I WAS AWAKENED in the night by a shrill cry, a thin, howling wail that came from the jungle and pierced the night like a dagger. It twisted and danced in the air, breaking now and then into coughing barks. I did not know what creature made that noise; I had never heard it before. From under my mosquito net I looked at Johnny. He was asleep. I could not see Mamoru in the dark — he was too far away. His bed looked peaceful and undisturbed. I listened for stirrings, the ruffling of bedclothes, but heard nothing, and so presumed Peter and Honey were asleep too. Why had no one else been roused by this terrible noise? The sound of it rang in my ears and I did not sleep again until it began to abate, just before dawn.
I HAD JUST COME BACK from a long walk through the jungle with Mamoru. We had made it all the way to the waterfall and back, stopping every so often to fill my bag with fallen fruit. On our return, Mamoru went to the boat with Honey, to discuss rations and other logistical matters, as they always did. I was just settling down to write when I noticed Peter milling around the camp, tightening hammocks and clearing his things into neat little piles.
“Why aren’t you with Johnny?” I asked.
“He said he wanted to be left alone,” Peter answered quickly, “so I thought I’d come back and tidy my things.”
“Why? It’s not as if you’ve ever done it before,” I said, meaning to sound jolly, but my voice sounded oddly flat and humourless.
“I’m just following your example, that’s all. I mean, your things are always so neatly arranged. Nothing’s ever out of order.” He came and sat with me, and I closed my diary. He picked up a twig and began to draw in the sand, but the twig snapped and he picked at a scab on his leg instead.
“Peter, is something the matter?”
“Not with me, no,” he said. “Are you alright?”
I felt irritation begin to rise within me. “What are you trying to say?”
“Johnny,” he began, but he stopped.
I did not say anything. My throat felt constricted. I opened my diary and flicked through its pages, pretending to read.
“I was just going to say, I think Johnny’s feeling better,” Peter said.
I looked up. “Is he really?”
“Yes, I think so,” Peter said.
I smiled. “Thank you for looking after him.”
He shrugged and resumed picking his scab. “What do you think of Kunichika?” he said suddenly. The words tumbled out of his mouth, barely articulated, as if they had been held in for a very long time and suddenly let loose.
“Mamoru?” I said. “He is a fascinating man.”
“He seems to be extremely knowledgeable on a variety of matters. Things you wouldn’t really expect an academic to know.”
“Well, he isn’t an ordinary academic. He was made a professor at Kyoto University when he was twenty-five. That’s how old I will be in four years’ time. It’s astonishing.”
“What is he professor of?”
“Russian literature. He has a natural facility for languages, and speaks at least a dozen fluently. He mentioned yesterday that he learnt Italian when he was sixteen.
“Snow,” Peter said, turning to me and looking me in the eye, “do you think he’s really what he says he is? Haven’t you wondered, what with all that’s happening around us?”
“Nothing’s happening around us, if you haven’t noticed.”
“Everything’s happening, Snow. The Japs are in Siam now. Think about China.”
“That is not part of our world. Even Siam has nothing to do with us. Mamoru is not part of this.”
“He’s Japanese, Snow. Maybe you didn’t realise this.”
I paused. “Peter,” I said, lowering my voice, “I am going to tell you something in confidence, something about Mamoru.” I hesitated for a while but allowed myself to continue. “He was posted to Manchuria at the start of the Incident there, as an interpreter. He was a young, prominent academic and the army used his talent for languages. He had no choice, he had to go. Please, Peter, please do not tell anyone. He is terribly ashamed of this and would not want anyone to know. I told you this so that you would understand he is not a demon. He left Manchuria after nine months. He worked in military headquarters — he never went into the field, never held a bayonet — but even that was too much for him. He fell sick; he became half-blind with the worry. He hated what he saw. The shame of being there was doubled by the shame of giving up, of being weak. I am the only person he has ever told this to. Please, I beg you, do not speak of this to anyone.”
Peter looked away, peering into the distance at the boat. Mamoru and Honey were beginning to swim ashore.
“As I was saying,” he said brightly as he stood up, “Johnny’s feeling better.”
I watched him walk down the beach. “Thank you, Peter,” I said.
He stopped and turned around, hands in the pockets of his baggy shorts. He smiled. “Be careful.”
