“What do you think of my new car?” Honey said in an attempt to spark conversation. No one answered. In the twilight I saw Peter trying to blink sleep from his eyes; he rubbed his face with both palms in the manner of a small child. Johnny remained quiet too, but I could see that his eyes were clear and lively.
“It feels like a tomb,” I said.
“Oh,” said Honey softly.
“I think it’s frightfully grand, splendidly vulgar,” Peter said. “There’s nothing quite like a Rolls. I adore it, Honey.” He paused and coughed to suppress a giggle. “You wouldn’t mind if I called you by your Christian name, would you, Frederick?”
Honey merely grunted. He seemed determined not to exchange a single word with Peter.
From where I was sitting I had a perfect view of the nape of Kunichika’s neck. His hair ended in a neat line halfway up the white stretch of skin. For most of today’s drive that was all I could see, Kunichika’s neck positioned right in front of me — rigid, smooth, and perfectly straight. At times, if I stared at it for too long, it seemed not to be human.
In the brightening morning, we drove past oil-palm and rubber plantations. The dew-damp air was quickly burnt away and a hot, gritty breeze blew through the windows, drying our lips and tongues. Johnny spent much time gazing back at the large clouds of dust rising up in swirls behind the car, chasing us as we sped along.
“We’re being pursued by djinns!” Peter wailed before collapsing into his cackling laugh. “Sandstorms, the Devil’s red dust! God save us!” Johnny broke into a gentle laugh every time Peter made a comment; he stuck his head out the window, his fine hair ruffled like the feathers of a small bird. He glanced at me, smiling broadly. He seemed a mere child. It hurt me to look at him because I knew that I would soon bring this fleeting happiness to an end, and all traces of the child in him would die, completely and forever. I wished Peter would stop. I wanted to take hold of his wildly gesturing arms and bind them to his body.
“I say,” Honey called out, “this is the right road, isn’t it?”
We had come off the main road just south of Taiping. The car moved along slowly; the ground beneath us felt bumpy, full of rocks and potholes.
Kunichika said, “We are heading due north.”
“Are we? Well then I suppose we should still be alright,” Honey said.
I looked at Johnny. “Stop the car, Frederick,” I said. “Johnny will know.”
We got out of the car, shielding our eyes from the glare of the sun. Johnny looked around us. By some strange instinct, he seemed to know exactly where we were. “Yes, this road is OK,” he said. His voice was clear and flat. No one questioned him. We climbed back into the car and continued to jolt along.
“You seem to know this part of the country intimately,” Kunichika said, turning around in his seat to look at Johnny.
“I have spent my whole life here,” Johnny said, looking out the window.
“So have many people, but I am sure not all of them have the familiarity with the countryside that you do.”
“Johnny’s a country boy at heart, isn’t he?” Peter said. “Just like me.”
Johnny shrugged.
“The jungle is a strange place,” Kunichika said. “It changes all the time, shifting in shape and colour. It swallows whole villages in an instant. Once you move away from it you may never return, not truly. Only those who keep coming back to the trees and vines may sense their changing rhythms. I am sure Mr. Lim will tell you that.”
“Nonsense,” Peter said, turning to Johnny.
Johnny hesitated. “No, it is true.”
The car swayed like a boat as Honey carefully negotiated the potholes.
“It is not unreasonable for me to be curious about Mr. Lim’s familiarity with the countryside,” Kunichika continued, “for it is exceptional that a shopkeeper should have such knowledge.”
“I disagree with you, Professor,” I said, raising my voice above the rough clatter of the engine. “We never lose what we are born with. Even if we try — if we move away from our homes, as my husband has done — we are still part of the worlds of our birth. We can’t ever escape.”
No one spoke. We continued to roll in and out of dips in the broken road.
Peter seemed to have shrunk into his seat, his head lolling pathetically to one side, gasping for air at the window. “I feel seasick,” he said.
It felt as if many hours had passed before we rejoined the coast road and reached our destination for today, the Formosa Hotel. We arrived two hours ago. The others are downstairs having a drink before dinner. I am, of course, forbidden to enter the bar. I had heard from father about the strictly observed etiquette in such grand British establishments; in one club in Kuala Lumpur, he says, there is a sign at the entrance to the smoking room that reads NO WOMEN OR DOGS. I looked out for these cold reminders, determined to be proud and unflinching, even humorous, before them. In the end I could see no such notice, but the cold stare of the bartender spoke clearly of the well-entrenched customs of this place, and I decided not to test my bravado.
