Suncatcher

by Romesh Gunesekera

  On our way, we met Lazlo, the famous émigré guru of the gramophone.

  ‘You like to be on the radio, like your Mummy?’ He stooped over, leaking odours of minestrone and Old Spice.

  My mother laughed in a way I hadn’t heard before: lightly, frivolously. ‘I’m not on air, Lazlo.’

  ‘Not yet, Monica.’ The bleak grey eye winked at me. ‘What about music? You play the guitar?’

  I surprised myself as well as my unsuspecting mother. ‘I’m going to learn the violin.’

  The archive room was locked and so, after a quick glimpse of the inside of studio three, I left.

  Outside the building, a girl hugging a satchel and humming to herself blocked my way. Recognition turned to distaste. ‘You’re the one who goes cycling with Jay, no? What have you been saying to him about me?’ Her yellow dress wrinkled around her chest in narrow feathery lines.

  I forgot strategy and went defensive. ‘Nothing. I’ve done nothing.’

  ‘You’re just a boy. You know nothing.’ She soured each word before spitting it out. ‘Don’t spoil everything.’

  Her warning made no sense. ‘I’m only a friend.’ I did not want to argue – and that was all I was.

  ‘You are not a girl.’

  I did not want to be a girl. I wanted to be a man; a hero who saves the world from evil, catastrophes and villains like Liberty Valance.

  ‘He loves me. He will marry me.’ She twisted a thin silver band of flux wire around her finger. It had been coiled into a flower-ring.

  Danger steamed off her: beads of perspiration, incensed cheeks, bubbling lips. I wanted to tell her she didn’t know what she was saying. Jay was a free spirit and would only tolerate another free spirit with him. Not someone who just hitched a ride, however weirdly she moistened her eyes. I wanted to add, for good measure, that marriage was an instrument of a retarded state – my father said so, and he should know.

  Instead, I said: ‘His mother won’t let you.’ I don’t know why I mentioned Sonya, nor how I found the courage to taunt Niromi. The moment the words flew out, I regretted my mistake.

  ‘That crazy woman? She belongs in a loony bin.’

  I wished she had not said such a thing, and that I had not made her say it. I should have kept my mouth shut. It would become my principal policy in times of trouble.

  At a quarter to six, back home, my mother called me downstairs. A sourish man, inclement even in posture, togged up in a long national-dress tunic the colour of curdled milk, stood glowering at the dining table, pressing his hands on it, testing it.

  ‘Here is your pupil,’ she announced.

  The man straightened up. ‘Ah, so you are the podi kolla who needs improvement? Good. All encouraging to see nicely put out books.’

  She had laid them out neatly on the table, together with a fresh, new blue exercise book.

  ‘I’ll leave you two to get on. There’s a cup of tea on the table for you, gurunanse, and a lemon puff under the net.’

  ‘All fine, madam.’ The tutor, reeking of Vick’s vapour rub, inspected me.

  ‘Anything else we need, our little scholar can do, no?’

  I braced myself. The bad feeling I had doubled.

  ‘So, trouble with mathematics, correct?’

  ‘Not trouble.’ I reckoned I had forty-three minutes left.

  ‘Oh? So, let us start with a little test then.’ He pulled out a piece of paper from a large brown envelope.

  To play the imbecile might be my best option. If I could do nothing at all, then the tutor would have to start from the basics, and that would mean I could coast for weeks, pretending. I did my best to frustrate him by loading every page of the blue exercise book with basic errors and gibberish.

  After he had thoroughly checked out my father’s bookcase, he proceeded to investigate the stack of newspapers, grunting. ‘What is your best subject? What are you good at? Anything?’

  I went for what had to be most aggravating. ‘Art. And English.’

  ‘Playing with crayons? English for what? The suddho have gone. You have a lot to learn. We better start with improving your mother tongue. You have your Kumara Rachanaya?’

  I pulled one out of the Sinhala primers my mother had put on the table. ‘Will we study Tamil also?’

  ‘Don’t joke with me, kolla.’ He picked up the wooden ruler and twirled it in his hand. ‘Right, do the chapter one comprehension exercises while I have a look at your maths.’ The sighs and chortles that followed gave me more satisfaction than I had hoped. ‘You really are a chronic case. Not surprising your mother has taken remedial action.’

  At six thirty, my mother peeped in.

  ‘So, you can help him, gurunanse?’

  The tutor sniffed. ‘Once a week for now, madam, is best to do. Tuesdays, if you don’t mind, because I can go straight on to Mr Wilbur’s house afterwards where also I give tuition.’

  I pricked up my ears.

  ‘Not to the Selvarajahs?’ she asked, puzzled.

  ‘No, no, not those people, madam. Mr Wilbur has that big house right at the top of Grebe Road. Such a bright boy, his son, Anura. So, I’ll come same time again. Prompt corrective action is required if your son is to get anywhere.’

  The school holidays were coming to an end; I tried to slow the hours by fantasising about the end of the world. I cycled over to Casa Lihiniya every day, sometimes more than once, but Jay was never there. No one was there. Jay would not have gone back to the estate without telling me but with Niromi on the loose, I feared anything could have happened. Mahela at the milk bar had not seen him for days. Then, one afternoon, at the Fountain Café, I finally found him at one of the outdoor tables, neck sunk, his hands clasped together, idle. A green glass sundae bowl with leaf patterns stood empty, forlornly empty, in front of him and two spoons licked clean.

  ‘Where’ve you been?’

  Jay barely acknowledged me. He arranged the spoons neatly next to each other, backs upturned and wide-eyed.

  I sensed bad news. Gerry? His mother? Niromi?

  ‘The nesting kondayas are now gone.’

  ‘Those birds next door?’ Bad news, but in some way the best news: we were back on track.

  ‘Yeah.’ Jay started to massage one of his fingers.

  ‘Is that a new ring?’

  ‘Let’s go,’ Jay ignored the question. ‘We should have another chat with Uncle Elvin.’

  We used the back entrance and parked the bikes by the garages.

  Like two scouts we dropped down and wriggled to the side of the house; I recognised Marty’s voice, pitched higher than usual, on the veranda. Then Garibaldi bounded up and Jay had to clasp his hand over the dog’s nose and stroke him behind the ears until he settled by him in a soft, whiny circle.

  Marty’s voice grew intense and urgent. ‘Cut and run, Elvin, cut and run. It’s the only way.’

  ‘Can we not find a middle ground?’

  ‘I have examined the issue very seriously. If I don’t do it now, I will be the one who goes mad.’

  ‘What about your obligations?’ Elvin asked.

  I rose to take a peek, but Jay restrained me.

  ‘She will be provided for. The boy will be fine. So, it’s up to you. I’ll be fine too, as long as I don’t have to hear any more talk. You know how she…’

  ‘Do you know what you want?’

  ‘I know what you want.’

  The air thickened the way it does before a cloudburst. Jay made a gesture with his hand: vamoose? Not the right time for a chinwag. The dog whimpered, sweeping the ground with his tail. We slipped back towards the stables.

  The telephone in the house began to ring.

  We collected our bikes and set off.

  ‘What were you gonna talk to him about?’ I asked as we cruised towards the radio station.

  ‘Just an idea.’

  ‘What idea?’

  ‘Stuff I need to figure out.’ He flicked into a higher gear.

  Ahead of us a two-tone Holden turned
into Coniston Place. I didn’t recognise the driver, but next to him, head thrown back, I saw Sonya laughing, carefree, in what inexplicably seemed to me the saddest light of that day.

  ‘Look, isn’t that your mother? Wanna catch her up?’

  ‘Nah. Let’s do that downhill race.’ Jay didn’t even bother to look.

  The realm I had entered with Jay was making me increasingly uneasy. Whatever might be happening to the town, the trees, the birds, Jay’s parents or mine, was not as worrying as what was happening to me.

  The rains became erratic, spluttering without abating for three days. Siripala did not speak again of the danger of a drought, but he blamed the Russians and the Americans for pricking holes in outer space and causing havoc. The big news on Grebe Road was that the Selvarajahs had their garden flooded.

  I stayed in and reread my mystery books. Whenever a female character came into the frame, she would be transformed into Niromi; I could not work out why she kept growing in my mind.

  My father took to pacing the dining room. Rain hadn’t stopped his sport – in England the weather was surprisingly fine, he said, and horses madly raced to the summer’s end – but his local bucket shop had been raided in a government crackdown on illegal gambling.

  ‘The government says they intend to build a socialist state, but how can they if they pander to the religious lobby at every turn? The only problem with a bet on the horses is that the monks, who can’t tell a horse from an ass, despise the idea and our lazy politicians rely on them to deliver the majority vote.’

  ‘Are there no monks in Russia?’ I asked surprised.

  ‘In Russia, even Stalin didn’t stop racing. I’d love a punt on the Soviet Derby, if that damn fool Siripala could put the bloody money on the right horse. Aniline, for example – one helluva Russian horse. There is nothing anti-socialist about a bit of fun. The point is that the turf club and the bookies should be open for anyone, like the cinema.’

  ‘I heard they will be.’

  ‘What, open the doors at the Turf Club? Where did you hear that?’

  ‘Not that, but some people are planning to open casinos like in James Bond, I heard.’

  ‘You heard? Is that what your new friends are up to now? Fixing up a Monte Carlo in Cinnamon Gardens?’

  On Sunday, my mother emerged from her room in a new sleeveless green polka-dot dress with a large, droopy bow at the side.

  ‘Come, Kairo, time to go.’

  My father looked up from his paper. ‘Where are you two off to?’

  ‘To see his music teacher.’

  ‘A budding pop star now?’

  ‘We have to find what he is good at. Before school starts again, I’d like him to have a go at the violin at least. He has expressed an interest and Mrs De Souza is a virtuoso.’

  ‘Is that so? What’s she doing in Colpetty then?’

  ‘Giving tuition. Speaking of which, you better start your Sinhala lessons, Clarence. You really must make an effort. It’s no joke. People are getting sacked.’

  ‘Insisting on language proficiency is not the way you build unity, or even national pride – whatever that may be. If the government hopes to bring people together, it’s going about it entirely the wrong way.’

  ‘It’s your job, Clarence. You can’t risk it. If you think you can get one in the private sector instead, you better get a move on before things change there, too.’ She picked up the car keys from the brass prayer bowl and marched out.

  All the way over to Mrs De Souza’s house, she kept misjudging her gear changes. Every time she shifted, shoving the gear stick angrily, she’d race the engine and the clutch plate would shudder, shaved paper-thin, the cogs almost snapping as the car heaved closer to total disintegration.

  ‘Ma, just lift your left foot gently as you press the accelerator with the right.’

  ‘So, now you know how to drive? How, child? From a comic book?’

  ‘Jay can drive.’

  ‘I’m sure he can, but you just learn the violin, and leave the car alone. It’s not a toy. Don’t just fool around like your father.’

  Mrs De Souza’s house, a modern brutalist building, squatted at the end of a dead end. My mother stopped the car in the centre of the lane. ‘Shouldn’t they have something more artistic than that growing outside?’ She pressed the entry-bell button lightly, twice, dismayed by the lone snake gourd hanging off the wall between the grey blooms of mildew.

  A man with opaque eyes opened the door.

  ‘Madam coming,’ he muttered and led us into a musty room.

  I had expected a professional musician’s house to be more like Casa Lihiniya but this one had no glamour. I wanted to tell my mother we should give up and go but she was undeterred. She crossed the room examining the certificates framed on the wall and making sudden turns in an effort to stir the stagnant air. Only the score open next to a vase of lilies on the coffee table seemed to have any life, the notation wriggling on the nets like tadpoles. The prospect of having to tame them made me queasy.

  Then Mrs De Souza appeared. She steamed across the room straight towards me. The water in the glass vase bubbled into a brown froth below the rotting leaves.

  ‘So? Your ambition is to play the violin?’

  No. Not any more – but my mother was not going to let me say that. I glanced at her for guidance, and then nodded politely.

  Mrs De Souza was not impressed. ‘You’ll need a stronger neck than that, boy.’

  I could tell she was one of those people you could never impress. She made a diversion and stopped at the sideboard. From under it, she pulled out a violin case and hauled it over as if it concealed a machine gun.

  ‘Let’s see if you can hold it properly, at least.’ She shoved the case into my hands.

  I put it on the table and opened the lid, feeling a twinge of disappointment: no gun inside after all – I would have known how to handle that. The long neck, the plump chest, the curves of the body were more voluptuous than I had expected. I undid the felt tabs and lifted the bow in one hand and the violin – so light – in the other, fearing things would end badly. Mrs De Souza started to groan. Her head began to quiver. I had a choice but I needed to act fast: put the violin back down or tuck it under my chin and aim to hit her right between the eyes.

  Then she spotted someone come into the room behind me.

  ‘Thank God, you are here,’ she cried. ‘Come and show this oaf how to pick up a violin. Come, Niromi, come.’

  I spun around at the name. I should not have spun. The bow hit the lilies. The vase toppled. The foul water drenched the score. Mrs De Souza blew her top. My musical career was over before it had begun.

  ‘Get out, you stupid, clumsy prat.’ She turned to my mother. ‘Get this animal out of my house, right now.’ Her nose flared. ‘Damn fool nincompoop.’

  I expected Niromi to join the attack but instead she quickly moved to rescue the score. In the process, she managed to catch my eye and gave me a fleeting smirk of sympathy. I did not know why we had to have secrets, but she planted one in me that afternoon that has lasted longer than almost all the rest. For the first time, there among the fallen lilies, I grew jealous not of her, but of Jay.

  My mother rose to my defence, deploying the full Radio Ceylon tones of the broadcasting heavyweights she admired: ‘Really, Mrs De Souza.’

  I mouthed a silent thanks to Niromi while my mother bundled me out.

  ‘Her music must be awful, if her language is so vulgar,’ she huffed, safely back in the car. ‘Narrow escape, son. Thank God.’

  The next day, Jay was at our gate ringing his bell with an urgency I had not heard before.

  ‘Come down, will you?’

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Fears of Niromi flashed in my mind, or the possibility that Gerry had died. ‘Is it Gerry?’

  ‘He’s okay, now. Jus’ come, will you?’

  By the time I got down to the front gate, Jay was vigorously pumping extra air into the front tyre of his bike, although that could not
have been the problem that brought him to me.

  ‘Puncture?’

  ‘Might be the bloody valve.’ Jay worked the bicycle pump some more, then tested the tyre by pinching it. Impatiently, he wiggled the valve before unscrewing the connecting hose; then, licking his finger, he smeared the tip of the valve with a film of spit to see if it formed a bubble.

  The small temple tree in the corner swayed in a gust of hot wind. A praying mantis on the garden wall pressed down while a line of beady ants on the top bar of the gate wavered, their tiny antennae measuring danger in the air.

  ‘Is it okay?’

  Jay fitted the small, black dust-cap onto the valve. ‘My father has gone,’ he said tersely.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘No one knows. Bloody disappeared. Didn’t come home last night.’

  ‘Must be one of those parties.’ My mother often complained about the drinking parties that my father and his friends – men of a certain paunchiness – went in for these days. Shindigs that carried on into the small hours with the slap of dominos and carrom strikers punctuating the bawdy tales of rowdy raconteurs.

  ‘They had another massive row. Then he buggered off. The Gymkhana Club is where he usually hides.’

  ‘What do they say at the club?’

  ‘Useless. My mother called. Nobody knows a damn thing. Iris was the one who raised the alarm this morning. He never misses his breakfast. Two-egg omelette every day at the eight o’clock pips, without fail.’

  ‘Maybe he’s with your uncle.’

  Jay struggled to keep his mouth tight and thin. ‘We tried his phone. No answer. Come with me, let’s check out his place.’

  Elvin was in the smaller garage applying a chamois leather to his Austin Healey.

  ‘Boys, you just missed a fine ride,’ he greeted us. ‘Want to do some polishing instead?’

  ‘Was Pater with you?’

  ‘On a joyride? Would he ever?’

  ‘He didn’t come home last night.’

  ‘Another tiff with your mother?’ Elvin raised an eye, more amused than concerned.

  ‘But he’s never gone AWOL like this before.’