‘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.’