Shanghai by David Rotenberg Page B

Oxford don. He began: “The petals of the poppy flower announce their own time of readiness. Once the leaves are at their densest orange they are about to fall. Then you must squeezethe capsule like this.” And he reached down and gently but firmly squeezed the capsule between his thumb and forefinger. Then he smiled. “If it is firm like this one then you must be ready. See how it’s beginning to grow a coating of white? You must check the flowers every morning. Without fail. Every morning. When the green capsule is finally completely coated with that dusty transparent whiteness it is time.”
    Then he reached into his pocket and produced a unique knife, called a nashtar, that had four slender blades held together with strands of cotton. In one deft stroke he cut the opium capsule. A thick, milk-white juice oozed from the four parallel cuts. Then he handed the nashtar to Richard.
    Using a nashtar was an acquired skill. A skill Richard had yet to acquire.
    â€œNo. Your cuts are too deep. See, the resin flows back into the seeds and is lost. Try again.”
    And Richard did, but this time the cuts were too shallow.
    â€œNo. See, the ooze does not flow now.” He shook his head and scowled. He took the nashtar from Richard’s hand and held it out to Maxi, who quickly and accurately lanced ten capsules—just right. Ahmed smiled deeply and put a hand on Maxi’s cheek.
    Maxi’s smile lit up that dry dusty morning.
    The Hordoon brothers spent all day lancing the capsules, Richard doing more and more watching and Maxi working with ever-increasing speed, and—to Richard’s profound surprise—joy.
    The next morning Ahmed took the boys out to the field before sunrise and continued his lecture. “Overnight the ooze hardens into a brown gum, see?” He ran his finger across the sticky substance and held out his finger.
    â€œThis is raw opium,” he announced, then handed both of the boys heavy clay pots and showed them how to scoop the hardened resin into the earthen jars.
    As with the nashtar, Richard struggled with the task while Maxi seemed to find the inherent rhythm of the process and hence real pleasure in the work.
    Two days later the poppy was scored a second time and the process was repeated. A single poppy capsule would be scored up to eight times.
    One night Maxi caught Richard writing in his journal.
    â€œWhat are you figuring, brother mine?”
    â€œHow do you mean, figuring?”
    â€œYou sit one way when you’re writing and another when you’re figuring. You screw up your face, like a macaque that swallowed a bee.”
    Richard smiled, then showed him. Maxi eyed the figures, but they meant nothing to him. “Look, Maxi,” Richard said, “the eight scorings of the opium capsule yield up to two-hundredths of an ounce of raw opium. Right?” Maxi nodded. “So Ahmed said that twenty pounds are needed per acre to turn a profit—that’s about eighteen thousand poppies lanced eight times each.”
    Maxi nodded again, but this time he said, “So exactly what?”
    â€œSo, brother mine, although the opium poppy might be able to grow in many different countries, there are only a few places on earth where the cost of the intensive labour needed to grow the poppy is cheap enough to keep it profitable.” Maxi looked at Richard blankly. “Maxi, these people hardly make any money at all, and it’s that fact that allows opium to be profitable. I’ve checked and rechecked the figures.”
    â€œYou mean they work for nothing?”
    â€œAlmost nothing.”
    â€œThey work for almost nothing, but without them there is no fortune to be made in opium? Is that what you’re saying?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œSo these people work so others can be rich?”
    Â¨ ¨ ¨
    J OURNAL E NTRY —O CTOBER 1828
    I didn’t answer Maxi’s question. How could I? I know from my figures that