Amitav Ghosh - Flood of Fire

Zachary’s eyes were still fixed on the tiny, almost invisible triangle at the centre of her bosom — and the little shadow beneath the lace now assumed so seductive an aspect that he suddenly had to move his legs deeper, under the table.

The movement was fleeting but it did not escape Mrs Burnham’s eye. Her gaze moved from her finger to his red face, taking in his oddly upright posture and the way his belly was pressed flat against the edge of the sewing table.

Suddenly she understood. A breathless cry broke from her lips: ‘Dear heaven! I cannot credit it!’

Springing to her feet, Mrs Burnham directed a disbelieving gaze at Zachary’s head, which was lowered in shame. ‘Has it happened again, Mr Reid? Answer me!’

Zachary hung his head, speechless with mortification.

A look of pity came into her eyes and she gave his shoulder a sympathetic pat. ‘You poor, unfortunate young man! You are perhaps yourself unaware of the extreme seriousness of your condition. But do not despair — I will not abandon you! We will persist, and you may yet avert the fate that awaits you.’

She walked slowly to the door, and after undoing the bolt, turned to look at him again. ‘I must go now to tend to my pri … my wound. I will leave you here to collect yourself. You shall soon receive more materials from me, and when you have studied them we will meet again. But for now, Mr Reid, may I request that you remain here until your seizure has subsided and you are presentable?

*

Over the next few days Shireen did everything she could to erase her meeting with Zadig from her memory. She mostly succeeded, but at times Zadig’s words would rise to the surface of her consciousness like bubbles ascending from the sediment of a pond, catching her unawares: ‘But it is true, Bibiji … Bahram did have a son … You can ask Vico …’

The words would stir her into a bustle of activity: snatching a duster from one of the maids, she would begin to clean the souvenirs that sat on her shelves, most of which had been brought back by Bahram from China: dolls with nodding heads, painted fans, intricately carved ivory balls and so on. Often she would end up facing the luminous square of glass that had Bahram’s portrait on it — and sometimes within its familiar lines she would glimpse shapes that were not quite visible to her eyes. It was like looking at a cloud in which everyone but you can see a hidden shape.

Yet she could see no profit in pursuing the matter. What good could come of exhuming the lives of the dead? Anything she learnt about Bahram would only bring more disgrace upon herself and her daughters — and hadn’t they been shamed enough already?

Then, unexpectedly one morning, a khidmatgar came to say that Vico was at the door and wanted to speak to her.

Vico? Her heart went cold and she sank into the nearest seat.

What does Vico want?

The man looked at her in surprise: What do I know, Bibiji? Why would he tell me?

No, of course not. Send him in.

She took a deep breath and collected herself. When Vico entered the room she was able to welcome him with a smile. Khem chho Vico? she said in Gujarati. Is everything well?

He looked just the same, with his dark, heavy-set body clothed impeccably, in European style, in a pale, beige suit.

Khem chho Bibiji? he said with a lively twinkle in his large, protuberant eyes.

She was reassured by his wide smile and his affable demeanour. Come, Vico, sit down, she said, pointing to a settee.

He had always been reluctant to sit in her presence and he declined now with a shake of his head: No, Bibiji, it’s not necessary. I just came to ask a question — it won’t take long.

Yes?

Bibiji, I would like to organize a small gathering in memory of your late husband. Despite all that has happened, there are many people in Bombay who would like to pay their respects to Sethji.

Oh? Her eyes swept across the room and came to rest on Bahram’s portrait. Where do you plan to do it?

In my village, Bassein — at my home. And of course we would like you to be there too — it wouldn’t be the same without your presence.

And when will it be, do you think?

Bibiji, I want to do it next week.

Why so soon?

Bibiji, I would like to invite Sethji’s friend, Mr Karabedian. He may be leaving for Colombo soon.

She started: Mr Karabedian? You are planning to invite him?

Vico’s eyebrows rose. Yes of course, Bibiji. He was Sethji’s closest friend.

Shireen turned her face away and was trying to think of something to say when a tearing sound ripped through the room. She looked down at her hands and saw that she had involuntarily torn a rent in the loose end of her sari.

Vico had noticed it too.

What is the matter, Bibiji? Did I say something to upset you?

With her agitation in plain view, it served no purpose to pretend. Listen, Vico, she said, in a shaky voice. I have to ask you something …

Her eyes flew to the portrait on the wall and she muttered under her breath: Heaven forgive me for what I am about to say.

Yes, Bibiji?

Vico, some rumours have come to my ears. About my husband.

Oh? Vico’s voice was guarded now and a watchful look had come into his eyes.

Yes, Vico. It is rumoured that my husband had an illegitimate child, a son.

She watched him carefully as she spoke; he was twirling his hat in his hands, looking at the floor.

Of course there is no truth to it, is there, Vico?

He answered without hesitation. You’re right, Bibiji. There is no truth to it.

Even though his voice was steady, she knew from the evasiveness of his gaze that he was hiding something. She understood also that if she did not insist now she would never find out. And at the thought of this her hesitation disappeared.

Vico, tell me the truth. I must know.

He continued to stare at the floor so she rose to her feet and went up to him.

Vico, she said, I know you are a religious man, a good Catholic. I want you to take an oath, on the crucifix you wear around your neck. If it is the truth, then I want you to swear on the Cross that my husband did not have an illegitimate son.

Vico raised his hands to his crucifix and drew a deep breath. But he faltered as he was parting his lips to speak, and his hands dropped to his sides.

Bibiji, you should not ask this of me. I would like to spare you needless grief, but this I cannot do.

At this something came apart inside her. One of her hands flew out and without quite meaning to, knocked a framed picture of her late husband to the floor.

The crash brought a troop of servants into the room: Bibiji? Bibiji? What happened?

Shireen could not face them and was glad when Vico took charge, in his accustomed manner.

It was just an accident, he said to the servants, in a brisk, offhand voice. Bibiji had a giddy spell. Bring me her smelling-salts — she’ll be fine in a minute.

The fact that Shireen had slumped into a chaise-longue lent this some plausibility. After a few whiffs of her smelling-salts she was able to sit up again. Once the floor had been cleaned she waved the maids out of the room and told them to shut the door.

All right, Vico, she said. Now tell me: who was the boy’s mother?

A Cantonese woman, her name was Chi-mei.

Was she a — a tawaif? Some kind of dancing-girl? A woman of the streets?

No, no, Bibiji, not at all. She was an ordinary person, a boat-woman. You could say a kind of dhobin — she used to wash clothes for foreigners. That was how Sethji came across her.

And how old is the boy? What’s his name?

He is a young man now, in his mid-twenties: Sethji used to call him Freddie — short for Framjee. But he had a Chinese name too, and a nickname — Ah Fatt.