The Gift of Rain Read Online Free PDF

tragedy.
     
     
I opened my eyes reluctantly. Forgetfulness was one luxury I could not buy. I pushed myself up and went out of the churchyard. I started to walk faster, to prepare myself for tonight. I knew what was coming. It would be hard, but finally, after all these years I welcomed it. The opportunity would never come again, I realized. There was no time left. Not in this particular life anyway.
     
     
    * * *
She was already at Istana when I got back from the Club, lying on a deck chair by the pool, her head covered by a large Panama hat. She was staring at Endo-san’s island, and there was an undisturbed stillness in the air, as though she had not moved for a long time. A book lay on the table next to her, open flat on the glass surface, waiting to be closed by her again. I watched her from inside the house. She opened her bag, took out a bottle of pills, and swallowed a handful of them.
     
     
I could feel the effects of the drinks I had consumed. The Club had been full of the usual crowd—noisy drunken Indian litigators retrying lost cases, and fat Chinese tycoons shouting into their phones to their stockbrokers. There were also the usual ancient British expatriates, leftovers from the war who had stayed on in the country they had come to love. At least they did not try to fight the war with me again today, or castigate me for the role I had played in it.
     
     
I asked Maria to leave dinner ready for us, and went for a shower. By the time I came downstairs the servants had gone home and we were all alone. A freshly grilled fillet of stingray marinated with chilli, lime, and spices on a large piece of fresh banana leaf lay on a plate on the table, and Michiko’s eyes were drawn to it. Maria always made the best ikan bakar —it was the Portuguese blood in her, she always told me. I started to pour a bottle of wine but Michiko stayed my hand. From a rustling package she produced a stout-looking bottle.
     
     
“Sake,” she said.
     
     
“Ah. Much better,” I replied, handing her two thimble-sized porcelain cups. She warmed the sake in the kitchen and poured deftly and we each drank it down in one swallow. The taste ... I had forgotten the taste. I shook my head. Too many drinks in one day.
     
     
This time we were much more at ease with each other, as though we had known each other all our past lives. I liked her laughter: it was light, airy, and yet not frivolous. Unlike many Japanese women I had met, she did not cover her mouth when she laughed, and I knew she truly found what I said amusing. A woman who was not afraid to show her teeth, whether in joy or in fury.
     
     
The sake went well with the meal, taking the edge off the spicy sauce. The fillet was tender, and our chopsticks separated the flesh easily from the bone. The banana leaf imparted a hint of green, raw flavor, soaking up and lightening the heavy marinade. We finished off with cold sago pudding in coconut milk, sweetened with melted dark palm sugar, which she seemed to enjoy.
     
     
“I brought Endo-san’s letter,” she said, at the end of our meal.
     
     
I halted the hand bringing the cup to my mouth.
     
     
“You may read it if you wish,” she continued, pretending to be oblivious to my reluctance.
     
     
I sipped and considered. “Perhaps later.”
     
     
She agreed, and poured me more sake.
     
     
We sat out on the terrace again. It was a balmy night, the sea giving off a metallic sheen, the sky starless, an unending sheet of black velvet. I felt a warm glow all over me, and was surprised to discover that the feeling was one of contentment. A fine dinner, excellent sake, an attentive listener, the whisper of the sea, a slight breeze blowing, the music of the cicadas—I should feel content. After all, what more could I ask for? I went to the living room, put on a recording and let Joan Sutherland sing into the darkness.
     
     
Michiko sighed, a smile around her lips. She stretched out her legs, one after the other, with