notes, worn as soft and floppy as thin cloth.
‘Thank you,’ she said.
She ducked out of the market, waving to two or three of the shoppers, and walked on towards Kadek Daging’s general store. He was back in his usual place after his week of driving for the movie people. As soon as he saw her coming he bustled out from between his sacks of rice and drums of oil.
‘Selamat siang, Ibu,’ he beamed. ‘Glamour all finished for you and me. Back to ordinary life.’
‘Selamat siang, Kadek. I don’t know about glamour. We had a busy week, though, didn’t we?’
Kadek glanced round and lowered his voice. ‘I did not see her myself, but she was here, wasn’t she? Working in the film?’
‘Who?’
He checked again to make sure that there was no one eavesdropping from behind a tower of detergent packets and then whispered,
‘Penelope Cruz.’
Connie considered this. ‘I’m not sure. In a bank commercial? I certainly didn’t see her.’
Kadek stood back with a satisfied nod. ‘Yes. I knew that she was. I heard it from the mother of one of the young girls. Very beautiful. Not as beautiful perhaps as Angelina Jolie, but still. I expect you didn’t get the chance to work with her?’
‘No,’ Connie agreed. ‘I didn’t, unfortunately.’
‘Never mind,’ he consoled her. ‘Films are being made all the time, here in Bali. Perhaps next time. Those are very good flowers. Are they a gift, wrapped like that?’
‘I’m taking them to Dewi. Wayan Tupereme told me last night that she has a son.’
‘Yes, the birth was yesterday. I hear the baby is very small. You will be needing some first-quality rice.’
‘That’s exactly why I’m here, Kadek.’
They spent five minutes debating a suitable choice, and then Connie made her way onwards with the two-kilo package under her other arm. The quickest way to Dewi’s husband’s family house, on the far side of the village where the paddy fields opened up, was to cut through the monkey forest. She walked briskly to where the street petered out in a clutch of little shops and open stalls.
The same group of tourists was now at the margin of the forest enclosure, negotiating with a small boy over the price of bunches of finger-sized bananas to feed to the monkeys.
It was cool and shady under the canopy of tall trees and the dirt tracks were easier on the feet than the uneven paving of the village streets. Connie often walked here, enjoying the quiet and the scent of damp leaves and trodden dust. She slowed her pace to a stroll, but she always kept an eye on the monkeys who sat in the branches or knuckle-walked at the edges of the paths. From behind her came a thin scream of alarm and then a chorus of shouts. She smiled; without even turning to look she knew that a troop of monkeys had executed a classic distraction manoeuvre followed by a pincer attack, and had successfully snatched the bunch of bananas from the grasp of the most monkey-friendly of the tourists.
In the middle of the forest was a temple complex. It was a mossy group of red-brick structures, open to the sky, the stone facings fleeced with lichen. A few people were on their way to or from prayer, women with baskets of fruit balanced on padded headpieces and men in the obligatory sarongs and bright sashes. Those who were returning had flowers behind their ears and grains of rice pressed to their cheeks, and their hair was beaded with moisture from splashing with tirta, holy water.
Monkeys prowled along the temple walls and sat in rows on the steps, picking fleas from one another’s backs. Several of them bit into the hijacked bananas. They were macaques with black-faced babies clinging to their fur. Connie noticed with sudden dismay that instead of a monkey baby, one male had a tiny, bedraggled ginger kitten. He detached the little creature from his chest and flipped it over the back of his hand like a set of worry beads. Then he tossed it in the dust at his feet, yawning as he poked at it with his prehensile fingers. The kitten gave out almost soundless mews of distress when the macaque upended it and delicately scratched its pale-pink belly with black hooked fingernails. But when the monkey withdrew its hand the kitten righted itself and crawled back towards its tormentor, searching for protection.
The temples had colonies of wild cats as well as monkeys. Connie stared around her, wanting to rescue the little creature and restore it to its proper mother. But if she tried to swoop in and snatch it away the monkeys would certainly attack her. The tourists were right about that; they did bite. The monkey picked up the kitten again, perhaps in response to its mewing, and tucked it against his chest. It glared at Connie and the kitten hung on like the other babies, blinking its pale gummed-up eyes at the world.
Connie walked on. Trying to get the little scene out of her mind, she told herself that without its mother’s milk the kitten wouldn’t have to suffer for very much longer. The back of her neck and her shirt where the packet of rice pressed against it were clammy with sweat.
The path out of the forest crossed a small gorge by way of a plank suspension bridge, the metalwork crusted with decades-worth of wood-pigeon droppings. The planks creaked and swayed under her feet and she broke into a laden dash for the safety of the opposite side, stepping onto solid ground again and then laughing at her moment of panic.
Out here was the real village. Tourists never penetrated this far from the centre and there were no coffee shops or galleries. A sprawl of smallholdings and palm-thatch houses were separated by rank ditches clogged with refuse. Connie ducked under the silver filaments of a spider’s web and noted the impressive size of the tortoiseshell-mottled spider gently swaying at the centre. She stepped over another ditch and made her way up to Pema’s family house. Today it was distinguished from the others by penjors, tall bamboo poles with curled bark and flags to denote a special occasion.
There was no one sitting on the frayed rattan chairs drawn up against the wall, only a line of washing suspended between two palm trunks. Underneath the laundry a row of woven bamboo cages the size and shape of large bell jars each housed a dusty brown hen. The dried mud around the cages was starred with the prints of chickens’ feet and speckled with scattered corn.
Connie tapped on the door jamb. After a moment a woman bobbed up out of the dimness of the interior. She was big, wearing a pink blouse and a faded sarong. Connie recognised Pema’s mother. She placed the flowers and rice on the nearest chair, pressed the palms of her hands together and bowed over her fingertips before murmuring the expected greeting and congratulations.
Pema’s mother returned the salute.
Connie handed over the traditional gifts, flowers for fertility and rice for prosperity.
‘Thank you. Please come inside.’
Connie left her sandals in the row beside the door and went in barefoot. A small fan churned the air, but the room was still stuffy and as hot as a furnace. It seemed to be crowded with people, most of whom were pressed between the two weaving looms that occupied two-thirds of the floor space. A very old woman, perhaps Pema’s grandmother, sat at the bench in front of one of the looms. Her brown hands rested on the unfinished length of ikat cloth, and she was so small that her feet dangled six inches short of the treadles.
Everyone bowed to Connie and she returned the salutes, working from the oldest down to whoever appeared to be the youngest. One of the teenaged girls, a sister, held a baby of a few
