Page 102 of Babel

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 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.’