The Harmony Silk Factory

I WAS DETERMINED that my birthday party would be a riotous success. Johnny and I spent many hours clearing the chosen site of debris. With a shovel and a pick-ax we flattened the smallest undulations on the surface of the soil; we filled in depressions and poured sand onto the boggiest patches of earth. Straggly shrubs were cut down and all offending weeds hacked to the ground with Johnny’s parang. We assembled a camp table which we brought from the boat, placing it so that each diner would have a view of the ruin. With surprising ease, Johnny built a rudimentary but perfectly sturdy bench with some logs he found. We talked about the kinds of food the jungle could offer us — some root vegetables, possibly an edible flower or two, fish from the sea in abundance. Other animals, we decided, would not be on the menu. Birds were too difficult to snare, Johnny said, and the only mammal we had seen was an anaemic macaque sitting dejectedly in a seaside tree. Johnny was certain, however, that snakes and lizards would be easily caught. He drew pictures in the sand of the simple traps he would use, and assured me of the delicacy of such prey; but my stomach instantly felt uncomfortable at the thought of a reptilian dinner (mon Dieu: civet de vipère!) and I convinced him that we did not need such exotic meat. I showed him the bag of flour that I had found amongst our rations.

“What are you going to do with that?” he asked.

“I shall make bread,” I announced.

“How?”

“I honestly don’t know,” I replied, watching him convulse with laughter.

All this time no more was said about Kunichika.

The day before the party I left Johnny at the site. I said, “I’ve left something back at the camp, something I need — a damask tablecloth I’ve brought with me in my luggage. Do you mind terribly if I retrieve it? I shan’t be gone long.”

“You go ahead. There’s something I need to do here anyway,” he said, somewhat hesitantly. For a moment I wondered if I should abandon my plan, but I held my nerve. Courage, mon brave. “See you later,” I said.

I ran back to the camp, gambling that Snow would not be there. It was a foolhardy thing to do, but I had to have her diary. I had seen her embark on a walk with Kunichika earlier, and since their strolls tended to be long and leisurely, there was every chance that they would not have returned. I slowed to walking pace as I approached the camp, shortening my stride to appear as casual as possible. Who knows — Honey may have been lurking. I paused, listening for sounds of movement, but there was nothing. I sauntered into the camp, hearing the soft slush of my feet on the sand.

“Peter,” a voice called. It was Kunichika, kneeling beside Snow’s camp bed. His knees were buried in the soft sand but he held his torso erect, hands on hips. He spoke in a bright and overfriendly voice. “I thought you were off somewhere with Johnny.”

“I forgot something. What are you doing over there?”

“I forgot something too. It seems to have gone missing, and I’m searching for it.”

“Where’s Snow?”

“She’s bathing — on her own.”

“I thought you two went for a walk.”

“We did. How did you know — have you been spying?”

“I might ask you the same question.”

He stood up, and I noticed again that we were well matched in height. I said, “I know what you’re up to.”

He laughed, crumpling his face into his chest as if defeated by exhaustion. “You’re a real joker,” he said. “I’ve never met anyone as amusing as you.”

“I’m watching you. I know.”

He looked me straight in the face with cold eyes, black beads set in white stone. “What has Johnny told you? That man’s a liar, you know. His own people don’t trust him.”

“If you must know, Johnny has hardly said a word to me since we came on this trip. But you’ve got me interested now — is there something he ought to be telling me?”

“No. I should just warn you that he is not what he appears to be.”

I moved half a step closer to him. “Who is?” I said, before walking away with my cheeks hot and my eyes swimming with brightly coloured shapes.

When I arrived back at the little clearing by the ruin, I stopped and stared above me. “Good God,” I breathed. Fluttering overhead was a white sheet, suspended in midflight as a mystical rug in some strange Oriental myth. It captured the thin streams of light that broke through the foliage, intensifying them in the small area above the table.

“Do you like it?” he asked. A half-smile illuminated his face. Behind him, the murky backdrop of foliage framed him as if including him in a narcotic, half-dream landscape, a Giorgione canvas.

“The word ‘paradise,’ ” I said, “comes from the ancient Persian word for ‘garden.’ Did you know that?”

He shook his head. “It’s easy to see why we used their word,” he said.

“Really? I’ve never seen any similarity between backyard allotments and the garden of Eden. I’ve never been fully convinced.”

“Oh.”

“But this is different. This truly is a garden.” I looked up above me once more. I wanted to say, “Thank you, Johnny,” but I didn’t; there was no need for it.