The Flower Boy

by Karen Roberts

  “No, but he’s been hanging around, and for no good, I’m sure,” Premawathi said.

  Leela looked frightened. “Do you think he’ll do something to us?” she said.

  “Like what?” Premawathi demanded belligerently. “If I catch him, he won’t be able to walk when I’ve finished with him!”

  Leela looked at her mother’s slight figure and sighed. After years of living without Disneris around, she had become both mother and father to them, and sometimes she carried the father bit a little too far.

  “Amma,” she said, “if you see Krishna, don’t do anything foolish. Call someone and let them handle him.”

  “Like your father?” Premawathi demanded scornfully, and stopped when she saw a stricken look come over Leela’s face. “I’m sorry, duwa,” she said contritely, “but you know how he is, how he was the last time Krishna tried his tricks with Ayah. He will do anything to avoid a problem, and a problem like Krishna won’t go away. Something needs to be done about him,” she said.

  Leela looked down. “Amma,” she said. “Why are you and Thaaththi fighting so much these days?”

  “I don’t know,” Premawathi said miserably.

  “You didn’t fight like this before he came to stay with us,” Leela said accusingly. “Didn’t you want him to come and live with us?”

  “Of course I did,” Premawathi said. “But now that he’s here . . . I don’t know what it is. He just seems to take life so—lightly. I know he cares about us, but he doesn’t make any effort to make things any better. You know what I mean,” she said, pleading for understanding.

  Leela looked distressed. “Yes. I think so,” she said. “But wasn’t he always like this? I don’t ever remember him being any different.”

  Premawathi sighed. “Yes. I suppose he was always like this, but I didn’t notice at first and then we came here.” She sank down on the washing stone, oblivious of her wet diya reddha and the chill in the air. “He was kind and funny and charming, but never determined or very dependable,” she said reflectively. “And I was desperate to get out of the convent. Then you were born, and the others, and there was never enough money.”

  “What about love?” Leela asked softly.

  “What about love?” Premawathi said tiredly. “Love doesn’t feed three hungry children or pay for schoolbooks or for doctors. Only hard work does that. At least we are fortunate that we work with people like the Sudu Mahattaya who don’t ill-treat us or delay our salaries.”

  “I’m sorry, Amma,” Leela said. “I know you work hard and that you’re always tired. I try to help but I don’t know if I really do.”

  Premawathi stood up and held her daughter’s face tenderly. “Of course you do. I don’t know what I’d do without you and Rangi to help me,” she said. “Now come. Don’t worry your head about these things. We’ve managed before and we’ll manage now,” she said far more firmly than she felt.

  Leela hung back. “Amma, if you see Krishna, call for help,” she said sternly. “Promise me.”

  Premawathi laughed. “I’ll call for help, child,” she said. “Even if no one comes.”

  “Promise me,” Leela said.

  “I promise,” Premawathi said.

  chapter 21

  LESS THAN A WEEK LATER, PREMAWATHI SAW KRISHNA AND FORGOT all about the promise made at the well.

  It was about ten minutes past midnight and she was about to go to bed when she remembered that she hadn’t brought the laundry in from the clothesline near the well. She looked for Disneris, but he was already asleep and so were the children. She cursed her forgetfulness and wondered if she should leave it for the next morning, but what if it rained in the night?

  She threw a reddha over her shoulders, for the night was cold, and made her way cautiously through the dark, praying that Buster wouldn’t start barking and wake up the entire house.

  She didn’t bother to get a lamp because she knew the back garden well and could negotiate it with her eyes closed. Which was good, for the night was as black as pitch and even the moon was well concealed behind thick clouds. It smelled like rain, and her steps quickened.

  She stepped on a sharp stone and yelped softly in pain. As she stood there on one foot, rubbing her other foot, she thought she heard a rustle in the undergrowth near the well. She stood still and listened but everything was silent now. She shivered and wondered if she shouldn’t have waited until morning.

  A fat raindrop landed on her face and she forgot her fears and her aching foot and rushed to get the clothes, which looked like a row of weird specters suspended in midair.

  She reached up and started pulling them down haphazardly, for it had definitely started drizzling now. She tugged impatiently at a sheet and cursed loudly as one end of the clothesline was loosened from the tree it was tied to and the entire lot came down to the ground. She picked them up, hoping they hadn’t got dirty again.

  Finally, she had them all draped over her arm. As she straightened, she heard another rustle and froze. Inconsequentially, she wondered why Buster wasn’t barking, because by now she was sure there was an intruder in the garden. A shadow separated itself from the tree that it had been hiding behind and stepped forward. All she could make out was a dim outline.

  “Who is it?” she called out, her voice shaking slightly. “Who is there?”

  “Ah, Premawathi,” the shadow said mockingly. “All alone at this time of the night? Must have been waiting for me.”

  “Krishna?” she breathed in disbelief.

  “Who else?” he said, stepping closer.

  She backed away slightly, her fear replaced by anger. “Just wait until the Sudu Mahattaya catches you,” she said. “Oh, I can’t wait to see his face when he knows you’re here! He’s been waiting for you to show up, you cur. Let’s see your big mouth then,” she said scornfully.

  “But he’s not going to catch me, is he?” Krishna said softly, moving closer. “He won’t even know I’ve been here.”

  “I’ll tell him right now,” she said. “Then he’ll know!” She turned on her heel to leave and gasped as her arm, the one without the laundry, was caught from behind. She twisted, trying to free herself, but he held her arm tightly, smiling widely, whitely, in the darkness. He jerked her toward him and her foot caught on a protruding root, making her lose her balance and fall heavily to the ground. The clothes protected her face, but even through them she felt a sharp stone on her cheek.

  He sat down on his haunches and looked down at her, still holding her arm. “So who are you going to tell now?” he demanded softly, laughingly. “You think your precious Sudu Mahattaya can hear you? Look at you. High and mighty housekeeper who speaks English and thinks she’s better than everybody else.”

  She could see his face now, inches away from her own. “You know what I should do to you?” he said quietly, the laughter gone. He drew away slightly. “But you’re not worth it,” he said consideringly. “No, I think I’ll save it for that beautiful daughter of yours. Leela,” he said, savoring the name.

  She came up to her knees like a rearing snake about to strike and spat viciously in his face. “You leave my daughter alone, you pig,” she hissed. “Touch her and I’ll kill you with my bare hands!”

  Krishna slowly wiped the saliva off his face and surveyed his hand. Almost casually he raised it and slapped her hard. So hard that tears sprang unbidden into her eyes and her head rocked back. She felt only numbness, not pain. That would come later.

  He pointed a finger at her. “Tell anyone about this night and I will rape your virgin daughter, then kill her,” he said softly, and was gone, the darkness swallowing him up instantly.

  She began to sob, hating herself for giving in to the weakness that suddenly assailed her entire body. She didn’t know how long she sat there, but when her tears were spent, she rose, gathered the laundry in her arms and stumbled blindly back to the house.

  She climbed the steps as though they were some steep hill and stiffened as she saw someone standing in
the kitchen.

  “Ammi?”

  “Chandi!” she exclaimed, straightening up. “What are you doing out here at this time?”

  “I came out to get some water. I’m thirsty,” he muttered sleepily.

  “Well get it and go to bed,” she said, relieved that the generator was off and the kitchen was in darkness.

  Chandi was already making his way to the tap when something in her voice stopped him. “Ammi,” he said. “Are you okay?”

  “Of course I’m okay, child,” she said, taking refuge in impatience. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  He came over and peered into her face. “What were you doing outside?” he asked suspiciously. “Where did you go?”

  “Nowhere,” she said, her voice trembling from fatigue. “Nowhere. Now go to sleep.”

  “You went to get the laundry,” he stated, looking down at the clothes on the floor. “Why have you left them on the floor? They’ll get dirty again.”

  “So I’ll wash them again tomorrow,” she said angrily. “What do you care? Just go to sleep!”

  Dimly, she saw the hurt look that came over his face. She sighed and reached for him. “Putha, go to sleep. Ammi is tired. Very, very tired,” she said, holding him against her.

  He reached up and brushed the leaves from her hair and smoothed it down. He knew something had happened. He hoped it was nothing to do with the Sudu Mahattaya. “You go to sleep too, Ammi,” he said, and the grown-up way he said it made her want to sink her head onto his lap and be comforted.

  THE NEXT MORNING, Chandi awakened to exclamations and his mother’s voice raised in exasperation.

  He went out rubbing the sleep from his eyes, wondering what catastrophe had happened now. Had one of the servant girls come in late again? Had the old tabby got at the roast in the oven? Had Appuhamy finally died?

  His mother was sitting on the doorstep holding an ice pack to her cheek while his father, sisters, Appuhamy and the three servant girls hovered around like the flies on the sweets at the Nuwara Eliya pola. He pushed his way forward and stopped in shock.

  One cheek was swollen and the other had a deep bruise on it. He looked at her and she looked steadily back at him, the warning clear in her eyes, which were smudged with tiredness.

  He turned abruptly and left the kitchen. He thought he heard her voice calling out to him but he couldn’t be sure. Nor did he stop to find out.

  John had just finished breakfast and was reading the newspaper. He lowered it when he saw Chandi. He wondered what had brought him into the dining room.

  “Good morning, Chandi!” he said. “Is everything okay?”

  “What happened to her?” Chandi demanded in a low voice.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “What happened to my mother?”

  He put the newspaper down, pushed his chair back and stood up. “Chandi, what are you talking about?” he asked gently.

  “My mother,” Chandi repeated woodenly. “What happened to her?”

  “I don’t know,” John said, now concerned. “What has happened?”

  “Didn’t you see her last night when she was outside?” Chandi asked in confusion.

  “No I didn’t. Chandi, what has happened?” he said, trying to control his impatience. It would do no good to scare the child.

  “Yesterday,” Chandi said haltingly. “She went outside to get the laundry but when she came back, she was—I don’t know. Something happened outside. I asked her but she said it was nothing. And now her face is hurt.” He started to cry.

  John pulled out his handkerchief and gave it to Chandi. “Listen, Chandi. I wasn’t outside last night. And I didn’t see your mother. But obviously something has happened. Now I want you to go back, and I’ll find out and tell you, okay?”

  Chandi nodded dumbly. He twisted the large white handkerchief in his hands, wondering what to do with it.

  John resisted the urge to follow him to the kitchen and demand to know what had happened. Somehow he didn’t think Disneris was the kind of man who beat his wife, but one never knew. Or perhaps Premawathi had been indulging in her usual nocturnal wanderings and had tripped or something.

  He wondered how best to find out.

  In the end, it was easy. He rang the bell and Premawathi came, because Appuhamy was too deaf to hear it these days. She stood with her head lowered, lower than usual. He asked for a fresh pot of tea.

  She returned five minutes later, and as she placed it in front of him he reached out and lifted her chin. She glanced up at him, startled, forgetting her face in the intimacy of the gesture.

  He flinched when he saw the bruises. With an effort, he kept his face expressionless and his voice soft.

  “Premawathi, who did this to you?” he asked.

  She tried to move away, but now he reached out and held her arm.

  “Sudu Mahattaya, someone might come in,” she half moaned.

  “Then you’d better tell me quickly,” he said implacably. “Was it Disneris?”

  She recoiled. “No,” she said vehemently. “He may be all sorts of things, but he is not a wife beater.”

  “No, I didn’t think so,” he said. “So who was it?”

  “No one,” she muttered, her gaze skipping away from his. “I fell near the well last night.”

  He looked at her patiently. “Premawathi, this didn’t happen from a fall. Now tell me what happened and why you are so frightened.”

  She still looked away resolutely. “Nothing,” she said.

  He gently traced the bruise with his fingertips as she stood very still.

  “Was it Krishna?” he asked suddenly.

  She jerked away in shock. “No,” she said fearfully. “No please, it wasn’t him.”

  He regarded her for a few moments. He knew something had happened and now he knew that somehow Krishna was responsible. “Premawathi,” he said. “Go and attend to your face. I will take care of this.”

  She stood there and looked at him mutely.

  He gave her a small push. “Go,” he said. “And don’t worry.”

  She desperately wanted to believe him but he hadn’t seen Krishna’s face, hadn’t been told his daughter would be raped and murdered. But what could she say? She went slowly back to the kitchen.

  Disneris looked up. “What took you so long?” he asked. “I was about to eat without you.”

  She looked at him in disbelief. This was her husband. Other than a practical suggestion that she take a lamp with her the next time she went out at night, he had nothing to say.

  We are each to be held responsible for our own happiness or unhappiness, she thought irrelevantly.

  BUT IT DIDN’T end there. When John went to the garage to get the car and go down to the police station in Nuwara Eliya, he discovered Buster.

  At first John thought he was sleeping, and nudged him affectionately with his foot. Buster didn’t rise and yawn and wag his tail sleepily as he usually did when he was caught napping.

  And then John saw the blood. It was hours old, almost brown now, and it had seeped deep into the square of concrete near Buster’s neck. He knelt down and turned the dog over. Buster’s throat had been cleanly slit and as his head flopped backward, the cut opened like a red mouth.

  John fought the burning tide of nausea that rose up in his throat. He strode toward the kitchen calling loudly for Disneris, who appeared at the door hastily knotting his sarong.

  John tersely instructed him to find a spade.

  John and Disneris buried Buster and John then drove off to see the police.

  Disneris related the story to his rapt audience. “You should have seen his face. So sad and so angry. He was muttering all kinds of things. My goodness, I almost feel sorry for that Krishna. The Sudu Mahattaya will skin him alive when he’s found.”

  Now that it was the Sudu Mahattaya who was involved, Disneris was all righteous indignation. Premawathi fought hard to stop her feelings from showing on her face.

  He looked at her suddenly. “Hamin�
�, you were out last night. Didn’t you see him?”

  All eyes turned toward Premawathi, who was leaning against the door. She straightened up. “No,” she said. “I didn’t.”

  Disneris sighed loudly. “Well, good thing you didn’t. Who knows what he might have done. What a miserable wretch!”

  Premawathi felt Chandi’s eyes on her and she ignored them. “Enough chatting,” she said briskly. “There’s work to be done and all we’ve been doing this morning is looking at bruises and burying dogs. People don’t get fed that way.”

  Chandi knew that Krishna had been the one responsible for his mother’s face. He felt a black anger well up inside him and started for the dining room to tell the Sudu Mahattaya, but then he remembered that he had already left the house.

  When the police came Chandi ran out when the police jeep came slowly up the road, following the Sudu Mahattaya’s car. Chandi hung around them, listening to everything that was asked and everything that was said.

  When they had been round the house and looked carefully around the garage and well area, they established themselves in the veranda and called for tea.

  Then they interviewed everyone, one by one. John sat by and listened.

  When Premawathi’s turn came, she perched on the very edge of her chair.

  Superintendent Direksz, a fair-faced, blue-eyed Burgher who looked tired and hungover, looked appreciatively at her and thought John was very fortunate.

  Constable Silva stood to one side and took notes, licking his pencil at two-minute intervals as if it were a lollipop. He tried not to stare at Premawathi’s cleavage, which was almost impossible because of the way she sat, leaning forward.

  John watched both of them with a mixture of irritation and amusement.

  “So what time did you go outside?” Superintendent Direksz asked her in English, enunciating slowly as if talking to a five-year-old.

  “About midnight,” Premawathi said in a low voice. She didn’t like the police.

  “Was it your usual habit to go out at this time?”

  “No. I went to get the clothes,” she replied.