“We’re a long way from anywhere,” Peter said. “Where on earth would they have found four viol-playing fossils at such short notice? Look at them. . ”
They were very old Chinese men with bent spines. Their dinner jackets had a greenish hue and were badly frayed.
“To think that the Formosa was, just a few years ago, the place everyone wanted to come to,” Honey said, lighting another cigarette. “Look at it now.”
It was true, the hotel was decaying. In the dining room the chequerboard tiles on the floor were chipped in many places, and a thick trail of dust ran along the windowsills. The palms in their enormous pots were nearly dead. Up above the wide stone staircase leading to the rooms, the great crystal chandelier had long since ceased to work, and the hall was now dimly lit by a few old lamps.
I left the table to go back to my room. I tried to excuse myself with as little fuss as possible, choosing a moment when all four of the men were involved in a mildly heated discussion about the role of the sultan in the affairs of state. I merely wanted to check that my diary was safe. The writing desk in my room (at which I sit writing this) is vast, but its leather surface is dry and scratched — more evidence of the Formosa’s faded glory. More importantly, the lock on its drawer does not work, so I have been forced to hide this diary amongst the clothes in my travelling case. This is not ideal, but I have been careful to make sure that I am never far from it for too long.
All was in order. The diary was just as I had left it, tucked into the folds of a camisole, and I returned to the dining room. At the last minute I decided not to rejoin the men, and made my way instead to the colonnaded verandah at the rear of the hotel. The urge to be on my own was too great to resist. The Chinese lamps suspended from the ceiling no longer worked, of course, and darkness hung heavily over the place. Bats darted uncertainly over my head as I walked to the balustrade and placed my hands on the mossy stone. My eyes became accustomed to the night light and I could make out the outlines of a few objects: an old gazebo here, a small folly there; a small bridge over a dried-out pond, flower beds now reclaimed by the jungle. Things moved in the dark. Indistinct shapes snaking their way into the undergrowth, into the trees.
And then I heard footsteps approach from behind, the careful tread of feet that did not want to be heard. Two or three steps; pause; another three steps; pause. I remained facing the garden, my hands tightening slowly on the balustrade. Nothing to fear, I told myself, those footsteps are Kunichika’s. Slowly, they came closer, until I swore I could feel his white breath on my hair. In a flash, I turned around.
“Oh, hello,” Peter called out brightly. “What are you doing here? I was looking for the, ah, lavatory, but I seem to have got lost. Awfully dark out here, isn’t it?”
“Peter,” I said, “why are you creeping around in the dark?” I think I sounded cross, for he seemed taken aback.
“I’m most certainly not creeping around,” he said. “Creeping is-n’t my style. One might ask the same of you, my dear. What on earth are you doing out here?”
“Nothing,” I said. “Just looking at the garden.”
He stood next to me and peered out into the dark. “Can’t see anything. Are you sure there’s a garden out there?”
“The remains of one, yes. Father says that in its heyday, this was the most famous garden in the country. The man who built it went on to run the botanical gardens in Penang.”
“How extraordinary. I didn’t know you took an interest in matters horticultural.”
He leapt up to sit on the balustrade — a sudden explosion of arms, elbows, and knees. I resisted the urge to comment on his lack of coordination. He pulled at his trousers, straightening their legs, and, in doing so, managed to catch me with an elbow.
“Sorry,” he said.
“Good night, Peter,” I said, and I walked back to my room, leaving him sitting on his own.
I checked on my diary again and went to bed. When Johnny eventually crawled in next to me I pretended to be asleep. He leaned over and kissed me on the forehead, and I sighed hazily. “Sleep, sleep,” he said. His lips were thick and dry. He fell asleep quickly, mumbling and breathing heavily.
Above his gentle snoring I heard the scratching of rats out in the corridor.
WE WERE ALL GLAD to leave the Formosa, I think. Yesterday’s confinement due to the rain had made us restless, and we waited anxiously to see if the sun would burn its way through the early-morning cloud.
“Rough night?” Honey said, with, I thought, the slightest hint of lasciviousness in his voice. “You’re looking tired.”
I ignored the remark and began to drag my case across the forecourt to the car.
“Let me help you,” Kunichika said, taking my things from me. He strode powerfully into the sun, descending a small flight of stone stairs in two quick steps.
