“This specimen of amber exhibits fluorescence and originated in the Dominican Republic. Counting carats is a tasteless exercise when it comes to amber. The hardened sap is a time capsule of the Earth from long, long ago.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll be passing it along to someone else soon.”
“Ah. I see I am not the only one who treats you like a safety deposit box.”
“Yup, just put in the Bank of Nakata. I’ll take good care of it.”
At the very least, I would make sure she didn’t lose one more thing she loved.
The last item was the white envelope. I slit it open with a finger and pulled out a pink greeting card. The message inside was very short.
Dear Mr. Seigi Nakata,
Followed by an English expression wishing me well: Take care of yourself.
It could also be read as a reminder to, quite literally, watch out for my well-being. Like a prayer wishing the Bank of Nakata health and happiness. Okay, Octavia, I thought. I will.
I was privately grateful she hadn’t addressed the card to a hero striving for justice. Octavia knew the basics about me—my work background, my basic bio—when we met in Nuwara Eliya, but I got the feeling she didn’t have much information on who I was as a person. Likewise, I was glad to receive this message because it wasn’t the kind of thing someone who didn’t care about herself would send. What a relief. A small relief, maybe, but one that led to a positive future.
I smiled and hugged the card to my chest. Unfortunately, I didn’t have a jacket or pockets in these pants. I would need to run back to my room and put it away there.
I left Richard with a promise to catch up with him later, hurried to my room—which was a mess, what with today’s party prep—put both items down, and ran back outside. It was two o’clock, which meant it was almost time.
I passed through the garden, keeping an eye out for a three-wheeler, and bumped into Ms. Darling with a cocktail glass in hand. Today her outfit was an eye-popping black-and-purple dress, a huge black straw sunhat-like doohickey, and brand-name black sneakers. This was the outfit of someone who knew the shape of the roads in Sri Lanka. Beyond that, I wondered how she could down cocktail after cocktail without ever getting drunk.
“My, my. Now just where is the host of this lovely party going, darling?”
“There’s another guest arriving at any minute, so…”
“Someone I’ve met before?”
“Um… I don’t think so, but you might have seen him. For a split second…”
“The plot thickens.”
“You’ve seen Henry, right? Oh, excuse me. The Earl of Claremont, I mean.”
“An earl, you say? You’re telling me that little princeling is an earl? And single? He must give high society a lot to talk about!”
I wasn’t so sure myself. Henry could be tough as nails in his own way. Any future problem he might have faced would have been nothing compared to everything he had gone through. I knew he could handle whatever else life might throw at him.
But anyway, we had two things to celebrate today. One, Ms. Darling’s new position at Gargantua. Two, Henry’s new title as the Earl of Claremont. We hadn’t exactly felt festive back in England, given the timing of his father’s death. But things were different in Sri Lanka. In Sri Lanka, anything goes, right? I said to myself. Besides, Henry and Jeffrey must have been sick and tired of formalities and paperwork. They needed a change of pace.
The moment I knew Henry was coming, I reached out to one more guest, who luckily RSVPed yes. I could have kept this a secret until the party, but when I ran that idea past Jeffrey, he cautioned against it. If it shocked Henry badly enough, Jeffrey warned, Henry might go back to being a recluse. So, in the end, I reluctantly called up Henry a few days prior and told him of the other guest—a friend studying in Spain. An old pal from my university days.
The one and only Haruyoshi Shimomura. He knew Henry as Enrique Wasabi, his flamenco jam session buddy, and was presently polishing his guitar skills while he wandered the Granada-to-Madrid circuit.
For a few moments, Henry was too stunned to speak. Just as I started to freak out—maybe I shouldn’t have invited Haruyoshi after all—Henry said, “No, no. It’s quite all right.” Then he went quiet. I wasn’t sure what to do.
Several minutes passed in silence, too long for a phone call with one other person, before Henry mumbled, “I still haven’t told him who I really am.”
“What?”
“…At most, he thinks I’m simply rather well-off.”
“Um…”
“…I have yet to even mention anything about being an earl.”
It was a problem I had expected, but a problem nonetheless. I gave it some thought. What if I broke the news to Haruyoshi? Hey, Shimomura, try not to be too surprised. That Enrique Wasabi guy I introduced you to? Turns out he comes from a line of earls. Just became the tenth earl the other day, in fact. Anyway, so now he’s Lord Claremont. Haruyoshi would have laughed his ass off for sure. You and your jokes, Seigi. Where’s the punchline?
Silenced by that sobering thought, Henry and I passed a moment saying nothing. Then, awkwardly, I suggested, “Uh…why don’t we tell him the truth at the party?”
What other choice did we have? Haruyoshi followed Jeffrey on social media. That Haruyoshi’s music buddy Enrique was related to the financial influencer Jeffrey Claremont would have been shocking enough. Worse, Enrique was the older cousin of my divinely compassionate boss, Richard. And on top of all that, he was an English earl. That was more surprise than any one man could stomach.
That was why, I decided, it was best to tell him the most important facts first and give it time to sink in. For his mental well-being, that is. To skip the hour or so of mutual silences that followed—I felt like most of that phone call was spent with neither of us talking—Henry eventually conceded that I was probably right.
Which brings me back to today.
Haruyoshi was coming by plane to Kandy and, from there, by taxi to the house. If I hadn’t been run ragged planning the party, I would have gone to pick him up. For better or for worse, I just sent him a map to the house so he would know exactly where to find us. That way, the taxi driver wouldn’t get lost.
I scanned the yard and found Henry curled up next to Jeffrey on a lounge chair like a caterpillar. Did he have a stomachache? It didn’t seem like he had eaten too much. Jeffrey rubbed Henry’s back as he took deep, steadying breaths and pressed his crossed fingers to his forehead as if in prayer.
I was about to hurry over and ask if he was okay, but just then, I heard the engine of an approaching car. Henry and I, equally hypersensitive, jumped. We hurried to the garden gate.
A sky-blue cab puttered up the steep hill toward us, an Asian man’s face pressed to the backseat window. There was no mistaking who that man was.