Babel, page 37
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 guǐ* is 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 of 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 corridor, 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.’
Chapter Eighteen
It were too much to expect that they will not require a further demonstration of force on a larger scale before being brought to their senses.
JAMES MATHESON, letter to John Purvis
The Hellas departed Pearl Bay with impressive haste. Within fifteen minutes of their boarding, the ropes were cut, the anchors pulled, and the sails unfurled. They darted out of the harbour, chased by billowing smoke that seemed to engulf the whole of the city.
The crew, who had not been told until boarding that they would be responsible for the room and board of five additional passengers, were curt and annoyed. The Hellas was not a passenger ship, and its quarters were already cramped. Ramy and Robin were told to bunk with the sailors, but the girls were afforded a private cabin, which they shared with the only other civilian on board – a woman named Jemima Smythe, a Christian missionary from America who’d tried to sneak into the mainland but was caught trying to ford the river into Canton’s suburbs.
‘Do you know what all the fuss is?’ She kept asking this as they sat hunched together in the mess. ‘Was it an accident, or did the Chinese do it on purpose? Will it be open war now, do you think?’ The last question she kept repeating excitedly at intervals, despite their exasperated assurances that they did not know. At last she changed the subject to what they’d been doing in Canton, and how they’d passed their days in the English Factory. ‘There are quite a few reverends under that roof, aren’t there? What did you do for your Sunday services?’ She stared inquiringly at Ramy. ‘Do you go to Sunday services?’
‘Of course.’ Ramy did not miss a beat. ‘I go because I’m forced, where I mumble apologies to Allah whenever possible.’
‘He’s joking,’ Letty said quickly before the horrified Miss Smythe could begin trying to convert him. ‘He’s Christian, of course – we all had to subscribe to the Thirty-Nine Articles at Oxford matriculation.’*
‘I’m very glad for you,’ Miss Smythe said sincerely. ‘Will you be spreading the gospel back home as well?’
‘Home is Oxford,’ Ramy said, blinking innocently. God help us, thought Robin, he’s snapped. ‘Do you mean that Oxford is full of heathens? Good heavens. Has anyone told them?’
At last Miss Smythe grew tired of them and wandered above deck to say her prayers, or whatever it was that missionaries did. Robin, Letty, Ramy, and Victoire huddled around the table, fidgeting like naughty schoolchildren awaiting punishment. Professor Lovell was nowhere to be seen; the moment they’d boarded, he’d gone off to speak to the captain. Still, no one had told them what was going on, or what would happen next.
‘What did you say to the Commissioner?’ Victoire asked quietly.
‘The truth,’ said Robin. ‘All I told him was the truth.’
‘But surely something set him off—’
Professor Lovell appeared at the door. They fell silent.
‘Robin,’ he said. ‘Let’s have a chat.’
He did not wait for Robin’s answer before he turned and headed down the passage. Reluctantly, Robin stood.
Ramy touched his arm. ‘Are you all right?’
‘I’m fine.’ Robin hoped they could not tell how quickly his heart was beating, or how loudly the blood thundered through his ears. He did not want to follow Professor Lovell; he wanted to hide and stall, to sit in the corner of the mess with his head buried in his arms. But this confrontation had been a long time coming. The fragile truce struck on the morning of his arrest was never sustainable. They’d been lying to themselves for too long, he and his father. Things could not remain buried, hidden, and wilfully ignored forever. Sooner or later, things had to come to a head.
‘I’m curious.’ Professor Lovell was sitting behind a desk, paging idly through a dictionary when Robin at last made his way to his cabin. ‘Do you know the value of those chests burned in the harbour?’
Robin stepped inside and closed the door behind him. His knees trembled. He could have been eleven again, caught for reading fiction when he shouldn’t have been, cringing from the impending blow. But he was not a child anymore. He tried his very best to keep his voice from wobbling. ‘Sir, I don’t know what happened with the Commissioner, but it’s not—’
‘Over two million pounds,’ said Professor Lovell. ‘You heard Mr Baylis. Two million, much of which William Jardine and James Matheson are now personally responsible for.’
‘He’d made up his mind,’ said Robin. ‘He’d made it up before he even met with us. There was nothing I could say—’
‘Your job was not difficult. Be a mouthpiece for Harold Baylis. Present a friendly face to the Chinese. Smooth things over. I thought we were clear on your priorities here, no? What did you say to Commissioner Lin?’
‘I don’t know what you think I did,’ said Robin, frustrated. ‘But what happened at the docks wasn’t because of me.’
‘Did you suggest he should destroy the opium?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Did you intimate anything else to him about Jardine and Matheson? Did you, perhaps, usurp Harold in any way? You’re sure there was nothing untoward about how you conducted yourself?’
‘I did what I was told,’ Robin insisted. ‘I don’t like Mr Baylis, no, but as far as how I represented the company—’
‘For once, Robin, please try to simply say what you mean,’ said Professor Lovell. ‘Be honest. Whatever you’re doing now, it’s embarrassing.’
‘I – all right, then.’ Robin folded his arms. He had nothing to apologize for, nothing more to hide. Ramy and Victoire were safe; he had nothing to lose. No more bowing, no more silence. ‘Fine. Let’s be honest with each other. I don’t agree with what Jardine & Matheson is doing in Canton. It’s wrong, it disgusts me—’
Professor Lovell shook his head. ‘For heaven’s sake, it’s just a market. Don’t be childish.’
‘It’s a sovereign nation.’
‘It is a nation mired in superstition and antiquity, devoid of the rule of law, hopelessly behind the West on every possible register. It is a nation of semi-barbarous, incorrigibly backwards fools—’
‘It’s a nation of people,’ Robin snapped. ‘People you’re poisoning, whose lives you’re ruining. And if the question is whether I’ll keep facilitating that project, then it’s no – I won’t come back to Canton again, not for the traders, and not for anything remotely related to opium. I’ll do research at Babel, I’ll do translations, but I won’t do that. You can’t make me.’
He was breathing very hard when he finished. Professor Lovell’s expression had not changed. He watched Robin for a long moment, eyelids half-closed, tapping his fingers against his desk as if it were a piano.
‘You know what astounds me?’ His voice had grown very soft. ‘How utterly ungrateful one can be.’
This line of argument again. Robin could have kicked something. Always this, the argument from bondage, as if his loyalties were shackled by privilege he had not asked for and did not choose to receive. Did he owe Oxford his life, just because he had drunk champagne within its cloisters? Did he owe Babel his loyalty because he had once believed its lies?
‘This wasn’t for me,’ he said. ‘I didn’t ask for it. It was all for you, because you wanted a Chinese pupil, because you wanted someone who was fluent—’
‘You resent me, then?’ asked Professor Lovell. ‘For giving you a life? For giving you opportunities you couldn’t have dreamed of?’ He sneered. ‘Yes, Robin, I took you from your home. From the squalor and disease and hunger. What do you want? An apology?’
What he wanted, Robin thought, was for Professor Lovell to admit what he’d done. That it was unnatural, this entire arrangement; that children were not stock to be experimented on, judged for their blood, spirited away from their homeland in service of Crown and country. That Robin was more than a talking dictionary, and that his motherland was more than a fat golden goose. But he knew these were acknowledgments that Professor Lovell would never make. The truth between them was not buried because it was painful, but because it was inconvenient, and because Professor Lovell simply refused to address it.
It was so obvious now that he was not, and could never be, a person in his father’s eyes. No, personhood demanded the blood purity of the European man, the racial status that would make him Professor Lovell’s equal. Little Dick and Philippa were persons. Robin Swift was an asset, and assets should be undyingly grateful that they were treated well at all.
There could be no resolution here. But at least Robin would have the truth about something.
‘Who was my mother to you?’ he asked.
This, at least, seemed to rattle the professor, if only for the briefest moment. ‘We are not here to discuss your mother.’
‘You killed her. And you didn’t even bother to bury her.’
‘Don’t be absurd. It was the Asiatic Cholera that killed her—’
‘You were in Macau for two weeks before she died. Mrs Piper told me. You knew the plague was spreading, you know you could have saved her—’
‘Heavens, Robin, she was just some Chink.’
‘But I’m just some Chink, Professor. I’m also her son.’ Robin felt a fierce urge to cry. He forced it down. Hurt never garnered sympathy from his father. But anger, perhaps, might spark fear. ‘Did you think you’d washed that part out of me?’
