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    Every time the obese branch manager asked Honda in the waiting room at court or at a dinner party: “Is Hishikawa doing all right by you?” Honda would answer: “He’s very capable, yes,” concealing in his words a certain bitterness. The manager seemed satisfied to take his reply at face value, and Honda was irked that he made no attempt to read behind the words.
    Familiarity with the covert human relationships in this country, which were like the dank jungle undergrowth rapidly rotting away beneath the surface green that shone in the blistering sun, had enabled Hishikawa to develop his talent for smelling out rottenness in human matters faster than anyone else. And that was the source of his income. He would have rested his powerful, housefly wings of gold on the leftovers in the manager’s plate.
    “Good morning!”
    Honda was awakened from deep sleep by a familiar voice on the interphone at his bedside, a voice he heard every morning—Hishikawa.
    “Did I wake you? Forgive me. The court people think nothing of making you wait for hours, but they’re terribly fussy about visitors being punctual. I called early to be on the safe side. Take your time shaving. What? Breakfast? No, no, don’t worry about that. Well, to tell the truth, I haven’t yet, but I can do without. Oh? In your room with you? Well, thank you very much indeed. I’ll accept the invitation and come on up. Shall I let you have five minutes? Or ten? Well, since you’re not a lady, perhaps I don’t have to be so punctilious.”
    This was not the first time that Hishikawa had partaken of the Oriental Hotel’s sumptuous, multicourse English breakfast in Honda’s room.
    Shortly, dressed in a well-cut white linen suit, Hishikawa walked in, busily fanning his chest with a panama hat. He stopped squarely under the large, white, sluggishly rotating blades of the fan.
    “Before I forget,” said the pajama-clad Honda, “what shall I call the Princess? Is it proper to say ‘Your Highness’?”
    “No, no!” replied Hishikawa with assurance. “She’s the daughter of Pattanadid and he’s half brother to the king. His title is Pra Ong Chao; you address him as ‘Your Royal Highness’ in English. But the daughter is Mon Chao, and you should call her ‘Your Serene Highness.’ Anyway don’t worry. I’ll take care of everything.”
    The unrelenting heat had already invaded the room. Having left his sweat-dampened bed and standing under the cold shower, Honda felt for the first time the morning on his skin. The experience was a strangely sensuous one. He who never contacted the external world without first filtering it through rational thought, here felt through his skin; only through his skin sensing the brilliant green of the tropical plants, the vermilion of the mimosa flowers, the golden decor adorning the temples, or the sudden blue lightning could he come into contact with the world about him. This was a totally exotic experience for him. The warm rains, the tepid showers. The external world was a richly colored liquid, and it was as if he were constantly bathing in it. How could he have anticipated all this in Japan?
    While waiting for breakfast, Hishikawa paced back and forth around the room like a European, scoffing at the mediocre landscape that hung on the wall. The heels of his freshly polished black shoes reflected the patterns of the carpet as he outrageously postured. Honda was suddenly tired of the game where Hishikawa played the artist and he the Philistine.
    Abruptly turning, Hishikawa removed a small purple velvet case from his pocket. Handing it to Honda, he said: “You mustn’t forget this. Hand it directly to the Princess.”
    “What is it?”
    “A present. Royalty has made it custom here never to receive a visitor who arrives empty-handed.”
    Honda opened the case and discovered a fine pearl ring.
    “Oh, I see. I never thought of that. Thank you for reminding me. How much do I owe you?”
    “Oh, nothing.