“Where is your bag?” he asked.
“In class, where do you think?” I replied angrily, even though I was not angry with him.
“Mine too,” he said.
We walked along the corridor, buffeted by the stream of boys hurrying to get out of school. My legs were smarting. By the time we reached our classroom, everyone had gone and we packed our bags in silence. As I looked at the poems, lying on my desk, I thought about the trouble they had caused me, of the humiliation and pain of the caning I had just received. Suddenly, I grabbed the pieces of paper and ripped them in two.
“Hey!” Soyza shouted at me. “Are you mad?”
He tried to stop me, but I continued to tear the paper. I threw the pieces into the air.
“I don’t care,” I cried. “I hate them, I hate them.”
My voice broke. I turned away and finished packing my bag, wiping my cheek with the back of my hand.
Soyza bent down and picked up the shreds of paper. He put them on the edge of my desk. “Gosh,” he said, “what a drama. You should become a Sinhala film star after that performance.”
I didn’t reply.
“I can just see it,” he said. “New sensational darling of the silver screen.”
“Stop it,” I yelled.
“What are you going to do now?” he asked after a moment. “I don’t care.”
Yet even as I spoke, I felt the stupidity of my words. Tomorrow I would have to present myself to Black Tie with the poems in hand. I sat down. “I don’t know what to do.”
Soyza thought about it for a moment, and said, “Why don’t you try to find the poems?”
“Where?”
“What about the British Council library?”
“How would I get in there?”
“I have a membership,” he said quickly. He turned away and closed up his schoolbag. I waited for him to offer to go to the British Council with me, but he didn’t say anything. Then I saw that he was hesitant about inviting me, as if he was not sure I would want to be seen in his company.
“Can you take me?” I asked.
He nodded and seemed relieved that I had asked him.
He picked up his bag and we went out of the room. I looked at him as he walked a little ahead of me down the corridor. I was puzzled by his shyness, especially as he was usually so confident.
We had arranged to meet at the gates of the British Council that evening. When I arrived on my bicycle, Soyza was already there waiting for me. He was wearing jeans and a shirt, both of which were carefully ironed. I also noticed that he had taken a lot of trouble with his hair, for he had oiled and parted it so that the jagged ends were less noticeable. It was strange to see him out of school uniform and, as I looked at him, I thought for the first time about his life outside school, a life of which I knew nothing. What did his parents do for a living? How many brothers and sisters did he have? I wondered if he ever thought about me in this way.
When we walked in, the security guard at the gate didn’t bother to ask if we were members. Soyza took me to where the microfiche machines were, and we looked up Sir Henry Newbolt.
We found his books quite easily and took them to the reading room to look for our poems.
“Gosh,” Soyza said, after he had read a few of them, “this fellow really loved school.”
“Must have been a teacher’s favourite,” I said bitterly.
“Or must have been cricket captain or something,” Soyza added.
We looked at each other and smiled.
“Must have been on the rugger team,” I said.
“No, no,” Soyza cried. “Must have been a rugger captain.”
“Do you think tennis captain too?”
“Of course. Triple coloursman at least.”
Now we were chuckling, and it was a relief to be able to hold up for ridicule all that was considered sacred by The Queen Victoria Academy.
“I bet you anything,” I said, “that he was cricket captain, rugger captain, and tennis captain all in one year.”
“And don’t forget leader of the debate team and chairman of the English Literary Association,” Soyza added. “Otherwise, how else could he know such big words?”
He peered at the book, then held up his finger authoritatively and read in a sonorous voice, “ ‘Qui ante diem periit: Sed miles sed pro patria.’ ”
The expression on his face, as if he understood what he was saying, made me laugh.
The other people in the reading room turned to look at us. The librarian rose from her seat and we picked up the book and fled to the photocopier. As we stood in line for the machine, I noticed that Soyza was looking at me. He smiled tentatively, as if he was not sure that I would return his smile. I felt suddenly shy but, wanting to acknowledge his gesture of friendship, I smiled back.
When we walked to the gate afterwards, we were both strangely subdued. I kept trying to think of things to say, but nothing came to mind. We unlocked our bicycles and rode in silence to the top of Alfred House Gardens. Then we stopped.
“How does your family call you? Is it Arjun?”
“No. Arjie.”
“Arjie.” He said it as if he were thinking over the word. “Can I call you Arjie, then?”
“Yes. And you? What do …”
“Shehan.”
He grinned suddenly and bowed. “Well goodnight, Arjie.”
“Well goodnight, Shehan,” I replied in an equally playful tone.
He waved and rode off in the direction of Cinnamon Gardens. I watched him for a while and then I set of in the opposite direction.
As I rode along Duplication Road, I said the word “Shehan” to myself, trying to get used to its newness on my tongue. Our laughter over the poems had made me feel good. The terror that awaited me tomorrow was still with me, but, for the moment, I had pushed it into the back of my mind. I was content, as I cycled home through the rapidly descending night, to think of Shehan and the relief and pleasure we had shared in holding up the Victoria Academy to ridicule. I thought for a moment about Shehan and the head prefect, and what Diggy had said. I couldn’t imagine Shehan, who had such a sense of humour, who was moody and prim, even being friends with the head prefect.
That night I dreamt of Shehan. We were in the Otter’s Club pool, swimming and joking around. He was in a very mischievous mood, and every time I spoke to him he answered in Tamil, knowing that I didn’t understand. He swam away from me and I chased after him until finally I caught him in the deep end. I wound my legs around his so that he couldn’t escape. He splashed water in my face and tickled me, but I would not let him go. I was very aware of the feel of his legs against mine and of the occasional moments when, in trying to prevent him from getting away, my chest would rub against his.
The next morning I noticed the familiar wetness on my sarong.
I went to Black Tie’s office at the beginning of the second period that day. Shehan was in his usual place. We looked at each other and there was, in our silent exchange, an acknowledgement of our newly found friendship. As I sat down next to him, I thought about my dream the night before, and caught myself studying him, the way his skin became lighter below the top button of his shirt, the way sweat had gathered in little spots on his chin and his upper lip, the way his hair was damp around the edges and clung to his temples in little curls. When he leaned towards me to whisper something, I smelled the odour of sweat mixed with Lifebuoy soap.
Shehan was called in to prompt me. But it was useless. The moment Black Tie removed the cane from his umbrella stand, the words of the poems again fragmented in my mind. Black Tie’s face changed colour with anger. He made me lean over his desk once again and he caned me until he was breathless. Then he caught me by the ear and led me out onto the balcony. I was to kneel there until such time as I learned the poems. I felt worse when Shehan, too, was brought out and made to kneel on the balcony with me. He was to help me learn the poems. Black Tie went inside and closed the glass door, and I saw him return to his desk an
d continue his work.
I turned to Shehan and whispered, “It’s not fair. You didn’t do anything.”
Shehan clicked his tongue against his teeth dismissively and shrugged, as if kneeling on the balcony, under a sun that was reaching its mid-day fierceness, didn’t bother him at all.
“Come,” he said, and picked up the poems.
“It’s no use,” I replied. “I know those poems. I just can’t recite them with that cane on the desk.”
“What are you going to do, then?” he asked.
I glanced down at the front lawn of the school, which was empty of students and peaceful. A slight breeze blew across the grass, creating a wave-like pattern as it went. Outside the school gates, the vendors sat on the pavement preparing their wares for when school would finish. One of them had a little child who was playing hopscotch on the deserted road. As I gazed at the child, a feeling of hopelessness descended on me. I heard in the distance the bells of St. Gabriel’s, announcing the end of a period, and my despair increased. Their sound was a reminder of a more carefree time, when school had been looked forward to rather than dreaded. How rapidly and sadly my life had changed.
After about an hour, Black Tie’s prefect came to call us in. This time, when I still couldn’t recite the poems, Shehan received a punishment as well, for wasting his time on the balcony and failing to help me learn the poems. I looked on in agony at the grimace on Shehan’s face as Black Tie held him by the ear and brought his cane down on him repeatedly.
We were sent out to the balcony again. I whispered to Shehan, “I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault,” he replied, and from the way he tilted his head back and wrinkled his nose, I could tell that he was trying not to cry.
I realized that it was my responsibility to get us out of this situation. Then I remembered Mr. Sunderalingam and the fact that he was the one who had recommended me to Black Tie in the first place.
I waited till the interval bell rang, and I gathered up the courage to go inside and ask Black Tie if I could use the toilet. He considered my request for a moment and then assented. I hurried down the stairs and along the corridor that led to the staff room. It was a sacred place, and under usual circumstances I would have been too scared to enter it. Now, however, desperation made me brave. I knocked on the door and waited. After a moment someone called out for me to enter and I opened the door and went in. All the teachers stopped talking and turned to stare at me. I saw Mr. Sunderalingam and said, “Please, sir. May I speak with you?”
Mr. Sunderalingam nodded and stood up. He led me to a secluded verandah outside the staff room.
“How’s the poetry recital, Chelvaratnam?” he asked.
“That’s what I want to talk to you about, sir,” I said.
Then I told him everything that had happened.
When I finished, he said, “You must bear with our principal, Chelvaratnam. He belongs to the old school that believes you can beat knowledge into a student.”
Seeing that this had no effect on me, he went on: “Did you know that he was brought up by the old principal?”
I looked at him, interested.
“Yes. He was an orphan and the old principal, Mr. Lawton, raised him and educated him. The values he was taught are the ones he still holds on to, so you must not blame him too much for what he did to you.”
Mr. Sunderalingam saw that I was still not convinced by his arguments. He looked ahead for a long time, then he said, “Chelvaratnam, are you aware of the dispute that’s going on between our principal and the vice principal?”
I nodded hesitantly, not sure if I should let on that I knew.
“I have reason to believe our principal is losing the battle, and if he is overruled, Tamils like us will suffer. Our loyalties must therefore be with him.”
He paused for emphasis, then continued.
It seemed that the chief guest at the prize-giving in a little over a week’s time would be a minister of the cabinet, who, it was rumoured, was next in line for the presidency. This minister was an old boy of the Victoria Academy and was the principal’s last hope. “Vitae Lampada” and “The Best School of All” were two poems that the minister liked and knew very well because he had won the All Island Poetry Recital Contest with them. Black Tie would be creating his speech around those poems and he would appeal to the minister and the other old boys to prevent the school from altering. It was hoped that the poems would remind the minister of his schooldays and he would take some action.
“So you see, Chelvaratnam,” Mr. Sunderalingam concluded, “the student who recites those poems will have the honour of helping our beloved principal save the school.”
I stared at him not knowing what to say. I had come to ask Mr. Sunderalingam to get Shehan and me out of our current situation, only to be given further reason why I should be trapped in it. I realized that I’d been away too long and Black Tie would soon wonder what had happened to me.
“Sir,” I said, “can you help me?”
He nodded. “I’ll come by the office after school and tell him about your visit.” He saw the fear in my eyes and smiled. “Don’t worry, Chelvaratnam. Our principal is a strict man but he is not cruel.”
He nodded, indicating that our meeting was over.
I thanked him and went back towards Black Tie’s office, working over in my mind what he had said. He had told me all this about Black Tie as a way of justifying what had been done to me. Yet he had not succeeded in winning my sympathy. Mr. Sunderalingam had said Black Tie was strict but not cruel, but he was wrong. Black Tie was cruel. If not, how could he have made us kneel on that balcony for all those hours, how could he have slapped Shehan for having long hair and then cut off his hair in such a terrible way? I was not sure that, as a Tamil, my loyalties lay with Black Tie. I thought of Mr. Lokubandara and the way Salgado and his friends had assaulted that Tamil boy. I thought of the way Black Tie had beaten both Shehan and me. Was one better than the other? I didn’t think so. Although I did not like what Mr. Lokubandara stood for, at the same time I felt that Black Tie was no better.
The principal looked up from his work when I came into his office.
“What took you so long?” he asked.
“There was a long line, sir,” I replied.
He pointed for me to take my place on the balcony with Shehan. As I went past his desk, I glanced at him and was aware that I now saw him differently.
Mr. Sunderalingam came to Black Tie’s office when school was over. He walked in and approached Black Tie’s desk. Shehan noticed where I was looking and he altered his position so that he could see inside as well. Mr. Sunderalingam was gesturing towards the balcony and talking to Black Tie. Shehan looked at me, his eyes widening with the realization of what I had done during the interval. I smiled, trying to assure myself as well that the outcome would be good.
After a while Mr. Sunderalingam left. Black Tie continued to sit at his desk.
“What do you think will happen?” Shehan asked in a whisper.
Before I could reply, Black Tie pushed his chair back and stood up. He came to the balcony door and opened it.
“Chelvaratnam, Soyza, come in off the balcony,” he said.
He went back to his chair and we got up stiffly and went to stand in front of his desk.
“You are free to go.”
We stared at him in surprise.
“Hooligans,” he said, but there was almost an amused note in his voice. “Do you want to leave or are you too attached to my balcony?”
“To leave, sir,” we replied quickly.
“Then go,” he said, “before I change my mind.”
We turned and hurried towards the door, afraid that indeed he would change his mind.
When we got to the bottom of the stairs, we looked at each other in amazement. “It worked!” Shehan cried. “I can’t believe it!”
He laughed out loud and grabbed hold of me, spinning me around with him. Then he did a most unexpected thing. Quickly,
before I was aware of what was happening, he kissed me on the lips. My mouth must have opened in surprise, because I felt his tongue against mine for a brief instant. Then it was over. “Come on,” he said and grabbed my arm. “I’ll race you.”
Without looking at me, he began to run. I stood where I was, disoriented by what had happened.
He turned to me, saying, “Come on. Don’t be such a girl.”
Still dazed, I began to trail after him.
When I reached the classroom, he had already packed most of his things. Now his mood had changed and he seemed distant, almost angry. He didn’t even glance at me when I entered. I began to pack my bag slowly. He slung his bag over his shoulder, and, without a word, he walked towards the classroom door.
“Wait,” I called out.
He turned.
Now that I had asked him to stop, I didn’t know what to say.
“What’s the hurry?” I finally said. “Do you have a train to catch or something?”
He didn’t reply, but stood and waited for me to gather my things.
We began to walk down the corridor together. I looked at Shehan, but he refused to meet my eye. I felt that somehow he was angry at me, that I’d let him down. In the meantime, I was still trying to recover from the impact of that kiss, trying to understand what it meant.
We had reached the bicycle shed by now, and he still hadn’t said a word. He bent down and began to unlock his bicycle. I watched him, feeling that something was coming undone between us, something imperceptible. I knew that I had to act now to save it from unravelling completely.
“What shall we do this evening?” I asked abruptly.
He stopped what he was doing and looked at me carefully.
“What do you want to do?” he asked.
I shrugged. “I don’t know.” I was not sure of the correct response.
He shrugged too, as if he didn’t care. He began to wheel his bicycle out of the shed.
“Shall I come to your house?” I said.
He turned to look at me. Then he nodded and got on his bicycle.
Funny Boy Page 20
