The Harmony Silk Factory (23 page)

“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 Nonetheless, he seemed sullen and withdrawn.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.”

He turned to me with mischievous, sparkly eyes. “Do you think,” he said, “that there will be violent objections if I put in a request for a detour? I want to get a closer look at the castle.”

Before I could say anything, he asked Honey and Mamoru if we could drive towards the castle.

“Don’t be bloody stupid,” Honey said. “We can’t miss our boat again.”

“Isn’t this trip meant to be a holiday?” Peter said.

“I’m sorry,” said Mamoru. “I am myself interested to see Kellie’s Castle, but we need to get to Tanjong Acheh quickly. There is only one boat a day to the islands. It makes the crossing at a specific time in the day.”

“Can’t we just pay someone to take us there? We don’t need to travel with the masses, do we?”

“That
is
what we are doing,” Honey said.

“A boat specially for us?” I said.

Honey nodded.

“I assumed we’d be on a ferry. Don’t other people go to the Seven Maidens?” Peter asked. “I thought it might be like Eastbourne in the summer.”

“The Seven Maidens are not well known,” said Mamoru. “Their beauty is, however, legendary.” He turned around to face us, and, I thought, looked directly at me.

“Wonderful. Yet another myth,” said Peter. “We haven’t a clue what’s in store for us.” He sank back into his seat.

“It was worth asking,” I said, reverting to a whisper.

He did not seem remotely perturbed by the rejection of his request. “It’s
always
worth asking.” He laughed.

We turned back to look at the castle but it had disappeared. “Where is it?” Peter said. “I could have sworn it was just there, in the dip below that hill.”

“No it wasn’t, it was over there,” I said. I could not tell where anything was anymore. The castle had vanished from our sight, and we continued to drive on.

The jungle gave way to tawny, parched grassland and coconut trees. Streams of murky, brackish water cut across the road, and we went over wooden bridges that trembled under the weight of the car. We drew into Tanjong Acheh late in the afternoon. The collection of wooden huts and fishermen’s shacks that formed the town stretched a few hundred yards along the coast. We slowed to walking pace, the car’s engine rattling unhappily. On either side of the street, the shacks appeared empty. Their windows and doors were shut, giving the impression of a town long deserted. One house bore a painted sign on its façade. The words were faded, bleached by the sun and salt, but I could discern from the outline of a bottle and the remains of “Fraser & Neave” that it must once have been the coffee shop where the local population congregated for cold drinks in the afternoon and coffee in the evening. I listened for the sound of children’s laughter, dogs barking, or chickens squabbling, but I heard nothing.

“Do you think everyone’s asleep?” Peter said, checking his watch. “A bit late in the day for a siesta, isn’t it?”

“It’s a fishing village,” Honey said. “They’re probably out to sea.”

“Even the women?” I asked.

Johnny said, “In places like these—poor rural areas—women have to work too. There are many female fishermen.”

“Yes, I have seen them,” Mamoru said. “However, I thought that fishing boats went out to sea in the evening. They usually arrive home in the mornings, unload their catch, and then rest during the day. One can see them dotting the coastline at dawn. In a small bay such as this, their lights resemble fireflies in a jar.”

“You’ve been around a bit, haven’t you?” Peter said. “Very observant too, I must say.”

Mamoru laughed. “I’m simply a tourist,” he said, “with an academic’s eye.”

“Yes,” said Peter, “an academic’s eye.”

“That is why I find it somewhat puzzling that the boats are not here at this time of the day,” Mamoru said. “Perhaps fishermen’s routines and practises vary from place to place. The tide may behave differently here.”

“I don’t know why, but I got the impression you’ve been here before,” Peter said.

“No,” Mamoru said, turning around to look at him. “I have not.”

The road curved to a stop at a broken-down pier. A single boat bobbed gently by the jetty. It was a large boat, forty feet long perhaps, with a cabin built on its deck. Its hull, once bright green, was clad in cracked, peeling paint; a dried-out tangle of netting stretched along one side of the deck.

“There she is,” Honey said.

“What, that wreck?” Peter said, his voice rising an octave.

“Well, there isn’t another bloody boat around, is there?” Honey snapped.

We got out of the car and stood looking at the boat.

“Where’s our ferryman?” Peter demanded. “Please tell me we’re not going to attempt this stygian crossing ourselves.”

“For goodness’ sake, be quiet. The owner of this boat is meant to be here,” Honey said. “We’ve made arrangements for him to take us to the Seven Maidens. He’s obviously been delayed. He’ll be here sooner or later, I expect.”

“You made the arrangements, did you?” said Peter. “Congratulations on a job well done. If you think we’re willing to entrust our lives to a drunken maniac on a sinking tin like that, think again.”

“Peter,” I said quietly and touched his elbow. The last thing we needed was another row. Mercifully, he seemed to take the hint.

We looked around us. Nothing stirred.

“I suggest we begin loading our things onto the boat,” Mamoru said. “That way we will be ready to leave when the boatman arrives.”

The boat was deceptively spacious. As I descended the steep, narrow steps that led below deck, I was, in truth, slightly concerned about sleeping arrangements. If we were to spend any length of time on this boat, the lack of space meant that I would be sleeping (and dressing and washing) in the company of three men other than my husband. I was not sure I could do it. My fears were partly allayed when I saw that the area below deck was roomy and sensibly arranged, with a small partition which afforded some measure of privacy. There were three small beds, arranged at right angles to one another, a tiny cabinet, and a table and chair. There were no portholes (as I imagined all boats had), or any mirrors, but there was still enough light from the stair hatch to make the dimness acceptable. It smelt of camphor and damp, but was otherwise clean.

I was relieved, too, when Mamoru told me that only Johnny and I would be down below deck; the others would be sleeping above board.

“This isn’t exactly
le Normandie,
is it?” said Peter, as he helped me carry my things to my bunk.

“It’ll do.” I laughed.

“Are you sure you’ll be alright, Snow?” he said.

“What you mean to say is that a spoilt, delicate woman like me is not accustomed to surroundings such as these,” I said.

“Not at all,” he said, stuttering a little. “Not at all. I just wanted to make sure you were comfortable.” He seemed somewhat hurt.

“I’m more durable than you think, Peter,” I said. I must confess that I allowed my annoyance to show in my voice.

I began unpacking my things. My first thought was for this diary—now that we are on a boat, I am worried that it may get wet or become infected by damp rot. Johnny came into the cabin and dropped his bags on his bed. He left without speaking to me. A while later Mamoru appeared. He came halfway down the stairs but did not descend properly into the cabin.

“You must be tired from the drive today. I must admit to being somewhat fatigued myself,” he said.

I smiled. “I’m fine, Mamoru. Glad for a rest, certainly, but I’m fine.”

“I’m sorry, this”—he waved a hand at the cabin—“this is not luxurious, but we shall not be on this boat for long. If the boatman arrives soon, we will not even pass a single night here.”

“You sound as if you are apologising. Please don’t—it’s not your fault. You’ve had nothing to do with this.”

“Promise you’ll tell me if you need anything?”

I nodded.

When he had gone I found a piece of wax cloth in Johnny’s things. I placed it on the tiny table next to the bed and set my diary on it. I have been writing ever since. When I finish I shall wrap the diary in the wax cloth, where it will be safe from the sea and all the things that lurk in its depths.

WHEN I EMERGED on deck it was still light. The men were squabbling and there was no sign of the boatman.

“Yes! We have no bananas,” Peter sang in a child’s taunting wail, “we have no bananas or boatman today.”

“It isn’t my fault,” Honey protested. He was standing at the side of the boat, squinting into the distance, searching for signs of life in the still-deserted town. “What do you expect of the natives?”

“I expect them to be well trained and utterly compliant,” said Peter. “Isn’t that what I’m expected to expect?”

“What?”

“Look, it doesn’t matter. The fact is, we have a boat but no boatman. How on earth are we to get to the Seven Maidens by nightfall?”

“I don’t know,” Honey said, seemingly defeated by Peter’s logic.

“Well, you made the arrangements.”

“I did not. Besides, the professor has a plan.”

Mamoru had been lifting up boards and shifting boxes to inspect various parts of the machinery. “The Seven Maidens,” he said calmly, his voice full of quiet authority, “are not far from the coast. The Straits of Malacca are some of the smoothest waters in the world. We will be able to navigate our way to the islands without the boatman. I am certain of it.”

“I didn’t know you were good with boats, Mamoru,” I said. “You seem very confident of getting us there.”

“Oh, I’m sure Professor Kunichika has plenty of little tricks up his sleeve,” said Peter. “His sense of direction is
quite
extraordinary, isn’t it? Especially for an academic.”

“Actually, I have brought with me some rudimentary nautical maps. I have nothing beyond these—and a foolhardy sense of confidence, of course.”

“No one knows where the Seven Maidens are. Only fishermen go there, only they know the way,” Honey said quietly. “Still, I’m sure the professor will get us there.” His voice faded even as he spoke, as if he had resigned himself to what lay ahead.

“There was an expedition two years ago,” said Mamoru. “Well, actually it was more a field trip made by amateurs not unlike us. That is how these maps exist—they are less detailed than one might expect, but I have no reason to believe they are not accurate.”