Amitav Ghosh - Flood of Fire

‘Don’t be angry, ne, Bibiji,’ he said. ‘But I will not go with you to Macau.’

‘But where will you go then?’ said Shireen in surprise.

‘I will stay here, in Sheng Wan village — there are rooms to rent, ne? Guide has told me so.’

‘But why?’

Freddie’s voice fell to a whisper. ‘He is here, my father. I can feel him. He wants me to stay.’

With the arrival of the British force, rumours began to circulate that the Chinese authorities were offering bounties for the capture or killing of aliens. There were reports also of clashes between foreigners and villagers at various places around the mouth of the Pearl River.

The island of Hong Kong, however, remained an exception: it was one place where foreigners could wander more or less freely, without fear of annoyance or molestation. Strangers had been visiting the island for many generations and over time the villagers had grown accustomed to having them in their midst; many had even learnt to profit from their presence, as for example the elder of Sheng Wan village who had rented Fitcher Penrose the plot of land for his nursery, on the slopes of the island’s highest mountain.

It was not for its convenience that Fitcher had chosen the site: the path that led to it started at a secluded beach and wound steeply upwards, doubling back and forth across a number of spurs and nullahs. The ascent was so taxing that Fitcher, whose ageing bones were often racked by attacks of rheumatism, was sometimes unable to undertake the climb for weeks at a time.

But in some ways the height was an advantage: Fitcher had noticed early on that the lower reaches of the island were marshy and infested with mosquitoes, while the higher slopes were relatively free of insects. The site had other advantages too — richer soil, lower temperatures and most notably a plentiful supply of water, from a pool fed by a stream that gurgled down from the elevated spine of the island. Being nestled inside a hollow the site was also sheltered from storms.

The magnificent views offered by the location, of the bay and of Kowloon, on the mainland, were of no moment to Fitcher, who was chronically short-sighted. But to Paulette they mattered a great deal: the vistas that opened up on the walk to the nursery were so enchanting that she even relished the steep climb.

To the islanders the mountain was known as Taiping Shan — ‘Peaceful Mountain’ — and so far as Paulette was concerned the name could not have been better chosen: the slope was a serenely tranquil setting and in all the time she had spent there she had never had the least cause to fear for her own safety. While at the nursery she always felt perfectly secure, not least because the two gardeners who had been hired to work there were a friendly, middle-aged couple from Sheng Wan: so reassuring was their presence that Paulette never felt the need to carry any weapons.

But after the arrival of the British fleet there was a change in the atmosphere: when rumours of attacks on foreigners began to circulate, Fitcher insisted that she carry pistols with her. She decided to indulge him, knowing that it would set his mind at rest — but still, she never imagined that there would come a day when she might actually have reason to be glad that she was armed. But so it did.

It happened at the end of a day’s work, when Paulette was heading back from the nursery. On reaching the beach where the Redruth ’s longboat was to meet her, she found an odd-looking stranger sitting on the sand, with his arms wrapped around his knees.

It was rare for that beach to attract visitors and the few who came were usually local fishermen. But this man appeared to be a foreigner: he was dressed in trowsers, a shabby jacket and a hat.

In the meantime he too had spotted her and risen to his feet. She saw now that even though he was dressed in European clothes he was not a white man, as she had thought — the cast of his countenance was distinctly Chinese. He was no longer young, yet not quite in middle age, with sunken cheeks and eyes, and a wispy beard. There was something unkempt and a little disturbing about his appearance; Paulette was concerned enough that she opened the flap of her satchel, so that her pistols would be in easy reach.

Then a look entered the man’s eye that sent a jolt through her, reminding her of another encounter at that beach, the year before. Then too she had been recognized by someone who had sparked not the faintest glimmer of recognition in her own eyes.

‘Miss Paulette?’

Raising his hat, the man bowed, in such a manner that the greeting was at once both European and Chinese.

‘Forgive me,’ said Paulette. ‘Do I know you?’

‘My name is Ephraim Lee,’ he said gravely, holding his hat over his chest. ‘People call me Freddie. But maybe you remember me by another name, lah? Ah Fatt — from the Ibis .’

Ciel! Paulette’s hand flew to her mouth, which had fallen open in amazement. ‘But how did you recognize me?’

He smiled. ‘The Ibis — it has tied us all together in strange ways, ne?’

She had only set eyes on him from afar before, and the thing she remembered about his appearance was a vague sense of menace, exuded not just by his angular, unsmiling face, but also by the sinuous vigour of his musculature. But she could see none of that menace now, either in his face or in the way he carried himself — rather it was he who seemed to be menaced, hunted.

‘What brings you here, Mr Lee?’

‘For a long time I have been looking for this place, eh, Miss Paulette.’

‘Oh? You had been here before perhaps?’

He shook his head. ‘No. But I had seen it, ne?’ He said it as though it were self-evident.

‘How? When?’

‘In dreams. When I saw it today, I recognized — I knew, this was where the body of Mr Bahram Moddie was found. You were there that day, ne? Mr Karabedian, my godfather, he tell me so.’

Suddenly Paulette remembered that this man was the natural son of Mr Moddie: Neel had mentioned this the morning the body was found.

‘I am sorry for your loss, Mr Lee.’

He acknowledged this by tipping his hat. As he was making the gesture Paulette noticed that there was a distinct tremor in his hand. He too seemed to be aware of it, for he put his hands together, as if to steady them. Then he inclined his head towards a shaded spot, under an overhang of rock. ‘Miss Paulette — maybe we can sit there for a few minutes? Maybe you can tell me what you saw that day, eh? When my father’s body was found?’

She could see no reason to object: ‘Yes, I will tell you what I remember.’

They seated themselves on a patch of wild grass and she told him how she had come down to the beach that day, to find a group of men, Indians, kneeling around a bare-bodied corpse. To her surprise, one of them had come towards her, with a look of recognition in his eye.

‘Neel?’

‘Yes, Neel — but he told me not to use that name.’

He nodded and fell silent. After a while, in a voice that was taut with apprehension, he said: ‘Miss Paulette, one thing I would like to ask you. That morning, lah, did you see a ladder, hanging from my father’s ship?’

With a start Paulette realized that she had omitted this important detail — the dangling rope-ladder that had drawn her eye to the Anahita that morning. The sight had puzzled her: why would a ladder be left dangling above the water? Who could have used it and for what?

‘Yes, there was a ladder,’ she said. ‘I saw it hanging from the stern of Mr Moddie’s ship. How did you know?’