When she made no move he was seized with the fear that she would refuse him. To test her, he brushed her cotton-clad nipple with his lips; there was a wetness in the cloth that surprised him, but he was so glad she hadn’t pushed him away that he thought nothing of it. He undid the buttons and laid his face between her small, firm breasts and breathed deeply, sucking in the smell of smoke and water.

Her hands were on him too now, roaming through the folds of his clothing with the ease of familiarity, parting his choga, undoing the ties of his angarkha, gently lifting the sadra from under the strings of the kasti, loosening the top of his leggings and slipping down, to touch him in his secret places. Almost without effort, she drew him into her, pivoting her body so that her covered face was turned away from him, and his cheek was pressed against the back of her wet, moist neck.

In all his life he had never experienced a love-making that was so protracted, so complete and yet so frictionless; it was so pure a union that it was as if neither of them were burdened with bodies; skin, flesh, muscles, sweat – none of this seemed to divide them and when it ended it was as if he had tumbled over a waterfall and was being carried down, very slowly, by a misty cloud.

To let her go now was impossible: he held her tightly, still resting his cheek against the back of her neck. He could feel the boat turning, and he raised his head just long enough to see that they had come to the end of the creek. The Pearl River lay ahead, and the fumes from the cooking fires, on the thousands of vessels that lined the shores, had melted into the fog that was rising off the surface of the water. The mist was thick but fast-flowing, with so many visible eddies and currents that it was as if the river itself had turned into a surging torrent of smoke.

Bahram closed his eyes and laid his cheek against her neck; once again he was weightless, afloat in the mist. He allowed himself to drift along, on the river of smoke, and when his sleep broke he was amazed to find that his arms were empty and she was gone.

‘Mister Barry! Mister Barry! We come Jackass Point.’ Allow was standing over him, with a lantern. He grinned playfully as Bahram stirred on the divan. ‘Mister Barry likee?’

Bahram nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said gruffly. ‘Likee.’ He sat up, fumbling with his choga. The dew seemed to have settled heavily on his clothes; everything was damp and smelled faintly of the river. Cloaking himself in his choga, Bahram retied the drawstrings of his clammy pyjamas. He was reaching for the fastenings of his angarkha when his hand brushed against the inner pocket where he carried his money; it was damp, but he could tell from its heft that it was still filled with coins – he had half-expected that it would be empty, and it surprised him to find it untouched. He would not have minded if she had helped herself to the silver – he had promised her a cumshaw after all, and would have gladly given her all his money.