My fate. It seems I do not enjoy the luxury of limitless choice. Either I follow the course of my fate and remain with Johnny, unhappily, or I leave him, disgraced. The first option is full of dreadful clarity, the second cloudy and fathomless. I wish I lived in Europe: a nunnery would be the simplest solution, easy and face-saving. But I live here, and my decision is made. I plunge into the murky depths.
THIS EVENING we took Professor Kunichika to the wayang kulit theatre on the outskirts of Kampar. He said he had read about the wayang and was curious to see if it really was as wonderful as he imagined. Father seemed very keen to organise an outing. “Something to welcome our visitor to the Valley,” as he put it.
We arrived just as the music was starting and the crowd settling down. Our little party had seats laid out specially for us — the rest of the audience sat on the dirt in front of the white canvas screen. Johnny had, predictably, asked Peter to come too, and I found myself in a chair next to him. “How macabre,” he whispered, all gangling elbows and knees. I found him most irritating. The flat, discordant sounds of the wind instruments had a disquieting effect on me, and I tried my best not to show my discomfort. Kunichika had taken a seat on the other side of me, so now I was sandwiched between him and Peter.
The first of the puppet shadows began to dance across the screen, huge and horrible against the pale, glowing light.
“What’s happening now?” Peter kept asking.
I remained calm and did my best to explain, although I have never found the wayang particularly absorbing. “It’s a story from the Hindu epics — the Ramayana, I believe. The figure on the left is the hero, the one on the right is the villain who is about to steal the hero’s beloved from him.” For some reason, I could not recall their names, even though I had heard them a thousand times before.
“I see,” Peter said, affecting boredom, “the same old ‘good versus evil’ chestnut.”
“In a manner of speaking,” I said, my patience wearing thin.
“The beauty of the Malay shadow theatre,” Kunichika said quietly in his deep voice, “lies in its ability to transform a great Indian text into something distinctively local. Look at the figures, delicately carved from buffalo hide. Their features are not Indian. The setting, the music — these are clearly Indo-Malay.”
“Thank you,” Peter said.
“The figure on the left is Bhima, the other is Duryodana,” Kunichika added.
I shifted in my seat and caught the smell of Kunichika’s clothes: cut grass and eau de toilette.
No one stirred. The shadows arched and fell across the yellowed screen, illuminated by a swollen, distorted light. I closed my eyes and envisaged the path I have chosen for myself. Johnny. How will I leave him? I thought about it again and again, as I have so often in recent weeks. The shadows seemed larger, more terrifying than I ever remembered. They swooped on each other, thrusting their misshapen heads and kicking their bony legs. The music — gongs, sharp drumming, and shrill windpipes — rose in a crescendo.
“Snow, are you alright?” Peter asked, prodding me with a knobbly finger.
“Yes,” I said, pulling away. “It’s nearly finished now. The show’s almost over.”
I excused myself the moment we arrived home. Johnny and Peter have gone out somewhere, as they frequently do nowadays. Kunichika is enjoying a drink with Father. I am alone writing this. It is a comforting thing for me to do. Silly, I know — as if by recording every detail my resolve will be strengthened. Nonetheless, writing may soon be the only thing I have left.
IT MAKES IT WORSE for me, more painful, that Johnny seems not to have a clue about what I am about to do. He does not know what I am thinking — I am certain of that. To be fair, I have given him no clue whatsoever. I behave completely as normal. The pretence is exhausting; the effort of it occupies every second of my day and night. I hope the right moment presents itself soon. I do not know how much longer I can continue this subterfuge.
WHEN FATHER SUGGESTED the trip, no one responded. We simply did not know what to make of it. “After all,” he said, “there is a thing Westerners call ‘honeymoon.’ It is a chance for newly married couples to go away and enjoy being in each other’s company.”
“But we have been married for more than a year,” I said.
“I suppose it will be a belated honeymoon, if such a thing exists,” he said. “Think of it merely as a vacation. Your mother and I think that it is a healthy and fitting thing for you to do.”
I still did not understand. “You and Mother have never been on vacation,” I said.
“We are old people.” Father smiled. “From a different era.”
The idea of being alone with Johnny unsettled me. “This means you will not be accompanying us?”
“Of course not,” Father said. “We would only get in your way.”
“Is it acceptable for us to travel alone?” I asked.
