The gesture drew a shout from the quarterdeck. 'Leave her be, Reid!' Mr Doughty called out. 'You'll get no thanks for your bawhawdery.'

But the warning came too late: Zachary's hand was almost on the bundle when Paulette slapped it smartly away: her father's ma.n.u.script was concealed inside, along with two of her most beloved novels - and she could not take the risk of letting him feel the bindings through the cloth.

A look of injured surprise appeared on Zachary's face as he dropped his reprimanded hand. As for Paulette, her only thought was of escaping to the 'tween-deck. Picking up her bundle, she hurried over to the b.o.o.by-hatch and took hold of the ladder.

Halfway down, she remembered her last visit to the dabusa: how quickly she had skipped down that ladder then - but now, with her sari wrapped around her calves, and her bundle on her head, it was another matter altogether. Nor was the 'tween-deck immediately recognizable as the same dabusa she'd been in before: its dark, unlit interior was now illuminated by several lamps and candles, and she saw, by their light, that dozens of mats had been laid out in concentric circles, covering most of the floor s.p.a.ce. Strangely, the dabusa seemed to have shrunk in the meanwhile, and she discovered why when she glanced ahead: its forward end had been cut short by a new wooden bulwark.

There was a maistry inside, directing operations, and he pointed Munia and Paulette towards the newly made part.i.tion. The women's section's over there, he said, right next to the chokey.

You mean there's a chokey behind that wall? cried Munia, in fright. Then why have you put us right next to it?

Nothing to worry about, said the maistry. The entrance is on the other side. There's no way the qaidis can get at you. You'll be safe over there, and you won't have the men stepping all over you to get to the heads.

There was no arguing with this: as she was making her way to the women's enclosure, Paulette noticed a small air duct, in the chokey's bulwark; if she stood on tiptoe it was on a level with her eye. She could not resist peeking in as she went past, and having stolen one glimpse, she returned quickly for another: she saw that there were two men inside the chokey, as curious a pair as ever she had laid eyes on. One had a shaven head, a skeletal face, and looked as if he might be Nepali; the other had a sinister tattoo on his forehead and appeared to have been dragged in from the Calcutta waterfront. Stranger still, the darker one was weeping while the other one had an arm around his shoulder, as if in consolation: despite their chains and bindings, there was a tenderness in their att.i.tudes that seemed scarcely conceivable in a couple of criminal transportees. After yet another stolen glance, she saw that the two men were now speaking to each other, and this further excited her curiosity: what could they be saying - and with such absorption as not to notice the commotion in the adjoining compartment? What language might they share, this skeletal Easterner and this tattooed criminal? Paulette moved her mat around, so that it was placed right beside the bulwark: when she put her ear to a seam in the wood, she found, to her astonishment, that she could not only hear what was being said, but understand it too - for, amazingly, the two convicts were conversing in English.

Moments after Zachary's hand had been slapped, Baboo n.o.b Kissin Pander appeared at his side. Although the gomusta was wearing his accustomed dhoti and kurta, his shape, Zachary noticed, had acquired a curious, matronly fullness, and when he swept his shoulder-length hair off his face, it was with the practised gesture of a stout dowager. The expression on his face was at once indulgent and admonitory as he wagged a finger in Zachary's face: 'Tch! Tch! Despite beehive activities you still cannot suspend your mischiefs?'

'There you go again, Pander,' said Zachary. 'What the h.e.l.l you talkin bout now?'

The gomusta lowered his voice: 'It is all right. No formalities. Everything is known to me.'

'What's that mean?'

'Here,' said Baboo n.o.b Kissin, helpfully. 'I will show what is hidden in the bosom.'

The gomusta thrust a hand through the neckline of his kurta, reaching so deep inside that Zachary would not have been surprised to see a plump breast laid bare. But instead, the hand emerged holding a cylindrical copper locket. 'See how nicely I have hidden? This way maximum securities can be maintained. However, one warning I must give.'

'What?'

'I regret to inform that this place is not apt.'

'Apt for what?'

Leaning towards Zachary's ear, the gomusta hissed: 'For mischiefs with cowgirls.'

'What the h.e.l.l you talkin bout, Pander?' cried Zachary in exasperation. 'I was just tryin to help the woman pick up her stuff.'

'Better to leave ladies alone,' said the gomusta. 'Flute also better not show. They may get too much excited.'

'Show my flute?' Not for the first time, Zachary wondered whether the gomusta was not merely eccentric but actually mad. 'Oh hie off, Pander; leave me alone!'

Zachary turned on his heel and took himself off to the deck rail. The back of his hand was still red from the woman's slap; Zachary frowned as he looked at it - it disturbed him in a way that he could not quite understand. He had noticed the woman in the red sari well before she dropped her baggage: she had been the first to come up the gangplank, and something about the tilt of her head had given him the impression that she was watching him, from the shelter of her headcloth. Her tread had seemed to grow slower and heavier as she came on deck. Even when her sorry little bundle was giving her such a hard time, she would not allow herself to use more than one of her gnarled, henna-veined hands in wrestling with her burden; the other claw, similarly disfigured, was employed solely in holding her shroud in place. There was a fervour in her concealment which seemed to suggest that a man's glance was as much to be feared as a tongue of fire - the thought made him smile, and a twinge of memory reminded him suddenly of the burning scowl that Paulette had directed at him, at the end of their last meeting. This notion, in turn, made him look towards the sh.o.r.e, wondering if she might be somewhere nearby, keeping watch on the Ibis. He had heard, from Jodu, that she had recovered from her illness: surely she wouldn't allow the ship to leave without saying goodbye - if not to him, then at least to Jodu? Surely she would see that both he and Jodu had acted in her own best interest?

Suddenly, as if conjured up by some rite of divination, Serang Ali appeared at his elbow. 'No hab heard?' he whispered. 'Lambert-missy hab run way to marry nother-piece man. More better Malum Zikri forgetting she. Anyway she too muchi thin. China-side can catch one nice piece wife-o. Topside, backside same-same. Make Malum Zikri too muchi happy inside.'

Zachary banged a despairing fist on the deck rail: 'Oh, by all the hoaky, Serang Ali! Will you stop it? You with your d.a.m.ned wife-o and Pander with his cowgirls! To listen to you two anyone'd think I was some crazy crannyhunter on the prowl ...'

He was cut short by Serang Ali, who pushed him suddenly to one side, with a shout: 'Mich'man! 'Ware! 'Ware.' Zachary looked over his shoulder just in time to see Crabbie, the ship's cat, racing along the deck rail as though she were fleeing from some unseen predator. Launching into a flying leap, the cat touched down once upon the side-ladder, and then bounced off to land on a boat that was moored alongside the schooner. Then, without so much as a glance at the vessel that had carried her halfway around the world, the tabby disappeared.

On deck the lascars and migrants stared aghast after the vanished animal, and even Zachary experienced a touch of apprehension: he had heard superst.i.tious old sailors speaking of misgivings that 'made b.u.t.tons in the belly', but had never before known what it meant to have his own stomach serve up such a tremor.

Up above, Mamdootindal's knuckles had turned white on the yard.

Did you see that? he said to Jodu. Did you see?

What?

That cat jumped ship: now there's a sign if ever I saw one.

The last woman to come on board was Deeti, and she was climbing up the side-ladder when the cat leapt across her path. She would gladly have fallen in the water rather than be the first to cross the line of its flight, but Kalua was right behind her, holding her steady. At his back there were so many others, crowding on to the ladder, that there was no resisting their collective weight. Driven on by the maistries, the migrants surged forward and Deeti was carried across the invisible mark, to be deposited on the schooner's deck.

Through the veil of her sari, Deeti looked up at the masts, towering above. The sight made her a little giddy, so she kept her head bent and her eyes lowered. A number of maistries and silahdars were positioned along the deck, ushering the migrants along with their lathis, shoving them in the direction of the b.o.o.by-hatch. Chal! Chal! Despite their shouts, progress was slow because of all the clutter on deck; everywhere you looked there were ropes, casks, pipas, bimbas, and even the occasional runaway chicken and bleating goat.

Deeti was almost abreast of the foremast when she became aware of a voice that sounded strangely familiar: it was shouting obscenities in Bhojpuri: Tore mai ke bur chodo!

Looking ahead, through a tangle of ropes and spars, she caught sight of a bull-necked, heavy-bellied man with luxuriant white moustaches; her feet froze and a cold hand took hold of her heart. Even though she knew who it was, there was a voice in her ear telling her that it was not a mortal man at all, but Saturn himself: It's him, Shani, he's been hunting you all your life and now he has you in his grasp. Her knees buckled under her, sending her crashing to the planks, at her husband's feet.

By this time a great press of people had poured on to the deck, and they were being herded steadily aft by the guards and overseers, with their swishing lathis. Had the person behind Deeti been someone of lesser size and strength than Kalua, she might well have been trampled where she lay. But on seeing her fall, Kalua braced himself against the deck and was able to bring the flow of people to a sudden halt.

What's happening there?

The disturbance had caught Bhyro Singh's attention and he began to advance upon Kalua, lathi in hand. Deeti lay where she was and pulled her sari tight over her face: but what was the point of hiding when Kalua was standing right above her, in full view and sure to be recognized? She shut her eyes and began to mutter prayers: He Ram, he Ram ...

But the next thing she heard was Bhyro Singh's voice, saying to Kalua: What's your name?

Was it possible that the subedar would not recognize Kalua? Yes, of course: he had been away from the village these many years and had probably never seen him, except as a child - and what interest would he have had in a leather-tanner's child anyway? But the name, Kalua - that he was sure to know because of the scandal of Deeti's escape from her husband's funeral pyre. Oh, fortunate the kismat that had prompted her to be careful with their real names; if only Kalua did not mention it now. To give him warning, she dug a fingernail into his toe: Beware! Beware!

What's your name? the subedar asked again.

Her prayer was answered. After a moment's hesitation, Kalua said: Malik, my name is Madhu.

And is that your wife, lying there?

Yes, malik.

Pick her up, said Bhyro Singh, and carry her to the dabusa. Don't let me see either of you making trouble again.

Yes, malik.

Kalua slung Deeti across his shoulder and carried her down the ladder, leaving their bundles on deck. After he had laid her on a mat, he would have gone back to fetch the bundles, but Deeti would not let him: No, listen to me first: do you know who that man was? He's Bhyro Singh, my husband's uncle; it's he who arranged my marriage, and it's he who sent people out to look for us. If he knows we're here ...

'Are you ready, ho?' The pilot's call was answered promptly by Serang Ali: Sab taiyar, sahib.

The sun was at its zenith now, and the b.o.o.by-hatch that led to the dabusa had long since been battened down. Along with every other lascar, Jodu had been set to work on clearing the main deck - stowing pipas of drinking water, tirkaoing hamars, and hauling zanjirs through the hansil-holes. Now, with the chickens and goats safely stowed in the ship's boats, nothing else remained to be cleared and Jodu was impatient to be up on the trikat-yard again, for it was from aloft that he envisioned himself taking a last look at his native city: his were the first hands on the iskat when at last the command came - 'Foretopmen aloft!' - Trikatwale upar chal!

From Calcutta to Diamond Harbour, some twenty miles to the south, the Ibis was to be towed by the Forbes, one of several steam-tugs that had recently been put into commission on the Hooghly River. Jodu had seen these diminutive boats from afar, puffing consequentially along the river, towing mighty barques and brigantines as if they weighed no more than his own frail dinghy: not the least part of his eagerness to be under way lay in the prospect of a tow from one of these amazing vessels. Looking upriver, he saw that the round-nosed tug was already approaching, tolling its bell to clear a path through the traffic on the river.

On the far bank lay the Botanical Gardens and Jodu's perch was high enough that he could see the familiar trees and pathways. The sight made him think, for one fleeting and wistful instant, of what it would have been like to have Putli balancing on the trikat-yard beside him: that it would be sport, there was no denying, and she could have done it too, had it been possible. Of course, such a thing could not be permitted under any circ.u.mstances - but still, he couldn't help wishing that he had parted from her on some better, less contentious note: there was no telling when, if ever, he would see her again.

His attention had strayed so far that he was taken by surprise when Sunker said: Look, over there ...

The heads of a pair of divers could be seen bobbing around the anchor buoys as they loosed the schooner's cables. It was almost time now: in a matter of moments they would be pulling away. Mamdootindal tossed back his hair, and closed his long-lashed eyes. Then his lips began to move in prayer, murmuring the first words of the Fatiha. Jodu and Sunker were quick to join in: B'ism'illah ar-rahman ar-rahim, hamdu'l'illah al-rabb al-'alamin ... In the name of G.o.d, the Compa.s.sionate, the Merciful, Praise to the Lord of all Creation ...

'All hands to quarters, ahoy!' The pilot's shout was followed by a cry from the serang: Sab admi apna jagah!

As the tug drew closer, the hammering of its engine grew louder and louder, and in the enclosed, airless gloom of the dabusa, it sounded as if some enraged demon were trying to rip apart the wooden planks of the hull in order to devour the people who sat huddled within. It was very dark inside, for the maistries had extinguished the candles and lamps on their way out: there was no need for them, they'd said, now that the migrants were all nicely packed in - to keep them burning would only increase the risk of fire. No one had disputed this but everyone understood that the overseers were merely saving themselves an extra expense. With no flame lit and the hatch secured, such light as there was came from cracks in the timber and the openings of the p.i.s.s-dales. The leaden gloom, combined with the midday heat and the fetid stench of hundreds of enclosed bodies, gave the unstirred air a weight like that of sewage: it took an effort even to draw breath.

Already now, the girmitiyas had moved their mats about to their liking: everyone knew, from the first, that the maistries cared very little about what actually happened below: their chief concern was to escape the heat and stench of the dabusa so that they could settle into their own bunks, in the midships-cabin. No sooner had the overseers departed, shutting the hatch behind them, than the migrants began to disrupt the careful circle of their mats, scuffling and shouting as they fought for s.p.a.ce.

As the noise of the tugboat mounted, Munia began to tremble, and Paulette, guessing that she was on the verge of hysteria, drew her closer. Despite her pretence of self-possession, even Paulette was beginning to feel the onset of panic when she heard a voice she knew to be Zachary's: he was right above her, on the main deck, so close that she could almost hear the shuffle of his feet.

'Pay out the cable!' - Hamar tirkao!

'Haul together!' - Lag sab barabar!

The hawsers that connected the Ibis to the steam-tug drew tight and a tremor ran through the schooner as if she were waking suddenly to life, like a bird startled out of a long night's sleep. From below the waterline, the spasms ran upwards, through the dabusa and into the deckhouse, where Steward Pinto crossed himself and dropped to his knees. As his lips began to move, the mess-boys, in all their many faiths, knelt beside him and bowed their heads: Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tec.u.m ... Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee ...

On the main deck, Mr Doughty's hands were on the wheel as he shouted: 'Heave, you dogs, heave!'

Habes - habes kutte, habes! habes!

The schooner lurched to its jamna side and down in the darkness of the dabusa, people slipped and slid and tumbled upon each other like crumbs on a tilted tray. Neel put his eye to the air duct, and saw that a riot had broken out in the adjacent dabusa, with dozens of terrified migrants hurling themselves at the ladder, pounding on the fastened hatch, in a belated attempt at escape: Chhoro, chhoro - let us out, let us off ...

There was no response from above, except for a series of hook.u.ms, ringing across the deck: 'Haul you b.a.s.t.a.r.ds! Haul!' - Sab barabar! Habes sale, habes!

Exasperated by the futile thrashings of the girmitiyas, Neel shouted through the air duct: Be quiet you fools! There's no escape; no turning back ...

Slowly, as the vessel's motion made itself felt in the pit of every stomach, the noise yielded to a pregnant, fearful stillness. Now the migrants began to absorb the finality of what was under way: yes, they were moving, they were afloat, heading towards the void of the Black Water; neither death nor birth was as fearsome a pa.s.sage as this, neither being experienced in full consciousness. Slowly, the rioters backed away from the ladder and returned to their mats. Somewhere in the darkness, a voice, trembling in awe, uttered the first syllables of the Gayatri Mantra - and Neel, who had been made to learn the words almost as soon as he could speak, now found himself saying them, as if for the first time: Om, bhur bhuvah swah, tat savitur varenyam ... O giver of life, remover of pain and sorrow ...

'Ready about!' - Taiyar jagah jagah!

Up on the foremast, as the shudder of the Ibis's awakening ran from a-low to aloft, Jodu felt a tremor in the trikat-yard and knew that he had arrived at the moment his life had been building towards through many a long year; now, at last, he was leaving behind these muddy sh.o.r.es to meet the waters that led to Basra and Chin-kalan, Martaban and Zinjibar. As the mast began to sway, his chest swelled with pride to see how fine a figure the Ibis cut amongst the craft that clogged the river - the caramoussals and perikoes and budgerows. At this lofty elevation, it seemed as if the schooner had given him a pair of wings to soar above his past. Giddy with exhilaration, he hooked an arm around the shrouds and tore off his headcloth.

My salams to all of you, he shouted, waving to the unheeding sh.o.r.e: Jodu is on his way ... oh you wh.o.r.es of Watgunge ... you crimps of Bhutghat ... Jodu's turned a lascar and he is gone ... Gone!

Seventeen.

Twilight brought the Ibis back to the Narrows, at Hooghly Point, and there, in the river's broad curve, she dropped anchor to wait out the night. Not till darkness had swallowed the surrounding banks were the girmitiyas allowed on deck; until then the gratings of the hatchway were kept firmly closed. The subedar and the overseers were agreed that the migrants' first taste of shipboard conditions had probably increased the likelihood of attempted break-outs: seen in daylight, the sh.o.r.e might present an irresistible temptation. Even after nightfall, when the attractions of land had been diminished by the howls of foraging jackal-packs, the maistries did not relax their vigilance: past experience had taught them that in every group of indentured migrants there were always a few who were desperate - or suicidal - enough to throw themselves into the water. When it came time to prepare the evening meal, they kept every migrant under watch. Even those who had been designated to serve as bhandaris were kept under guard while they stirred the chattas in the deckhouse chuldan. As for the rest, they were allowed up only in small groups, and were herded back into the dabusa as soon as they had finished their rice, dal and lime-pickle.

While the bhandaris and maistries were seeing to the feeding of the migrants, Steward Pinto and his mess-boys were serving roast lamb, mint sauce and boiled potatoes in the officers' cuddy. The portions were generous, for the steward had laid in two whole sides of fresh mutton before leaving Calcutta, and the meat was not likely to last long in the unseasonable heat. But in spite of the plenitude of food and drink, there was less conviviality in the cuddy than there was around the chuldan, where, from time to time, the migrants could even be heard singing a few s.n.a.t.c.hes of song.

Majha dhara me hai bera mera Kripa kara asrai hai tera My raft's adrift in the current Your mercy is my only refuge ...

'd.a.m.ned coolies,' muttered the Captain, through a mouthful of lamb. 'b.l.o.o.d.y Doomsday couldn't put a stop to their caterwauling.'

A ship could take as long as three days, depending on the weather and the winds, to sail downriver from Calcutta to the Bay of Bengal. Between the river's estuary and the open sea lay the island of Ganga-Sagar, the last of the holy waterway's many pilgrimages. One of Neel's ancestors had endowed a temple on the island, and he had visited it several times himself. The erstwhile Halder zemindary lay about halfway between Calcutta and Ganga-Sagar, and Neel knew that the Ibis would pa.s.s his estate towards the end of the second day. This was a journey that he had made so often that he could feel the zemindary's approach in the river's bends and turns. As it drew near, his head filled with shards of recollection, some of them as bright and sharp as bits of broken gla.s.s. When the time came, almost as if to mock him, he heard the lookout cry out, above: Raskhali, we're pa.s.sing Raskhali!

He could see it now: it couldn't have been clearer if the schooner's hull had turned into gla.s.s. There it was: the palace and its colonnaded verandas; the terrace where he had taught Raj Rattan to fly kites; the avenue of palash trees his father had planted; the window of the bedroom to which he had taken Elokeshi.

'What is it, eh?' said Ah Fatt. 'Why you hitting your head, eh?' When Neel made no answer, Ah Fatt shook him by the shoulders till his teeth rattled.

'The place we pa.s.s now - you know it, not know it?'

'I know it.'

'Your village, eh?'

'Yes.'

'Home? Family? Tell everything.'

Neel shook his head: 'No. Maybe some other time.'

'Achha. Other time.'

Raskhali was so close that Neel could almost hear the bells of its temple. What he needed now, was to be elsewhere, in a place where he could be free of his memories. 'Where's your home, Ah Fatt? Tell me about it. Is it in a village?'

'Not village.' Ah Fatt scratched his chin. 'My home very big place: Guangzhou. English call Canton.'

'Tell me. Tell me everything.'

Hou-hou ...

Thus it happened that while the Ibis was still on the Hooghly, Neel was being transported across the continent, to Canton - and it was this other journey, more vivid than his own, that kept his sanity intact through the first part of the voyage: no one but Ah Fatt, no one he had ever known, could have provided him with the escape he needed, into a realm that was wholly unfamiliar, utterly unlike his own.

It was not because of Ah Fatt's fluency that Neel's vision of Canton became so vivid as to make it real: in fact, the opposite was true, for the genius of Ah Fatt's descriptions lay in their elisions, so that to listen to him was a venture of collaboration, in which the things that were spoken of came gradually to be transformed into artefacts of a shared imagining. So did Neel come to accept that Canton was to his own city as Calcutta was to the villages around it - a place of fearful splendour and unbearable squalor, as generous with its pleasures as it was unforgiving in the imposition of hardship. In listening and prompting, Neel began to feel that he could almost see with Ah Fatt's eyes: there it was, the city that had conceived and nurtured this new half of himself - a seaport that lay far inland, in the recesses of a nook-shotten coast, separated from the ocean by an intricate tangle of swamps, sands, creeks, marshes and inlets. It was shaped like a ship, this river port, its hull outlined by a continuous bulwark of towering, grey walls. Between the water and the city's walls lay a shoulder of land that was as turbulent as a ship's wake: although it fell outside the city limits, this stretch of sh.o.r.e was so thickly settled that n.o.body could tell where the land stopped and the water began. Sampans, junks, lorchas and smug-boats were moored here in such numbers as to form a wide, floating shelf that reached almost halfway across the river's width: everything was jumbled, water and mud, boats and G.o.downs - but the confusion was deceptive, for even in this teeming, bustling length of silt and water, there were distinct little communities and neighbourhoods. And of these, the strangest, without a doubt, was the small enclave allotted to the foreigners who came to trade with China: the extra-Celestials who were known to the Cantonese as Fanquis - Aliens.

It was on this spit of land, just beyond the south-western gates of the walled city, that the Aliens had been permitted to build a row of so-called factories, which were nothing but narrow, red-tiled buildings, part warehouse, part residence and part accounts office for the shroffing of cash. For the few months of the year during which they were allowed to reside at Canton, the Aliens had perforce to confine their devilry to this one narrow enclave. The precincts of the walled city were forbidden to them, as to all foreigners - or so at least the authorities declared, claiming that such had been the case for almost a hundred years. Yet anyone who had been inside could tell you that of certain kinds of Alien there was no lack within the city walls: why, you had only to walk past the Hao-Lin temple, on the Chang-shou Road, to see monks from dark, westerly places; and if you stepped inside the precincts, you could even see a statue of the Buddhist preacher who had founded the temple: n.o.body could dispute that this proselyte was as foreign as the Sakyamuni himself. Or else, if you ventured still further into the city, walking up the Guang-li Road to the Huai-shang temple, you would know at once, from the shape of the minaret, that this was not, despite the outward resemblance, a temple at all, but a mosque; you would see too that the people who lived in and around this edifice were not all Uighurs, from the western reaches of the Empire, but included, besides, a rich display of devilry - Javanese, Malays, Malayalis and Black-Hat Arabs.

Why, then, were some Aliens allowed in and some kept out? Was it the case that only a certain kind of Alien was truly an extra-Celestial being, to be kept under careful confinement, in the enclave of the factories? So it had to be, for the Fanquis of the factories were undeniably of a certain cast of face and character: there were 'Red-faced' Aliens from England, 'Flowery-flag' Aliens from America, and a good sprinkling of others, from France, Holland, Denmark and so on.

But of these many kinds of creature, the most easily recognizable, without a doubt, was the small but flourishing tribe of White-hatted Aliens - Parsis from Bombay. How was it that the White-hatted ones came to be counted as Fanquis, of the same breed as the Red-faces and Flowery-flags? No one knew, since a matter of appearance it surely could not be - for while it was true that some of the white-hatted faces were no less florid than those of the Flowery-flags, it was true also that there were many among them who were as dark as any of the lascars who sat imp-like upon the mastheads of the Pearl River. As for their clothes, the White-hats' garments were in no whit the same as those of the Fanquis: they wore robes and turbans, not unlike those of Black-hatted Arabs, presenting an aspect utterly unlike that of the other factory-dwellers - whose wont it was to strut about in absurdly tight leggings and jerkins, their pockets stuffed with the kerchiefs in which they liked to store their snot. No less was it plain for all to see that the other Fanquis looked somewhat askance upon the White-hats, for they were often excluded from the councils and revelries of the rest, just as their factory was the smallest and narrowest. But they too were merchants, after all, and profits were their business, for the sake of which they seemed perfectly willing to live the Fanqui life, migrating like birds between their homes in Bombay, their summer chummeries in Macao, and their cold-weather quarters in Canton, where the vistas of the walled city were not the least of the pleasures forbidden them - for while in China, they had to live, as did the other Fanquis, not just without women, but in the strictest celibacy. On no measure did the city's authorities so firmly insist as on the chop, issued annually, that forbade the people of Guangzhou to provide the Aliens with 'women or boys'. But could such an edict really be enforced? As in so many things, what was said and what transpired were by no means the same. It was impossible, surely, for those self-same authorities to be unaware of the women on the flower-boats that trolled the Pearl River, importuning lascars, merchants, linkisters, shroffs and whoever else was of a mind for some diversion; impossible, equally, that they should not know that in the very centre of the Fanqui enclave there lay a filth-clogged mews called Hog Lane, which boasted of any number of shebeens serving not just shamshoo, hocksaw and other liberty-liquors, but all manner of intoxicants of which the embrace of women was not the least. The authorities were certainly aware that the Dan boat-people, who manned many of the sampans and lanteas and chop-boats of the Pearl River, also performed many small but essential services for the Fanquis, including taking in their washing - of which there was always a great deal, not just by way of clothing, but also of bed-and table-linen (the latter particularly, since food and drink did not fall within the purview of the luxuries denied to the poor devils). Such being the case, the business of laundering could not be transacted without frequent visits and outcalls - which was how it happened that a young White-hat of devilish charm, Bahramji Naurozji Moddie, came to cross paths with a fresh-faced Dan girl, Lei Chi Mei.

It began as a prosaic matter of handing over tablecloths soaked in Sunday dhansak, and napkins wetted with kid-nu-gosht, all of which young Barry - as he was known among the Fanquis - had to enter and account for in a laundry-book, this duty being a.s.signed to him by right of his status as the junior-most of the White-hatted tribe. And it was nothing other than a white hat that led to the pair's first coupling - or rather, it was one of those long spools of cloth which held the headgear in place: for it so happened that one of the great seths of the factory, Jamshedji Sohrabji Nusserwanji Batliwala, discovered a rent in his turban cloth one day and subjected young Barry to such a dumbcowing that when it came time to display the sundered object to Chi Mei, the young man burst into tears, weeping so artfully that the turban wound itself around and around the couple till they were sealed inside a snug coc.o.o.n.

A few years of loving and laundering were still to pa.s.s before a child was born to Chi Mei, but when at last the infant made his appearance, the event inspired a great fever of optimism in his father, who bestowed upon him the impressive name of Framjee Pestonjee Moddie, in the hope that it would ease his acceptance into the world of the White-hats. But Chi Mei, who knew far better the probable fate of children who were neither Dan nor Fanqui, took the precaution of naming the boy Leong Fatt.

The maistries quickly let it be known that the female migrants would be expected to perform certain menial duties for the officers, guards and overseers. Washing their clothes was one such; sewing b.u.t.tons, repairing torn seams and so on, was another. Eager for exercise of any sort, Paulette elected to share the washing with Heeru and Ratna, while Deeti, Champa and Sarju opted to do the sewing. Munia, on the other hand, managed to snag the only job on board that could be considered remotely glamorous: this was the task of looking after the livestock, which was housed in the ship's boats and consumed almost exclusively by the officers, guards and overseers.

The Ibis was equipped with six boats: two small, clinker-built jollyboats, two mid-size cutters, and two carvel-built longboats, each a full twenty feet in length. The jollyboats and cutters were stowed on the roof of the deckhouse, one of each kind being nested in the other, with the whole ensemble held in place by chocks. The longboats, on the other hand, were amidships, swung up on davits. The longboats' crane-like davits were known to the lascars as 'devis', and not without reason, for their ropes and guys intersected with the mainshrouds in such a way as to create small niches of semi-concealment, as might be found in the sheltering lap of a G.o.ddess: in these recesses it was not impossible for one or two people to elude the unceasing bustle of the main deck for several minutes at a time. The scuppers, where the washing was done, lay under the devis, and Paulette quickly learnt to take her time over the task, so she could linger in the open air. The Ibis was now deep in the watery labyrinth of the Sundarbans, and she was glad to seize every opportunity to gaze at the river's mangrove-cloaked sh.o.r.es. The waterways here were strewn with mudbanks and other hazards, so the navigable channel followed a twisting, looping course, occasionally drawing close enough to the banks to provide clear views of the jungle. Some of Paulette's happiest memories were of helping her father catalogue the flora of this forest, during weeks-long collecting trips in Jodu's boat: now, as she watched the banks through the screen of her ghungta, her eyes sifted through the greenery as if by habit: there, beneath the upthrust elbow-roots of a mangrove, was a little shrub of wild basil, Ocimum adscendens; it was Mr Voight, the Danish curator of the Gardens at Serampore - and her father's best friend - who had confirmed that this plant was indeed to be found in these forests. And here, growing thick along the banks, was Ceriops roxburgiana, identified by the horrible Mr Roxburgh, who'd been so unkind to her father that the very sound of his name would make him blanch; and there, on the gra.s.sy verge, just visible above the mangroves, was a spiky-leafed shrub she knew all too well: Acanthus lambertii. It was at her own insistence that her father had given it this name - because she had literally stumbled upon it, having been poked in the leg by one of its spiny leaves. Now, watching the familiar foliage slip by, Paulette's eyes filled with tears: these were more than plants to her, they were the companions of her earliest childhood and their shoots seemed almost to be her own, plunged deep into this soil; no matter where she went or for how long, she knew that nothing would ever tie her to a place as did these childhood roots.

For Munia, on the other hand, the forest was a place of dread. One afternoon, as Paulette was gazing at the mangroves, under the pretence of scrubbing clothes, Munia appeared beside her and uttered a horrified gasp. Clutching at Paulette's arm, she pointed to a sinuous form, hanging from the branch of a mangrove. Is that a snake? she whispered.