A guard with a rifle leads us into a visitors’ hall. The room is empty except for a long wooden table and an assortment of metal chairs. Here we sit and wait.
He wears a white shirt and white shorts and limps in on crutches. He has strawberry patches on his arms and has lost a visible amount of weight. He coughs as he is seated at the other end of the table. There are no handcuffs to remove.
‘Can I have a cigarette?’ His voice is coloured by the phlegm in his throat; his face is colourless.
‘Are you OK, Jonny?’ asks Ari.
‘Welikada was worse than Bangkok. But this place looks all right.’
‘What happened?’ I ask, pointing at the crutches.
Jonny looks away. ‘Six to a cell. You know how much I love company. They put me with the drug addicts, not with the psychos, thank God. One of them tried it. Told him he wasn’t my type. He wouldn’t listen. I broke his nose. He broke my hip. I heal easily though.’
Two guards gaze out at the permanent summer sky; the one with the gun watches me.
‘This is a bizarre place. They’ve got everything. They make things out of coconuts over that way; here they’re making soaps, over there leather goods. They’ve got welding, masonry, carpentry. Pity they don’t get me to work.’
‘How come?’
‘I shouldn’t be here. This is a place for good behaviour prisoners. I haven’t even been sentenced.’
‘How’s the case?’
‘The work I have to do is sit in the TV room and look after the TV.’
We both laugh. ‘Perfect job for you.’
‘Thought my lawyer pulled some strings, but he’s a useless fucking twat. It’s a strange TV. Got this laser disc player.’
I silently thank Kuga, wherever he may be.
‘Laser disc?’ asks Ari.
‘Laser disc, my friend. State-of-the-art model. Doesn’t have cable though.’
He talks about Newcastle United and how they’ve sacked coach Kenny Dalglish and replaced him with Dutch hero Ruud Gullit.
‘Last season we were thirteenth. Two seasons ago we come second and now this. Bloody Scotsmen can never coach Geordies.’
‘And Dutchmen can?’
‘Let’s see. New season. Tabula rasa.’
He asks me how the writing and the not-drinking is going. I tell him I may have stumbled on the most amazing cricket story ever not told. Ari tells him about the midget’s spools, I keep the Kuga story to myself. Jonny smiles and chain-smokes.
‘Basically, if the High Commission pulls out, I’m screwed. I could get twenty years.’
‘Will the High Commission pull out?’
He tells us he spent six weeks in Thailand before the High Commission lifted a finger. It has now been three months.
‘That time it was possession of marijuana. They treated it as a misdemeanour. This time …’
He begins shivering, his mouth inverts like a stroke victim’s, and he breaks into a sob. The guards look away, the man with the gun keeps his eyes on me. ‘Ten more minutes,’ he says.
‘Ari. Adolf and Eva’s last meal. We discussed this.’
‘Jonny, are you mad? We’ll win the case.’
‘I can’t wait that long. You said you knew how to get it.’
‘You can live here. This isn’t a bad place.’
‘They could send me to Welikada and throw away the key. I’m too old for this crap.’
Ari shakes his head. Jonny wipes his eyes and straightens up.
‘I didn’t do what they said I did. You know that.’
‘We know,’ I say.
‘You don’t. But I’m telling you. I didn’t.’
‘We know. We know,’ I say, somewhat helplessly.
‘The locals don’t like suddhas building palaces in this paradise.’
‘Don’t be stupid.’
‘I admit. There are bad foreigners. Who sleep with children. Who give visas for sexual favours. Who bring guns and drugs here. But that’s not me. Well … maybe the drugs.’
We both laugh, it is better than crying.
‘I was helping the country. That’s why I built my homes. This land is beautiful, but you fuckers will destroy it.’
We remain silent.
‘When I clashed with the hunters in Udawalawe, the police advised me to leave the area. Me! Not them. Everywhere you go in this country, there are hunters. Can’t believe I lasted here this long.’
‘We will prove you’re innocent.’
‘Ari, mate. I sleep with boys. And sodomy is a crime here, so if they want to get me, they can.’
‘They’re not going to get you,’ I say, not looking at Ari.
‘I don’t do fourteen-year-olds. Whoever says so is a liar.’
‘So we’ll fight it.’
‘What are you going to do? Write to the papers?’ Jonny sneers. ‘You may think this place is fine, but I’m not spending another month here.’
I pull a paper out of my pocket. ‘Here. I brought you a present.’
For the first time that afternoon Jonny laughs his raucous, head-thrown-back laugh. It is glorious to see. He hands the paper to Ari, who joins in the chuckles.
‘Saqlain Mushtaq Mohammad Asif Iqbal Sikander Bakht. That’s seven. I believe we have a new champion,’ I say.
‘I feel like Gary Sobers after Lara got 375,’ says drama queen Ari, the former Seamless Paki champ.
The guard grabs the paper and inspects it. ‘Visit over,’ he says.
‘There’s one fucker around here that I will kill,’ says Jonny through gritted teeth. He pushes the guard, who raises his baton. Ari uses his schoolmaster voice and calms proceedings. ‘Putha, put that away. Let us say goodbye to our friend.’
We are too far down the table to even shake his hand.
‘We will get you out of here, Jonny,’ says Ari.
‘Chin up, Jonny. You need to be fit for when Shearer and sexy football win Toon the league.’
He laughs and nods and pushes an envelope across the table. ‘I don’t trust these cunts. Will you post this for me? It’s for me Mam.’
‘What about brothers or sisters?’ asks Ari.
The guards put on the cuffs and lead him away.
‘They can all get fucked,’ he shouts. ‘Ari. Adolf and Eva. You promised.’
We drive back without speaking. Then we get stuck in traffic in Kiribathgoda.
‘You know Newcastle is fifteenth in the league,’ I say. ‘They might even get relegated.’
‘You been following them?’
‘Ever since he got arrested.’
‘Me too.’
‘What’s Adolf and Eva?’
‘You know. You were there.’
‘Was I drunk?’
‘Probably.’
‘I can’t remember.’
Ari puts on the radio and curses the traffic.
‘It’s what the LTTE wear around their necks. And I’m not getting it for him.’
The drunken conversation returns to me. Something about agreeing to euthanise each other if the case ever arose. But I don’t remember cyanide ever being discussed.
‘This is breaking news. Yesterday’s bomb blast in Fort Station is now officially Sri Lanka’s worst terrorist attack since the 1995 Central Bank bombing.’
I try to turn up the radio and the knob comes off in my hand.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ shouts Ari, who grabs it from me and replaces it. The volume jumps several hundred decibels.
‘At present 247 are dead and a further 187 injured. Police Search and Defuse Operations also unearthed hidden explosives at Vihara Maha Devi Park and Dehiwela Zoo …’
The knob comes off again in Ari’s hand and the deafening news announcer is silenced. It takes traffic three hours to clear and we are unable to fix the radio.
Sri Jayawardenapura Kotte
What’s the capital of Sri Lanka? What’s our national sport? Neither answer begins with C.
Volleyball is our national sport, even though les
s than 4 per cent of the population play it. My friend Renganathan reckons that elle, a native form of softball, was our national sport at independence till the Sports Minister fell out with the Elle Federation in the 1970s and conferred that status to volleyball. Renga also reckons that Dirk Welham was the best batsman he’d ever seen.
Sri Jayawardenapura Kotte was made administrative capital in the 1980s, possibly because it housed the parliament, or more probably because it contained the then president’s surname. It remains the capital today, which means the majority of Sri Lankans would answer the question that opens this chapter incorrectly.
Kugarajah uses fancy words like genocide and gamesmanship and genius. I wish I had the courage to tell him that just because you say something is something doesn’t mean that it is. And just because you want something to be something doesn’t mean that it will be.
Kadale
When kadale is boiled and tempered with onion and chilli it becomes more than just a serving of chickpeas. It transforms into a high-protein snack, perfect for both athletes and drunkards.
I make a decision not to get depressed about Jonny. Garfield has been out of touch for three weeks since leaving his wife for the I’ve-lost-count time. Sheila’s good mood has evaporated and she plods through the house, imploring me to do something. As if I possess a global tracking device.
These are the possible scenarios:
A. Jonny is a child molester and will rot for his sins.
B. Jonny is a child molester who the High Commission will rescue and provide counselling for.
C. Jonny is an innocent homosexual who will rot for someone else’s agenda.
D. Jonny is an innocent homosexual who will be set free.
I decide to avoid depression, because while C is the most likely, D is not an impossibility. There is little I can do to influence the outcome. Worry for me is like drink. If I start I may be unable to stop.
So I drink tea and hammer at my Jinadasa. But while I write about Charith and Reggie and Danila and defused bombs, my thoughts return to Jonny and his Mam. Ari does not let me read the letter and insists we post it straightaway. ‘It is a man’s private confession, it is not for our eyes.’ Pious bugger.
They can all get fucked. That’s what Jonny said about his brothers and sisters. It is a sentiment I know well.
In other news, Jabir, Ari and the midget have a severe falling-out. Uncle Neiris accuses Ari of stealing spools, Ari accuses Uncle Neiris of taping over them. The midget chases Ari away with a mammoty and says he will curse Ari’s family.
Jabir takes Ari’s side and is also banished. They are told if they reveal the location of the bunker their tongues will rot in their mouths. I am in Ari’s room, looking up the archives of Mathew’s last tours, when the two of them storm in, flustered and flabbergasted, and begin debating whether the old man’s curse has any power.
‘I’m not scared of that fool,’ says Ari.
‘If he can lay curses to keep the Aussies and Windies away, what can’t he do?’
‘You daredevils are shivering over a midget with a squeaky voice?’ I say. ‘Pathetic.’
‘You didn’t see him, Wije,’ says Ari.
‘Ade, what are those?’ asks Jabir, the colour draining from his face.
‘Those are … some … his things,’ Ari stammers.
Jabir picks up the box and glares like an enraged skeleton. ‘You said you returned them all.’
‘I must’ve forgotten.’
‘Very bad, Ari,’ I say, starting to laugh. But Jabir is not amused.
He pushes past Ari carrying the box and storms through the archway. ‘Because of you I will also get cursed.’
‘Shall I come with you?’ calls Ari.
‘Don’t ever come anywhere with me,’ shouts Jabir.
I look at my friend and smile and shake my head. ‘Too much you are.’
He winks at me and grabs my cane. ‘Doesn’t bother me, kid. He didn’t get the real merchandise.’
Then Bogart Holmes reaches behind the TV, fishes out a spool and plops it into his machine, and we sit back and listen. Ari has spent the last five months going through three decades of gobbledygook, a far more tedious task than documenting unreliable memories. In between birdcalls, unintelligible small talk, crowd cheers and unedited stretches of ball hitting bat, he has unearthed a few gems.
We hear a prominent Sri Lankan batsman boasting in the comfort of the dressing room that he only does his best when there’s a car offered for the Man of the Match. The said batsman has won over forty such awards in his career.
We hear an Australian wicketkeeper describe a young Pakistani’s girlfriend in the most obscene language. There is no retaliation, due either to the Pakistani’s sage-like patience or his ignorance of English. Having known a few Pakistanis, I favour the latter.
And then there is this:
What do you mean you can’t bat?
Stomach hurting.
You also. Roshan also can’t bat. Here. We can’t fuck this.
[Roar of crowd]
Marvan? What the hell. Here. You have to pad up now.
Isn’t there a doctor?
What doctor? You think this is Nawasiri?
I recognise both voices as belonging to two of our World Cup heroes. It’s hard not to.
Bloody fool. What was that shot?
Aney Aiye. Don’t be angry. Stomach.
You also have loose motion? This is like an emergency room. What the hell did you eat?
I think it was that kadale.
I also ate the kadale.
Don’t talk crap. I also ate the kadale.
You didn’t eat like us.
Roshan ate half the bowl.
Who brought kadale into the dressing room yesterday? I will murder you. Was it that thambi bugger?
Clipper-clipper-clipper.
The spool ends there. I examine the cover, knowing exactly what I will spy there. It is a cover that Jabir has forgotten to take, or one that Ari has decided to keep for himself.
It reads: ‘Test/one Day Matchs, 1987–1992 (NewZe, Indiya, Paki, Aussi).’
The Creature
The creature returns at the most inconvenient of moments, right when I am telling my wife that we cannot go anywhere for Christmas. She has been spending more of her time at the Mount Lavinia Ladies’ Charity Circle. Chinniah the dentist is taking his wife to New York, Mrs Livera is visiting friends in Bangalore, even old Mrs Bodiyabaduge is being taken to Hill Country with her children.
I tell her I have lots to write. She hands me an ekel broomstick before she storms out. I am back on household chores. ‘Remember when you were writing your poetry to me? Said you would take me to Paris. Leave alone Paris, even Negombo beach will do. I will seriously find myself a rich lover.’
That threat crops up twice every decade. There was a time when it would fill me with terror. These days, if the candidate was suitable, I might even welcome it.
The creature arrives when I’m sweeping the sand from my car-less driveway. I feel my hands turn to jelly and I cannot stop coughing. Kusuma, who has been watching me from the veranda, brings me a glass of water. I hand her back the broom, but she shakes her head. ‘Nona told me not to help you.’
The creature sits at the bottom of my stomach and blows bubbles up through my throat into my skull. The creature is more cat than monkey. It wraps its tail around my spine and blows idly into my head. It is not pleasant.
Will the curse of drink never leave me? When I couldn’t write, I drank in desperation. When I wrote well, I drank in celebration. I drank when I was bored and alone. I drank when I was surrounded by loved ones. I drank on the hilltops of Badulla, in the backyards of Kurunegala and in the verandas of Colombo. I drank when I was an angry young man, a petulant father, and a sad old bastard.
I have done things I cannot remember and things I opt to forget. Let me make this clear. This is not my autobiography. Which is why I have gone through over 200 pages without mentioning ____________
.
Or ____________.
Or even ____________.
I have before me a story and I need the strength to finish it. I have no bottle or friendly Geordie to guide me. Is it a coincidence that my crate of Flowery Broken Orange Fanning Special runs out a week after Jonny is imprisoned? Thank God there is no God. Because to believe in him would be to acknowledge that he doesn’t like me much.
I put away the broom and lie down on my haansi putuwa and watch Hansie Cronje, on Ari’s TV, setting the field like a finicky host against our openers in the blistering Sharjah heat. I close my eyes and dream of Jonny.
Again we are in the pavilion of the SSC. Jonny is wearing white and has the creature on his lap. At first I refuse to sit next to him.
‘Relax, WeeGee. It’s harmless.’
Before us Hansie Cronje is setting the field like a finicky host.
‘I think I’ve seen this game before.’
‘Every game has been played a million times before. Even yours and mine.’
Allan Donald runs in like an albino demon and Sanath swings and misses. Next to me Jonny is stroking the creature like mafia dons stroke cats. Though the animal looks more monkey than cat. It falls asleep.
‘It’s Christmas, WeeGee.’
‘Don’t you start.’
‘Are you going to make a list and check it twice?’
I wake up with a jolt and decide to do exactly that.
Holiday Plans
Since joining the Mount Lavinia gossip circle, Sheila wears more make-up and prettier dresses. She refers to Kusuma not as our servant, but as our domestic, and she has stopped talking to me about Garfield. Perhaps she has acquired that lover after all.
I am waiting for her on the veranda. She steps out of the afternoon sun carrying a flowery umbrella and a plastic bag of groceries. She avoids my eye.
‘We will leave for Badulla on the 15th. We will spend a week there. On the 22nd we will arrive in Kurunegala. We will spend Christmas there and New Year in Dambulla.’
She inspects the swept driveway with suspicion. ‘How are we travelling?’
‘Ari will lend us his Ford.’
‘That wreck won’t even get us down a hill.’
The Legend of Pradeep Mathew Page 32
