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Really it’s not necessary. I told Itsui Products you needed it for a royal audience. Anyway the manager probably picked it up cheap from some Japanese. You don’t need to worry.”
    Honda immediately understood he should not ask further about the price for the time being. But Itsui Products should not be expected to pay for his private expenditures. He would repay the manager. Hishikawa had probably charged them a fat commission. He would have to overlook that and reimburse the local representative, whatever the cost.
    “Well then, I accept your kindness with gratitude.” Honda arose, and slipping the small case into the pocket of the jacket he was going to wear, casually asked: “By the way, what is the Princess’s name?”
    “Princess Chantrapa. I hear that Prince Pattanadid named his last daughter after a fiancée who died long ago. Chantrapa means ‘moonlight.’ What a coincidence she’s a lunatic,” Hishikawa commented smugly.

3
     
     O N THE WAY to the Rosette Palace, Honda saw from his car window some boys in the Yuwachon Movement marching in khaki uniforms reputedly modeled on those of the Hitler Jugend. Hishikawa, seated next to him, complained that American jazz was rarely heard in town those days, and that Prime Minister Phiboon’s nationalism seemed to be taking effect.
    It was the kind of transformation Honda had already witnessed in Japan. Just as wine slowly turns to vinegar or milk to curd, matters long neglected slowly change in response to the various forces of nature. People have long lived in fear of too much freedom, too much carnal desire. The freshness of the morning after an evening when one has abstained from drinking wine. The pride one feels on realizing that water alone is essential. Such refreshing, new pleasures were beginning to seduce people. Honda had a vague idea where such fanatical ideas would lead. It was a realization that had been born of Isao’s death. Single-mindedness often gives rise to viciousness.
    Honda suddenly recalled Isao’s drunken, incoherent words two days before his death. “Far to the south . . . Very hot . . . in the rose sunshine of a southern land . . .” Now, eight years later, he was hastening to the Rosette Palace to meet him.
    His was the joy of a parched and feverish land awaiting the drenching rains.
    It seemed to Honda that in experiencing such emotions as these he was brought face to face with his innermost self. As a youth he had judged his fears, his sorrows, and his rationality to be his true inner core, but none was real. When he heard about Isao’s suicide, he had felt a kind of sudden frustration instead of the sharp pain of sorrow; but with the passage of time, this had changed into the expectant pleasure of meeting him again. Honda realized in his heart that in moments like this, his emotions contained not one human element. His inner self was ruled perhaps by some extraordinary pleasure not of this world. It must be so, for he alone, in Isao’s case, had escaped the sorrow and pain of parting.
    Far to the south . . . Very hot . . . in the rose sunshine of a southern land . . .”
    The car drew up before an elegant gate beyond which lay a stretch of greensward. Hishikawa got out first and spoke to the guard in Siamese as he handed him a calling card.
    From the car window Honda could see an iron gate of repeating octagon and arrow motifs, while beyond, the smooth green lawn quietly soaked up the intense sun. Two or three bushes with white and yellow flowers, trimmed into round shapes, cast their shadows on the grass.
    Hishikawa escorted Honda through the gate.
    The building was too insignificant to qualify as a palace; it was merely a small two-story structure with a slate roof, painted a faded yellowish rose. Except for a large mimosa tree to one side, soiling the wall with its severe black shadow, only the expanse of yellow soothed the harsh brilliance of the sun.
    They met no one as they walked along the