The Harmony Silk Factory

I hurried up the stairs but saw no sign of her. I ran along the darkened hallways, pausing every so often to listen for her footsteps: nothing. With an air of mild deflation I made my way back to the foyer, quietly humming the insidious, sickly-sweet tune to “J’attendrais.” It was then that I saw her, slipping quietly into the shadows out on the balustraded verandah. I walked on tiptoe to stop my shoes from clicking loudly on the floor, and made my way towards her. I hid behind a screen and then shielded myself with a pillar, waiting for the right moment to approach her. In half-profile her features seemed finer than before, yet touched by a gentle muscularity. Her short hair revealed the smoothness of her neck; every time she turned her head the skin stretched to reveal a flash of white amidst the dark. She moved with slow, certain movements, utterly in control of every part of her body. Crouched in the shadows I felt clumsy and foolish. I straightened my posture and began to walk towards her, lifting my feet so that they did not crash awkwardly on the cold tiled floor. I had barely progressed beyond the pillar when she turned around and stared at me with hot, dark eyes.

“Hello,” I said gently, assuming as quiet and masculine a demeanour as possible. “What are you doing out here?”

“Looking at the garden,” she said.

My ears pricked. “Garden?” I said. “Where?” What luck. I was in my element now. I could engage her in conversation all night on the subject of gardens. Fate had presented me with a perfect entrée into her world. All her likes and dislikes, her sense of aesthetics, her memories of childhood — everything was there for me to discover now. I peered into the darkness beyond the faint circle of light cast from the hotel, but I could see nothing except the amorphous shapes of the jungle that surrounded us. The sharp angles of a ruined structure protruded from this shapeless mass, silhouetted against the night sky, but otherwise there was nothing — nothing I could identify as a garden. My hopes of finding my Eden were dashed.

“Aren’t there any beds or borders?” I said. “There is at least an ornamental pond somewhere, surely?”

“Perhaps,” she said. “This was once the most famous garden in the Federated Malay States. It had a European-style garden, whatever that means. It’s all still there — though now it’s part of the jungle, I suppose.” She stood with her hands resting on the balustrade. Her face was clear and untroubled.

“What a shame,” I said, leaping up to sit on the wide stone ledge. I had not even settled properly when she bade me an abrupt “Good night,” leaving me stranded on the balustrade. I sat there for a long while, listening to the call of cicadas. The nebulous remains of that once-fabulous garden lay before me, but still I could see nothing.

The dining room was empty by the time I made my way back to my room. The quartet had disbanded and the tables had been stripped of their linen. The lights, too, had been turned off, and the shadows of the palm leaves cast tiger stripes across the floor. I had just begun to walk up the stairs when I realised there was someone standing on the landing, leaning against the wall with a drink in his hand. I knew, of course, it was Honey.

“You went missing for some time, Wormwood,” he said.

“Yes, I thought I’d lurk in the shadows for a while, rather like you’re doing now.” I continued walking without looking at him.

“Here’s some advice,” he said as I went past him. “Watch your step. You think you can just breeze into the Valley to the sound of trumpets? Think again. No one appreciates your behaviour. There are things an Englishman can do and things he can’t do — that’s just the way it is. I told you before. The same rules don’t apply out here. We have to behave in a certain way, otherwise everything falls apart. You think you’re special? You’re not. No one is. Let me tell you one thing: nobody likes you. Take this as a gentle warning from someone who knows.”

“Thank you — sahib is most kind,” I said, and I continued on my way. My face felt hot with anger and shame. I kept on walking, closing my eyes to the harsh prick of tears. I took a deep breath, then another, then another, until finally I reached the top of the stairs. “That tin miner of yours, the one who was murdered,” I said, turning around. “He got what he deserved. He had it coming.”

I proceeded slowly to my room. In the end, we all get what we deserve, I thought.