He gazed at her, his eyes drinking her in. The glassy waters of the bay reflected the half moon, the glints of stars and the myriad lanterns strung along the beachside. The hill by the Temenggong’s village was called Bukit Chermin—Mirror Hill—and the name seemed chosen by gods as he gazed at these reflections. He recalled a poem he had read, the first verse only; the rest he could not remember: “The red gleam o’er the mountains Goes wavering from sight, And the quiet moon enhances The loveliness of night.” A vast feast was laid out on tables spread throughout the village. This was the feast of Hari Raya. Zhen knew of it, but this was the first time he had attended such a festivity. He understood little of this faith of the Malays other than that they fasted for a month and then held this large festival to celebrate its end. His own invitation had come because of the business he was conducting with the Temenggong: the purchase of opium and arrack farming rights in Johor. These different customs and faiths, which he had discovered in Singapore, felt entirely natural.
