Shanghai by David Rotenberg Page A

conversation.
    â€œOkay, right, no violence, just theft.”
    â€œRight, Maxi, just theft. Just theft.”
    Four hours later Richard found himself on his knees with the Vrassoon courier’s knife pressed against the back of his neck, his face crushed into the filth of the alleyway, and his eyes pleading for Maxi to do something!
    And Maxi did. He hurled himself headfirst from the top of a rubbish heap directly at the courier’s face. The man was shocked to see this white-and-red thing flying through space at him and released Richard to defend himself against the ghost from the darkness.
    The courier’s first knife slash cut straight across Maxi’s chest, drawing a crimson line of pain. But before the courier could use his knife a second time, he felt Maxi’s teeth sink deep into his cheek just below his left eye.
    Then Maxi was on him—fists like pistons crushing his nose, smashing through orbital bones. Maxi sensed the man’s resistance slacken and then he heard a low gurgle come from the man’s shattered mouth. He lowered his fist slowly to his side as he sensed the stillness in the body beneath him.
    He rose to face his brother, grief etched deep into the lines of his young face. “We did it your way, brother mine. ‘Theft, no violence.’ A little violence before theft could have saved this man’s life—and mine!” Then he turned and headed back down the alley muttering, “No violence, no violence.”
    Richard ran to catch up to him, but before he could speak Maxi asked, “How much did we get?”
    â€œEnough,” Richard lied. “Enough.”
    * * *
    WHEN THEY FINALLY GOT TO GHAZIPUR it was early May. The temperature was already well into the hundreds and the constant dust in the wind obscured the sun. In order to save the last of their money they hadn’t eaten for three days. But their timing was fortuitous. The heat would only break three months later, when the summer monsoons swept up from the Bay of Bengal. And it was in these hot months before the monsoons that the raw opium came in from the village farms.
    Opium—that which made the Vrassoons wealthy—was the fastest route to riches for the young and strong. Richard and Maxi had determined that they would learn the opium trade from the source. The village farmers around Ghazipur were at the very bottom of the trade—the source of the Nile, the beginning of the river of wealth.
    Ghazipur was just up the Ganges from the more famous Benaris, but it was a world apart from that ancient city’s holy sites and temples. The Government of India Alkaloid Works was the only reason that Ghazipur existed. The Works was a scattered collection of brick buildings sitting on twenty or thirty acres of parched land, surrounded by high brick walls with guard towers strategically placed. Since the river had, of late, shifted south, the Works were almost half a mile of blazing white sand from the north shore of the Ganges. If the Hordoon boys approached the Works from the river they would be shot by the guards in the towers. But if they approached the main gate, they would be granted admission to enter only if they were “of the trade.”
    Well, Richard and Maxi were not yet “of the trade,” so they waited near the front gate until some farmers who had delivered their raw opium to the Works left for their homes. They followed them and used the last of their stolen money to pay for a place to sleep. There they became acquainted with the base of the opium trade and the gentle people who made their meagre living growing Papaver somniferum, the opium poppy.
    â€”
    Ahmed, the elderly opium farmer, rose early and led the Hordoon boys to the fields. Richard translated his swiftly spoken Hindi to Maxi, who still, after all these months, barely spoke a word of the local tongue. Ahmed never went to school, but he had a formal lecture style that would have been familiar to an