The Beach at Galle Road

by Joanna Luloff

  Isak’s fingers released Lucy from her thoughts. They smelled like cigarettes and alcohol pads. They were scratchy and they soothed her because they felt so purposeful. So she let them wander and play along her neck and later across her lips and her breasts. They were confident hands and seemed eerily separate from his voice, which quietly relayed details of the story to her. As Isak meticulously paid attention, evenly and democratically, to every part of her body, Lucy felt herself composing a letter to her friends. He had a particularly Scandinavian regard for order and precision. He offered the same amount of attention, almost to the second, to each eyelid, each toe, each breast. She would embellish this story with the same sense of narrative adventure that her earlier snake stories had offered. Jaffna, as she relayed it to her friends, would continue to be a risky and exciting undertaking.

  In the morning, Isak kissed Lucy with a condescending smack in the center of her forehead. He’d be at a remote clinic for a few days, he explained, and Lucy felt a mixture of envy and relief. Matching his tone of nonchalance, Lucy informed him that she’d be busy, too. Although she had only just now decided that this was what she would do, she explained that she would start teaching at the local school after the weekend.

  AFTER TWO DAYS of changing linens, unloading bottled water into the fridge, and communicating dinner orders to the cook, Lucy made her way down the footpath to the temporary school. Kirina had given her vague directions, explained that the former school had first been turned into temporary refugee housing, but then, after the army had flooded the streets, it had become an army communication center. “When you see the old school, follow the path to the right,” Kirina had instructed. “You’ll walk another five minutes or so, and you should see the new school on the cricket pitch.”

  Lucy’s memories of teaching in the south were of ordered chaos. She had taught at an all-boys school where the students dressed in white ironed shirts and surprisingly bright blue shorts. The teachers governed their classes with caning sticks and fierce gazes, but Lucy had always struggled to win respect without relying on the traditional systems of punishment. She had rarely gained it.

  She wasn’t prepared for the school that suddenly appeared on a raked stretch of land just off her path. She didn’t know what she had expected, really, but she had certainly imagined chairs, maybe a few tables, a handful of books. Instead there were three harried women, one attempting to referee a noisy game of cricket, another stapling a piece of tarp to one end of the “classroom’’ frame, which had come loose. And one teacher squatted alongside a group of girls who were sitting in the dust, reciting their math tables. There were no chairs in sight, the children wore mismatched clothes either too big or too small, and dust had settled onto everyone and everything. The thinness of the girls startled Lucy, as did their scabbed skin and closely cropped hair. It took a moment for Lucy to realize she was being watched by the teacher who had finished her stapling. Lucy was immediately embarrassed by her staring and what must have looked like an expression of revulsion.

  Lucy approached the woman, who was dressed in a faded yellow sari draped carefully over her forehead. In broken Tamil, Lucy introduced herself and expressed her desire to help out in any way she could and her willingness to bring supplies.

  “I am Shrini,” the woman answered in English. “I know who you are. You run the foreigners’ hotel. My brother works at Lucky’s and tells me about your visits there, and Kirina, my friend, works for you. She mentioned you might come.”

  Lucy’s face reddened. The woman’s tone was not openly hostile, but it certainly wasn’t welcoming either. “I’ve taught secondary school in the south,” she stammered, suddenly feeling the need to prove her experience.

  “The children have no supplies, no books. What do you plan on teaching them?”

  Lucy hadn’t really thought about the absurdity of what she was offering until this moment. “I can teach English. Or math. I can probably teach some math.”

  Shrini nodded and held out her hand. “Please come tomorrow and bring the supplies you offered. We begin at eight a.m., but you can come whenever best suits your schedule. The students will appreciate your help.”

  Lucy left the school slightly bewildered. In her mind she had anticipated a warm welcome, an appreciation for her offer, and maybe an introduction to the students themselves. When she had joined the staff of Christ Church Boys’ College, the principal had made a speech while the boys stood in neatly formed lines under the afternoon sun to welcome her. There had been a tea ceremony and many warm wishes and enthusiastically offered hands and smiles. At the time, she had felt embarrassed by all the attention and ceremony that had greeted her arrival, but in hindsight she certainly preferred it to this half welcome from Shrini.

  At the rest house that night, she gathered her supplies and began writing basic lessons on some chart paper. She mapped out the conjugation of the verbs to be and to go in bright red marker. On the next page, she wrote out a dialogue in blues, greens, and orange:

  “Hello, Padmini.”

  “Hello, Suchinta. How are you?”

  “I am fine. And you?”

  “I am well, thank you. Where are you going?”

  “I am going to the .”

  “See you later.”

  “Good-bye.”

  Lucy observed her lessons and tried to come up with vocabulary words to fill in the blank. Where are you going? Where was there to go around here? Almost everything was closed or transformed from its former identity. The bank was now a clinic run by the Red Cross. The small markets were boarded up. She was starting to have second thoughts about returning to Shrini and her makeshift school. But as she looked around the quiet rest house, the outdated Newsweeks stacked neatly in the common room, the unending stream of dust that collected over the floors, Lucy promised herself that the school would be better; it would at least give her something to do.

  The next morning, Lucy left for the cricket pitch at ten o’clock, after she had kept her guests company over breakfast—hard-boiled eggs, toast, and tea—and helped clean up the kitchen. She had thrown most of her supplies into garbage bags and carried them over her shoulders. Eventually the pens and pencils poked holes in the bags, and she spent the last ten minutes of her walk bending down to collect the scattered bits of her lesson plans. When she arrived at the grounds, things seemed much more subdued than on the previous day. There were fewer children, and the play had diminished. Shrini greeted Lucy and quietly took the bags from her. “We don’t have anywhere to keep these things, so you’d better take them back home at the end of the day.” Lucy began to explain the broken bags and the pain in her shoulders, but hesitated and followed Shrini to the “faculty area,” a shaded space under the tarp Shrini had been fixing the day before.

  “There’s been talk of the LTTE in the area. Looking for more recruits, it seems.” Shrini talked to Lucy with her back turned. “So many of the parents didn’t send their children today.”

  “That’s all right,” Lucy replied, trying to sound cheerful. The only experience she had had with the Tigers was watching them on the news; hearing about them now, it seemed slightly hard to believe they were potentially close by. “I hope my lessons are useful. It’s been a long time since I was in the classroom.” Lucy offered Shrini a smile.

  But Shrini ignored her attempts at friendly chatter and instead kept her tone polite and professional. “These notebooks will be useful to the students, and thank you for bringing all these pens. We’ll have to keep our eyes on them.” Shrini pointed to the corner of the shaded area. “You can work here. I’ll gather up your students and you can welcome them to the classroom.”

  Lucy glanced at the dust that surrounded her. There was obviously no chalkboard, no place to hang any of the materials she had brought with her, so she set about tacking her chart paper to one of the posts, using the blade of her pocketknife to hold it in place. Soon nine girls approached Lucy and greeted her quietly. “Good morning, miss,” they offered in unison.
Lucy guessed the girls ranged in age from seven to about thirteen, though it was hard to say. They all looked so small. They quickly spread their handkerchiefs into perfect squares and carefully sat down on them.

  Lucy felt suddenly nervous, but she reassured herself that these girls would at least be better behaved than her last students. “Good morning, girls,” she said, taking a deep breath. “How many of you know a little English?”

  The girls gave no response, except for the smallest one, who hesitatingly shrugged her shoulders.

  “Inglisi?” Lucy tried again, aiming for the Tamil word but hearing some sort of hybrid Sinhalese-Tamil combination come out of her mouth.

  Again silence. Lucy spoke slowly. “We are going to practice English. My name is Lucy. I am your teacher. What is your name?” Lucy squatted next to one of the older girls, who looked suddenly terrified. She pointed to herself. “My name is Lucy. What is your name?”

  The girl giggled nervously, and as she bowed her head, Lucy saw a thick scar across her scalp, half-hidden by her hair, that extended almost to her forehead. From behind her, another girl squeaked, “Dhamika, miss. Dhamika!”

  Lucy tried to smile. “Good, good,” she said, encouragingly, though she suddenly felt sick. “My name is Lucy. Your name is Dhamika. Try it: My name is Dhamika. My name is Dhamika.” She heard the robotic monotony of her voice and knew she sounded ridiculous. She felt ridiculous. What was the use of teaching English to these girls? What good could possibly come of this? Just at this moment, Shrini walked by, glancing under the tarp. She nodded slightly without speaking and then slowly moved away. Lucy repeated herself again and again until the end of the day, when each girl could introduce herself. My name is Dhamika. My name is Roshani. My name is Deepa. And on and on.

  Lucy returned to the rest house, exhausted and depleted. Isak was there with a bandage over his forehead. “Where have you been?” He grinned at her from behind his tea.

  “I started teaching at the temporary school.” Lucy hesitated before asking, “What happened to you?” She hated herself for whatever she was feeling. Jealousy? Resentment? Lucy approached Isak’s forehead tentatively. “Does it hurt?”

  Isak grabbed Lucy’s wrist and kissed the inside of her arm before she could pull it away. “It was a mistake, really. These guys came into the hospital looking for volunteers to join in the fighting. I tried to explain that all the people at the clinic were too weak to leave.” He took a short sip of tea. “I don’t think the leader liked me approaching him the way I did, or maybe he couldn’t understand my English, but he shouted something, and the next thing I knew, some other guy hit me with the butt of his gun.”

  Lucy sank into her chair. She didn’t feel like talking. She had looked forward to Isak’s return so she could tell him stories about the school, to prove that she was participating, too. But here he was with his bandage and bravery, and she suddenly wanted very much to be alone.

  “Don’t look so sad, darling. It’s only five stitches. The staff explained that I was a doctor, and the next thing I knew, the leader was offering me his own stash of lemon biscuits.”

  While Isak continued his story, Lucy started getting things ready for dinner. She hoped her busy movements would quiet him, but instead he followed her into the kitchen and then out to the dining room, shadowing her closely in order to graze her neck with kisses whenever she paused. She tried to tell him about her day, the girl with the scar on her head, Shrini’s lack of appreciation, her broken garbage bags, but Isak kept nibbling at her ears, or gathering her around the waist, until she wriggled away to her room, leaving him standing there with a confused look on his face.

  LATER, LUCY TRIED writing a letter home. If Isak wouldn’t listen to her stories from school, she’d offer them to her family instead. But as she tried to give shape to the school’s tarped classrooms and the girls’ timidness, she grew restless and bored with her own stories. She thought about Isak and his bandaged forehead and she knew she ought to apologize for her rudeness. But as she put on her bathrobe and pinned her hair up off her neck, she knew she was going to his room for other reasons.

  When he opened the door, Lucy handed him a plate of biscuits. “I’m sorry about before.” She smiled. “It’s just been a really long day.”

  Isak took a biscuit from the plate and popped it into his mouth. He managed a clumsy smile and gestured for Lucy to come in. She sat on the edge of his bed, and he followed behind, eventually standing in front of her. He placed his hands on the top of her head, tousling her hair so it pulled at the bobby pins. She felt herself growing irritated again as she pulled his hands off her head and pulled him down onto the bed so he was sitting alongside her. “Would you take me with you?” she asked. When he looked confused, she added, “To the refugee camp, the next time you go?”

  Isak chuckled and kissed her in the middle of her forehead, the same condescending smack as before. “I’m not allowed, darling.” His hands were making their way down her back.

  “No one has to know,” Lucy answered. She shifted away from his hands. She hated the pleading in her voice. “I can help.”

  “We’ll both get in trouble,” he whispered into her neck. His hands began moving again. “And it’s really not safe.”

  “I’m not a baby.” Lucy pulled away from him again. She stared at him hard. She tried to make her face as stern and determined as she could.

  Isak looked back at her, serious for a moment, before his good-natured chuckle returned. “Okay, okay,” he said as he massaged Lucy’s shoulders. “So stubborn.” He kissed her chin. “You can come with me next Thursday. I’m visiting the Kuruvalai camp in Alaveddy. You can be my assistant.” He winked at Lucy as he walked back over to the biscuit plate.

  She let herself smile back. She could kiss him now, she thought. Now that she had won something.

  LUCY HEADED FOR school earlier the next morning, leaving breakfast under a wicker cover. When she arrived at the grounds, there were even fewer students than before and no boys at all. Shrini acknowledged her with a brief nod, and soon the girls had gathered in their semicircle in the dust. If Lucy had been writing a letter home that evening, she probably would have written, The girls came rushing into the classroom, eager to try out their new sentences. I really feel like I’m going to do something useful here. There are so few teachers, and the students are just so eager to return to their studies. But in reality, the girls looked up at her blankly and a bit distractedly. Not having the boys running around or shouting taunts over cricket matches seemed to make everyone uneasy. Lucy wanted to ask them where the boys had gone, but she didn’t know the right words and she was afraid of what they might tell her. Instead she pointed to the chart paper. “Hello, girls. How are you? I’m fine.” Lucy nodded at the silent group with encouragement. “Now you try.”

  Each day was more of the same. Lucy arrived at ten o’clock to find fewer and fewer students sitting in front of her monotonous dialogues. In the afternoon the girls and the teachers sat together under the tarp and unwrapped rice packets and sandwiches spread with coconut and chili. At the end of the week, Shrini passed a small banana to Lucy. “So how are you getting on?” she asked.

  “I’m fine, thanks.” Lucy was surprised by Shrini’s interest. “The girls are a bit reluctant to talk, though.”

  “It shouldn’t surprise you. Most of them are without their families and have lost their homes. They barely speak in their own language. Why should they speak in yours?” Shrini bent over her food, blending the curry and rice with her fingers. There were no more questions.

  Lucy was stung by Shrini’s words. She hadn’t meant to criticize the girls. Is that how her words had sounded? Mostly she had meant to point out her own uselessness. But in the end it had been Shrini who had confirmed this without Lucy even having to say it directly. Lucy wondered if she should even bother coming back, but at the end of the day, Shrini nodded in her direction, and called out, “We will see you again on Monday morning.” She offered it as a stat
ement rather than a question, and Lucy saw no room to say no.

  ON WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON, Lucy explained to Shrini that she wouldn’t be coming to school on Thursday, but she’d be back the day after. And on Thursday morning she jumped into the backseat of Isak’s Pajero. He sat in front alongside his driver, and Lucy sat next to his translator, Rajith, a young man from Jaffna Town who was happy to quiz Lucy on her limited Tamil. The two men didn’t seem surprised to be traveling with an additional passenger, so Lucy sat back and enjoyed the whir of the air conditioner as they made their way north.

  Even though Alaveddy was only about fifteen kilometers away, the drive took almost two hours, made longer by the checkpoint along the way. As the four of them handed their passports and identification cards to the soldiers, Lucy worried that someone might ask what she was doing there, but it never happened. After keeping them waiting for almost an hour, the soldiers waved them on, then turned their attention to the next car. When they reached the camp, Lucy’s legs felt stiff, and as she opened the car door, the sudden heat of the late morning stunned her.

  She helped Rajith and Jayanda unload several boxes of powdered milk and Ovaltine. As they stacked boxes, Lucy looked up to see a crowd gathering in the camp entranceway, mostly women and children. The women used the edges of their saris to block out the fierce sunlight, and the children gripped at their mothers’ fabric, squinting in the car’s direction. Lucy contemplated her surroundings. The building itself must have been some kind of warehouse before it had suddenly had to house all these people. The windows had all been broken, perhaps to allow the infrequent breezes access to the inside.

  As they walked into the building, the crowd followed behind them. Despite the brightness of the day, the warehouse felt dim, and it took several moments for Lucy’s eyes to adjust. Her stomach was lurching from the heavy stench in the air, a smell of too many bodies and not enough space, of decay, of things she couldn’t even guess at. Isak and Rajith had become distant shadows, and Lucy suddenly felt tugging at her arms. The box she had been carrying dropped at her feet.