The Heat of the Sun

complete with veil; I saw lapdogs, doves, and leaping, chattering monkeys
magicked into myriad flaming shades as I guided Kate Pinkerton to a beet-red leather sofa. Glasses floated towards us, borne on trays by the masked servants; I plucked one free and proffered it to
her, but she waved it away. I wished she would speak to me. What was she feeling? What was she thinking? Did she really expect that Yamadori would come to her? Quaffing pink champagne, I wondered
how, in any case, the prince would find us in this bedizened sea.
    The waltz ended; there was applause; then, just as I was becoming annoyed with a party of young bucks who stood in front of us, flicking ash with a cosmopolitan air, a fellow dressed as Charles
II (a Charles II dipped, wig and all, in cranberry juice) bowed extravagantly to Kate Pinkerton and asked if the lady would care to dance. I thought she would rebuff him; instead, she rose and took
his hand. Could this be Yamadori? And where was Trouble? I tried to keep Kate Pinkerton in sight, but soon she was lost to me in closing ranks of red.
    Slipping away from the young bucks, I searched for another of the floating trays. Somebody, not a servant, handed me a raspberry-coloured cocktail cigarette, but made no offer to light it.
    Voices came from close by.
    ‘Weird!’ said a woman. ‘So this guy, the Jap, could be anywhere?’
    ‘Mingling,’ said a man. ‘Must be. Like a spy.’
    ‘Japs, ugh!’ said another. ‘There’s something evil about a Jap.’
    ‘They say he ran away from something in Jap-land. Something big. I heard he killed a man.’
    ‘I heard he killed a woman.’
    ‘I heard he betrayed the emperor.’
    ‘I heard he was sentenced to hara-kiri. But wouldn’t do it.’
    A hand gripped my arm.
    ‘Darling, there you are! It is you, isn’t it, Woodley?’
    I held up my ashplant. ‘The deductive powers of a Holmes! Enjoying yourself, Aunt Toolie?’
    ‘Ecstatically. Thank goodness Benjy sent me an invitation.’
    ‘So he’s getting on well with this Japanese prince. That’s where he is, isn’t he? With Prince Yamadori.’
    Aunt Toolie might have been hurt, insulted by Trouble’s behaviour. But if she were, she would not let on. ‘Have you heard about the fireworks? Come midnight, the sky bursts into
flame. They say it’ll be the most spectacular display Manhattan’s ever seen. Do you like my costume?’
    ‘Milkmaid, caught in Mafia bloodbath?’
    ‘Marie Antoinette – after the guillotine. See this ribbon around my neck? But darling, hide me. There’s a man over there.’
    ‘What man?’ I was in no mood for games.
    Aunt Toolie slipped behind my back, but extended one garnet-coloured fingernail over my shoulder, pointing towards a portly fellow in a madeira toga who stood some distance away, looking lost.
His bald head, crowned in russet laurels, glistened under the twilight chandeliers as he turned this way and that, blinking with a worried air through goggle-like spectacles.
    ‘Didn’t you see me dance with him last time we were here?’ said Aunt Toolie. ‘He’s a tiger. A hound on the scent. Won’t take no for an answer. I declare, he
positively ravished me with his eyes.’
    ‘The cad! Shall I challenge him to a duel?’
    ‘Certainly not. That’s Grover Grayson the Third, the radio millionaire.’ And with a flourish, like Isadora Duncan making an entrance, Aunt Toolie stepped out from behind me.
‘Yoo-hoo!’
    At once, Grover Grayson III spotted her. Approaching, beaming broadly, he looked like a chipmunk.
    ‘Excuse me,’ I said. ‘I need a drink.’
    What I really needed was air. Whether that was possible in this magic kingdom I could not be sure. I pushed my way through the crowd. Between fluted columns a doorway stood open. I slipped
through it and found myself in a stairwell. Ascending, I came to a garden in the sky.
    How glad I was to escape a world of red! Here the noise from the ball was muffled. Here was solitude. Here was peace. Here also was a garden deep in winter. Snow lay in pale patches over bleak
parterres and lawns. Weeds had pushed through the paving. Like the chambers below, the garden appeared to have been imported, in one piece, from some ancient estate. Manhattan stretched beyond the
garden’s high walls, glittering like stars. I could have been floating far out in space, perched on a fragment of an exploded earth.
    I sat on a bench in a dark glade. Branches clotted above my head. Cold pressed through my costume