“Johnny is quite right,” Mamoru said. “For the last century, many foreign powers have imposed their might on China. It is a sad thing to witness. The path of history is cruel and terrible. Historical texts contain tragedies greater than any written in ancient Greece or Elizabethan England. As an academic, I can tell you that history books do not make for pleasant entertainment.”
Johnny waited awhile. “The Chinese people believe Communism is the only thing that will save them from oppression, and they are right.”
“Johnny,” I whispered.
“Well, I wish they wouldn’t try and export it to jolly old places like Malaya,” said Honey.
I saw Johnny gathering himself to reply. He had an expression I had come to recognise, his broad face set in nearly cross-eyed determination. There was something else in his posture too, something I had never noticed before. His shoulders straightened, making him look stouter. His neck had shortened, it seemed, and he looked old. I wondered why Peter had remained so silent — I found his reticence frustrating, and in desperation I nudged him with my right elbow. I hoped he would see the futility of this argument — he was the only one who could persuade Johnny to stop. I knew, even as I did it, however, that there was every possibility that Peter would encourage rather than prevent an unpleasant scene. It was a risk I had to take.
“This is so booooring,” Peter said, stretching his arms sleepily. “Please do stop, Johnny, you really are beginning to sound like my old housemaster. Besides, my pretty little head just can’t keep up with all this.” He looked at Johnny and smiled, raising his eyes to the heavens.
Johnny settled back in his seat. Instantly, his demeanour changed. His face, neck, and shoulders seemed to unlock, and he looked like a loose-limbed child once more. Nonetheless, he seemed sullen and withdrawn. I felt the need to provide him comfort, so I rested my hand lightly on his knee. Almost immediately he drew away, leaving my hand to fall limply. At first I thought that his leg had merely moved when the car went over a bumpy stretch of road, but he made no attempt to come back to me, and instead shifted his seating position so that he could rest against the door. All I could see was the back of his right shoulder.
The countryside melted and shimmered in the sun. Encased in our motorised black coffin, we wound our way steadily to the coast. The sound of the car’s engine filled our world. I wished someone would speak. Mamoru and Honey remained absolutely still in the front, looking for all the world like two mechanised beings. Occasionally Mamoru would smooth the folds of the map; he would look down to check our progress and then wordlessly return his gaze to the road in front of him. On one occasion the light played tricks on my eyes: in the windscreen I saw his face smiling at me. I do not know how his image came to be reflected so strangely, and I looked away. I wanted him to speak to me, but he did not. No one was speaking — Johnny remained entrenched in his sulk, his body twisted away from me.
“Look,” I whispered to Peter. “There it is.”
“What?” he said, rousing himself from his stupor. He kept his voice down, as if I had included him in some conspiracy.
“Kellie’s Castle.” It was barely discernible, a few patches of red-coloured stone amidst the dark green of the jungle.
“My goodness,” he breathed, leaning in close to me to catch a better view.
“Is it what you expected?”
“I had visions of something grander. Something bigger. It’s difficult to see it clearly from here. Did hundreds of coolies really die building it?” He sounded thrilled at the possibility.
“So the story goes. There was an outbreak of malaria. The Scottish planter who built it lost his wife and child, and then he went mad.”
“How wonderful. Can you imagine being one of these madmen fifty years ago, arriving in the tropics with nothing but an untrammelled imagination and all of the jungle before them? They built the most bizarre monument and no one questioned their taste. It was as if everyone lost their sense of aesthetics. Look at that, isn’t it beautifully revolting? I must say, though, that it doesn’t seem very scary for a cursed castle. But at least it’s there. It exists.”
I laughed. “Did you think it was a myth?”
“Yes. Rather like those beautiful women who haunt these roads preying on lone male travellers.” His face shone with a certain liveliness, rosy and childlike, as he squinted at the castle. He spoke in a quick, breathless voice, never breaking out of a whisper.
“Pontianak, you mean,” I said. “How do you know they are a myth?”
He covered his mouth to hush a giggle. “What are they, anyway?”
“The ghosts of young women — girls — who commit suicide after having babies out of wedlock. They exact their revenge on men because, after all, it was men who made them become what they are.”
“Not just men — women too. All of society.”
“Yes, I suppose. But mainly men.”
