‘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 gui* 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?’