Tall Story

by Candy Gourlay

  ‘Why? Why?’ he raged at it. ‘What’s wrong with you?’

  And then he harangued the phone, only stopping because his sand-blocked lungs could not summon up enough air for another shout. At one point, the pain in his arms and legs became so intense, he could feel himself surrendering, falling into oblivion. He was tired, so tired. It was tempting to slip away, close his eyes, stop feeling, stop the pain. But he forced his eyes open, even though he could see nothing. If he allowed himself to sleep, he was sure he would never wake up.

  He tried praying. Tried to pick the appropriate saint to pray to – the Saint of Lost Causes? The Saint of Calamity? Was there such a thing as a Saint Who Kept Earthquake Victims Alive? But then his mind went blank and he couldn’t remember any saints’ names so he gave up and started praying to the Basketball Hall of Fame.

  O Most Loving, Most Gentle Kareem. Save me.

  O Most Skilful Larry Bird. Save me.

  O Most Powerful Michael Jordan. Save me.

  Save me, please.

  And then he prayed to God and made the sort of pledges a boy thought worthy of a second chance – that he would take out the garbage for his mother every night, that he would eat the bitter melon in the stew instead of leaving it on the side of his plate, that he would do better in sciences so that he would grow up to become a rich and famous doctor and look after his parents when they were old.

  And then he wept.

  And when he finished weeping, there was nothing to do but pray again.

  That the pain would stop.

  That the darkness would lift.

  That the phone battery would come back to life.

  And then the cellphone lit up again and he thought, My prayer worked! A miracle! But it did not ring or beep.

  In fact, it wasn’t the phone at all. He realized the light was coming from a chink in the distance. And the chink became larger and larger and then a shadow appeared.

  ‘Henry?’ a voice called. ‘Henry, are you there?’

  And Jabby spat some rubble from his mouth and replied in a voice that almost sounded like his own, ‘Please, it’s not Henry any more. It’s Jabbar. Short for Kareem Abdul-Jabbar.’

  16

  Andi

  We had to return the trophy.

  The Colts sniffed around and it was not hard for them to find out that Rocky’s Secret Weapon was in fact a girl. Their school wrote a stiff letter to Saint Sim’s.

  The Souls (and I) did five days of detention.

  But it didn’t matter.

  We won the game, didn’t we? The fact that I was a girl was a technicality. The team knew it. The whole of Saint Sim’s knew it. The entire league knew it. The Colts never lived it down.

  None of us ratted on Mrs Green: nobody ever needed to know that she took me to her office and helped me pass myself off as a boy.

  It wouldn’t have done to rat on our new coach.

  Turns out Mrs Green was a fully qualified basketball coach. She signed on as Saint Sim’s Basketball Coordinator and immediately set up a girls’ team. I play point guard, of course.

  Bernardo was fine.

  All the time, I had thought it was the pituitary tumour. I Googled it once and read a few horror stories, people growing big heads, big hands or big feet because of a tumour in their pituitary gland. And people who grew to seven, eight, nine foot but died before they were old.

  But afterwards Mum explained that the operation had not been for a tumour. It had been something else.

  ‘It was an aneurysm, a weak blood vessel in his brain that was about to burst,’ Mum said, glancing at Dad, who smiled encouragingly. ‘The doctors operated just in time. He’s going to be fine.’

  ‘But what about the tumour?’

  Mum was silent for a heartbeat.

  ‘Well, they scanned him again, took more blood tests to check his hormone levels.’

  ‘And?’ Why was she being so blank? I steeled myself for some bad news.

  ‘It’s dead.’

  ‘Dead?’

  ‘It’s a miracle. The tumour is dead. His blood tests show that it has stopped releasing the growth hormone that makes Bernardo tall. It’s not doing anything any more.’

  A miracle. My mouth dropped open.

  ‘What does it mean?’

  ‘That’s it. Bernardo isn’t going to grow any taller.’

  ‘Is he going to grow any shorter?’

  ‘Of course not. He’ll just be eight foot tall for ever.’

  And I was glad.

  Because I like Bernardo exactly the way he is.

  Epilogue

  Bernardo

  The bad headache didn’t go away for weeks after the operation. But it was no longer the jagged knife turning and turning in my brain. And when it went, it was gone for good.

  And the most inescapable fact was that I was alive.

  From my hospital bed I could see out of the window to the rooftops below. There were the fields, so green, with the grey rectangle of the asphalt basketball court where I saw Andi play for the first time. Yellow brick houses swept up the brow of a hill. That roof must be Saint Sim’s. Somewhere just beyond was our house. Our home.

  And beyond, over oceans and continents, lay my other home.

  Mama got me one of those international phone cards and I spent an hour talking to Jabby about the earthquake. He said Timbuktu was selling T-shirts that said SURVIVOR across the chest. He was making a killing.

  ‘Have you got one?’

  ‘Of course!’ Jabby said. ‘Even your auntie wears the T-shirt. It’s practically the uniform in San Andres!’

  I was afraid that the village would blame me for the earthquake but the fact that there were no fatalities was seen as something of a miracle.

  According to Jabby, Old Tibo now says that my power reaches across the world and will always keep our village safe.

  I don’t know about that.

  Some people might think so. Some people say it was a miracle that my tumour died. That it was a miracle that the people of San Andres survived one of the worst earthquakes the world has seen.

  I wouldn’t know.

  I am just a boy with a mother and a stepfather and a sister.

  That’s miracle enough for me.

  Acknowledgements

  In memory of Ujang Warlika, the Indonesian giant who only briefly enjoyed his time as a basketball star.

  My daughter Mia, who faithfully assures me I am an author when I don’t feel like one; and my sons Nick and Jack, who keep faith with basketball even though they live in the wrong country.

  My big little sister Joy Ramos, who told me Ujang’s story.

  My niece Camille Ramos, an awesome basketball player, who provided the inspiration for Andi.

  To my Huckleberry friend, Mandy Navasero, from whom I’ve borrowed the name Amandolina.

  Fe B. Zamora, flat-mate in a previous life, who one late night told me the story of a pretty girl bitten by a rabid dog.

  Rachiel de Chavez, whose legal work has helped many families like Bernardo’s over the years – and who tells me the system today is much improved: nurses from other countries are now allowed to bring their immediate family when they come to the United Kingdom.

  The creators of The More the Manyer and Without Further Adieu for providing a field guide to barok English.

  Letty Jimenez-Magsanoc and Eugenia D. Apostol – my writing heroes.

  The writers who generously commented on my work in progress: Miriam Halahmy, Helen Peters, Paolo Romeo and Christine Vinall, as well as Malorie Blackman, Melvin Burgess, Kathleen Duey and Fiona Dunbar, for their support.

  The kind folks at Caffé Nero in Highgate, who know that I like my Americano black with one shot, and that I like a tall glass of ice cubes with my soft drinks, whatever the season.

  Fiona Dunbar for opening the door.

  My Philippine publisher, Ramon Sunico, who found me on Facebook, and Frankie Joaquin Drogin, who brought us together.

  Hilary Delamere, David Fickl
ing, Bella Pearson and the denizens of DFB and Random House for making my dreams come true.

  My mom, Cynthia Lopez Quimpo, who gave me a love of books, and my dad, Orlando Quimpo, who gave me patience.