“Wait!” I cried. “I don’t know the address.”
He got off his bicycle and opened his bag. He took out a piece of paper, wrote his address on it, and handed it to me.
“About five-thirty?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said, and got on his bicycle and rode away.
It was only once I had got home that my shock over Shehan’s kiss wore off. Then all I could think about was the sensation of that kiss. I lay across my bed, trying to relive it, but it had happened so fast that I could not remember very much. I closed my eyes and tried to recreate it, lingering over the details, playing out the incident and extending it into the realm of imagination. First my mind’s eye rested on Shehan’s face, the fullness of his lower lip, the slight ridge above his upper lip, as if someone had taken a light-brown pencil and outlined it. Then I imagined him kissing me, not quickly but slowly, lingeringly, so that I could feel the full impact of the kiss. I tried to remember the instant when his tongue touched mine. It had been rough and wet, but beyond that I hadn’t had a chance to experience how it felt or tasted. As I lay there, looking up at the mosquito net above me, I realized I had not only liked that kiss but I was also eager to experience it again in all its detail and sensation.
Shehan lived in a big house in the exclusive neighbourhood of Cinnamon Gardens. The house had a high wall around it and a takaran-covered gate. I leaned my bicycle against the wall and knocked on the gate. He must have been sitting on the steps waiting, for he immediately appeared. When he opened the gate, he seemed nervous about something. He greeted me shortly and then led me into the house.
The inside of the house was in a poor state. The red floors had not been stained for so long that the grey of the cement showed through. The upholstery on the settees was faded, and the wooden arms of the chairs were unvarnished. As I glanced around me, I somehow knew that Shehan didn’t have a mother. As if to confirm my thoughts, an old bent-over servant woman came out of a doorway behind the stairs and looked at me and then at Shehan with an inquiring air, as if she owned the house.
“A friend,” Shehan said to her, embarrassed, and then hurried up the stairs, calling to me to follow.
When we were inside his room, he slammed the door shut and locked it.
“She thinks she owns the house,” he said, seeming now to relax a little. He grinned at me and said, “Welcome to my humble dwelling.”
The furniture in the room was old and heavy and belonged to another era. The bed was very high, almost level with my waist, and the four bedposts were carved.
“It belonged to my grandmother,” Shehan said, noticing me studying the bed.
“It’s nice.”
He shook his head. “It’s too hard,” he replied, and to demonstrate he sat on the bed and bounced up and down. He indicated for me to try it as well. I did so. Now Shehan was lying back on the bed, watching me. He had suddenly become very serious and he was looking at me as if waiting for me to do something. I glanced at him and then at my hands, feeling awkward and afraid by the intensity of his expression. I felt a tightness in my stomach. He was waiting for me to act, but what was I to do? Did he want me to kiss him? I was not sure how to go about it, given that his face was too far from me. The moment was beginning to pass, and soon I knew that it would be too late. I sought desperately for something to say and, before I could stop myself, I blurted out, “Do you have a mother?”
Shehan drew in his breath. He sat up, then he got off the bed.
“I mean, where is your mother?” I said, trying to cover up.
He went to the window and stood there, looking out. The expression on his face was sombre. “My parents are divorced,” he said, after a moment. “My mother lives in England with her new husband.” His voice was dull and heavy as he spoke, but I knew that the reason for this tone was not because of his mother but because of what had just happened between us. Shehan put his hand to his forehead as if suddenly tired. Then I knew that I had disappointed him. He had expected something from me and I had been unable to provide it.
“I better go,” I said.
He nodded and turned away from the window.
When Shehan bid me goodbye at the gate that evening, he was polite, in the same way he would have been with a stranger. As I cycled home, I felt frustrated and angry at my own inadequacy. I had failed both of us in some significant way.
My family was already in the middle of dinner when I came home.
“Where have you been?” Amma cried when she saw me.
“I went to visit a friend,” I said and slipped into my seat.
Everyone looked at me with interest because I had never had a friend before.
“That’s good,” my father said. “I’m pleased you’re making friends at the Victoria Academy.”
“Who is this friend?” Amma asked.
“Shehan Soyza,” I replied abruptly, not wanting to talk about him. I noticed that Diggy was watching me closely. I ignored him and began to help myself to some stringhoppers and curry.
“Where does he live?” my father asked.
“Cinnamon Gardens.”
Both my parents seemed pleased at this, for it meant that Shehan was from a good family.
“Why don’t you invite him to lunch on Sunday?” Amma said.
Diggy frowned at me and shook his head, telling me to decline Amma’s offer. I felt suddenly irritated with him, an irritation compounded by my feeling of failure at Shehan’s house.
“Yes,” I said to Amma, “I would like that.” I smiled mockingly at Diggy. “I’ll phone him right after dinner.”
Later, Diggy came to my room while I was writing in my new 1983 diary, a present from Neliya Aunty, who wanted me to have something to “contain all my scribblings.” From the look on his face, I knew that he had come to chastise me for inviting Shehan. I closed the diary and raised my eyebrows to show that he was disturbing me. He sat down on the corner of my bed.
“You’re going to be sorry,” he said to me.
“What?” I replied in a rude tone of voice.
“You’re going to be sorry for being friends with this Soyza or Shehan or whatever his name is.”
“And why is that?”
He was annoyed that I was pretending not to understand what he meant. After a moment he smiled and said, “I can’t wait for Appa to meet Soyza. Then he’ll definitely know that you’re …” He stopped himself, but I knew that he was talking about what my father seemed to fear was wrong with me. I straightened up in my chair and watched him carefully. I knew that if I was to get anything further out of him, I would have to push him into revealing it.
“You’re talking through your hat,” I said in a dismissive tone. “Amma and Appa will like Shehan. Everybody likes Shehan. You know I do. Very much.”
The statement had the desired effect on Diggy. He looked at me intently. “What do you mean you like Shehan very much?”
I was not sure how to answer this. “I just like him,” I said, trying to make it sound like the most obvious thing in the world.
“How?”
“What do you mean, ‘how’?”
“How do you like him?”
I fiddled with the lock on my diary, disconcerted.
Diggy smiled. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.
“Of course I do.”
He shook his head and stood up. “You don’t.” He crossed to the door, but before he went out he said, “You just be careful.
That Soyza could easily lead you down the wrong path.” He left, closing the door behind him.
Then the meaning of what Diggy had said hit me, and a realization began to take shape in my mind. A fact so startling that it made my head spin just to think about it. The difference within me that I sometimes felt I had, that had brought me so much confusion, whatever this difference, it was shared by Shehan. I felt amazed that a normal thing – like my friendship with Shehan – could have such powerful and hidden possibilities. I found myself thinking abou
t that moment Shehan had kissed me and also of how he had lain on his bed, waiting for me to carry something through. I now knew that the kiss was somehow connected to what we had in common, and Shehan had known this all along.
Sunday arrived and I was as excited as I had been during the spend-the-day mornings of my childhood. Before getting up, I lay listening to the sound of the birds in the guava tree outside my window. The moment I had waited for since Friday night was finally here. Soon Shehan would arrive, and after that anything was possible. I was excited but also scared. I worried about being inadequate to do what was expected of me. I feared that, once again, I would blunder into saying or doing something stupid, and Shehan would want nothing more to do with me; that he would think me stupid and naïve and turn away from me with disdain.
When Shehan finally arrived, I couldn’t help studying him, as if I hoped to find my discovery physically manifested in his person. I led him to the back to show where he could park his bicycle, feeling shy and tongue-tied in his presence. I searched my mind for things to say, but nothing came. He must have sensed my uneasiness for he, too, was quiet.
As we came back towards the front of the house, we saw that Sonali and some of the girls from our neighbourhood were playing hide-and-seek. They invited us to play with them, and even though we were both too old for such a childish game, I agreed. The silence between us had now grown embarrassing, and I was afraid of what would happen if we were alone with nothing to do. Sonali was the catcher, and while she stood by the front verandah, counting to one hundred, we all ran to hide. I motioned to Shehan and he followed me. I led him down the driveway and into the garage, leaving the door a little ajar so that Sonali wouldn’t think this was where we were hiding.
The garage was dark, except for the light that came in through the doorway. There was an old chest of drawers at the back, and we huddled up against the side of it. I was standing behind Shehan, and he turned to me. We grinned at each other delightedly, our earlier uneasiness forgotten in the fun of hide-and-seek. We looked towards the door and waited for Sonali to come and find us.
In the silence of the garage, all I could hear was the sound of our breathing. Then the rhythm of Shehan’s breath changed slightly. I glanced at the back of his head. He was staring at the door, but I knew that he was no longer looking at it. I felt a dread begin to build inside me as I recognized what was happening. Shehan was giving me another chance to make up for my inability to act the last time we had been alone together. I knew I had to do something this time. It was my very last chance. Not fully understanding what my gesture meant, I reached out and put my hand on his hip. His breath caught for a second, then it escaped. He moved back against me. We were still. My heart was so loud in my chest that I felt it drowned out the sound of our combined breathing. Tentatively, like a bird approaching an outstretched palm, I began to inch my fingers towards his stomach, ready to remove my hand at the slightest indication of displeasure. Soon my hand was on his stomach, and now I could feel through his cotton shirt the rhythm of his breathing. I paused, not knowing how to proceed from here. As if he had read my thoughts, he covered my hand with his and squeezed it. Then he turned towards me and his eyes were bright in the dark. I waited. He leaned forward and placed his mouth on mine. He closed his eyes but I kept mine open, fascinated by the muscles of his face, the way they tightened and loosened with the movement of his lips. Now, I could feel his tongue against my teeth, a silent language that urged me to open my mouth. Before I quite knew it, I was responding to the prompting of his tongue. My eyes closed then and my mouth opened. As in a dream, I felt myself slipping into a blackness where all my thoughts disintegrated. The entire world became the sensation in my mouth and Shehan’s tongue probing, retreating, intertwining with mine.
Then Sonali’s voice called out, “Ready or not, I’m coming.” Shehan pulled away from me with the sigh of someone who has been awakened from a pleasant sleep. I opened my eyes, unsure if the world around me was a part of my dream or reality.
Sonali’s footsteps were coming up the driveway towards the garage door. Shehan lightly placed his hand on the side of my face. Then he turned to the door. Sonali now appeared, standing in the doorway.
“I’m here,” she said tentatively, peering into the garage. “I’m coming to catch you.”
We didn’t respond or move.
She stood there for a few moments longer and then, either because she was afraid of the dark or because she thought she was mistaken and we were not in there, she walked away.
The moment she had left, I drew Shehan back against me. He sighed and tilted his head up to me. Now I kissed him. I was aware of my mouth in a way I had never been before, aware of its power to give and receive pleasure. My hands, of their own will, began to circle his stomach and chest. I could feel the contours of his ribs and the indentation of his navel. He took one of my hands and moved it down to his trousers. After a few moments, he turned around towards me, and I felt his hands pulling at the buttons of my trousers, the elastic of my underwear. I began to fumble with his buttons, unable to open them. He had to undo them himself. Then he kissed me again and I was aware of the heat of his body against mine as he pressed me against the wall. Once again, I felt myself slipping into darkness, as if I were sinking to the bottom of a pool where only smell, taste, and sensation existed.
It was soon over for me, however, and I felt myself being pulled back to reality, like a swimmer to the surface. I now became conscious of my naked backside pressed hard against the rough wall, bruising every time Shehan pushed up against me, of the squelching sound of Shehan’s body against my now wet stomach, his breath loud in the stillness of the garage, his hands on my hips in a painful grip. I looked at his face, his expression one almost of pain, and suddenly it was too much for me. I wanted him to stop what he was doing, but before I could say anything, his hold on my hips tightened and he began to thrust even harder against me. I struggled, trying to push him away from me, but he was oblivious. All at once he sighed deeply and became still, and I felt a wetness against my thighs. I stood motionless, helplessly angry, the wetness a violation. Shehan breathed in sharply, straightened up, and moved away from me.
His expression now belonged to the Shehan I knew, for he smiled and winked at me conspiratorially. I wanted more than anything to be out of that garage, and I bent down and began to pull up my underwear and trousers. As I buttoned myself up, I could feel the wetness soak into my clothing. I began to walk quickly towards the garage door. Shehan was getting dressed and he called out to me to wait for him. I stood impatiently while he tucked in his shirt and buttoned his trousers. He walked towards me, and when he was right by me, he leaned over and kissed me. I drew away from him. His tongue felt like a damp towel.
When I stepped outside, I was momentarily blinded by the glare of the sun. I squinted and looked down the deserted driveway. Sonali and her friends must have given up on us and gone to play another game. Shehan and I made our way to the front of the house. I felt suddenly afraid at the thought of meeting anyone. I looked down at my trousers to see if the wetness had seeped through. Except for a small spot, it was not visible. Shehan’s clothes were wrinkled, and I glanced anxiously at mine, wondering if they, too, bore signs of what I had just done in the garage.
Shehan noticed that I was looking myself over and he smiled. “Don’t worry,” he said, teasingly. “You look fine.” I ignored him and continued to inspect my clothes.
The front verandah, too, was deserted. As we went up the steps, I heard the clatter of cutlery and plates in the dining room and the murmur of voices. We had been in the garage so long that my family had started lunch. Now Shehan seemed a little alarmed too.
When we entered the dining room, the family looked up at us.
“Oh, there you are,” Amma called out jovially. “I was wondering where you had gone?”
“We went for a walk,” I said.
“At this time?” Neliya Aunty said. “You could have caught sunstroke,
child.”
My parents and Neliya Aunty were looking at Shehan, waiting to be introduced. Diggy was glowering at him.
“This is Shehan,” I said.
My parents and Neliya Aunty bowed their heads slightly.
I indicated to Shehan to sit down in a chair across from me. As I pulled my chair out, I saw my father glance at Amma and, in that instant, I knew that he disapproved of Shehan. Had he sensed his difference? I felt a sudden dread at what had taken place in the garage, and I shuddered inwardly at the thought of what would have happened if my father had discovered us there. Diggy had become conscious of my father’s disapproval, and he smirked at me triumphantly. All of a sudden his story about the head prefect came back to me. I stared at Shehan and realized, too late, the truth. Diggy’s story had not been a lie, and, worse, I had let Shehan do to me what the head prefect had done to him.
I looked around at my family and I saw that I had committed a terrible crime against them, against the trust and love they had given me. I glanced at Amma and imagined what her reaction would have been had she discovered us, the profound expression of hurt that would have come over her face. She noticed that I was studying her and she smiled. I looked down at my plate, feeling my heart clench painfully at the contrast between the innocence of her smile and the dreadful act I had just committed. I wanted to cry out what I had done, beg to be absolved of my crime, but the deed was already done and it couldn’t be taken back. Now I understood my father’s concern, why there had been such worry in his voice whenever he talked about me. He had been right to try to protect me from what he feared was inside me, but he had failed. What I had done in the garage had moved me beyond his hand.
Amma began to ask Shehan polite questions, as if to make up for the disapproving look on my father’s face. As Shehan answered, I watched him, feeling resentful, angry at myself that I had done such awful things with him. I thought of the expression on his face as he had pushed against me, and I felt a sudden contempt and loathing for him. It seemed hard to believe that I had longed for his kiss the whole weekend, had waited with such expectancy to discover more. Now I wished I had never invited him, never set eyes on him.
Funny Boy Page 21
