Chapter One - Richard Lewis

"I've been hearing them, too," Nol said.
"Perhaps he will die soon, but naturally, not murdered by an impatient son."
"Why, who would say such a thing like that?"
Dharma grunted. "Not that Mantera doesn't deserve his karma."
The cryptic comment hung in the air.
"He's been coming around and having coffee with Mother," Nol said. "Did
President Sukarno really pinch her cheek?"
"Sukarno had an eye for pretty girls, and your mother was the prettiest girl in the
village. What do they talk about?"
"Old school days. He talks, she mostly listens. You've been close to Mantera for a
long time. What do you see in him?"
"Money. He's a man full of clouds who changes directions with the wind, but he
has working capital that floats with him. Over the years he's financed many of my
projects, and I've made him more money."
"You just go up to him and ask to borrow?"
"Are you getting ideas, nephew?"
"Me? Why, if I wanted to borrow money I'd ask you first. But I'm not, am I?"
Newly renovated with limestone and chrome, the palace's stout outer walls
glowed in the afternoon sun. The gilded doors to the towering main gate were shut, but a
male servant showed Nol through a side gate and guided him to a distant corner of the
compound, where flourished a patch of jungle right out of a Balinese legend. A mossy
brick path led through shaggy trees, and a stream gurgled pleasantly. At the head of the
path, a lovely young woman in a sarong and blouse knelt to place a flower offering on the
brick. She stood to the side to let Nol pass with comments, her eyes black as seeds and as
unreadable.
Rude to just stare at him like that. Why, she couldn't be any older than his son
Putu. Kids these days, losing respect for their elders.
The path opened up to a clearing, the sky overhead radiating a luminous glow that
bathed a simple wooden hut with a thatched roof. From the hut's eaves hung varnished
bird cages, and the birds within trilled their songs. Nol might have believed that he'd
slipped to a time long past if it weren't for the red-tailed Qantas jet passing overhead with
a whine of engines.
Mantera peered into one bird cage. A sarong hung perilously loose on his thin
hips, and his ribs were visible in the sagging arm holes of his undershirt. On his feet were
cheap rubber bathroom sandals. "Ah, Nol, would you give me a hand here? I need to
switch the cages around."
Jarred by this unseemly informality of dress and manner, Nol wordlessly switched
two cages. Mantera frowned at one bird, which remained obstinately silent, orange head
hunkered down into its dull grey body.
"Paid five million for it," Mantera complained, "but it won't sing."
"Could be sick," Nol offered.
"A vet's already checked. Ayo, ayo, sing, you damn bird!"
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