spears handsomely tasseled with red and gold. Next came lines of young girls in bright greens and yellows wearing garlands of scarlet flowers. Then came the orchestra, followed by handsome young men in brilliant gold brocade sarongs. The young men carried white and gold umbrellas to protect the shrines from the blazing sun. It was the most colorful and festive funeral procession I had ever witnessed.

Among the youths was Bauka. The beauty of his smooth, dark physique against the gold fabric was a joy to behold. Watson saw nothing else.

When Watson appeared at dinner that evening, he was a new man. The usual stiffness appeared to be yielding to the island's mellowing influence and he seemed to show an alive and expectant attitude. His hair was oiled and carefully parted to cover his bald spot and he was wearing white duck shorts and a rather expensive looking sport shirt that he'd evidently bought at the hotel gift counter. He sat alone at his table and I was almost certain that even from halfway across the room I could hear him humming.

Bauka soon came to attend him, grinning broadly and nodding his approval when he saw the new clothes, Watson beamed. Bauka leaned over the table, quite close to Watson, as he arranged the service. When he left for a moment to bring water, Watson's face seemed strange, as if his breathing were irregular. Then Bauka returned and set the decanter on the table. Watson, with his face. laxed in a trance-like expression, put his hand on the boy's hip and smoothed his fingers slowly across the sarong-draped roundness. Then,

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suddenly fearing that others might be watching, he jerked his hand away, jarring his coffee and splashing it onto his new white shorts. After a few uncomfortable moments, he left the table without eating his food.

Later, at the Monkey Dance in a nearby village, I noticed that Watson had changed back into his gabardines. He appeared more interested in this unusual arrangement of dancers than he had been at the orchestra concert. And it was a fascinating spectacle. More than eighty men sat on the ground in a widening ring of closely concentric circles. In the center

an oil lamp resembling a small tree with flaming branches. Their warm brown bodies gleamed softly in the flickering light. Each man wore a red hibiscus in his hair. In perfect unison, as if combining into one body, they swayed forward, backward, and to each side, jabbering and hissing weirdly to imitate the sounds of an army of monkeys. Suddenly in one deft movement they twisted and lay back, so that each man pressed himself between the bare legs of the man hehind him, his head pillowed against the other's pelvis. The langubrous, weaving action that followed suggested a huge brown snake lazily adjusting its coils.

As I was leaving, Watson joined me. He was silent. Suddenly he gripped my arm, digging his fingers into it. I looked at him in surprise and saw him staring at the back of the young Dutchman who was the purser on our ship. Walking beside him, holding his hand, was Bauka.

Watson cancelled his boat reservations and left by plane the next morning for Dj karta.

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