Hong had not gone into details. All he had said was: “You will probably be somewhat uncomfortable, but I suppose that you anthropologists are used to that sort of thing.” And then he had shuddered; not too noticeably, but he had shuddered.
Ling wiped his brow. “You will stay in the village guest house,”
he said. “It is a small place, just two rooms, which is used for any visitors to the village. It is clean and it is cool too. There is a big tree beside it. That will give you shade.” He paused, and smiled. “You will be very happy there.”
“Oh, I’m sure I shall,” said Domenica. His description of her accommodation had cheered her slightly. A small, cool house in the shade sounded as if it would be perfect.
“And there is another house beside it,” Ling went on. “The woman from that house will be your friend. She speaks a little English – not much – but a little. And she is making her sons learn English too. They are just boys, but they will speak to you too.”
Domenica liked the sound of that. Ling made it seem no more than moving to a new suburb – a suburb with friendly neighbours.
“This woman,” she asked. “She’s married to . . .” She paused, unsure as to whether the term pirate seemed a bit extreme, ungenerous perhaps.
“To a pirate,” said Ling. “Yes, her husband is a big pirate. He is called Ah, and her name is Zhi-Whei. They have called the boys after ships which . . . which he seized. The older one is called Freighter and the other is called Tanker. They have Chinese names, too, but that is what they are called in the village.
They are a good family, and they will be kind to you.”
They continued with their journey. As they progressed, the vegetation thinned. The trees, which had towered above them
at the beginning, now became sparser. The dense undergrowth, too, was broken up by patches of grass and thinly-covered sand.
And as the tree cover diminished, the light changed. There was open sky now, and the air seemed fresher. There was a smell of the sea.
“We’re not far now,” said Ling eventually. And as he spoke, Domenica heard a snatch of music somewhere in the distance; a radio playing. Then, a little later, she heard a voice – a woman’s voice, calling to a child perhaps.
Suddenly the path turned sharply to the right and descended.
Ling stopped and pointed ahead. “That is the village,” he said.
Domenica looked at the place which was to be her home for the next few months. It was a small settlement – much the same as the village through which they had passed at the beginning of their journey. There was one difference, though: the houses in this village all faced a small bay, the blue waters of which now caught the early afternoon sun. It seemed to Domenica to be idyllic; the sort of place that Gauguin had found on his south sea islands; the sultry shores which he had painted in those rich colours of his; sexual, beguiling landscapes.
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“That is your house just over there,” said Ling. “You see that one? The one near that big tree? That is your place.”
Domenica looked in the direction in which he was pointing.
They were not far from the house, and she could make out the details clearly. It seemed to her that it was quite ideal. It was constructed of wooden planks, all painted off-white, and the windows were secured with green, slatted shutters. There was a veranda, too, with what looked like an old planter’s chair on it, and a lithe young man in a sarong standing near the front door.
“Who is that young man?” asked Domenica.
Ling turned to look at her. “That is the young man who will be looking after you. He will cook for you and carry things. I will tell you what to pay him.” He paused, and added: “He is utterly at your service. You will see.”
“Now,” said Matthew firmly, as he opened the door of the taxi for Pat, “you’ve made your decision and you must stick to it!
You’re unhappy there. Of course you can’t continue to live with that ghastly girl.”
“You haven’t met her,” pointed out Pat, as she sat back against the cheerful Royal Stewart rug which the taxi driver had placed on the seat. It was a curious thing about Edinburgh taxis: insofar as they carried rugs, for some reason these were almost always Royal Stewart tartan.
She looked at Matthew, who was leaning forward to give instructions to the driver. It annoyed her that he seemed so ready to make judgments about people whom he had never met.
He had done that with Wolf, whom he had disliked instantly, and now he was doing it with Tessie, her flatmate.
Matthew fastened his seat belt. “But of course she’s ghastly,”
he said. “You yourself told me . . .”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Pat. “Let’s change the subject.”
Matthew nodded. “Yes,” he said. “You have to look forward, Pat. Going to that awful flat was a mistake. A bad mistake. You should have stayed in Scotland Street.”
He’s doing it again, thought Pat. Matthew had never seen the flat in Spottiswoode Street, and yet he was calling it awful. There was actually nothing awful about it. It was a typical Marchmont student flat – rather nicer, in
