"She doesn't have more time." I told him then about Endo-san's words to me, about the coming invasion. "MacAllister will either be told to evacuate by the government, or be interned by the Japanese."

"Mr. Endo has no idea what he is talking about," he said, looking hard at the sea. "There'll be no war in Malaya."

I thought again of Endo-san flashing his cryptic light out to sea and felt afraid. The island of Penang was so vulnerable, so easy to pluck, like a child awakened by kidnappers at night from his bed.

"Just speak to MacAllister, find out what he is like. You know how it feels to be the unwelcome man in love with another man's daughter," I said.

"Look," he said, pointing out to sea, apparently not having heard me. A school of dolphins streaked past us, the rambunctious ones leaping out from the sea and then falling in again. We watched as they chased the fish. We could hear their clicks and their strange infantlike cries. "Always loved them," he said. "If I could live again, I would want to be a dolphin, forever swimming the oceans, seeing sights no human eye will ever see." His voice was soft, his eyes softer, their blueness not of light anymore but of a warm, rippling liquid that was depthless.

I was frightened by this glimpse of the dreamer in him, he who had always appeared practical to me, able to solve all problems that came his way. I was afraid for him then, hoping that his practical side would always see him through his life and that his dreams would only come in his sleep, when he was safe from harm.

We heard Isabel calling us and we turned to walk back to the village. "I do know what it feels like to be the unwelcome man in love with another man's daughter," he said.

The wedding was conducted in accordance with Chinese custom. Ming was hidden beneath a layer of red veil and dangling tassels and dressed in a gold and maroon robe. She was taken to the bridegroom's house in a bright red wooden palanquin, where she knelt before the bridegroom's parents and served them tea and promised to obey them. As she passed me her head turned and, knowing she was watching me from beneath her veil, I moved my lips and wished her well. She gave a slight tilt of her head and moved on.

Isabel smiled at me and I said, "It'll be fine." She gave my hand a squeeze.

The wedding luncheon was lavish, as face decreed. We entered the community hall of the village and sat at one of forty tables, wondering what the whole event had cost Uncle Lim. Isabel plucked the menu from the center of the table.

"What does it say?" she asked me.

"Roast suckling pig, sharks' fin soup, steamed ginger fish, abalone, roasted sesame chicken, mandarin orange duck. Almost everything," I said, using my knowledge of Japanese to decipher the Chinese writing. I was distracted by the loud music from the Chinese orchestra and the firecrackers. The last two empty places at our table were filled by Towkay Yeap and Kon. I put down the menu, delighted to see my friend. He too was dressed formally but in his favorite color of white.

The curtains of the wooden stage opened and an opera began. The sounds of the erhu and the peipa, accompanied by clashing cymbals and drums, vied with the singers' high feline voices. My father suppressed a wince as the high notes were clawed for and we all laughed.

"Sorry," he said to Towkay Yeap, his face going red.

"Can I safely say you do not know this opera at all?" Towkay Yeap said, amused. My father shook his head.

"This happens to be one of our most popular ones. 'The Butterfly Lovers.' Very tragic, the story."

Isabel leaned forward and said, "Please tell us about it."

"Once, many dynasties ago in China, a girl, Lady Zhu, wanted to study in a school high in the mountains. Of course, being a girl she was not allowed to study at all. She was supposed to stay at home and take care of her family and later the husband whom her parents would choose for her."

"A tradition worth keeping," I said, giving Isabel a grin.

"Do be quiet, Philip," she said.

"Lady Zhu was a headstrong girl, Isabel. Very much like you, or so I have heard," Towkay Yeap said, his eyes narrowing with gentle humor.

"Spot-on, old chap," my father said, crossing his arms at his chest and leaning back into his seat.

Isabel frowned at our father. "Please go on, Towkay Yeap."

"As I said, Lady Zhu knew what she wanted. And so, deceiving her parents and breaking tradition, she put on male clothing and obtained entry into the school. And there she fell in love with a fellow student, Liang, who had no idea at all of her real identity. At the end of the three years of their studies they parted at the Eighteen Mile Pavilion and there Lady Zhu told Liang that she wished him to marry her younger sister. She told Liang to come to her home in a year's time to ask for the girl's hand in marriage. Liang came within the set time and realized there was no such sister, that in fact Lady Zhu had been the one who wanted to marry him. He fell in love with her when she revealed her true self to him. Theirs was a meeting of the souls and Lady Zhu and Liang knew they had each found the one person who would travel with them, even after death, all through their subsequent lives.

"Their parents inevitably discovered Lady Zhu's subterfuge and her family was shamed. The lovers were separated. Lady Zhu and Liang were locked up in their homes. A marriage was hastily arranged for Lady Zhu with a family who did not mind the scandal. Liang pined for her. He fell ill and passed away.

"On the day of her wedding Lady Zhu heard this sad news and fled to the tomb of Liang, where she cried so hard and so long that even the heavens were moved. The sky churned and grew stormy and dark and the winds began to blow. No one had ever seen such a fierce storm before. Lightning cracked open the tomb of Liang and Lady Zhu threw herself into it, just as her parents and the wedding retinue reached the grave.

"A pair of butterflies fluttered out from the grave. They floated together and rose high into the sky, finally able to be by each other's side, leaving the sorrows of the world behind."

"What an awful story to perform at a wedding," my father said. I caught a glimpse of a crack in his memories, of his abandoned passion for butterflies and what that passion had cost him and my mother and me.

I knew Towkay Yeap had also felt my father's swiftly suppressed sadness. He said quietly, "Ah, but you miss the point, Noel. It is a beautiful tale. What does it tell us? That love will find a way, no matter the obstacles. It tells us that love can transcend time and live on, long after you and I are gone. That is a message most suitable for a wedding; in fact, a most suitable message for life itself, do you not think so?"

Recalling Endo-san's words to me, I agreed wholeheartedly with him.

After the last dish of sweet bean paste in fried dough had been served, Kon and I walked out of the hall. The sun floated above, its rays breaking through gaps in the pinkish cloud bank, like fingers dipping into the sea to feel its waters.

We walked through the dusty streets of the village. There was not a single person outside; everyone was still enjoying the luncheon and the copious amount of alcohol that had to accompany all wedding banquets. The mongrel dogs that had run about us when we arrived, sniffing at our strange smells, were all asleep beneath the porches, their ears twitching at the flies that tried to enter their dreams.

At the water's edge we stopped and enjoyed the wind. We took off our shoes and the coarse sand was like grains of heated rice husks beneath our bare feet. The hall had been too warm inside and I had drunk too many glasses of brandy.

In his completely white attire, Kon had the appearance of purity, slashed only by his red tie, which reared like an angry serpent as the wind blew. "I've been waiting for your reply," he said, a register of reprimand in his voice. "Have you made up your mind to join Force 136?"

"I'm sorry," I said. "I can't go with you. I have to stay. I have to make sure my family will be safe and only my being here can calm my fears. I'd be worried sick about them if I were stuck in the jungle." I saw the disappointment on his face and felt somehow that I had failed him.

"You went to see Tanaka-san," Kon said. "He told me about your conversation with him."

I made a halfhearted attempt at explaining my situation. He stopped me and said softly, "Don't worry too much about it. I'm sure you're right. Your family would need you here."

I nodded at him, grateful that he understood in spite of his disappointment. That was one of the wonderful things about Kon-he understood so many things without being told.

"You realize that when the Japanese enter Penang my father can't protect Mr. Hutton anymore? That the guards will have to be withdrawn?" Kon said.

"Naturally. They have their own families to protect, after all. That's why I have to stay. I'm certain Endo-san has no knowledge of the attempt on my father's life, but Saotome in Kuala Lumpur-he's been eyeing our company."

We were silent for a while. I enjoyed his presence, glad to have known him, for he was now closer to me than either of my two brothers.

"Will I see you again before you leave?" I asked. It was so peaceful to sit by the sea and I wanted to prolong our time here in this village that lay so far away from the concerns of the world.

"I do not think so," Kon said.

"It'll probably be a breach of your security but will you let me know where you'll be sent to?" I asked.

"I'll find a way," he said and the caveat that I keep his eventual location a secret did not have to be stated out loud. I held out my hand and he took it in his.

"Take care, my brother," he said.

"I will. You watch out for danger," I said, my voice strained. "I'll say some prayers for you at the temple."

He smiled. "You'd better watch out yourself, you are turning Chinese."

Thinking of the duality of life, I asked-more to myself than to anyone else: "That's not such a bad thing, is it?"

Ming had changed into a bright red cheongsam, and she and her husband were moving from table to table, thanking the guests for coming. He was made to drink a toast at every table and by the time they came around to ours he was quite drunk.

"This is Ah Hock," Ming said, pulling at her husband's arm, giving a wide smile to Isabel. His name meant "fortunate" and that day, with Ming by his side, I thought he was. He was a squat man with a head of short, uncontrollable spiky hair, his skin dark from his days on the fishing trawler. His long arms were bulbous with muscle and I could picture him on his boat, feet strong on deck, his arms pulling in his catch. He did not look like his father at all.

"Congratulations," my father said, shaking Ah Hock's hand.

"Thank you for your kind wishes," Ming said and then smiled at me. "Everyone here wants to know about you. They ask, 'Who is that unusual-looking boy?' "

"You may tell them who I am," I said. "Only the good things though, mind you."

"I have," she said.

"Well, it's getting late and we have to leave soon," I said. "May you have lots of children and lots of happiness." She gave another smile and moved away to the next table. I never expected to see much of her again. She would have her own life now, in the village that had adopted her.

And once again, in the car as we drove out of the village, I wished them all well in a silent prayer that included everyone I knew, even Endo-san. I prayed so strongly, so earnestly, that I thought when I opened my eyes I would see my entreaties in some physical form, standing guard over us like the gigantic shrine rising from the sea off the coast of Japan. I prayed that the gods that protected the island of Penang and watched over its people should always maintain their unflagging vigilance.

BOOK TWO.

Chapter One.

My father maintained an old Hutton custom of beginning every Monday with a family breakfast when all of us were required to sit down together for the first meal of the week.

When we came downstairs to the dining room on December 8, 1941, we had no inkling of the events that had unfolded while we were asleep. We sat in appalled silence at the breakfast table as my father read us the news, the tremor in his hands rustling the newspaper. At 12:15 that morning troops from the Japanese Eighteenth Division had landed at Kota Bahru, on the northeastern coast of the Malayan Peninsula, from the Gulf of Siam. Pearl Harbor was attacked an hour later. Until that morning I had never heard of the place.

The expected full-scale assault on Singapore had not materialized. Instead the Japanese had chosen to cut through hundreds of miles of thick, "impenetrable" rainforest and scale the mountain ranges that streaked down the spine of Malaya. I knew who had advised on that tactic. It was a classic aikijutsu move: not to meet the forces of Singapore directly but to land obliquely on the east coast, where Endo-san had gone after I had returned from visiting my grandfather in Ipoh.

All that morning the servants moved around the house quietly, their usual soft conversation as they went about their work stilled. I wondered if Endo-san had known and what his reaction would be. Isabel's face told me she was thinking of the same question, and I turned away from her.

I opened the windows in the office and stared at the street below. He had linked me to the war, to Japan's ambitions, and this realization weighed me down as though I had been burdened with another identity, taken deep down to the floor of the ocean. I structured my breathing into the pattern of zazen but it was useless.

Admiral Sir Tom Phillips, commander-in-chief of Britain's Eastern Fleet in Singapore, sent two of his ships to meet the Japanese navy. The HMS Repulse and the HMS Prince of Wales were two of the best warships the British navy had. William was on the second ship and we stayed close to the radio as news of the battle came to us in spurts and through almost incomprehensible static. Both ships were sunk by Japanese planes and we were informed of it a day later. Over six hundred lives were lost and we had no way of knowing if William was safe.

I heard my father put down the telephone receiver in his office. I went over to his room. One look at his face, contorted with grief, and I knew.

He finally noticed me standing at the door. "That was the Naval Office in Singapore," he said.

"William?" I asked in a subdued voice.

"His ship was completely destroyed by Japanese planes." My father lowered his face into his palms. I hesitated, unsure of what to do. Then I went behind him and placed my hands on his shoulders. Through the open windows the cars went by on the street below. From across Weld Quay a ship's horns sounded as it began its voyage-all the usual noises that had threaded their way through our lives all these years.

I took control without further thought. Brushing aside the staff's questions I informed them that the office would be closed until the situation became clearer to us. They would still be paid their salaries, I assured them. I telephoned Edward in Kuala Lumpur, asking him to return to Penang, and then I took my father home. I caught Uncle Lim looking at me in the mirror as he drove and his daughter's words of warning came to me again-the Japanese would come and cause us suffering. I avoided his eyes and looked out the window.

"What's happened?" Isabel asked, rising from a rattan chair on the veranda. Peter MacAllister was with her, and he too stood up when he saw us.

"William's dead," I said. She listened as I told her what we knew. She did not say anything, but MacAllister sensed her anguish and reached out to hold her.

I went into the house and poured my father a generous measure of whiskey. He took it from me and finished it and then carefully placed the glass on the table. "Your brother's gone. Gone! His ship's gone down in the sea." I thought back to his dreams of being a dolphin, swimming the depths, now searching for his lost son. Isabel leaned against MacAllister and began to cry quietly. We stood there, that afternoon, the clouds uncaring above, the flowers nodding sagely in the wind, the trees brushing the air, a lock of hair over my father's eyes. My hand moved out and gently pushed it away.

How do you prepare for a funeral when there is no body? There could only be a memorial service, and empty words spoken as sad reminders of a once-full life. That was all we were left with. My father asked me to organize it. "I just can't do it," he said. "I'm sorry to burden you with it."

"I know, Father. It's not a burden."

"I don't want a joint service with the other families," he said. We were not the only family that had suffered a loss, for William had been accompanied by many sons of Penang. A heavy mantle of despair had settled over the island and the streets of Georgetown.

The shop owners where I obtained the necessary items for the service expressed their sorrow to me. "Please tell your father we all grieve for him," more than one said, and I thanked them for their kindness.

The ministry sent William's personal possessions to us. We opened the dented box and found an envelope of the photographs I had taken and sent to him. My father shuffled them, removed one and showed it to us. It was the photograph taken on the day he left Istana for Singapore. We were still smiling then, when Uncle Lim had taken it.

Isabel cried throughout the service at St. George's Church, and I watched MacAllister comfort her. Edward and I flanked our expressionless father. In spite of my decision to stop seeing Endo-san, deep inside I had hoped for his presence. But you're the enemy now, I said to him in my mind. How right you were. The cycle of pain and sorrow has begun.

The service was short, as we had requested. Through the crowded pews behind me I saw Endo-san at the back. Our eyes met. I shook my head and closed mine. They were so tired. So tired. I realized I had not slept much since the day we were told the news. I thought of William's final words to me on the day he left his home and of our unfulfilled plans for a trip. The pain of losing him left me feeling weak, ready to fall. I sent my mind out to the faraway place Endo-san had revealed to me but it was done with a sustained effort, as it should never be, and the struggle was exhausting. Somehow I held on and turned the flooding tide of grief. I gripped the pew in front of me and forced myself to take on the unyielding countenances of my father and my remaining brother. I would not be the one who let them down, the one who lost the face held by my family for generations. The load could not be lightened, the burden never shared.

We left the church and returned home. My father wanted the memorial stone to be erected in the eastern corner of Istana, instead of in the church cemetery where previous generations of my family had been buried. I had obtained a wooden box and now asked Isabel, Edward and our father to put something of William's inside it.

A hole had been dug where the stone would be erected. Before I closed the box I put William's Leica camera into it. And then the box, like a baby being put back in the cradle, was gently lowered into the gaping ground, and covered with earth. I said a silent farewell to my brother.

My grandfather approached his son-in-law. The two men faced each other. "Now, finally, I know how you felt when she died," my father said.

"It is not something a father should ever have to go through," the older man answered. He looked at me with concern and I nodded slightly to show him I was holding up. He moved away from my father and said to me, "I have to return to my old house in Ipoh to make preparations, and to ensure that the servants have a safe place to hide."

"How long will you be gone?" I asked.

"I do not know."

"It won't be easy for you to come back here, when the fighting starts," I said. I wanted him close to me here. "You really shouldn't go."

He shook his head. "You know where to find me, if I am not at my house in Ipoh. I will be safe."

I was desperately searching for more reasons for him to remain in Penang but he held up his hand and stopped me. "You must take care of your aunt and your family." He opened his arms to me and I embraced him, trying to extinguish the feeling that I would never see him again.

Above us we heard planes patrolling the skies. Fear had gripped the inhabitants of Penang and an exodus had begun. People were fleeing for the safety and impregnability of Singapore, perhaps sailing even as far as India. But, as I had pointed out to Tanaka, how does one outrun a world war?