I wonder how many readers, tempted by the laudatory blurbs on this Booker Prize shortlisted novel, fail to get beyond the first 100 of its 670 pages?
It’s not until page 222 that anything of much significance happens, when in 1837 the American trading house Meridian in Canton decides to join the British-dominated illegal trade in opium.
Until then, the narrative is largely concerned with the affairs and the abstrusely erudite conversation of two of its employees, Walter Eastman and his preternaturally bright protege Gideon Chase. Their language reminded me of Sir Walter Scott, who coincidentally died in 1832, the year in which the book opens.
From there the story of the first Opium War up to the occupation by Britain of Hong Kong is told in a jumble of often conflicting narratives, largely in verbose articles in rival ruminative newspapers – the Monitor, voice of opium traders, and Eastman’s gossipy Bulletin, a more liberal publication given to articles explaining Chinese customs.
The contrast between the two calls into question where truth is to be found in historical sources, an issue that finds a parallel in the debate between Eastman, an early pioneer of photography, and the artist Harry O’Rourke about the comparative reliabilities of their respective crafts in the representation of events – the former limited by time and space, the latter a product of creative sensibility.
An early essay by Chase for the Bulletin compares Western and Chinese literature, the timeless character of the latter determined, he argues, by a grammar without a past tense. That helps to explain the unusual style of Timothy Mo’s novel which includes many passages – how to construct a Daguerreotype, the death of Pushkin, a new asylum in America for the insane – that have no significance for the progress of the plot.
And after much of the first third of the book has described a blossoming romance between Eastman and the trader’s niece Alice Remington, she disappears almost completely.
I found many of the digressions enlightening and interesting, giving a sense of the quotidian and irrelevancies of life among these expatriate communities, but the style is for the most part extremely long-winded.
Eastman, Chase, O’Rourke and Alice apart, a few other characters emerge as distinct personalities, the rough-spoken New Yorker Ridley, the Portuguese priest Ribiero, but there is not a single native apart from brief appearances by the enigmatic Ow with his arcane beliefs.
Mo is brilliant however in capturing the quality of water and rain, of the teaming life of the Pearl River leading to Canton, and the scenes of marine battle, of what was to become known as gunboat diplomacy, of the one-sided assault on Chinese forts and the cruelties imposed particularly by Britain’s Indian sepoys are easily the best in the book.
Mo pitches his novel between history and fiction, blurring the distinction in a bogus appendix, supposedly from a 1935 gazetteer that mixes historically accurate biographies, Hong Kong founder Sir Charles Elliott for example, with his own inventions. Eastman does not appear, but Mo mischievously gives him the name of the founder of Eastman Kodak.
Chase is a fiction – at least under that name – but is the closest we have to a reliable narrator. What was to be the long-term outcome of these events? Of the Chinese, he remarks, “once roused .. would constitute a most formidable foe” and he has the last word too, that all ends “with the death of all the actors, ourselves among the number.”