UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE HarperCollins Publishers ..................................................................
Chapter Seventeen
Quae caret ora cruore nostro?
What coast knows not our blood?
HORACE, Odes
A year ago, after overhearing Colin and the Sharp brothers loudly discussing it in the common room, Robin had gone alone to London over a weekend to see the celebrated Afong Moy. Advertised as the ‘Chinese Lady’, Afong Moy had been brought out of China by a pair of American traders who’d initially hoped to use an Oriental lady to showcase goods acquired overseas, but who quickly realized they could instead make a fortune exhibiting her person across the eastern seaboard. This was her first tour to England.
Robin had read somewhere that she was also from Canton. He wasn’t sure what he’d hoped for other than a glimpse of, perhaps a moment of connection with, someone who shared his motherland. His ticket granted him admission to a garish stage room advertised as a ‘Chinese Saloon’, decorated with randomly placed ceramics, shoddy imitations of Chinese paintings, and a suffocating quantity of gold and red damask illuminated by cheap paper lanterns. The Chinese Lady herself was seated on a chair at the front of the room. She wore a blue silk buttoned shirt, and her feet, bound conspicuously in linen, were propped up on a small cushion before her. She looked very small. The pamphlet he’d been handed at the ticket booth claimed she was somewhere in her twenties, but she could have easily been as young as twelve.
The room was loud and packed with an audience of mostly men. They hushed when, slowly, she reached down to unbind her feet.
The story of her feet was also explained in the pamphlet. Like many young Chinese women, Afong Moy’s feet had been broken and bound when
she was young to restrict their growth and to leave them curved in an unnatural arch that gave her a tottering, unstable gait. As she walked across the stage, the men around Robin pushed forward, trying to get a closer look.
But Robin could not understand the appeal. The sight of her feet seemed neither erotic nor fascinating, but rather a great invasion of intimacy.
Standing there, watching her, he felt as embarrassed as if she’d just pulled down her pants before him.
Afong May returned to her chair. Her eyes locked suddenly on Robin’s; she seemed to have scanned the room and found kinship in his face. Cheeks flushing, he averted his eyes. When she started to sing – a lilting, haunting melody that he did not recognize and could not understand – he pushed his way through the crowd and left the room.
Apart from Griffin, he had not seen any Chinese people since.
As they sailed inland, he noticed that Letty kept looking at his face, then at the dockworker’s faces, as if comparing them. Perhaps she was trying to determine precisely how Chinese he looked, or to see if he was experiencing some great emotional catharsis. But nothing stirred in his chest. Standing on the deck, minutes from stepping foot in his motherland after a lifetime away, all Robin felt was empty.
They made anchor and disembarked at Whampoa, where they boarded smaller boats to continue up Canton’s riverfront. Here, the city became a wash of noise, of the ongoing rumbling and humming of gongs, firecrackers, and shouting boatmen moving their craft up and down the river. It was unbearably loud. Robin did not remember such a din from his childhood; either Canton had grown much busier, or his ears had grown unaccustomed to its sounds.
They stepped ashore at Jackass Point, where they were met by Mr Baylis, their liaison with Jardine, Matheson, & Co. Mr Baylis was a short, well- dressed man with dark, clever eyes who spoke with astonishing animation. ‘You couldn’t have arrived at a better time,’ he said, pumping Professor Lovell’s hand, then Robin’s, and then Ramy’s. The girls he ignored. ‘It’s a disaster here – the Chinese are getting bolder and bolder by the day. They’ve broken up the distribution rings – they bombed one of the fast crabs to bits in the harbour just the other day, thank God no one was on board – and the crackdowns will make trade impossible if this keeps up.’
‘What about the European smuggling boats?’ asked Professor Lovell as they walked. ‘That was a workaround, but only for a bit. Then the Viceroy started sending his people door to door on house searches. The whole city’s terrified. You’ll scare a man off just by mentioning the name of the drug. It’s all the fault of that new Imperial Commissioner the Emperor has sent down.
Lin Zexu. You’ll meet him soon; he’s the one we’ll have to deal with.’ Mr Baylis spoke so quickly as they walked that Robin was astonished he never ran out of breath. ‘So he comes in and demands the immediate surrender of all opium brought to China. This was last March. Of course we said no, so he suspended all trade and told us we’re not to leave the Factories until we’re ready to play by the rules. Can you imagine? He put us all under siege.’ ‘A siege?’ Professor Lovell repeated, looking mildly concerned. ‘Oh, well, it really wasn’t so bad. All the Chinese staff went home, which was a trial – I had to do my own washing, and that was a disaster – but otherwise we generally kept our spirits high. Really the only harms were overfeeding and lack of exercise.’ Mr Baylis gave a short, nasty laugh. ‘Happily that’s over with, and now we can all stroll around outside as we wish, no harm done. But there must be penalties, Richard. They’ve got to learn they can’t get away with this. Ah – here we are, ladies and gents, here is your home from home.’ Past the southwestern suburbs they came upon a row of thirteen buildings in a line, all visibly Western in design, replete with recessed verandahs, neoclassical ornaments, and European flags. These looked so jarring against the rest of Canton that it seemed as if some giant had dug up a neat strip of France or England and dropped it wholesale onto the city’s edge. These were the Factories, explained Mr Baylis, named not because they were centres of production, but because they were the residences of the factors – the agents of trade. Merchants, missionaries, government officials, and soldiers lived here during trading season. ‘Lovely, aren’t they?’ said Mr Baylis. ‘Quite like a handful of diamonds on top of a heap of old rubbish.’ They were to stay at the New English Factory. Mr Baylis led them quickly through the ground-floor warehouse, past the social room and dining room to the visiting chambers on the upper floors. There were also, he
pointed out, a well-stocked library, several rooftop terraces, and even a garden facing the riverside. ‘Now, they’re very strict about keeping foreigners within the foreign enclave, so don’t go exploring by yourselves,’ Mr Baylis warned. ‘Stay within the Factories. There’s a corner in the Imperial Factory – that’s number three – where Markwick & Lane sell all sorts of European goods you might need, though they haven’t got many books apart from nautical charts. Those flower boats are strictly off limits, do you hear me? Our merchant friends can arrange for some women of a more discreet temperament to visit in the evenings if you need some company – no?’ Ramy’s ears had gone bright red. ‘We’ll be fine, sir.’ Mr Baylis chuckled. ‘Suit yourself. You’ll be staying just down this hall.’ Robin and Ramy’s room was quite gloomy. The walls, which must have originally been painted dark green, were now nearly black. The girls’ room was as dark, and considerably smaller; there was barely space to walk between the single bed and the wall. It also had no windows. Robin could not see how they were possibly expected to live there for two weeks. ‘Technically this is a storage unit, but we couldn’t have you too close to the gentlemen.’ Mr Baylis at least made an effort to sound apologetic. ‘You understand.’ ‘Of course,’ Letty said, pushing her trunk into the room. ‘Thank you for your accommodations.’
After putting down their things, they congregated in the dining room, which was furnished with one very large table capable of seating at least twenty- five. Over the middle of the table was suspended an immense fan made of a cloth sail stretched over a wooden frame, which was kept in constant motion by a coolie servant who pulled and slackened it without pause throughout the dinner service. Robin found it quite distracting – he felt an odd pang of guilt every time he met the servant’s eyes – but the other residents of the factory seemed to find the coolie invisible.
Dinner that night was one of the most ghastly and uncomfortable affairs Robin had ever endured. The men at the table included both Jardine & Matheson employees and a number of representatives from other shipping companies – Magniac & Co., J. Scott & Co., and others whose names Robin promptly forgot. They were all white men who seemed cut from precisely the
same cloth as Mr Baylis – superficially charming and talkative men who, despite their clean-cut attire, seemed to exude an air of intangible dirtiness.
Apart from businessmen there was Reverend Karl Gützlaff, a German-born missionary who apparently did more interpreting for the shipping companies than conversion of Chinese souls. Reverend Gützlaff proudly informed them that he was also a member of the Society for the Diffusion of Useful * Knowledge in China,and was currently writing a series of articles for a Chinese-language magazine to teach the Chinese about the difficult Western concept of free trade. ‘We’re delighted to have you working with us,’ said Mr Baylis to Robin as the first course – a bland gingery soup – was served. ‘It’s so hard to find good Chinese translators that can string together a full sentence in English.
The Western-trained ones are much better. You’ll be interpreting for me during my audience with the Commissioner on Thursday.’ ‘I am?’ Robin was startled. ‘Why me?’ This was a fair question, he thought; he’d never interpreted professionally before, and it seemed odd to choose him for an audience with the greatest authority in Canton. ‘Why not Reverend Gützlaff? Or Professor Lovell?’ ‘Because we are Caucasian men,’ Professor Lovell said wryly. ‘And therefore, barbarians.’ ‘And they won’t speak to barbarians, of course,’ said Mr Baylis. ‘Karl looks rather Chinese, though,’ said Professor Lovell. ‘Aren’t they still convinced you’re at least part Oriental?’ † ‘Only when I introduce myself as Ai Han Zhe,’said Reverend Gützlaff. ‘Though I think Commissioner Lin will not be too enamoured with the title.’ The company men all chuckled, though Robin couldn’t see what was so funny. A certain smugness underwrote this entire exchange, an air of brotherly fraternity, of shared access to some long-running joke the rest of them didn’t understand. It reminded Robin of Professor Lovell’s gatherings in Hampstead, as he’d never been able to tell what the joke was back then either, or what the men had to be so satisfied about.
No one was drinking much of their soup. Servants cleared their bowls away and replaced them with both the main course and dessert at once. The main course was potatoes with some sort of grey, sauce-covered lump –
either beef or pork, Robin couldn’t tell. Dessert was even more mysterious, a violently orange thing that looked a bit like a sponge. ‘What’s this?’ Ramy asked, prodding his dessert.
Victoire sliced off a piece with her fork and examined it. ‘It’s sticky
toffee pudding, I think.’ ‘It’s orange,’ said Robin. ‘It’s burnt.’ Letty licked her thumb. ‘And it’s made with carrots, I think?’ The other guests were chuckling again. ‘The kitchen staff are all Chinks,’ explained Mr Baylis. ‘They’ve never been to England. We keep describing the foods we’d like, and of course they have no idea how it tastes or how to make it, but it’s still funny to see them try. Afternoon tea is better. They understand the point of sweet treats, and we’ve got our own English cows here to supply the milk.’ ‘I don’t understand,’ said Robin. ‘Why don’t you just have them cook Cantonese dishes?’ ‘Because English cuisine reminds one of home,’ said Reverend Gützlaff. ‘One appreciates such creature comforts on faraway journeys.’ ‘But it tastes like rubbish,’ said Ramy. ‘And nothing could be more English,’ said Reverend Gützlaff, cutting vigorously into his grey meat. ‘Anyhow,’ said Mr Baylis, ‘the Commissioner is going to be devilishly difficult to work with. Rumours are he’s very strict, extremely uptight. He thinks Canton is a cesspool of corruption, and that all Western traders are nefarious villains intent on swindling his government.’ ‘Astute one, that,’ said Reverend Gützlaff, to more self-satisfied chuckles. ‘I do prefer when they underestimate us,’ Mr Baylis agreed. ‘Now, Robin Swift, the issue at hand is the opium bond, which would make all foreign ships assume responsibility before Chinese law for any opium they may smuggle in. It used to be that this ban existed on paper only. We’d dock our ships at – how shall we call them? – outer anchorages, like Lintin and Camsingmoon and such, where we’d distribute cargo for resale with local partners. But that’s all changed under Commissioner Lin. His arrival, as I’ve told you, was quite the shake-up. Captain Elliot – good man, but he’s a coward where it matters – defused the situation by letting them confiscate all the opium we had in our possession.’ Here Mr Baylis clutched his chest as if
physically pained. ‘Over twenty thousand chests. Do you know how much that’s worth? Nearly two and a half million pounds. That’s unjust seizure of British property, I tell you. Surely that’s grounds for war. Captain Elliot thinks he saved us from starvation and violence, but he’s only shown the Chinese that they can walk all over us.’ Mr Baylis pointed his fork at Robin. ‘So that’s what we’ll need you for. Richard’s caught you up on what we want in this round of negotiations, yes?’ ‘I’ve read through the proposal drafts,’ Robin said. ‘But I’m a bit
confused on the priorities . . .’ ‘Yes?’ ‘Well, it seems the ultimatum on opium is a bit extreme,’ said Robin. ‘I don’t see why you couldn’t break it into some more piecemeal deals. I mean, certainly you could still negotiate on all the other exports—’ ‘There are no other exports,’ said Mr Baylis. ‘None that matter.’ ‘It just seems that the Chinese have a rather good point,’ Robin said helplessly. ‘Given it’s such a harmful drug.’ ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ Mr Baylis smiled a wide, practised smile. ‘Smoking opium is the safest and most gentleman-like speculation I am aware of.’ This was such an obvious lie that Robin blinked at him, astounded. ‘The Chinese memorandums call it one of the greatest vices ever to plague their country.’ ‘Oh, opium’s not as harmful as all that,’ said Reverend Gützlaff. ‘Indeed, it’s prescribed as laudanum in Britain all the time. Little old ladies regularly use it to go to sleep. It’s no more a vice than tobacco or brandy. I often recommend it to members of my congregation.’ ‘But isn’t pipe opium a great deal stronger?’ Ramy cut in. ‘It really doesn’t seem like sleep aids are the issue here.’ ‘That’s missing the point,’ said Mr Baylis with a touch of impatience. ‘The point is free trade between nations. We’re all liberals, aren’t we? There should be no restrictions between those who have goods and those who want to purchase them. That’s justice.’ ‘A curious defence,’ said Ramy, ‘to justify a vice with virtue.’ Mr Baylis scoffed. ‘Oh, the Qing Emperor doesn’t care about vices. He’s stingy about his silver, that’s all. But trade only works when there’s give and take, and currently we’re sitting at a deficit. There’s nothing we have that
those Chinamen want, apparently, except opium. They can’t get enough of the stuff. They’ll pay anything for it. And if I had my way, every man, woman, and child in this country would be puffing opium smoke until they couldn’t think straight.’ He concluded by slamming his hand against the table. The noise was perhaps louder than he intended; it cracked like a gunshot. Victoire and Letty flinched back. Ramy looked too amazed to reply. ‘But that’s cruel,’ said Robin. ‘That’s – that’s terribly cruel.’ ‘It’s their free choice, isn’t it?’ Mr Baylis said. ‘You can’t fault business.
Chinamen are simply filthy, lazy, and easily addicted. And you certainly can’t blame England for the foibles of an inferior race. Not where there’s money to be made.’ ‘Mr Baylis.’ Robin’s fingers tingled with a strange and urgent energy; he didn’t know whether he wanted to bolt or to hit the man. ‘Mr Baylis, I’m a Chinaman.’ Mr Baylis, for once, fell silent. His eyes roved over Robin’s face, as if trying to detect the truth of this statement in his features. Then, to Robin’s great surprise, he burst out laughing. ‘No, you’re not.’ He leaned back and clasped his hands over his chest, still guffawing. ‘Good Lord. That’s hilarious. No, you’re not.’ Professor Lovell said nothing.
Translation work began promptly the next day. Good linguists were always in heavy demand at Canton, and were pulled in a dozen different directions whenever they did show up. Western traders did not like using the government-licensed native Chinese linguists because their language skills were so often subpar. ‘Forget English,’ complained Mr Baylis to Professor Lovell, ‘half of them aren’t even fluent in Mandarin. And you can’t trust them to represent your interests besides. You can always tell when they’re not giving you the truth – I once had a man lie to my face about the customs rates when the Arabic numerals were right there.’ The trading companies occasionally employed Westerners fluent in Chinese, but they were hard to find. Officially, teaching Chinese to a foreigner was a crime punishable by death. Now, as China’s borders were slightly more porous, this law was impossible to enforce, but it did mean
skilled translators were often missionaries like Reverend Gützlaff with little spare time. The upshot was that people like Robin and Professor Lovell were worth their weight in gold. Ramy, Letty, and Victoire, poor things, would be shuttled from factory to factory all day doing silver-work maintenance, but Robin and Professor Lovell’s itineraries were crammed with meetings starting from eight in the morning.
Promptly after breakfast, Robin accompanied Mr Baylis to the harbour to go over shipping manifests with Chinese customs officials. The customs office had supplied their own translator, a reedy, bespectacled man named Meng who uttered each English word with slow, timid deliberateness, as if terrified of mispronouncing anything. ‘We will now go over the inventory,’ he told Robin. His deferential, upwards-trailing tone made it sound as if he were asking a question; Robin could not tell if he was asking him for permission or not. ‘Er – yes.’ He cleared his throat, then enunciated in his best Mandarin, ‘Proceed.’ Meng began reading off the inventory list, glancing up after every item so that Mr Baylis could confirm in which boxes those goods had been stored. ‘One hundred twenty-five pounds copper. Seventy-eight pounds ginseng crude. Twenty-four boxes be . . . beetle—’
‘Betel nuts,’ corrected Mr Baylis. ‘Betel?’ ‘You know, betel,’ said Mr Baylis. ‘Or areca nuts, if you will. For chewing.’ He pointed to his jaw and mimed the act. ‘No?’ Meng, still baffled, looked to Robin for help. Robin swiftly translated into Chinese, and Meng nodded. ‘Beetle nuts.’ ‘Oh, enough of this,’ snapped Mr Baylis. ‘Let Robin do it – you can translate the whole list, can’t you, Robin? It would save us a good deal of time. They’re hopeless, I told you, all of them – a whole country, and not a single competent English speaker among them.’ Meng seemed to understand all of this perfectly. He cast Robin a scathing look, and Robin bent his head over the manifest to avoid his eye.
* * *
It went on like this all morning: Mr Baylis met with a procession of Chinese agents, all of whom he treated with incredible rudeness, and then looked to Robin as if expecting him to translate not only his words but his utter contempt for his interlocutors.
By the time they adjourned for lunch, Robin had developed a painful, throbbing headache. He could not take another moment of Mr Baylis’s company. Even supper, which was served back in the English Factory, was no respite; Mr Baylis spent the whole time recounting silly claims the customs officials had made, and kept casting his stories in a way that made Robin sound like he’d verbally slapped the Chinese at every turn. Ramy, Victoire, and Letty looked very confused. Robin scarcely spoke. He scarfed down his food – this time a more tolerable, if flavourless, dish of beef over rice – and then announced that he was heading back out. ‘Where are you going?’ asked Mr Baylis. ‘I want to go and see the city.’ Robin’s irritation made him bold. ‘We’re done for the day, aren’t we?’ ‘Foreigners aren’t allowed in the city,’ said Mr Baylis. ‘I’m not a foreigner. I was born here.’ Mr Baylis had no rejoinder. Robin took his silence as assent. He snatched up his coat and strode towards the door.
Ramy hurried after him. ‘Suppose I come with you?’ Please, Robin almost said, but hesitated. ‘I’m not sure if you can.’ Robin saw Victoire and Letty glancing their way. Letty made as if to rise, but Victoire put an arm on her shoulder. ‘I’ll be fine,’ said Ramy, pulling on his coat. ‘I’ll be with you.’ They walked out the front door and down the length of the Thirteen Factories. When they crossed from the foreign enclave into the Cantonese suburbs, no one stopped them; no one seized them by the arm and insisted they return to where they belonged. Even Ramy’s face attracted no peculiar comment; Indian lascars were a common sight in Canton, and they attracted less attention than white foreigners. It was, strangely, a complete reversal of their situation in England.
Robin led them through the streets of downtown Canton at random. He didn’t know what he was looking for. Childhood haunts? Familiar landmarks? He had no destination in mind; no place he thought would bring
catharsis. All he felt was a deep urgency, a need to walk over as much territory as he could before the sun went down. ‘Does it feel like home?’ Ramy asked – lightly, neutrally, as if tiptoeing on eggshells. ‘Not in the least,’ Robin said. He felt so deeply confused. ‘This is – I’m not sure what this is.’ Canton was wildly different from the way he’d left it. The construction on the docks, which had been going on since Robin could remember, had exploded into entire complexes of new buildings – warehouses, company offices, inns, restaurants, and teahouses. But what else had he expected?
Canton had always been a shifting, dynamic city, sucking in what the sea delivered and digesting it all into its own peculiar hybridity. How could he ever assume it might remain rooted in the past?
Still, this transformation felt like a betrayal. It felt like the city had closed off any possible path home. ‘Where did you used to live?’ Ramy asked, still in that careful, gentle tone, as if Robin were a basket of emotions threatening to spill. ‘One of the shanty towns.’ Robin looked around. ‘Not too far from here, I
think.’ ‘Do you want to go?’ Robin thought of that dry, stuffy house; the stink of diarrhoea and decomposing bodies. It was the last place in the world he wanted to visit again. But it seemed worse not to even have a look. ‘I’m not sure I can find it. But we can try.’ Eventually Robin found his way back to his old home – not by following the streets, which had now become wholly unfamiliar, but by walking until the distance between the docks, the river, and the setting sun felt familiar.
Yes, this was where home should have been – he remembered the curve of the riverfront, as well as the rickshaw lot on the opposite bank. ‘Is this it?’ asked Ramy. ‘It’s all shops.’ The street didn’t resemble anything he remembered. His family house had disappeared off the face of the planet. He couldn’t even tell where its foundations lay – they could have been beneath the tea shop in front of them, or the company office to its left, or the lavishly ornamented shop near the end of the street with a sign that read, in garish red paint: huā yān guǎn. Flower- smoke shop. An opium den.
Robin strode towards it. ‘Where are you going?’ Ramy hurried behind him. ‘What’s that?’ ‘It’s where all the opium goes. They come here to smoke it.’ Robin felt a sudden unbearable curiosity. His gaze darted around the shopfront, trying to memorize every detail of it – the large paper lanterns, the lacquered exterior, the girls in face paint and long skirts beckoning from the shopfront. They beamed at him, extending their arms like dancers as he approached. ‘Hello, mister,’ they cooed in Cantonese. ‘Won’t you come in for some fun?’ ‘Good heavens,’ said Ramy. ‘Come away from there.’ ‘One moment.’ Robin felt compelled by some fierce, twisted desire to know, the same vicious urge that compelled one to prod at a sore, just to see how badly it could hurt. ‘I just want to have a look around.’ Inside, the smell hit him like a wall. It was cloying, sickly, and sugar- sweet, both repulsive and enticing at once. ‘Welcome, sir.’ A hostess materialized around Robin’s arm. She smiled wide as she took in his expression. ‘Is this your first time?’ ‘I don’t—’ Suddenly the words failed Robin. He could understand Cantonese, but he couldn’t speak it. ‘Would you like to try?’ The hostess held out a pipe towards him. It was already lit; the pot glowed with gently burning opium, and a small trickle of smoke unfurled from the tip. ‘Your first on the house, mister.’ ‘What’s she saying?’ Ramy asked. ‘Birdie, don’t touch that.’ ‘Look how much fun they’re having.’ The hostess gestured around the sitting room. ‘Won’t you have a taste?’ The den was filled with men. Robin hadn’t noticed them before, it was so dark, but now he saw that there were at least a dozen opium smokers sprawled over low couches in various states of undress. Some fondled girls perched atop their laps, some listlessly played a gambling game, and some lay alone in a stupor, mouths half-open and eyes half-closed, staring out at nothing.
Your uncle couldn’t stay away from those dens. The sight prompted words he hadn’t recalled in a decade, words in his mother’s voice, words she’d sighed throughout his childhood. We used to be rich, darling. Look at us now.
He thought of his mother reminiscing bitterly about the gardens she used to tend and the dresses she used to wear before his uncle frittered their family fortune away in an opium den like this. He imagined his mother, young and desperate, eager to do anything for the foreign man who promised her coin, who used and abused her and left her with an English maid and a bewildering set of instructions to raise their child, her child, in a language she couldn’t speak herself. Robin was birthed by choices produced from
poverty, poverty produced from this. ‘A draught, mister?’ Before he registered what he was doing, the pipe was in his mouth – he was breathing in, the hostess was smiling wider, saying something he didn’t understand, and everything was sweet and dizzy and lovely and awful all at once. He coughed, then sucked in hard again; he had to see how addictive this stuff was, if it really could make one sacrifice all else. ‘All right.’ Ramy gripped his arm. ‘That’s enough, let’s go.’ They walked briskly back through the city, this time with Ramy at the lead. Robin didn’t speak a word. He couldn’t tell how much those few draughts of opium had affected him, whether he was only imagining his symptoms. Once, out of curiosity, he had thumbed through a copy of De Quincey’s Confessions of an English Opium-Eater, which described the effect of opium as communicating ‘serenity and equipoise’ to all the faculties, of ‘greatly invigorating’ one’s self-possession, and of giving ‘an expansion to the heart’. But he felt none of those things. The only words he would use to describe himself now were ‘not quite right’; he felt vaguely nauseated, his head swam, his heart beat too fast, and his body moved far too slowly. ‘You all right?’ Ramy asked for a while. ‘I’m drowning,’ Robin mumbled. ‘No, you’re not,’ said Ramy. ‘You’re only being hysterical. We’ll get back to the Factories, and you’ll drink a nice tall glass of water—’ * ‘It’s called yánghuò,’said Robin. ‘That’s what she called the opium.
Yáng means “foreign”, huò means “goods”. Yánghuò means “foreign goods”.
That’s how they refer to everything here. Yáng people. Yáng guilds.
Yánghuòre – an obsession with foreign goods, with opium. And that’s me.
That’s all coming from me. I’m yáng.’
They paused over a bridge, beneath which fishermen and sampans went back and forth. The din of it all, the cacophony of a language he’d spent so much time away from and now had to focus on to decipher, made Robin want to press his hands against his ears, to block out a soundscape that should have but did not feel like home. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,’ he said. ‘About Hermes.’ Ramy sighed. ‘Birdie, not now.’ ‘I should have told you,’ Robin insisted. ‘I should have, and I didn’t, because somehow I still had it all split in my head, and I never put the two pieces together because I just didn’t see . . . I just – I don’t know how I didn’t see.’ Ramy regarded him in silence for a long moment, and then stepped closer so that they were standing side by side, gazing out over the water. ‘You know,’ he said quietly, ‘Sir Horace Wilson, my guardian, once took me to one of the opium fields he’d invested in. In West Bengal. I don’t think I ever told you about it. That’s where the bulk of this stuff is grown – in Bengal, Bihar, and Patna. Sir Horace owned a share in one of the plantations.
He was so proud; he thought this was the future of the colonial trade. He made me shake hands with his fieldworkers. He told them that someday, I might be their supervisor. This stuff changed everything, he said. This corrected the trade deficit. ‘I don’t think I’ll ever forget what I saw.’ He rested his elbows against the bridge and sighed. ‘Rows and rows of flowers. A whole ocean of them.
They’re such bright scarlet that the fields look wrong, like the land itself is bleeding. It’s all grown in the countryside. Then it gets packed and transported to Calcutta, where it’s handed off to private merchants who bring it straight here. The two most popular opium brands here are called Patna and Malwa. Both regions in India. From my home straight to yours, Birdie.
Isn’t that funny?’ Ramy glanced sideways at him. ‘The British are turning my homeland into a narco-military state to pump drugs into yours. That’s how this empire connects us.’ Robin saw a great spider’s web in his mind then. Cotton from India to Britain, opium from India to China, silver becoming tea and porcelain in China, and everything flowing back to Britain. It sounded so abstract – just categories of use, exchange, and value – until it wasn’t; until you realized the
web you lived in and the exploitations your lifestyle demanded, until you saw looming above it all the spectre of colonial labour and colonial pain. ‘It’s sick,’ he whispered. ‘It’s sick, it’s so sick . . .’ ‘But it’s all just trade,’ said Ramy. ‘Everyone benefits; everyone profits, even if it’s only one country that profits a good deal more. Continuous gains – that’s the logic, isn’t it? So why would we ever try to break out? The point is, Birdie, I think I understand why you didn’t see. Almost no one does.’ Free trade. This was always the British line of argument – free trade, free competition, an equal playing field for all. Only it never ended up that way, did it? What ‘free trade’ really meant was British imperial dominance, for what was free about a trade that relied on a massive build-up of naval power to secure maritime access? When mere trading companies could wage war, assess taxes, and administer civil and criminal justice?
Griffin was right to be angry, thought Robin, but he was wrong to think he could do anything about it. These trade networks were carved in stone.
Nothing was pushing this arrangement off its course; there were too many private interests, too much money at stake. They could all see where it was going, but the people who had the power to do anything about it had been placed in positions where they would profit, and the people who suffered most had no power at all. ‘It was so easy to forget,’ he said. ‘The cards it’s built on, I mean – because when you’re at Oxford, in the tower, they’re all just words, just ideas. But the world’s so much bigger than I thought—’ ‘It’s just as big as we thought,’ Ramy said. ‘It’s just that we forgot the rest of it mattered. We got so good at refusing to see what was right in front of us.’ ‘But now I’ve seen it,’ said Robin, ‘or at least understand it a bit better, and it’s tearing me apart, Ramy, and I don’t even understand why. It’s not as if – as if—’ As if what? As if he’d seen anything properly horrible? As if he’d seen the slave plantations in the West Indies at the height of their cruelty, or the starved bodies in India, victims of utterly avoidable famines, or the slaughtered natives of the New World? All he’d seen was one opium den – but that was enough to act as synecdoche for the awful, undeniable rest.
He leaned over the side of the bridge, wondering how it might feel if he just toppled over the edge.
‘Are you going to jump, Birdie?’ Ramy asked. ‘It just doesn’t feel . . .’ Robin took a deep breath. ‘It doesn’t feel like we have the right to be alive.’ Ramy sounded very calm. ‘Do you mean that?’ ‘No, I don’t, I just . . .’ Robin squeezed his eyes shut. His thoughts were so jumbled; he had no idea how to convey what he meant, and all he could grasp at were memories, passing references. ‘Did you ever read Gulliver’s Travels? I read it all the time, when I lived here – I read it so often I nearly memorized it. And there’s this chapter where Gulliver winds up on a land ruled by horses, who call themselves the Houyhnhnms, and where the humans are all savage, idiot slaves called Yahoos. They’re swapped. And Gulliver gets so used to living with his Houyhnhnm master, gets so convinced of Houyhnhnm superiority, that when he gets home, he’s horrified by his fellow humans. He thinks they’re imbeciles. He can’t stand to be around them. And that’s how this . . . that’s . . .’ Robin rocked back and forth over the bridge.
He felt like no matter how hard he breathed, he could not get enough air. ‘Do you know what I mean?’ ‘I do,’ Ramy said gently. ‘But it does no one any good for us to get into histrionics about it. So step down, Birdie, and let’s go and have that glass of water.’
The next morning Robin accompanied Mr Baylis to the downtown government office for their audience with Imperial High Commissioner Lin Zexu. ‘This Lin fellow is smarter than the rest,’ said Mr Baylis as they walked. * ‘Nigh incorruptible. In the southeast, they call him Lin Qingtian– clear as the heavens, he’s so impervious to bribes.’ Robin said nothing. He had decided to suffer through the rest of his duties in Canton by doing the bare minimum required of him, and this did not involve egging on Mr Baylis’s racist diatribes.
Mr Baylis did not appear to notice. ‘Now, be on your toes. The Chinese are a devilishly tricky sort – duplicitous by nature, and all that. Always saying one thing when they mean quite the opposite. Careful you don’t let
them get the better of you.’ ‘I’ll stay sharp,’ Robin said shortly.
By Mr Baylis’s account, one would imagine Commissioner Lin was nine foot tall, had eyes that could shoot fire and trickster’s horns. In person, the Commissioner was a mild-mannered, gentle-featured man of average height and build. His person was entirely nondescript save for his eyes, which seemed unusually bright and perceptive. He had with him his own interpreter, a young Chinese man who introduced himself as William Botelho, and who, to Robin’s surprise, had studied English in the United States. ‘Welcome, Mr Baylis,’ said Commissioner Lin as William swiftly translated into English. ‘I’m told you have some thoughts you would like to share with me.’ ‘The issue, as you know, is the opium trade,’ said Mr Baylis. ‘It is the opinion of Mr Jardine and Mr Matheson that it would benefit both your people and ours if their agents could legally sell opium along the coast in Canton without interference. They’d appreciate an official apology for the inhospitable treatment their trading agents received earlier this year. And it seems only just that the twenty thousand chests of opium that were seized a few months ago are returned to us, or at least monetary compensation equivalent to their market value.’ For the first few moments Commissioner Lin only listened, blinking, as Robin continued to rattle off Mr Baylis’s list of demands. Robin tried not to convey Mr Baylis’s tone, which was loud and patronizing, but to instead deliver them in as flat and emotionless a manner as he could manage. Still, his ears reddened in embarrassment; this did not feel like a dialogue but a lecture, the sort one might give a dim child.
Mr Baylis did not seem baffled by Commissioner Lin’s lack of response; when his words met with silence, he merely continued: ‘Misters Jardine and Matheson would also like to say that the Qing Emperor ought to realize his government’s exclusive trade policies do not benefit the Chinese. Your own people, in fact, resent your trade barriers, which they believe do not represent their interests. They would much rather enjoy free association with foreigners, for that gives them too an opportunity to seek wealth. Free trade is, after all, the secret to national prosperity – and believe me, your people could do with reading some Adam Smith.’ Finally, Commissioner Lin spoke. ‘We know all this.’ William Botelho swiftly translated. It was an odd conversation, conveyed through four people, none of whom spoke directly to the person he was listening to. ‘These are the
precise terms in the many letters delivered from Misters Jardine and Matheson, no? Have you come to say anything new?’ Robin looked expectantly to Mr Baylis. Mr Baylis faltered briefly. ‘Well – no, but it bears repeating in person—’ Commissioner Lin clasped his hands behind his back, then asked, ‘Mr Baylis, is it not true that in your own country, opium is prohibited with the utmost strictness and severity?’ He paused to let William translate. ‘Well, yes,’ said Mr Baylis, ‘but the question is trade, not Britain’s domestic restrictions—’ ‘And,’ continued Commissioner Lin, ‘does not the sanction against your own civilians’ use of opium prove that you know full well how harmful it is to mankind? We should like to ask, has China ever sent forth a noxious article from its soil? Have we ever sold you anything save for that which is beneficial, that which your country has great demand for? Is your argument now that the opium trade is, in fact, good for us?’ ‘The debate,’ insisted Mr Baylis, ‘is about economics. I once had an admiral seize my ship and search it for opium. When I explained to him I had none, as I follow the laws set by the Qing Emperor, he professed disappointment. He was hoping to purchase it wholesale and redistribute it himself, you see. Which proves the Chinese have much to profit from this trade as well—’ ‘You are still avoiding the question of who smokes the opium,’ said Commissioner Lin.
Mr Baylis gave an exasperated sigh. ‘Robin, tell him—’ ‘I will reiterate to you what we wrote to your Queen Victoria,’ said Commissioner Lin. ‘Those who wish to trade with our celestial empire must obey the laws set down by the Emperor. And the Emperor’s new law, about to be put into force, reads that any foreigners bringing opium into China with designs to sell it will be decapitated, and all property on board the ship will be confiscated.’ ‘But you can’t do that,’ Mr Baylis blustered. ‘Those are British citizens you’re talking about. That’s British property.’ ‘Not when they choose to be criminals.’ Here William Botelho mirrored Commissioner Lin’s cool disdain with exact precision, down to the slightest arch of his eyebrow. Robin was impressed.
‘Now look here,’ said Mr Baylis. ‘The British don’t fall under your jurisdiction, Commissioner. You haven’t got any real authority.’ ‘I am aware that you believe your interests will always supersede our laws,’ said Commissioner Lin. ‘Yet we stand inside Chinese territory. And so I will remind you, and your masters, that we will enforce our laws as we see fit.’ ‘Then you know we’ll have to defend our citizens as we see fit.’ Robin was so amazed Mr Baylis had spoken these words out loud that he forgot to translate. There was an awkward pause. At last, William Botelho murmured Mr Baylis’s meaning in Chinese to Commissioner Lin.
Commissioner Lin was utterly unfazed. ‘Is this a threat, Mr Baylis?’ Mr Baylis opened his mouth, seemed to think better of it, and then closed it. Irritated as he was, he’d apparently realized that as much as he loved verbally berating the Chinese, he still couldn’t issue a declaration of war without his government’s backing.
All four parties regarded each other in silence.
Then abruptly, Commissioner Lin nodded to Robin. ‘I would like a private conversation with your assistant.’ ‘Him? He hasn’t any company authority,’ Robin translated automatically on Mr Baylis’s behalf. ‘He’s just the interpreter.’ ‘I mean only for a casual conversation,’ said Commissioner Lin. ‘I – but he’s not permitted to speak on my behalf.’ ‘I don’t need him to. In fact, I rather think we’ve said all that needs to be said to each other,’ said Commissioner Lin. ‘Don’t you?’ Robin allowed himself the simple pleasure of watching Mr Baylis’s shock turn to indignation. He considered translating his stuttered protests, but decided on silence when it became clear none of it was coherent. At last Mr Baylis, for lack of any better option, allowed himself to be escorted out of the room. ‘You too,’ Commissioner Lin told William Botelho, who obeyed without comment.
Then they were alone. Commissioner Lin gazed at him for a long, silent moment. Robin blinked, unable to sustain eye contact; he felt certain he was being searched, and this made him feel both inadequate and desperately uncomfortable. ‘What is your name?’ Commissioner Lin asked quietly.
‘Robin Swift,’ Robin said, then blinked, confused. The Anglophone name seemed incongruous for a conversation held in Chinese. His other name, his first name, had not been used for so long that it hadn’t crossed his mind to say it. ‘I mean—’ But he was too embarrassed to continue.
Commissioner Lin’s gaze was curious, unmoving. ‘Where are you from?’ ‘Here, in fact,’ said Robin, grateful for a question he could easily answer. ‘Though I left when I was very young. And I haven’t been back in a
long time.’ ‘How interesting. Why did you leave?’ ‘My mother died of cholera, and a professor at Oxford became my guardian.’ ‘You belong to their school, then? The Translation Institute?’ ‘I do. It’s the reason why I left for England. I’ve studied my whole life to be a translator.’ ‘A very honourable profession,’ said Commissioner Lin. ‘Many of my countrymen look down on learning barbarian tongues. But I’ve commissioned quite a few translation projects since I assumed power here. You must know the barbarians to control the barbarians, don’t you think?’ Something about the man compelled Robin to speak frankly. ‘That’s rather the same attitude they have about you.’ To his relief, Commissioner Lin laughed. This emboldened Robin. ‘May I
ask you something?’ ‘Go ahead.’ ‘Why do you call them yi? You must know that they hate it.’ ‘But all it means is “foreign”,’ said Commissioner Lin. ‘They are the ones who insisted on its connotations. They create the insult for themselves.’ ‘Then wouldn’t it be easier just to say yáng?’ ‘Would you let someone come in and tell you what words in your own language mean? We have words to use when we wish to insult. They should
* feel lucky guĭis not more prevalent.’ Robin chuckled. ‘Fair enough.’ ‘Now I would like you to be frank with me,’ said Commissioner Lin. ‘Is there any point to negotiating this subject? If we swallowed our pride, if we bent the knee – would this mediate things whatsoever?’
Robin wanted to say yes. He wished he could claim that yes, of course, there was yet space to negotiate – that Britain and China, both being nations led by rational, enlightened people, could certainly find a middle ground without resorting to hostilities. But he knew this was not true. He knew Baylis, Jardine, and Matheson had no intention on compromising with the Chinese. Compromise required some acknowledgment that the other party deserved equal moral standing. But to the British, he’d learned, the Chinese were like animals. ‘No,’ he said. ‘They want what they want, and they won’t settle for anything less. They don’t respect you, or your government. You are obstacles to be resolved, one way or another.’ ‘Disappointing. For all their talk of rights and dignity.’ ‘I think those principles only apply to those they find human.’ Commissioner Lin nodded. He seemed to have decided something; his features set with resolve. ‘Then there’s no need to waste words, is there?’ Only when Commissioner Lin turned his back to him did Robin realize he had been dismissed.
Unsure what to do, he gave an awkward, perfunctory bow and left the room. Mr Baylis was waiting in the hallway, looking disgruntled. ‘Anything?’ he demanded as servants escorted them out of the hall. ‘Nothing,’ Robin said. He felt slightly dizzy. The audience had ended so abruptly that he didn’t know what to make of it. He’d been so focused on the mechanics of translation, on conveying Mr Baylis’s precise meanings, word for word, that he’d failed to grasp the shift in the conversation. He sensed something momentous had just occurred, but he wasn’t sure of what, nor his role in it. He kept going over the negotiation in his head, wondering if he’d made some disastrous mistake. But it had all been so civil. They had only reiterated positions well established on paper, had they not? ‘He seemed to have considered the matter settled.’
Mr Baylis hurried immediately to the upstairs offices upon their return to the English Factory, leaving Robin alone in the lobby. He wasn’t sure what to do with himself. He was supposed to have been out interpreting all afternoon, but Mr Baylis had absconded without any parting instructions. He waited in the lobby for a few minutes, then at last made his way to the sitting room, assuming it would be best to stay in a public area in case Mr Baylis decided
he still needed him. Ramy, Letty, and Victoire sat at a table playing a game of cards.
Robin took the empty seat beside Ramy. ‘Don’t you have silver to polish?’ ‘Finished early.’ Ramy dealt him a hand. ‘Gets a bit boring here when you can’t speak the language, to be honest. We’re thinking we might take a boat trip to see the Fa Ti river gardens later when we’re allowed. How was the meeting with the Commissioner?’ ‘Strange,’ said Robin. ‘We didn’t get anywhere. He seemed very interested in me, though.’ ‘Because he can’t figure out why a Chinese interpreter is working for the enemy?’ ‘I suppose,’ Robin said. He couldn’t shake a sense of foreboding, as if watching a gathering storm, waiting for the skies to split. The mood in the sitting room seemed too light-hearted, too tranquil. ‘How are you all? You think they’ll give you anything more interesting to do?’ ‘Not likely.’ Victoire yawned. ‘We’re abandoned children. Mama and Papa are too busy wrecking economies to deal with us.’ ‘Good Lord.’ Suddenly Letty stood. Her eyes were fixed, wide and horrified, on the window, where she pointed. ‘Look – what in God’s name —’ A great fire roared on the opposite bank. But the burn, they saw when they rushed to the window, was a controlled burn; it only seemed catastrophic because of the billowing flames and smoke. When Robin squinted, he saw that the flames were contained at their source to a pile of chests loaded on deep-bellied boats that had been pushed out to the shallows.
A few seconds later he smelled their contents: a sickly sweet scent carried by wind across the coast through the windows of the English Factory.
Opium. Commissioner Lin was burning the opium. ‘Robin.’ Professor Lovell stormed into the room, followed closely by Mr Baylis. Both looked furious; Professor Lovell’s face in particular was twisted with a rage Robin had never seen on him. ‘What did you do?’ ‘I – what?’ Robin looked from Professor Lovell to the window, baffled. ‘I don’t understand—’ ‘What did you say?’ Professor Lovell repeated, shaking Robin by the collar. ‘What did you tell him?’
It was the first time Professor Lovell had laid hands on him since that day in the library. Robin didn’t know what Professor Lovell might do now – the look in his eyes was beastly, wholly unrecognizable. Please, Robin thought wildly. Please, hurt me, hit me, because then we’ll know. Then there won’t be any question. But the spell passed as quickly as it came. Professor Lovell let go of Robin, blinking, as if coming back to himself. He took a step back and dusted off the front of his jacket.
Around them Ramy and Victoire stood tense, both crouching as if to spring between them. ‘Excuse me, I simply—’ Professor Lovell cleared his throat. ‘Get your things and meet me outside. All of you. The Hellas is waiting in the bay.’ ‘But aren’t we headed to Macau next?’ Letty asked. ‘Our notices said—’ ‘The situation’s changed,’ Professor Lovell said curtly. ‘We’ve booked early passage back to England. Go.’
