Discordant, yet somewhat melodious sounds come from outside my cell’s rear window. Were I at a resort hotel in Bali and not in this stinking jail, I might suspect that a gamelan ensemble was rehearsing in the courtyard. I get up off the zabuton and move toward the back of the cell to get a better look.

Although the “music” continues to grow nearer, I can’t see anything unusual going on outside the window. There is an occasional sparrow flying in and out of the weeds, the tenuous chirps of the summer’s first cicada. The shadow of Cell Block B, which enveloped the courtyard in the morning, has now retreated to the lowest edge of its wall. If the sun burned any brighter the weeds would surely catch fire. Meanwhile, the soft hammering of gongs grows louder.

Just then the powerful urge to take a leak strikes me, the first time since I’ve been locked up. The toilet in back of the cell, which lacks even a hint of privacy, has left me stage fright.

On one side, you’ve got the window open to the courtyard, inviting one and all to have a peek. On the other, there’s a short wall, half a foot high that is next to useless. Any guard passing by in the corridor can get a free show if that is what floats his boat.

And just as I release a steady stream, redolent of the morning’s barley tea, the mystery of the gamelan is solved. Looking to my right, I find a guard standing outside my window, tapping the bars with a rubber mallet.

The guard looks at me and, making an swift and astute observations that the only bar the inmate before him has tampered with is the one in his hand, moves on to the next cell, dissonant chords of the tap, tap, tapping fading.