wasn‘t enough, though his plans for it were large and far ranging, beyond anything either Icoupov or Sever could conceive. But he craved more: a specific target on which to vent his rage.
Beneath the mosquito netting he periodically broke out into a cold sweat; his brain seemed to be alternately on fire or as sluggish as if it had been submerged in ice. Sleep, already barely known to him, was now out of the question. But he must have fallen asleep at some point because in the darkness he was gripped by a dream: Devra, holding out her slim, white arms to him. Yet when he entered their embrace, her mouth yawned wide, covering him with spewed black bile. She was dead, but he could not forget her, or what she caused in him: the tiniest fissure in the speckled granite of his soul, through which her mysterious light had begun to trickle, like the first snowmelt of spring.
Moira awoke without the feel of Bourne beside her. Still half asleep, she rolled out of bed, crushing the flower petals they‘d found strewn there on their return from their evening at the beach club. Padding across the cool tile floor, she slid open the glass doors. Bourne was sitting on the terrace that overlooked the Lombok Strait. Fingers of salmon-colored clouds drifted just above the eastern horizon. Though the sun had yet to appear, its light shone upward like a beacon beating back the tattered remnants of night.
Opening the door, she went out onto the terrace. The air was rich with the scent of the potted tuberose sitting on the rattan desk. Bourne became aware of her the moment the door slid back, and he half turned.
Moira put her hands on his shoulders. ―What are you doing?‖
―Thinking.‖
She bent down, touched his ear with her lips. ―About what?‖
―About what a cipher I am. I‘m a mystery to myself.‖
Typical of him, there was no self-pity in his voice, only frustration.
She thought a moment. ―You know when you were born.‖
―Of course, but that‘s the beginning and the end of it.‖
She came around in front of him. ―Maybe there‘s something we can do about that.‖
―What d‘you mean?‖
―There‘s a man who lives thirty minutes from here. I‘ve heard stories about his amazing abilities.‖
Bourne looked at her. ―You‘re kidding, right?‖
She shrugged. ―What have you got to lose?‖
The call came and, with an eagerness he hadn‘t felt since before Devra was killed, Arkadin climbed onto the motorbike he had ordered the day before. He rechecked a local map and set off. Past the temple complex at Klungkung, right at Goa Lawah, the thruway dipped down closer to the ocean on their right. Then the modern four-lane highway vanished, leaving him back on a two-lane blacktop. Just east of Goa Lawah he turned north, heading along a narrow track into the mountains.
To begin with,‖ Suparwita said, ―what is the day of your birth?‖
―January fifteenth,‖ Bourne replied.
Suparwita stared at him for a very long time. He sat perfectly still on the hard-packed earth floor of his hut. Only his eyes moved, minutely, but very quickly, as if they were making complex mathematical calculations. At length, he shook his head. ―The man I see before me does not exist—‖
―What do you mean?‖ Bourne said sharply.
―—therefore, you were not born on the fifteenth of January.‖
―That‘s what my birth certificate says.‖ Marie had researched it herself.
―You speak to me of a certificate of birth.‖ Suparwita spoke slowly and carefully, as if each word were precious. ―Which is a piece of paper only.‖
He smiled, and his beautiful white teeth seemed to light up the dimness. ―I know what I know.‖
Suparwita was a large man for a Balinese, with skin dark as mahogany, perfect, unblemished and unlined, making it impossible to guess his age. His hair was thick, black, and naturally wavy. It was pushed back from his forehead by what seemed to Bourne to be the same crown-like band the pig spirit wore. He had powerful-looking arms and shoulders without the usual Western over-muscled definition. His hairless body looked smooth as glass. He was naked from the waist up; below he wore a traditional Balinese sarong of white, brown, and black. His brown feet were bare.
After breakfast, Moira and Bourne had mounted a rental motorbike and headed into the lush, green countryside, to a thatched-roof house at the end of a narrow dirt path in the jungle, the home of the Balinese holy man named Suparwita who, she claimed, could find out something of Bourne‘s lost past.
Suparwita had greeted them warmly and without surprise as they approached, as if he had been expecting them. Gesturing for them to come inside, he had served them small cups of Balinese coffee and freshly made fried banana fritters, both sweetened with palm sugar syrup.
―If my birth certificate is wrong,‖ Bourne said now, ―can you tell me when I was born?‖
Suparwita‘s expressive brown eyes had not stopped their mysterious calculations. ―December thirty-one,‖ the holy man said without hesitation.
―You know our universe is overseen by three gods: Brahma, the creator, Vishnu, the preserver, Shiva, the destroyer.‖ He pronounced Shiva as all Balinese did, so that it sounded like Siwa. He hesitated a moment, as if unsure whether to proceed. ―After you leave here you will find yourself at Tenganan.‖
―Tenganan?‖ Moira said. ―Why would we go there?‖
Suparwita smiled at her indulgently. ―The village is known for double ikatweaving. Double ikatis sacred, it provides protection from the demons of our universe. It is woven in three colors only, the colors of our gods.
Blue for Brahma, red for Vishnu, yellow for Shiva.‖ He handed Moira a card.
―You will buy a double ikathere, at the best weaver.‖ He gave her a hard look. ―Please do not forget.‖
―Why would I forget?‖ Moira asked.
As if her question did not merit an answer, he returned his attention to Bourne. ―So you understand completely, the month of December—your birth month—is ruled by Shiva, the god of destruction.‖ Suparwita paused here, as if out of breath. ―But please remember that Shiva is also the god of transformation.‖
The holy man now turned to a low wooden table on which was set a series of small wooden bowls, which were variously filled with powders and what looked like nuts or perhaps dried seedpods. He chose one of these pods, ground it in another bowl with a stone pestle. Then he added a pinch of yellow powder and dumped the mixture into a small iron kettle, which he set over a small wood fire. A cloud of fragrant steam perfumed the room.
Seven minutes of brewing passed before Suparwita took the kettle off the fire and poured the liquid into a coconut shell cup inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Without a word, he handed the cup to Bourne. When Bourne hesitated, he said, ―Drink. Please.‖ His smile lit up the room again. ―It is an elixir made of green coconut juice, cardamom, and kencur. Mainly, it is kencur. You know kencur? It is also called resurrection lily.‖ He gestured. ―Please.‖