The Hungry Ghosts

by Shyam Selvadurai

  “What?” he shouted back in the faux-rude manner they used with each other, like a cantankerous married couple.

  Satomi’s pout grew more pronounced. She shook her head at me to say he was being a naughty boy, then pulled me after her to the kitchen. On the way, various people stopped me to shake hands or pat my back. Michael was leaning over a pot of noodle soup, checking its taste. “Your Shivan is here,” Satomi said reprovingly.

  “Oh, hi, honey,” Michael cried brightly. He kissed me effusively, which always made Satomi beam and was, I felt, the reason he was so affectionate. I could not figure out what he had told her, because she betrayed nothing. Nonetheless, I resented her for what she might know.

  Michael returned to his cooking and waved for me to make myself at home. I went to join the other students in the living room, some cross-legged on rush mats, others on the futon couch and Salvation Army chairs. Their lives were insular, and at parties they mashed over the same tedious subjects. Tonight they were discussing one of the department’s secretaries, how she had grown even more erratic now that she was in the middle of a divorce. They had come upon her yelling on the phone at her ex-husband, her lawyer, even a credit agency.

  I had heard all this gossip a few times and dropped wearily into a faded armchair by a half-open window.

  Their discussion about the secretary grew more animated, and now Michael came out to add his story, also told many times before, of how he had continued to believe the various excuses she gave for her black eyes and bruises. His narration was over-animated, his nerdy laugh more pronounced. It dismayed me to see him so eager to fit in, as did his friendship with Satomi, whose fake, kittenish manner made her, in my estimation, unworthy of him. Their faux-rude manner was, I felt, more an indication of superficiality than any real intimacy. As I watched Michael, I thought how the decision I’d made would save not just me but also him. “Oh, Michael,” the students yelled as he finished his story, “so naive and gullible, so sweet.”

  A breeze from the Pacific Ocean was coming in through the window. In the past I had loved that odour, which reminded me of cool wet seaweed, but now I was impatient with it, eager not to smell it again for a while.

  Once we were finally walking to catch our bus on East Hastings, I told Michael the news from my mother but left out my decision to return, as I dreaded his reaction. He gave me a quick glance but said nothing, exhausted and glum as always from his act of good humour.

  Later, when we were watching television, which we often did to wind down after a party, he said, gazing at the screen, “Well, I suppose you will be going to Toronto at some point to see your grandmother.”

  “Yes, I … I guess I will. It’s a chance to make up with her. I need to do that, Michael. It will be good for me—for us, too.”

  He rolled his eyes, dismissing its benefits to him.

  “My poor mother. I pity her having to close up my grandmother’s life over there. Sunil Maama is getting older and anyway isn’t very competent. She doesn’t know about contracts and repairs the way I do. Then I worry about her Tamil surname. Renu told me she’s had frequent difficulties with soldiers at checkpoints. She has no male escort as she goes about the city.”

  He was scrutinizing my face, and I continued, picking at the cushion in my lap. “My grandmother has already sold our house, but she’s kept what is called a life interest. It’s hers for as long as she lives in it. Once she goes, it will be destroyed and flats built there. So the furniture has to be sold, an auctioneer hired, Rosalind pensioned off, the—”

  “You’re thinking of going back.”

  “I … yes, I’m considering it.” I shoved the cushion away, realizing I had pulled a long thread out of its embroidery.

  Michael switched off the television. After a moment, he rubbed his eyes fiercely, then was still. “Why do you have to go back? All that is past. Put it behind you and move on.”

  “But you can’t just put things like that behind you, Michael. I must come to terms with her, with everything that happened, otherwise I, we, will never move on.”

  Michael sat back on the sofa, his mouth slightly agape, as if exhausted. “What if she doesn’t forgive you?”

  “She must, she will.”

  Yet he saw I had not allowed myself to consider the alternative. “Don’t be too sure. She wouldn’t even pose for a photograph.”

  “No, no, she will forgive me.”

  “But what if she doesn’t?” He stood up, strode towards the balcony as if intending to go out, then changed his mind and came to stand behind a wing chair, elbows resting on top. “I am issuing you an ultimatum. If you go and she doesn’t forgive you, don’t come back to me.”

  I laughed in disbelief.

  “No, I mean it. You take that risk if you go.”

  “So you really don’t want me to visit Sri Lanka?”

  “Do whatever you like. But that is my condition. I am sick of taking the consequences of your actions. I don’t want you coming back a wreck and burdening me anymore.”

  “Michael …” I got up and went towards him, but he backed away.

  “And what does your mother, your sister, think of all this?”

  “I haven’t told them yet.”

  “Yes, because they will also tell you this is a foolish idea. To think you can make up with your grandmother and solve everything in three weeks, it’s ridiculous. A waste of time and money.”

  He stormed off to the bedroom, but I did not follow. His doubts and challenges had destabilized me.

  The next time I was alone, I telephoned my mother and told her my decision, anxious to know her thoughts. She was silent.

  “Aren’t you happy I want to go back? Isn’t this what you’ve wanted for me?”

  “Yes, yes, of course, son.”

  “You don’t sound glad.”

  “It’s just a bit of a shock, as you can imagine. Anyway,” she added, “you’ve called at a slightly bad time. David has just arrived to take me out for dinner.”

  I wasn’t sure I believed this, but I let her off the phone. I lay on the sofa, arms folded tightly to my chest, my unease like the tremor from a distant explosion. “I am trying, trying so hard, and she can’t even stand by me,” I muttered, angry now at my mother.

  Renu called me at the office the next day to find out if the news was true. “Why are you suddenly wanting to go back, Shivan?” she demanded. “What has happened?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You told Michael!” When I didn’t respond, she said gently, “Oh, Shivan, I’m so sorry. We had hoped telling him would be the right thing to do. Why hasn’t it helped?”

  “I don’t know, Renu,” I replied plaintively, “I don’t know.”

  I shut my office door, then told her everything that had happened and how Michael barely spoke to me since I had suggested returning to Sri Lanka. “Promise you won’t tell Amma,” I begged. “I don’t want her to know.”

  “No, no,” Renu said kindly, “I’ll keep your secret.”

  “But don’t you see. This is why I have to go back and set all that right. So things can be good for Michael and me.”

  “Yes … I suppose so.”

  “Ah, Renu, can’t you back me on this? Do you think I want to return? To face her? But I’m trying, I’m trying everything, and no one will support me. Not you, not Amma, not Michael.”

  “Yes, yes, I’m sorry, Shivan. I do support you, I really do.” But I could hear the lack of conviction in her voice.

  When I got off the phone, I looked out my window at the students passing below. My sister’s skepticism had heightened that tremor of unease. I wanted to be angry at her but couldn’t, given her sympathy. “It doesn’t matter what anyone thinks,” I told myself. “I know what I’m doing is right.”

  I had expected my mother would call back that day to discuss my plan further, but there was no word from her. Instead, I got to work the next morning to find she had left a message with the number for Suvara Travels in Scarborough and
her travel agent’s name. “He is expecting you might get in touch, Shivan,” she said, then added, “Son, I don’t know what is going on in your life and Renu will not tell me. But I suspect all is not well. Anyway, you must decide what is best. I will not interfere and will support whatever decision you make.”

  Her backing should have quieted that tremor, but it didn’t. Instead I felt grim as I telephoned Suvara Travels, as if forcing myself to do an unpleasant task.

  When I informed Michael about the ticket, he picked at his fingernails for a moment, then said, “I’m serious about my condition. If you don’t reconcile, I don’t want you back here.”

  “I’m trying, Michael,” I cried, no longer caring to placate him. “It’s not my fault if she rejects me. It’s not my fault for trying.”

  He shrugged, lips pressed together tightly.

  “My mother supports me, my sister too. Why can’t you? What are you so scared of anyway? You surely don’t think I’ll end up moving to Toronto to be with her, do you?”

  He gave me a troubled look, and I laughed. “You think I’m going to give up all this,” I waved my hand to encompass our apartment and English Bay, “for my mother’s shitty basement?” I pressed his arm. “And mostly, how could I give you up?” Yet this tenderness did not touch him, and he moved his arm away.

  In the weeks that passed, I began to make little preparations towards my trip, buying some shorts and T-shirts at a pre–March break sale, going down to our storage locker to bring up my old suitcases and check their condition. I made sure to inform Michael of all this, to show him my purchases, explain my plans while over there. He reacted stonily, but I told myself he needed to know, ignoring the undertone of aggression in my forcing him to listen to these preparations. He found many excuses to be angry at me, but I did not rise to his goading. I was doing the right thing; this was the way to save us.

  During my lunch break now, or sometimes after work, I visited the university library, where I’d discovered they got the Sri Lankan Daily News. I knew already that a new government had been elected under Chandrika Kumaratunga, the widow of the assassinated actor turned politician Vijaya Kumaratunga, and that there had been a ceasefire accord between the government and the Tigers. Now I learnt that the accord was already under threat, each side accusing the other of bad faith. With the beginning of a new era, a new government, the papers were full of reflections on the recent bloody past. The JVP, who seemed so indomitable during my summer in Sri Lanka seven years ago, had been obliterated by the government forces. They had lost the sympathy of the poorer classes, who bore the brunt of their killings, curfews and other edicts. They had also made the fatal error of targeting families of policemen and soldiers, thus galvanizing the forces against them. By the time the JVP were destroyed, forty thousand people had been killed, a generation of young men and women decimated by both sides.

  The Indian Peace Keeping Force, too, had met an ignoble end, becoming so unpopular that the old government had united with the Tigers to oust them from the country. The Indians had suffered a high number of casualties, but also stood accused of civilian massacres, disappearances and rapes.

  Reading all this should have made me anxious about going, but by now I had thrown up such high barricades around myself, I would not let anxiety in. Things were different now, I kept telling myself. This was a new era; there was a new government; Sri Lanka was moving forward.

  I didn’t share the newspaper stories with Michael as I felt he would use the crumbling ceasefire to erode my confidence. In March, he found out he had been accepted into the master’s program, but even this did not lift his spirits. He remained glum, almost indifferent about his acceptance. I interpreted this as one more sign I had to return to Sri Lanka and make peace with the past. Then, a little over a month ago, Satomi threw another party. I arrived even later than usual, and once I’d said hello to Michael in the kitchen and gone through our pantomime of affection for Satomi, I went to join the other students in her living room.

  There was an addition to the evening. A man who sat on the futon sofa between two female grad students, smiling easily as if he had always been part of this group. His lanky thighs were spread, taking up too much couch, and he held a beer between his legs, thumb and middle finger grasping the bottle below its lip, other digits splayed—this arrangement of fingers like the elegant hand gesture of a bharatanatyam dancer. His heavy expensive watch was loose, and its silver strap hung like a bracelet around his wrist. The newcomer’s name, I soon learnt, was Oliver, and the students were extra jocular with him, always a sign of deference, I knew, from my years at university. He looked to be in his forties, though his shoulder-length hairstyle was young, with blond streaks and limp curls gelled in half moons over his forehead.

  I was alone in the kitchen later, where I often retreated during these events, when Oliver sauntered in and saluted me with his beer. He leaned back against the counter and just looked at me in a friendly way, head nodding as if on a spring. Though he had nice features, he missed being good-looking because of a receding chin. I thought the young hairstyle emphasized his age.

  “Are you a visiting scholar?” I finally asked. “Visiting professor?”

  “Professor.” He continued to nod as if palsied, lips pressed together.

  “From where?”

  “Columbia. Just here for the semester.” Then he arched his back with a little frown and swivelled his hips from side to side, as if he had noticed a crick in his spine. There was something dismissive about this gesture. “You work in the President’s Office,” he said when done. He was amused at my surprise. “Michael,” he said, as if it was obvious. He took a swig from his beer, watch clattering against the bottle. “Yes, my expertise is Heian court literature.”

  This was the subject of Michael’s proposed thesis—popular culture during this period and how it shaped women’s education and national identity. “Ah,” I said, feeling the need to prove something. “Sei Shōnagon’s Makura no sōshi.”

  Oliver smiled tolerantly at this mention of the famous Pillow Book, then stretched again. “Yes, I’ve fallen into a sort of advisory role with your boyfriend.”

  As if on cue, Michael appeared in the kitchen. He feigned surprise at seeing us together and went to check on the Japanese version of curry he and Satomi were making. He bent over the large pot, lips pursed as if unsure what was missing, his concentration exaggerated.

  “I was just telling Shivan about our mutual interests.”

  Michael gave Oliver an uncomprehending look that seemed tinged with alarm.

  “In Heian court literature.” Oliver laughed teasingly, as if he had tricked him in some way.

  Michael’s features turned cold.

  “I was just about to tell your boyfriend of my offer to have you at Columbia, after your first year here.”

  “Oh,” Michael said in an aloof tone, then seeing my look of surprise, he added, “Oliver just mentioned it in passing. I haven’t really given it much thought.” He shot Oliver an annoyed glance before he smiled at me. “Anyway, it’s not like you can leave your job and move to New York.”

  I smiled back fondly at Michael. “Yes, we’re stuck here, unfortunately, my dear.” I shifted my smile to Oliver, “Too bad. Columbia and New York would have been lovely.”

  Oliver grinned and raised his bottle, toasting us as a couple.

  When Michael and I were on the bus home, I asked, “So, is Oliver married?”

  “Married?” Michael took my hand. “There are no gay marriages in the US, Shivan.”

  “He’s gay?”

  “Of course, silly. He screams New York queen from miles away.”

  I should have been comforted by his dismissal of Oliver, but it only heightened my uneasiness. Michael hadn’t held my hand or talked to me in this teasing way for a long time.

  A few evenings later, we took the bus to Point Grey for dinner with Michael’s parents. He was silent for most of the way, but when we were a couple of stops from get
ting off, he sucked in his breath as if he had just remembered something he had been meaning to tell me. “Some of us are thinking of going to New York in two weeks. For a conference.”

  A jangle of shock went through me. “New York?” I blurted. “I’ve never been there.”

  “You’re welcome to join us, Shivan.” He pressed my arm. “I just didn’t think you’d have enough vacation days, not with your trip to Sri Lanka.”

  I dug through my pocket for a Kleenex and blew my nose even though I didn’t have to, needing time to collect myself. “Why wouldn’t I, Michael?” I snapped. “It’s just the beginning of the year. I have tons of vacation days. And I don’t go to Sri Lanka for four weeks.”

  “Then join us by all means. I’ll be busy during the day, but we can do fun things at night. Satomi is going too. We were going to share a room, but that can be easily changed.”

  His wide-eyed insincerity enraged me. “I think I very well might. I work so damn hard, and Sri Lanka is not going to be a picnic.”

  Michael got up and rang the bell for our stop.

  As we walked towards his parents’ house, I was fizzing with a manic energy. I wanted to punish him further, and when Robert and Hilda ushered us inside, I cried, “Guess what! We’re going to New York in two weeks!”

  Their delight pierced Michael.

  “Why New York?” Hilda inquired.

  I remained silent and Michael was forced to say, “I’m attending a conference. At Columbia.”

  I gloated at the way he stumbled over the name, at his glum expression as he went through the small amount of mail that still came to him at his parents’ and was left out on the hallstand.

  “Do you have a guide we could borrow?” I asked.

  “Yes, Fodor’s. And just keep it.” Hilda led the way to the kitchen. “It’s from last year. The next time we go, we’ll get a new one.”

  Robert went upstairs to fetch the book. When he returned, he and Hilda sat on either side of Michael and me at the breakfast bar and pointed out all the sights we had to see and ones we must certainly avoid. Michael tried to appear interested, but his parents had picked up on his glumness and exchanged quick worried glances as they talked.