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Authors: Daniel Mason
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cities, each rising to
the sky, to the Levant, to the Congo. You can imagine, I am sure. Being at sea
has lost none of its thrill, although thankfully I have long abandoned poetry.
Tell me, have you made the acquaintance of any of the other
passengers?”
“Not really. I am not the outgoing sort. The
passage is thrilling enough. It is all quite new for me.”
“Well, it’s a pity you haven’t met more of the others.
They are always an extraordinary lot. Without them, I might even tire of this
view.”
“Extraordinary. How so?”
“Oh, if
only I had the hours to tell you all the tales of my passengers. Where they
embark is exotic enough. Not only from Europe or Asia, but any of the thousands
of ports of call along the Mediterranean, the North African coast, Arabia. They
call this route ‘the axis of the world.’ The stories, though! I
need only to look around the room …” He leaned closer. “For
example, over there at the back table, do you see the old gentleman dining with
that white-haired woman?”
“I do. He is probably the oldest
fellow on the ship.”
“His name is William Penfield. Former
officer with the East India Company. ‘Bloody Bill,’ they called
him. Perhaps the most decorated and violent soldier to serve in the
colonies.”
“That old man?”
“The same.
Next time you are near him, look at his left hand. He is missing two fingers
from a skirmish during his first tour. His men used to joke that he took a
thousand lives for each of his fingers.”
“Terrible.”
“That’s not the least of it,
but I will spare you the details. Now look to his left. That young fellow, with
dark hair, they call
him
‘Teak Harry.’ I don’t know
his real name. An Armenian from Baku. His father was a timberman, who licensed
steamers to carry Siberian wood from the northern shore of the Caspian Sea to
its southern coast. For a time, they say he controlled the entire market into
Persia, until he was assassinated ten years ago. The whole family fled, some to
Arabia, others to Europe. Teak Harry headed east, for the Indo-Chinese market.
Reputation as a swashbuckler and adventurer. There are rumors that say he even
funded Garnier’s journey up the Mekong to find its source, although there
is no proof of this, and if it is true, Harry has been discreet, to preserve
his British shipping contracts. Harry will probably be with you all the way to
Rangoon, although he will take one of his company steamships to Mandalay. He
has a mansion, no, a court, lavish enough to make the kings of Ava jealous.
Which apparently it did. They say Thibaw twice tried to have Harry killed, but
the Armenian escaped. You may pass his quarters in Mandalay. He lives and
breathes teak. Difficult to talk to unless you are in the business.” The
Captain scarcely stopped to breathe. “Behind him, the portly fellow, a
Frenchman, Jean-Baptiste Valerie, professor of linguistics at the Sorbonne.
They say he speaks twenty-seven languages, three of which aren’t spoken
by any other white men, not even the missionaries.”
“And
the man beside him, the man with the rings? A striking fellow.”
“Ah, the rug dealer Nader Modarress, a Persian who specializes in
Bakhtiari rugs. He made this journey with two mistresses—unusual, because
he has enough wives in Bombay to keep him too busy to sell rugs. He is staying
in the royal cabin. He can always afford the fare. As you saw, he has gold
rings on each finger—you must try to look at them, each ring is set with
extraordinary jewels.”
“He boarded with another gentleman,
a large blond fellow.”
“Bodyguard. A Norwegian, I think.
Although I doubt he is much good. He spends half his time smoking opium with
the stokers—nasty habit, but it keeps them from complaining much.
Modarress has another character in his hire, a spectacled fellow, a poet from
Kiev, whom Modarress hired to compose odes to his wives—the Persian
fashions himself a romantic but has trouble with his
the sky, to the Levant, to the Congo. You can imagine, I am sure. Being at sea
has lost none of its thrill, although thankfully I have long abandoned poetry.
Tell me, have you made the acquaintance of any of the other
passengers?”
“Not really. I am not the outgoing sort. The
passage is thrilling enough. It is all quite new for me.”
“Well, it’s a pity you haven’t met more of the others.
They are always an extraordinary lot. Without them, I might even tire of this
view.”
“Extraordinary. How so?”
“Oh, if
only I had the hours to tell you all the tales of my passengers. Where they
embark is exotic enough. Not only from Europe or Asia, but any of the thousands
of ports of call along the Mediterranean, the North African coast, Arabia. They
call this route ‘the axis of the world.’ The stories, though! I
need only to look around the room …” He leaned closer. “For
example, over there at the back table, do you see the old gentleman dining with
that white-haired woman?”
“I do. He is probably the oldest
fellow on the ship.”
“His name is William Penfield. Former
officer with the East India Company. ‘Bloody Bill,’ they called
him. Perhaps the most decorated and violent soldier to serve in the
colonies.”
“That old man?”
“The same.
Next time you are near him, look at his left hand. He is missing two fingers
from a skirmish during his first tour. His men used to joke that he took a
thousand lives for each of his fingers.”
“Terrible.”
“That’s not the least of it,
but I will spare you the details. Now look to his left. That young fellow, with
dark hair, they call
him
‘Teak Harry.’ I don’t know
his real name. An Armenian from Baku. His father was a timberman, who licensed
steamers to carry Siberian wood from the northern shore of the Caspian Sea to
its southern coast. For a time, they say he controlled the entire market into
Persia, until he was assassinated ten years ago. The whole family fled, some to
Arabia, others to Europe. Teak Harry headed east, for the Indo-Chinese market.
Reputation as a swashbuckler and adventurer. There are rumors that say he even
funded Garnier’s journey up the Mekong to find its source, although there
is no proof of this, and if it is true, Harry has been discreet, to preserve
his British shipping contracts. Harry will probably be with you all the way to
Rangoon, although he will take one of his company steamships to Mandalay. He
has a mansion, no, a court, lavish enough to make the kings of Ava jealous.
Which apparently it did. They say Thibaw twice tried to have Harry killed, but
the Armenian escaped. You may pass his quarters in Mandalay. He lives and
breathes teak. Difficult to talk to unless you are in the business.” The
Captain scarcely stopped to breathe. “Behind him, the portly fellow, a
Frenchman, Jean-Baptiste Valerie, professor of linguistics at the Sorbonne.
They say he speaks twenty-seven languages, three of which aren’t spoken
by any other white men, not even the missionaries.”
“And
the man beside him, the man with the rings? A striking fellow.”
“Ah, the rug dealer Nader Modarress, a Persian who specializes in
Bakhtiari rugs. He made this journey with two mistresses—unusual, because
he has enough wives in Bombay to keep him too busy to sell rugs. He is staying
in the royal cabin. He can always afford the fare. As you saw, he has gold
rings on each finger—you must try to look at them, each ring is set with
extraordinary jewels.”
“He boarded with another gentleman,
a large blond fellow.”
“Bodyguard. A Norwegian, I think.
Although I doubt he is much good. He spends half his time smoking opium with
the stokers—nasty habit, but it keeps them from complaining much.
Modarress has another character in his hire, a spectacled fellow, a poet from
Kiev, whom Modarress hired to compose odes to his wives—the Persian
fashions himself a romantic but has trouble with his
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