-uncle’s grave?’

So that was it: the placement of the graves had made the seths anxious about their own guilty secrets.

Shireen nodded calmly. ‘Yes, deekro,’ she said. ‘It’s true.’

‘But Shireen-auntie!’ he protested. ‘Why should Mr Karabedian’s godson be buried there? That’s not right.’

‘Not right?’

‘No, Auntie — it’s not right.’

Shireen folded her hands together and laid them on the table. Looking Dinyar squarely in the eyes, she said: ‘I think you know, don’t you, Dinyar, that Freddie wasn’t just Mr Karabedian’s godson? He was also my husband’s natural child.’

Evidently Dinyar was completely unprepared for an open acknowledgement of an illicit relationship. He reacted as though he had been hit in the face. Su kaoch thame? What are you talking about, Shireen-auntie? How can you speak of such things?

Do you think, Dinyar, said Shireen patiently, that these things will disappear if you don’t speak of them? But they won’t, you know — because it is impossible to bring children silently into this world. They all have voices and some day they too learn to speak.

Shireen tapped the table loudly, to lend emphasis to what she was about to say.

You should remember all this, Dinyar, she said. Especially in relation to your own children.

There was a sharp intake of breath across the table; Dinyar began to say something but then changed his mind. Staring at his food, he ran a finger around his neck, to loosen his collar.

Shireen-auntie, he said presently, in a shaky, faltering voice: You must remember one thing. Men like Bahram-uncle, like myself — the work we do takes us away from home for years at a time. It’s very lonely — I think you won’t be able to understand how lonely it is.

Kharekhar? Really? said Shireen. You think we don’t know what loneliness is?

At that he turned his face towards her and she saw that he was wearing an expression of genuine perplexity.

How could you understand, Shireen-auntie? he said. Women like you — like my mother and my sisters — you live at home, in Bombay, in the midst of your families, surrounded by children and relatives, with every comfort in easy reach. The reason we travel overseas is so that you can live in luxury. It’s all for our families — to keep all of you comfortable and happy. How could you possibly know what we have to go through for that? How could you know what it’s like for us? How alone we are?

Shireen’s lips were trembling now, and she had to take a deep breath to regain control of herself. ‘Well, Dinyar,’ she said, ‘if you really know what loneliness is then maybe you will understand what I am going to tell you.’

‘Yes?’

‘Dinyar — Zadig Bey has asked me to marry him. I have accepted.’

Dinyar’s mouth fell open and his voice dropped to a disbelieving whisper. ‘What are you saying, Shireen-auntie? You can’t do that! It’s impossible. You will be cut off by all of us. None of us will ever speak to you again.’

Shireen shook her head. ‘No, Dinyar,’ she said with a smile. ‘You’re wrong. You will accept it. And not only that, you will persuade all the others to accept it too. You will tell them that you will all be better off if I marry Zadig Bey and stay on in Hong Kong.’

Shireen paused to take a breath. ‘For there’s one thing you should know, Dinyar: if you and the other sethjis make a great fuss and create a scandal; if I am driven away from here and forced to go back to Bombay — then you can be sure that many Parsi families are going to find out that they have unknown relatives in China. And yours will be the first.’

*

The shelling of the four fortresses continued through the night, not as a steady barrage but in fits and starts, which was worse because it preyed on the nerves. But even without the shelling it would have been difficult to sleep in that stifling heat, with hundreds of dust-caked, sweat-soaked men crammed into a small space.

The enclosure had no windows and the stench inside was overpowering. Dysentery spread very rapidly through the ranks that night; many men were in a state where they soiled themselves before they could get to the latrines. The sour, acrid stink of their almost liquid, blood-spotted excretions hung upon the hall like a miasma.

The Cameronians were especially badly affected by the ‘bloody flux’ — but it was the sepoys who had to put up with volleys of abuse about ‘nigger-stink’ and ‘darkie-dung’. Had they been in India fights would have broken out and the Madras and Bengal sepoys might even have joined forces against the Cameronians. But here, caught between the Chinese on the one hand and the British on the other, they were helpless; they had to bear the insults in silence. And men like Colour-Sarjeant Orr understood this very well, and it made the insults and curses flow still more freely from their tongues.

Around dawn Kesri and Captain Mee went up to the fortress’s turret to take another look at the city. Kesri saw that the trickle of refuge-seekers had turned overnight into a flood. The roadways around the city were jammed with people, carts, sedan chairs and carriages; they were pouring out of the gates, fleeing in every direction. The roads were so crowded that people had spilt over into the rice-fields.

‘I suppose they want to get out of the city before it’s attacked,’ said Captain Mee.