by Carl Muller
And the names: A glorious mixture of Portuguese, Dutch, British, French, German and God knows what else. The Schumachers will stoutly uphold that there never was a shoemaker in the family tree. The Van der Pootens don’t know if this was originally a dirty word. There are the Almeidas and the Bartholomeuszes and the De Vallieres; the Grays and the Ingletons, the MacHeyzers and De Witts and Barbetts and Wittenslegers. The von Haghts claim a teaspoon or two of German blood, the Brohiers are proud of their Dutch uncles, the Dabares are not sure of anything. The Van der Walls don’t like to hob-nob with the Van der Putts who are always reminded of the day some ancestor was hauled into courts before a British judge who asked for his name.
‘Van der Putt, my lord,’ he said.
‘Eh? Van der who?’ The judge had this hearing trouble.
‘Putt, my lord.’
‘Eh? What’s that?’
‘Putt, my lord,’ the man bawled.
Frowning, the judge told the clerk of the court to advise the accused to keep a civil tongue in his head and that he, the judge, need not be told when to or when not to put, he, the judge, being perfectly capable of making such decisions himself.
My readers will still meet the Burghers in Sri Lanka. They are the Herfts and the Meerwalds and the Gingers and the De Kauwes; the Arnoldas and the Martenstyns, the Van Cuylenbergs and Van Langenbergs, the Breckenridges and Barsenbachs and Rulachs; the Edemas and the Direckszes, the De Zylvas and De la Zilwas, the Missos and the Modders, the Heyns and the Toussaints. Such a ding-a-dong, ring-a-bell roundelay. Every blood infusion and transfusion made them stronger, more virile. They are not as fussy today as they were at the turn of the century. Cecilprins’ father would have fed him rat poison if he sought to marry a Sinhalese or a Tamil. The intermixing today has become something quite fierce and a whole generation of Nathanielszes with Aryan eyes and Dravid lips bear witness to the undoubtedly Sri Lanka connection. And, my friends, I ought to know, for I am part of this polyglot Burgher clan myself!
Well, having got all that off my chest, let me now return you to Totoboy who saw Iris Holdenbottle at old Vere’s daughter’s birthday party and considered her the girl of his dreams despite the tipsy state he was in. Totoboy was popular. He had this knack of sitting at a keyboard, sighting carefully and then breaking into a risque song while syncopating furiously. What is more, the piano miraculously matched the song and young ladies were quite taken up by his performances. All over Dehiwela, no party was ever thrown without Totoboy being pressed to attend, and which he gladly did since he believed that liquor was best consumed when it belonged to someone else.
Iris Holdenbottle was dark-skinned. Nobody wished to tangle with her. Old De Niese had once poked a finger between her ribs and said: ‘Where’s that servant woman your father used to go with?’ And she grabbed the pair of scissors from her sewing-table and chased the man for about half a mile. She was no great looker either. High cheek bones, a big lower lip permanently set against the upper, and eyes that froze the marrow. But she had a figure that could stop a regiment in column of route. Totoboy leered and leered and weaved up to her. ‘Want a small drink?’
Iris was touched. What she wanted she usually took. No one offered. The lower lip unlocked a fraction. ‘Get a arrack. Horsepiss, this whisky.’
Totoboy gaped. The local arrack was never served. Too lowly. Matured from the toddy of the coconut flower, it was only secured, and surreptitiously at that, for the servants at Christmas and to give the latrine coolie a snort when he came to the gate on New Year’s Day to salaam and ask for baksheesh.
Latrine coolie, you ask? Well, yes. In those days many homes had no drainage, sewerage or water service. Not even the best of them. So the lavatories had squatting plates and buckets—and each day around ten a.m. the coolies (also called bucket men) would come around with their carts (universally known as shitcarts for want of a simpler name) and carry away the nightsoil. Their visits would scent the air, true, but were they not vital in their service to the community? Totoboy did not think so. One day he had borrowed Sonnaboy’s bicycle, gone carousing, and when wobbling back the following morning, collided with a bucket man. Violently separated from his bicycle, he found himself astride the shitcart, which sobered him up in a trice.
‘Bucket man’s drink,’ he muttered, as he went to find his host, Socks Joachim.
‘I say, Socks, you have any arrack, men?’
‘My God, why? Who asking. Some bloody street-fellow? Where? I’ll kick the bugger out.’
‘No, no. Nobody came. Just tell, will you, if have.’
‘Must see, men. Last time brought bottle for firewood man. Will look and see.’
‘If have bring a glass, will you.’
‘Here, hold these patties. I’ll see.’
The arrack being there, Totoboy took a stiff one to Iris who actually smiled. ‘You good fellow,’ she conceded, tipping ginger ale into the arrack. ‘Not like other pariahs here.’
Bunny Mottau took umbrage. ‘Pariah?’ he roared, ‘Who the pariah you’re saying? That’s the trouble asking black bitches to come. Don’t now how to talk.’ Iris hit Bunny on the head with the bottle of ginger ale and the party immediately took on a new dimension.
One is inclined to draw a veil over the events that immediately followed. The general pandemonium was made of several mini-events, each contributing to the overall chaos. Bunny Mottau lay bleeding on the floor as if in the eye of a cyclone that raged around and in which Totoboy tried to drag Iris away, and Babyboy Nathanielsz punched Miko Sampson in the throat and Pippie Nellie threw glasses at the fishtank. Soon everybody was hitting everybody else and ladies raised their skirts and fled shrieking, some to the road, others to bedrooms and the rear garden, where Dolly Loos tried to climb a fence, got snagged on the barbed wire, and bayed at the moon. Iris, surprisingly, went meekly. Totoboy had her out and on the Galle Road quickly enough, which was most creditable considering the state he was in. Inside there was confusion of breaking chairs and the sound of unpleasant thuds and screeches and someone saying ‘graaaah’ as though he was being garrotted. Socks Joachim wanted no part of it. He crept underneath the dining-table and waited out the storm. ‘This what happens when give arrack,’ he told himself dolefully.
‘Pukka party, no?’ said Totoboy, ‘Where are you living?’
Iris smiled. ‘You can come with me. Not far.’
‘Pukka girl you are,’ said Totoboy. ‘Oh the head you hit. Stitches for sure.’
Iris whooped and swayed. ‘Getting giddy. Must be breeze, no?’
‘That’s the way,’ Totoboy said wisely, ‘Here, I’ll hold you. What way?’
Iris pointed uncertainly. Totoboy put an arm round her waist. Anchored together they found the going better. True, they did a couple of half circles and found themselves walking in the opposite direction but it added to the fun of clinging on to each other. ‘Nice girl you are,’ said Totoboy, ‘You like to be my girl?’
Iris sneezed and said she would. And Totoboy grinned and saluted a pillarbox and never imagined at the time the mess he was going to make of his life.
*
Anna, who was quite taken up with her Sinhalese gentleman and his trouser clips found the affair progressing to the point when the said Sinhalese gentleman had declared that he saw no reason why they should not get married. ‘You go to your church and I will go to temple, and you hang your holy pictures in the house, never mind.’
‘You’re mad, anney. Papa will kill for sure. You can become Catholic, no?’
The Sinhalese gentleman, who rejoiced in the name of Dionysius Richard Colontota frowned. ‘I thought of that,’ he said, ‘but then my people kill me.’
‘So what to do, anney. These days in our lane, top market man’s son also coming behind and saying he love me. Sending me aluwa (halwa) and konde kavun (a small knobbed honey cake) also and Mama went and had big row. She said to boy, “If you don’t stop will break your legs.” You think Mama keep quiet if I tell about you? Will come and bre
ak your legs for sure. And my brother. You don’t know that Sonnaboy. Only wanting to hammer somebody.’
Dionysius Richard Colontota set his jaw. ‘Ho! you think I am afraid. If coming to hit you, think I keep quiet? I say hit to see, and if hit I also hit.’
Anna chewed her lip. She did not want to dampen the man’s enthusiasm. The trouble was that if Sonnaboy hit first this poor fish would be in no condition to hit back. Rather, he would be in dire need of a stretcher and an ambulance. This romance was fraught. The complications could sweat pounds off her, and Anna, quite the dimwit at the best of times, was still wise enough to see the future as somewhat bleak.
‘Have idea,’ she said, ‘You go to GPO and see Papa. Good, no?’
Colontota squeezed her hand gratefully. Anna surprised him at times. Just when he was certain that her physical charms amply made up for a singular lack of brains, she would come up with a nugget, thus raising her several notches in his esteem. And Colontota would do better than that. He would write and beg an appointment . . . or type. The office Remington would do nicely. And why not the office stationery too? So he snaffled a letterhead and pecked away industriously and Cecilprins was startled at the missive which read:
Honoured Sir,
Please be good enough to give the undersigned a little of your valuable time in order that the undersigned could discuss with your goodself a matter of importance. The undersigned awaits the favour of your reply and remains, honoured sir,
Your faithful servant,
D. R. Colontota
Department of Accounting—Radio Ceylon
Cecilprins waved the letter at Maudiegirl. ‘See, will you, some big shot, must be. Sinhalese name, but must be England educated, no. How he writing undersigned, undersigned, undersigned and your faithful servant. Polite is not the word. So what he want, don’t know. Matter of importance, it seems.’
‘So tell him to come, anney. Without knowing what how to tell?’
‘Must show I am busy, no? Even he must know. That’s why saying valuable time. Wait, woman, must think and write carefully. Tchah, damn shame haven’t typing thing. He typing and handwriting.’
‘So ask Totoboy to type in his office and bring, will you.’
‘That bugger? Don’t know what he got in his brain these days. Won’t come after work even. Where going I don’t know.’
Cecilprins excelled himself:
May it please your honour,
Your letter to hand is duly noted. The undersigned will be pleased to give you a little time on Monday, August 12, if your honour will make his presence at 10 a.m. at the General Post Office, Colombo. The undersigned will receive you at the main counter. I am your honour’s servant,
C. von Bloss
Assistant Post Master
Department of Posts and Telegraphs
Anna learned about it and sniffed. ‘What is all this my honour your honour business. And undersigned and all. Fine pair you are to write. So go on Monday then.’
Colontota nodded. ‘Must put tie,’ he said.
So Dionysius Richard Colontota called at the GPO and Cecilprins was suitably impressed. Mauve tie, white shirt and brown trousers made Colontota like something in a medical exhibition. Like the cross-section of some virus, perhaps, but Cecilprins thought it natty.
‘Mister von Bloss, sir?’
‘Mister Colontota? Sit, men, sit. So you got my letter, no?’
‘Yes, Yes. Thank you, thank you.’ He sat and had this urge to scratch his nose.
‘You said important thing. Must be, no? Otherwise why you writing anyway. And coming also.’
‘It is about Anna.’
‘Anna? Anna who?’
This becalmed Colontota. ‘Anna who,’ he said.
‘That’s what I’m saying, men. When you say Anna how I know who?’
Colontota began to sweat. This lack of brains seemed to run in the family. ‘Your daughter, sir. Working in the Dehiwela pharmacy. I know her.’
Cecilprins sat upright. ‘You mean our Anna? How you know her? You are Dehiwela person?’
‘No. I stay in Wellawatte.’
‘Ah, close by, no? Whereabout?’
‘High Street bottom.’
‘Nice area. My friend Gauders living there. You know the Gauders? Big girl ran away with the dhoby man.’
Colontota shook his head.
‘My gosh, everyone know them. And the de Kretsers. Twelve boys in that family.’
Colontota gave in and rubbed his nose. ‘About Anna,’ he said faintly.
‘Anna? Ah, you mean our Anna. So you know her, eh? What’s the trouble? She give you wrong medicine or something? Always telling her be careful when working there. If give wrong medicine can die also, no?’
‘I am friend with Anna. Now about one year.’
This stopped Cecilprins cold. ‘How you mean one year,’ he asked eventually, ‘She only working one year. She not saying anything like this.’
‘Only friend,’ said Colontota hastily, ‘but she very nice girl and I think if Anna so nice her father and mother must be very nice people also. Such a nice girl she is. So polite and look after customers and saying thank you, come again, can I help you and always neat . . . .’
‘You mean our Anna?’ Cecilprins was certain the man was making a ghastly mistake. ‘Some other Anna you’re meaning, surely.’
‘No, no, Anna von Bloss. Your daughter and I am mad for her.’ (There, that’s got it out at last).
‘You’re what?’
‘I want to marry her. I am important man in radio station. Good post. Accounts section. Have property. Have another small house in Battaramulla also. You come anytime you feel like it and see my house.’
Cecilprins stared. ‘You are—you are Sinhalese,’ he croaked.
‘But I am like you people. Educated good and Cambridge Senior also. Not like other yakko fellows who are waiters in GOH and peons in Kachcheri. My parents have paddy fields in Gampaha, and coconut and jak and buffaloes also.’
‘Buffaloes,’ said Cecilprins weakly.
‘Six-seven buffaloes.’
‘But my daughter cannot marry a Sinhalese. We are Burgher people, no? How to face if I gave our Anna to a Sinhalese? Funny thing, no? Walking in sarong all over house and putting wooden clogs and going to temple . . . my God, going to temple! You are Buddhist, no?’
‘Yes, that not problem. I let Anna go to church and everything. Even Anna say that is all right.’
‘Who? Anna?’
Colontota was sure this conversation was doing a sort of loop-the-loop. Just when he felt he was getting somewhere it spiralled back to Anna who or who Anna. He had a long ride back to Torrington Square and the midday sun, considered favourably by mad dogs and Englishmen was not his idea of fun. ‘So what do you say,’ he asked, trying to bring matters to a head.
Cecilprins stared. ‘What I say? What to say? One year you see our Anna and not a word from her. Wait till I catch her. And fixing up everything behind my back, no? You go temple, she go church. You put sarong and go tok, tok with clogs on legs and she put housecoat and cooking country rice and dry fish for you and when you take to paddy field won’t know what those buffaloes will do—’
‘But . . . .’
‘But, but. But what? What but, men? Have Sinhalese girls, no? They know how to drive buffaloes, no? and pound rice and wear cloth up to here and bathe and go to temple with you. What you want our Anna for? Just wasting my time, no?’
‘But I love her,’ Colontota bawled. ‘How you can stop us? She almost thirty, no? I will see her anyway.’
The Burgher blood went on the boil. ‘You try, will you and see what will happen. Break your bloody legs. Coming here and threatening, ah? Because I decent enough to spare my valuable time. This is government office. I send report to your office and then see how you catch it.’ He jumped up and Colontota shot up in alarm and scooted. Never knew with the old bugger. Might send a report. Leaping on his bicycle he pedalled off madly.
While all t
hese dramatic events swirled around it was scarcely noticed that Maudiegirl kept preparing and applying all manner of home-made remedies to various parts of her body and kept wheezing and clumping around the house like an oversized policeman in dire distress. Home had become a sort of assizes with fevered discussions, consultations, arguments and crosstalk on Totoboy’s latest and totally obnoxious choice of soulmate; on Sonnaboy’s determination to marry a schoolgirl and the wild threats of Elaine and her gargantuan brothers; on George and Leah who were hell-bent on getting married next month, next week, next day if possible; on Anna’s ‘Nonsense, damn nonsense, no?’ and on Elsie’s venturesome habit of sneaking off to Eric’s home and coming back humming ‘Bluebells of Scotland’ in E minor. Viva, too, seemed to have something on his mind. At first, nobody gave him much thought. He would come home with a packet of postcards and religiously post one each day after cramming the back of it with a script so small and fine that it looked like something those fellows do who engrave the old Testament on the head of a pin. Nobody wanted to even look at these curious missives. ‘When I just look I get a headache,’ Totoboy declared. Viva was a mingy man. He always had this miserly streak in him . . . and he was in love. In his peregrinations as a purveyor of milkfoods he had met an acid-mouthed, buxom female with a screwed-up nose, and a permanent film of sweat on her upper lip. A slatternly girl who was the daughter of a strange man who claimed to be a Pentecostalist, and stood at street corners and threatened passers-by with his Bible. He could have named his daughter Bathsheba or Naomi or even Eve, but his wife, who took one look at what she had brought forth and expired, (or so he said) had gone to Abraham’s bosom in the month of October. The baby was named after the birthstone of that month, the opal, but papa Ludwick changed it to Opel, doubtless influenced by the new Reckard cabriolet newly in the market.
Opel grew up to be the worst of that funny mixture that is the result of grandpa running off with the Sinhalese bicycle-repair man’s daughter—a Sinhalese—and son Patti Ludwick bedding Missie Moraes who had umpteen pints of Indian blood in her. Opel Ludwick was a swarthy, fierce-tempered ‘Burgher’ of completely convoluted ancestry. She also had hips one could put a saddle on. It was the hips that sealed Viva’s fate. She would walk due north but those hips would swing east-west with minds of their own, making her buttocks bounce provocatively. Opel, too, liked the idea of being courted by a fellow who rode around in a van, hob-nobbing with merchants and shopkeepers and being very industrious. Papa Ludwick was gratified. This was better than that fellow Holmus. Pukka bugger that Holmus. Spelling his name Holmus and saying he is Hollums. When it was beyond all possible doubt that Viva was hooked, he told his neighbour: ‘Lucky to get boy like this for Opel, no?’
