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same room as a Tamil friend, then by all means. The question then arose whether one might expect the two gentlemen for lunch, whereupon both answered in English that a few papayas and pineapples would suffice entirely, but if a coconut were available, they would consider themselves fortunate to be served the coconut milk in a glass and the meat scooped onto a plate. The receptionist bowed, turned around, and disappeared off to the kitchen to place the two frugivores’ order, rolling his eyes in annoyance.
    Sated, rested despite the rail ride, and with the euphoric mood of a pair of pilgrims whose destination, long promised, now lay just within reach, the two strolled across the street and then leaned over a stone balustrade to find themselves reflected for a moment in the sacred lake, as lotus and frangipani blossoms floated on its surface. A group of bald-headed monks hurried by, chattering, each with a black rolled-up umbrella in his hand, their habits glowing saffron-yellow in the afternoon sun. A slender dandy in white flannel hurtled past on a penny-farthing, waving, honking the black squeeze bulb on his handlebars twice in quick succession. Govindarajan pointed with a cane (had he had one with him earlier?) toward the temple, and they then prepared to ascend the stairs leading up to the tabernacle.
    The two pilgrims dabbed their moist foreheads with handkerchiefs, and, farther up, turned around to gaze down onto the artificial lake created by King Sri Vikrama Rajasinha at the beginning of the previous century. Govindarajan informed Engelhardt with a peculiar expression of satisfaction that fishing had been strictly forbidden from the start. The legend also went that the little temple island there in the middle of the lake had served the king of the Sinhalese as a clandestine site for bathing and sexual intercourse, and that a hidden tunnel under the lake led from the palace to this very island. Again Govindarajan raised his cane, and pointed in that direction with its end, which, Engelhardt suddenly discerned, consisted of beaten brass. Engelhardt noticed that the Tamil was smiling even more broadly than before, practically baring his teeth like a dog. His air and countenance, which had appeared to Engelhardt gentle and familiar while on the train journey, all of a sudden seemed overlaid with a stagy, shrill dissonance.
    In the sultry interior of the shrine, a deep darkness of the most profound kind reigned supreme. A gong resounded with a muffled rattle, its echo rebounding unexpectedly from invisible walls that seemed to Engelhardt as if coated with slime. A single candle burned somewhere. He felt a mesmerizing sense of menace speed through his nerves; the blond hairs on his arms stood vertically on end, a rivulet of warm sweat pearling down behind his ear into his robe. Govindarajan had gone off elsewhere. The rapping of the metallic tip of his staff grew quieter and was eventually no longer perceptible, however much Engelhardt strained to hear it. The ghastly gong rang once more. And then the candle went out. Shuddering, he took a tentative step to the right and pivoted so as to face the point where he suspected the entrance to be—but upon entering the temple they had rounded several corners, barring which the light of day would likely have been visible from here. He whispered the name of his companion. Then he uttered it louder, finally shouting, Go-vin-dara-jan! into the inky dark.
    No answer came. His friend had vanished. He had lured him here into the blackness and then absconded. But why? What if…? And what-all in God’s name had Engelhardt told him? He could no longer recall exactly, but he was sure he had told him about his luggage at the harbor in Colombo, had certainly confided in him as well that he was carrying a fairly large sum of money in bonds, which—he struck himself on the forehead with his palm in the darkness at the thought—he had of course left in his valise in their shared room at the