I had never before known the taste of wine. We finished the food and sat under the darkening trees with our tumblers full of that bloodred liquid. I never noticed Peter refilling my glass, yet it was always full, no matter how much I sipped at it. I began to lose track of time. Around me, men’s voices and laughter hung in the air like vines, quivering gently with the wind. I tilted my head and looked at the shadows of the leaves swimming across the canopy above us. Peter was singing.
“What is that?” I asked. “I’ve been meaning to ask you for ages. It’s a beautiful song.”
Peter repeated the tune, louder this time, the rich timbre of his voice vibrating from within his thin chest.
“Is it Italian?” I asked, but he kept singing.
“It is,” said Mamoru. “It’s from the opera Don Giovanni.”
“Oh come on, Peter,” I said, “do tell me what the words mean.”
“Ask the professor — he’ll tell you,” Peter said, and he continued singing.
“What does it mean, Mamoru?” I asked, turning to him and grasping his arm. “I really want to know.”
He took a sip of wine, his eyes never leaving Peter’s happy, singing face. Peter sang seven distinct syllables followed by a tangle of many more (I cannot be sure — the wine in my veins, my lack of comprehension, all combined to make the words sound completely mystifying). “It means, ‘There we will take hands.’ ”
“Is that all? What about the rest of it?”
Mamoru translated as Peter sang: “‘There you will say yes. Look, it’s not far from here. Let’s leave this place, my dear.’ ”
“Oh,” I said. “It doesn’t make much sense to me.”
“It’s not very interesting,” he replied. “Peter, why are you singing Zerlina’s part too?”
“Who’s Zerlina?” I whispered as Peter kept singing.
“The woman,” Mamoru replied, “a bride about to be stolen from her husband.”
“I sing all the parts,” Peter said, barely drawing breath before continuing to sing. His voice, though, was tiring. The notes no longer stretched as they had and the words seemed rushed. He seemed out of breath. He stopped singing and looked at Mamoru.
“You sing the next line,” he said.
“What?” Mamoru replied, setting his glass down on the table.
“It’s your line next. Actually the whole thing is yours to sing, isn’t it? But you might as well start with the next line.”
“Peter,” I said, “what on earth are you talking about? I think you have had too much wine.” I could not stop laughing even though my head hurt.
“Right,” Peter said. “I’ll sing a line by Zerlina to help prompt you. You then come in with your line, Giovanni. Molto espressivo. Do be a sport.”
Peter sang something in a screeching falsetto. “Come on, you know what to sing, Professor. You know all the bloody words. It’s my birthday — sing, damn you!”
Mamoru spoke some words in Italian.
Peter screeched again — different words this time.
I laughed.
Mamoru spoke again.
“And together now,” Peter shouted, standing up and waving his arms. He screamed the tuneless words up into the trees above us, his throat heaving with the effort. He walked away from the table, stumbling towards the house. It was dark now but the moon was very bright. He sat down on some broken stone steps with his head in his arms.
“Leave him,” Mamoru said. I was not sure to whom that command was directed.
We started to walk back to the camp, Mamoru leading the way. My head felt heavy, my vision untrustworthy. I had to stare hard at fallen trees before stepping over them — I could not tell how high they were or what lay on the other side. The shadows swam amongst the trees, chased by the moonlight. I noticed, though, that Johnny had taken the unfinished bottles of wine with him. I knew that tonight was the perfect time to speak to him, to tell him all that lay in my heart, but I knew, too, that I would not.
I am beginning to doubt if I ever will. In this place, perhaps I will never need to.
THE WAILING LASTED all night, shriller than ever. I fell into a heavy yet disturbed sleep — I had never experienced anything like it. My body felt shot through with poison; my veins were pregnant with it. My sleep was all-embracing yet unreal. In my sleep, things happened to me — to my body — that I could not discern. I saw everything so clearly, yet I knew they could not have been real. I saw Mamoru with my diary. I saw Johnny with my diary. I saw Mamoru and Johnny together. I saw them speaking, touching each other, their foreheads brought together in intimate conversation. Each of them approached me and spoke in languages I did not understand. The wailing burnt through my sleep, never allowing me to escape. Sometimes it sang Peter’s song, screeching his words into the depths of the jungle and the fathomless sea.
I awoke when it was light. Mamoru was already up, collecting wood for the fire. I ran as far as I could, towards the sea. I had made it halfway down to the water when I collapsed to my knees and began to vomit. I knelt on the beach, my insides streaming down the sides of my mouth onto the hot sand. I had never felt anything so painful.
