The Harmony Silk Factory

“We’ve become good friends, I suppose.”

“You mean a lot to him, you know.”

“Do I? Can’t think why.”

“If anything happens”—she stopped and laughed a gentle, snorting laugh—“if anything happens to me, to us, you’d look out for Johnny, wouldn’t you?”

It was a murky night, the moon a dab of white on the black paper sky. I said, “Yes, of course.”

She fell silent.

“Of course I would,” I said, in a lighthearted voice, “if anything happened. I mean, we’re a long way from the war, and who knows — it might never get to the Valley. In any case I doubt very much I’ll be in a better position than you if we are invaded.”

“I don’t just mean the war,” she said quietly.

“What, then?”

“I don’t know — everything. I wish I could tell you about Johnny. I wish you could know everything, Peter.” She drew her hand away, and instantly I wished she would touch me again.

“Tell me,” I said. “Please.”

“Just promise you’ll help. Do it blindly, don’t ask why or when or anything else. Just think of Johnny, and promise.”

And so I did. I promised.

Honey’s whisky-saturated body lay nearby. He had been snoring fitfully and now he began to mumble incoherently in the surly tones of a schoolboy. His legs kicked out and his fists jerked violently; his voice became compressed, prepubescent, demanding. I felt laughter well from within me, dancing from my stomach to my throat, and I could not stop. Snow began to laugh too, her shoulders shaking. It was only when I had stopped to draw breath that I realised she was no longer laughing but crying. I did not know what to do — my hands reached out to touch her, but I drew back. I wanted to gather her in my arms, to tell her that everything would be fine, that we’d soon be home, and don’t be surprised if we end up having a wonderful holiday and come back with some bloody good stories to boot, now wouldn’t that be fun? Instead I put one hand timidly on her hair, afraid of frightening her from me. She wept without covering her face. She held her head high and looked me in the eye, strong and proud and beautiful. And I–I only watched her, tentatively pawing at her hair until she got up and left me alone on the tar-black sea.

I promise I promise I promise. It came de profundis and instinctively, just as she said, and with all the certainty in the world.

But I was not thinking of Johnny.

GAUTAMA BUDDHA is said to have attained Enlightenment whilst sitting under the distinctive heart-shaped leaves of the bodhi tree, Ficus religiosa, whose gently spreading boughs and short, gnarled trunk make for an especially attractive garden specimen. Nearly every Buddhist temple has F. religiosa planted somewhere in its grounds; one in Amarapura in Burma is said be two thousand years old. During my travels in Siam in the fifties I made a point of sitting under every such tree I happened upon. I would make offerings of prayer in the temples I visited; I would then search out the ficus and settle in its shade, forcing my limbs into a cross-legged sitting position (the true “lotus” was, I’m afraid, quite beyond the capabilities of my overly long Occidental limbs). A period of meditation would follow, my mind emptying itself of its accumulated corruption in the serenity of the temple grounds. Mind and spirit cleansed, I would venture out into the streets to pollute myself again, knowing that another temple and its bodhi tree would not be far away. There is certainly something in the properties of that particular type of fig tree that lends itself to quiet contemplation.

I have tried sitting under various trees of that genus — the banyan tree, F. benghalensis, for example, a spectacular colossus that dominates roadsides and riverbanks alike here in Southeast Asia. Its aerial roots droop from its branches, sturdy as rope and strong enough for a small child to swing on. I once watched children in a village along the River Perak play all afternoon in precisely this manner, swinging from banyan vines that hung over the water and splashing into the treacly river. Though I sat cross-legged under the tree, I could not settle: it did not cast its spell over me. The massive trunk is said to be the dwelling place of spirits, and I have often seen propitiatory offerings of fruit and flowers placed near it by pantheistic (well, superstitious) villagers, and yet it does not engender the calm that Buddha’s fig tree does. It is too big and impersonal, a child’s playground rather than an altar to the human spirit. No, the Buddha chose wisely. He knew his trees, and I shall follow suit. I have marked out a spot for a bodhi tree in the far corner of the garden, away from all other plants and structures. I have sketched it into my plan, and I must say it looks rather splendid.