I was not surprised to see that Peter was leading us to the house of antlers.
“You’re up to something, aren’t you, Peter?” I said.
He laughed. “Of course not.”
He sang all the way there. I recognised one tune in particular. He has sung it so many times since we started our trip that I have grown fond of its melody.
We went up the stone steps and into the house. Peter led us through a vast room and out through another doorway to the back of the house. Set in a clearing next to a small muddy brook there lay a table covered with a startlingly white linen tablecloth. Above this floated a canopy of ivory-coloured sheets, fluttering gently in the imperceptible breeze. I looked to see how this umbrella remained suspended in midair, but I could see no strings or ropes; it hovered over us of its own accord. The table was laid with the same enamel plates we used at the camp but there were silver knives and forks and glass tumblers. A bottle of wine stood in the middle of the table. On a smaller table nearby there were more bottles and some dishes of food.
Johnny stood up when he saw us and smiled. It was the first time I had seen him smile for some time.
“It’s my birthday today,” Peter said, hands in pockets, shifting from one foot to the other. “My first Oriental birthday.”
“Happy birthday, Peter,” Johnny said.
I turned to Peter and said, “I didn’t realise. Happy Birthday.”
“Do you like our tropical baldacchino?” Peter asked, noticing me looking upwards. “Johnny did that.”
I looked at Johnny, not knowing what to say.
“How did you manage it?” Mamoru asked. “It looks as if it is floating unsupported. Where is your rope system? Did you use pulleys?”
Johnny merely shrugged.
Mamoru smiled and shook his head. “The power of illusion,” he said.
There was something odd about the clearing we were in. Its edges seemed sharply defined, as if cut out of the jungle. Then I noticed the machete marks on the tree trunks and the pale imprint of dead logs that had been cleared from the ground. Several flowering plants had been allowed to remain, but otherwise the place was stripped of the jungle.
“You’ve cut down the plants that grew here,” I said to Peter. “You’ve made this place yourself.”
“Yes,” he said, looking at his feet. “It’s my little garden. I did it specially.”
Its ordered calm soothed my senses. Amidst the tangle of the jungle, this little clearing did feel like a garden. “I like it,” I said. “I like it very much.”
We sat down at the table. “Terribly sorry,” Peter said. He reached underneath for a few pieces of broken crockery, which he held aloft. “The Spode didn’t survive the storm. Nor did the wineglasses, so I’m afraid you’ll all have to put up with this unspeakable barbarity.”
“Peter,” I said, “do you mean to tell us that you brought all this with you in your luggage?”
He nodded. “There was hardly space for my shaving brush.”
Peter poured the wine and passed the food round the table. We began to eat but were all somewhat subdued. I think we were overcome by the sight of this feast. There was a thick stew of vegetables — tapioca and beans and yam — which tasted of meat, such was its rich taste and chewy texture. There was a bowl of little prawns, their pinkish shells suggesting that they had only just been cooked. Not far from the table, Peter had built a small makeshift grill. Its fruit lay before us: an impressive pile of grilled fish, large kembong that Peter said he had netted himself. Their silvery skins bore the hot dark scars of the grill, and they were delicious. Finally, Peter disappeared into the bushes and emerged with a large dish covered with a piece of cloth. With a flourish, he slid the cloth away to reveal a large unidentifiable lump.
“What in God’s name is that?” Honey said.
“Bread!” Peter cried. “Bread which I have baked myself!” He cleared some space on the table and explained how he had built an oven from mud and earth. He had brought a bag of flour with him specifically for this purpose, and was amazed that he had succeeded. He stood over the loaf and gripped it with both hands. He began to pull gently but the bread remained resolute. He set it down on the table and clawed at it awkwardly; his fingers, I noticed, were very slim and fine, his nails long, almost like a woman’s. Finally he broke the bread into two uneven pieces. It was soggy and heavy in its texture. “That can’t be eaten,” he said, looking at the pieces of bread in his hands.
“Of course it can,” I said. “Try it.”
He raised a piece of bread to his mouth and took a bite. He spat it out and shook his head sadly.
“Sit still, everyone,” Honey called out. I turned around and saw that he had taken Peter’s camera and was kneeling a few yards from the table.
“Wait,” cried Peter as he came round the table and stood beside my chair; Mamoru took up a position next to Johnny. We sat smiling at the camera. My face felt odd, as if it had forgotten how to smile.
