The Match

by Romesh Gunesekera

  ‘Ooh, I know him.’ Mrs Navaratnam snickered incriminatingly.

  ‘Your son?’ Rudolf Navaratnam’s tone seemed to suggest that Lester’s pronunciation needed some work.

  ‘Sanath,’ Sunny managed to sputter. ‘Here in Manila they prefer Sunny.’ He looked to see if Tina thought he was babbling. How did her mother know him?

  ‘Ah, yes. They like the ih sound here.’

  Tina butted in. ‘But Daddy, you are the one who says “bunny” and “fanny”.’

  Lester was a maestro of the well-timed drink. Early on in life he had learned the importance of lubricants, perfecting the art in the watering holes of Galle Road and in Colombo’s lakeside bars. ‘Gin?’ he asked. ‘Or Scotch? Maybe Campari?’

  ‘Oh, Lester . . .’ Anjuli fluttered her eyes, and steamy possibilities hovered in the hot, intimate air for the men around her to savour.

  ‘She’d love a gin and tonic.’ Rudolf made a rough hissing sound in his throat.

  ‘Two?’

  ‘For me, a Coca-Cola if you please.’

  ‘With rum, then? Local? Tanduay?’

  ‘Just two cubes of ice please. No rum.’

  ‘I see.’ Lester turned to his son. ‘You brought Coca-Cola?’

  Sunny’s stomach tightened. He’d only bought four bottles and each one had a very special aura: Tina, me, Tina and me. Thoughts ran wild in his head. He had pictured Rudolf Navaratnam as smooth and suave, easily moving from handshake to shoulder-grip and a silver Mercedes convertible on the Costiera di Amalfi, an over-tanned Cary Grant sailing high between an iced Pimm’s and a second innings. Instead, here was this monstrous bat-head who got his kicks from beating his wife with cricket stumps over a pork curry, intent on crushing all hope among the young in order to shore up his lust for lost youth. Tina was a girl in a serious situation. He had to make a stand. Now or never.

  ‘I got Coke for Tina.’ He squeaked, and prayed.

  She looked at him, puzzled. ‘But I like Pepsi. Papa’s the Coke-head in our family.’ The tip of her nose wiggled.

  Hector broke into a laugh. ‘You can say that again. Rudolf, for all his highfalutin development economics, is the biggest supporter of Coca-Cola that the world has ever known. You know, they have a special delivery in our canteen at the bank just for him. Twice a week.’

  Anjuli found that hilarious. ‘He always was such a twice-a-weeker. Weren’t you, Rudy?’

  Mary, who had withdrawn well into her fizzy Cinzano, tipped her head to one side and took another look at Rudolf. He smoothed his gleaming hair and gave a sly smile. ‘A small habit I picked up doing my doctorate in America. I used to swim twice a week, cinema twice a week, library twice a week, and I allowed myself Coca-Cola twice a week. You need discipline, you see. Otherwise you have chaos.’

  Hector laughed. ‘So, what happened? You are now drinking Coke all the time, no? What has happened to twice a week?’

  Rudolf gave a guilty shrug. ‘Well, yes, but . . . some things are more addictive than others.’

  ‘Hector, you are a naughty one, starting this . . .’ Anjuli giggled again and drained her glass of gin. She held it out for a refill. ‘Twice a week. If only, no? I was thinking we should try that new cola they’ve brought out. Have you seen the adverts? RC Cola, the randy newcomer.’

  Sunny went back into the house to look for Tina, who had slipped away. He found her sitting on the leather cushion that Lester had brought back from a trip to Jakarta and which Sunny used as a punchbag.

  ‘I hate it when my mother hits the gin.’ Tina pouted.

  OK, just wouldn’t do as a response. My mother died when I was eight . . . No, he knew that would not do either.

  ‘Papa at least has learnt to stay off the stuff, but she can’t stop. She’s so dumb.’

  ‘It’s OK.’

  Sunny wanted to make her feel better. And for her to make him feel better. Sitting there in her faded blue bell-bottoms, her arms resting on her splayed knees, her wonderfully long face turned up to him, her bunched hair almost twitching behind her like a tail, she was more than he could have ever hoped for listening to the Fab Four. And now here she was in his house. She looked plumper than she had when he first saw her climbing into her father’s car. Perhaps she was a little too fond of Halo-halo. The stitching on one of the seams of the cushion had come undone. The white inner sleeve containing horsehair, or whatever they used in the leather dumps of the Suharto regime, looked close to bursting. The consequences could be tragic.

  ‘Tina . . .’

  ‘Yes.’ Her nose flared a little.

  ‘It’s going to split.’

  She looked at Sunny the way he had dreamt of her doing for months. Straight into his heart. But he couldn’t leave it at that. She might think he was talking about her hip-hugging bells. He knew she’d noticed him staring at the creamy half-inch of elasticated fabric peeping above the tight denim.

  ‘The humpty.’ Was that a real word? Or just a remnant of Aunty Lillie’s wacky vocabulary? ‘The humpty might split.’ He pointed to the leather seam below her thigh.

  ‘Oh, pouffe?’ She quickly stood up, almost rushing into his arms. He stepped away. He wanted to be a gentleman, despite his erratic zip.

  ‘I sometimes punch it, that’s why.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘We have no Pepsi. What about 7-Up?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘I’ll get it then. And a Coke for your Dad.’

  ‘Why do you hit it?’

  Words were too much trouble, Sunny knew that. When they get blurted out there is no telling what might happen. Tina was looking at him now as though he was a kitten rather than the tiger he wanted to be, leaping for her.

  ‘I don’t hit it. Just punch it, see?’ And dance like a butterfly, he wanted to add, thereby suggesting both sensitivity and virility, despite his glasses.

  Rosa passed by with a tray of ice and lemon, trying without success to suppress a laugh.

  ‘Boys outside, na . . .’ she said in her high, hysterical singsong.

  Robby and Herbie were strolling up the drive, rapping the roofs of the parked line of cars with their knuckles and making karate kicks at invisible villains.

  ‘Excuse me,’ Sunny said and went to the side door. ‘Here, this way, guys.’

  Before he could do the introductions, Tina spoke. ‘Robby. Robby? What are you doing here?’

  Robby drew back and took a quick look around, checking for the nearest escape route.

  ‘You’ve met already?’ Sunny was troubled.

  ‘She lives next door.’ Robby reminded him icily.

  ‘Yeah, isn’t it amazing?’

  ‘Herbie,’ Herbie said to her. ‘I’m Herbie, you don’t know me.’ His moony face broke into a smile as he added, ‘Yet.’

  Anjuli giggled loudly outside. Tina shrank a little.

  ‘You didn’t say there was a party.’ Herbie peeked behind Sunny. ‘What’s happening?’

  Out on the patio Lester put forward his proposition. ‘You know, I was thinking that this town could do with a bit of contra-kanos. Not to be AA – anti-American, you know – but to provide some contrast to the B and B. The baseball and the basketball.’ He still thought in terms of headlines and tended to highlight words as he spoke, seeking alliteration and abbreviation wherever he could.

  ‘What about Jai-Alai?’ Martin Thompson suggested, keen to show off his local knowledge.

  ‘Cock fighting is a big thing, no? The tupala or whatever? Araneta Coliseum . . .’ Anjuli plucked at her shimmering sari and gazed innocently at Martin.

  ‘I was thinking of a team game – cricket,’ Lester said.

  Rudolf made an approving noise, while Hector mumbled something about a common British connection.

  ‘No, Hector. This is not colonial claptrap,’ Lester continued. ‘You see how golf has been transformed internationally. Cricket might well become an All-Asian game, you know. But we need it to grow in South-East Asia, the Far East. Maybe if it flourished in the Philippin
es, like in Australia, India, Pakistan and Ceylon, the rest of the region might take it up. Imagine Laos, Thailand, Indonesia all hitting the Brits for a six. A true game of the South.’

  ‘China is what counts.’ Rudolf glanced at the pork curry that was being set out on the lunch table. ‘Big country, China. That is what would make the difference. We should not let something like football divert them.’

  ‘Always obsessed with China, no, Rudolf?’ Hector turned to the others with a benign smile. ‘This fellow just cannot understand what is going on there.’

  ‘China will change.’ Lester began to pat his pockets, searching for his pipe. ‘Hong Kong is there, you know. Vietnam, however, is a different kettle of fish. This bloody war . . .’

  Rudolf Navaratnam’s face was swelling, as though conflicting desires were stretching it in different directions. The talk of China and the smell of pork curry was too much.

  ‘Ping-pong.’ Martin drained his beer. Everyone turned to him. Even Herbie appeared interested. Martin craned his neck, shaking it loose of its floppy yellow collar, as if to speak from a higher position. ‘I heard that Imelda, the First Lady, wanted Nixon to send the US ping-pong team here before China. Now she has to make do with some Happy Valley delegation from Hong Kong. But you know, they are sure to play cricket.’

  Lester was quick to cotton on. ‘A one-day match?’

  ‘Right. If we could get a team together . . .’

  ‘We could challenge the fellows from Happy Valley. Free booze and a bit of a bet. Those buggers will jump for it.’

  Hector noticed Sunny’s discomfort. ‘It was Sunny’s idea, you know. He wanted to see some cricket here between the juniors and the seniors.’

  ‘But don’t you see? Put together we could make a real team.’ Lester beamed.

  ‘Steve is a fantastic bowler and a mighty tonker too,’ Mary mumbled through an amiable fog of Cinzano and maternal pride.

  Rudolf remained silent. He seemed to be measuring each of them against some marker by which, Sunny was convinced, he would be judged an abject failure.

  Lester was not put out. ‘Rudolf, what do you say? Will you coach us? My friend Napoleon was in Singapore for a while. He can play – excellent catcher. We can also get a couple in from the Indian contingent in Legaspi, and possibly my friend from the Pakistan airline – PIA. He bears no grudge. Fellow is a pilot. Rumour has it, he’s a pretty good spinner. He could fly in for the match.’

  Rudolf seemed to wheeze; his face was now seriously bloated.

  Hector came to the rescue. ‘I say, Lester. Food is ready, no? Pork curry?’

  ‘Pork? Of course. You are right. Lunch is served. Let us eat. Come, Anjuli, Mary, Tina . . . boys. Rudolf, come. Rudy, you like some rice and curry?’

  Rudolf didn’t need encouragement. Before Mary or Anjuli had made it to their feet, he was indoors ogling the dishes.

  Rosa twittered. ‘Sir, plate?’ Then a crash as it shattered on the tiled floor.

  ‘My God.’ Anjuli clutched her exposed midriff. ‘Rudy!’

  Rudolf had his head down, cowed. He seemed to be drowning in his red shirt. ‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbled. ‘Iskyus, iskyus.’

  ‘He’s been so mixed up since we came here. Gets excited over such silly things. I don’t know what is wrong with him.’

  Rosa swept up the debris around Rudolf’s feet while he helplessly looked on. ‘Oh, salamat, salamat.’

  ‘Move your feet, Rudy, at least give the girl some room.’

  ‘Never mind,’ Lester said. ‘A plate we can drop any time, as long as out on the field we catch the ball. Isn’t that so?’ He attempted a boisterous laugh.

  ‘It is good luck to break china before a match. They always used to throw crockery at the Thomians,’ Hector said kindly.

  ‘At a monastery?’ Mary was struggling against her growing stupor.

  ‘No, no. Thomians were the senior school Rudy’s team played against in Colombo. Cricket, don’t you know?’

  The others soon crowded around the table. Herbie and Robby and Steve loaded up and headed for the seats by the pond; Herbie surreptitiously dropped some of his second-rate mescaline in for the fish.

  ‘What about you?’ Sunny said to Tina. ‘Like to eat something?’

  She took a plate and held it to her chest.

  ‘Shall I serve?’

  ‘No, don’t worry.’ She shook her head. ‘I can manage.’

  For a while there was hardly any conversation, only the sounds of mastication and the occasional low burp as the chilli hit an unaccustomed tube, or a hallucinating goldfish drowned under the lilies. Rudolf got up to help himself to more pork. Anjuli warned him. ‘Not too much now, Rudy. You know what it does to your stomach, no?’

  Sunny put on the Tijuana Brass Band on the new Radiola. A few minutes later, Rudolf cleared his throat. ‘So, you have a bat, boy?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And a ball?’

  Sunny shrank back.

  ‘We better see then, who can play.’

  Lester applauded. ‘Hear, hear. Let’s do it, straight after lunch. Out in the front garden.’

  Anjuli put a tempered potato in her mouth. ‘My, Lester, I never thought you were such a hotsie-potatsie exhibitionist, darling.’

  When the plates were cleared and the ice cream finished, Sunny brought out the equipment. Rudolf Navaratnam quickly took charge. ‘Hector, you bat first.’ He instructed Steve to bowl.

  Steve was nonplussed. ‘Where? There’s no room here.’

  Martin was evidently used to his son’s lack of initiative. ‘Son, just do a half, you know. Some folk here need to learn the game.’

  ‘Will someone explain how it works?’ Robby appealed first to Sunny, then inexplicably to Tina.

  Her father would have none of it. ‘Watch, young man. Observe the actions. Get them into your head. The rules can be constructed later.’

  Wow, a real Zen master, Sunny thought.

  Rudolf got Hector to stand in front of the silvania bush and then marked a spot about fifteen paces away and told Steve that this was his bowling crease. ‘You don’t need a run-up, just do a slow overarm like your Dad said.’

  Steve did not look at all happy. He was clearly hung up on the ritual – rubbing balls, flicking hair, stamping the ground before doing the run, skip and windmill whirl with his arm.

  ‘All right, if you have to, take a little side step.’ Rudolf pointed at the paving stones along the border of the garden, at right-angles to the imaginary crease. He pointed at Robby. ‘You be the wicketkeeper.’

  ‘The wha’?’

  ‘Stand behind that little bush and catch the ball if Hector misses.’

  ‘But you said I should just watch.’

  ‘Best place to watch, young man. You’ll see everything you need to see. Let’s go.’

  Rudolf was not going to be just the coach, he clearly had ambitions to be captain, umpire, judge and possibly God.

  Steve’s first ball bounced, as if a little peeved. Hector didn’t even have time to raise his bat. Robby only just managed to stop it with his leather boot.

  ‘Easy, son. Easy.’ Steve’s father called out.

  Hector missed the next couple too, but managed to connect on the fourth ball, which dribbled back to Steve.

  Rudolf frowned. ‘Lester, what about you?’

  Lester bravely took the bat from a dismayed Hector. ‘No boundaries, hey?’ His laugh was hollow. He swayed in front of the bush. Sunny tried to remember how many glasses of whisky his father had drunk. No doubt Rudolf would have been counting. Why was his father not better prepared? Lester unbuckled his new, expensive watch and put it in his back pocket. The old boy was lucky. He tapped the first ball back to Steve. The second one he managed to knock into the roses. He clasped the small of his back after the stroke and used the bat to steady himself. ‘You see, the eye is still there. Rosy or not. Who’s next?’ He was anxious to declare while still ahead with two hits and no misses.

  ‘Me.’ To Sunny’
s astonishment Tina took the bat and wiggled into a very professional stance in front of a goggle-eyed Robby who immediately crouched down to get in line with her bottom. Steve was too distracted to bowl anything but a mullygrubber that rolled along the ground.

  ‘Come on, Steve, get it up.’ She batted the ball right back between his pale bare feet. She then proceeded to demonstrate several textbook strokes, swivelling her round snug hips and neatly ticking the ball towards each of the fielders at different points of the garden. She cut a glorious figure.

  Rudolf was impassive. After her sixth stroke, he simply said, ‘Over.’

  Tina turned to Sunny. ‘Your turn.’

  Sunny was in a state of considerable anxiety. A ball on a string was a very different thing from one launched by an ape who didn’t much like you.

  If Sunny had had more experience, or if he had thought more carefully about it, he could have played the way a traditional batsman would: with care, caution and natural grace. One should use the first few balls, even an over or two, to find the lie of the land, the nature of the pitch. But Sunny was reckless. Tina had shown poise and perfection. He wanted to show her something altogether more dashing.

  So, when the ball came, he walloped it at the boundary.

  Unfortunately, Rudolf Navaratnam’s fat silver Mercedes stood right in the way.

  Lester said he would pay for the shattered window. Hector offered to replace it with one from his car until the dealers could bring in the right shade of tinted glass from Hong Kong. The game was suspended.

  Sunny was strongly advised to practise either with the ball back in the sock, or out in the middle of the park, far from fancy cars and picture windows. Perhaps in a month or so Rudolf Navaratnam might be willing to consider cricket again, but until then Sunny was not to plan on anything but geography homework.