by Roma Tearne
By the time they got to the lane that led to her house they were late. She wanted him to stop the car before they reached it. Pockets of fragrance exploded everywhere, jasmine opened into the night, carried on the breeze. The fifth sense, thought Theo, is a forgotten one. Yet for most of us, memory comes with smell.
‘My uncle will be at the house,’ the girl was saying. ‘I want to thank you here, for taking me to meet your friends, without my uncle listening. He does not like to hear talk about my painting. He is a fool.’
It was the first time he had heard this tone in her voice. He thought how far she had come since he had first met her and how much older she seemed in so short a time. How happy she sounds, he thought, filled with gladness. Helplessly, he looked at her and as she smiled, he saw that her eyes reflected the moonlight. Slowly, with unhurried tenderness, hardly aware of what he did, he bent down and kissed her. He felt her tremble as he touched her, and he felt, too, his own sweet shock of surprise. He had never thought to feel this way again. He had been running for so long and now it was as though at last his heart had stilled. Something invincible seemed to settle within him. And then he was driving on, towards the bright lights of the house, and her brother Jim’s baila music, and her uncle’s snaking dislike. And all around, the Milky Way appeared to unfold in an endless canopy above them, scattering its stars far and wide, like fireflies rising in the dark tropical sky.
6
IT RAINED IN THE NIGHT BUT towards dawn the mist began rolling in from the sea. When it finally cleared, the day would be hot and dry as an elephant’s hide. The news on the radio was not good. Two Cabinet ministers and their families, returning to Colombo after the weekend, had been machine-gunned down. All that was left of them were limbs, studded with bullet holes, crushed to the edge of bone, brittle, like coral. No one knew who might have committed such a crime. This part of the island had always been considered safe. So it was a mystery how this could have happened. The army began putting up roadblocks everywhere in the hope of catching the terrorists. But so far no one had been arrested. Rumours were, the railway line would be the next target. In the main part of the town, further along from where the Mendis family lived, small groups of men gathered to talk of this latest, unaccountable act of violence. The air of nervousness, even here in this backwater, was no longer possible to hide. A few fights had broken out in the streets and Mrs Mendis begged her son to stay away from the town. He was leaving at the end of August. The priest at the boys’ school had organised his visa. Mrs Mendis did not want anything to ruin his future. She was torn between her desperation for Jim’s safety and her agony at the thought of his imminent departure. Fear and anxiety, and also irritation towards Nulani, mixed confusingly within her. There was so much to do for Jim and all the girl had wanted was to go to Colombo to talk about her paintings. Why was she such a selfish child? Why did she care so little for what was left of her family? Here was her mother, working night and day to make ends meet, and all Nulani could do was paint. Mrs Mendis complained loudly about her daughter to the servant. She complained about her to the clients who came with sewing. And she insisted Nulani stay in and help her.
‘You’ve had your day gallivanting with that poor gentleman,’ she told Nulani firmly. ‘He’s a good man to take such interest in you, but today you can finish the jersey for your brother to take to England. And then you can clean the house.’
Jim cycled off to his tutor’s house. He had some final preparations. And Nulani Mendis sat alone on the veranda step watching him go.
It was how Vikram saw her, spying through the branches of the mango tree. He had been preoccupied for the last week, busy doing important things, being seen by as many people as possible, taking the shopkeeper’s daughter to the back of the garage, drinking. Of late the shopkeeper’s daughter had begun to irritate him. She had, he realised, become too fond of him and had stopped fighting and started smiling instead. As a result Vikram was becoming bored. He knew he would have to wait a while before Gerard gave him his next task. Gerard was lying low for a few days, he guessed, waiting until the news had died down, until someone had been caught and hung. So with no other excitement ahead Vikram was at a loose end. On his way back from the kade, he passed the Mendis house. Idly he decided to see who was in. Perhaps this was the moment to get to know the uncle.
But it was the girl he saw instead. She was knitting her brother a jersey to take to England. Knit one, purl one went her hands, binding the dark green wool together. They were painter’s hands, moving quickly, making work. Vikram paused. He had come to see her uncle and found himself staring at Nulani Mendis instead. He watched her cautiously from this safe distance. Something about her made him careful. As always, whenever he caught sight of her, he felt uneasy without quite knowing why. Perhaps it was the tranquillity of her manner; perhaps it was the mysterious certainty in her face. He knew she might suddenly look up and see him, so he held his breath, hiding behind the ambarella tree. Her smile gave him the oddest of feelings. It made him remember things best forgotten, things that were no longer his to remember. But the girl did not look up. She was absorbed in her knitting. Knit one, purl one went her hands. Vikram was shocked to see her knitting. His shock was mixed with confusion, for thus had his sister knitted in that other, abundant life that once belonged to him too. The garden was filled with the sound of small birds. An underripe fruit thudded to the ground but still the girl did not look up. She bent over the dark green wool and for a moment, a mere fraction of a second, it seemed to Vikram as though the day had stopped. Shadows crossed the ground. A child’s voice could be heard in the distance, repeating a question over and over again, high and clear. The rich hum of a passing mosquito vibrated in Vikram’s ear. There were mosquitoes everywhere since the rains had begun. But the girl did not see them; she did not see Vikram either. She had a soft look on her face, like the nearly ripe mango that had fallen too early. She looked beautiful and dark, and mysterious. When she had finished all she meant to do, Nulani stood up and glanced swiftly across the lane. Then she sighed, and, folding up her knitting as though it were a precious thought, went inside.
Vikram watched her retreating back. He saw that even when she walked there was a peacefulness about her. His curiosity grew. What was it about this girl that drew him to her? He knew nothing more about her than the idle gossip surrounding Mr Mendis’s death. From where he was, he could see the cool, dark interior of the house quite clearly. He could see also that it was shabby and withered and, in a way, hopeless too. None of this surprised him. Someone had told him that the family had slowly disintegrated after Mr Mendis had died. He could not remember who had said it. Perhaps it had been a student at the school, knowing of his dislike for Jim Mendis. But anyway he sensed this house had seen better times. Vikram imagined Mr Mendis, before his outspoken poetry had killed him, walking the beach with his daughter, carrying his young son. And the young Mrs Mendis, what had she been like? People said in those days she was always smiling. He imagined the house would have had energy then. Now, from where he crouched, he could see the place was a mess. Cricket bats and shoes, he supposed they belonged to Jim, shed like a gecko’s skin, strewn everywhere. Vikram edged a little closer and he saw there were empty cotton reels and bits of thread and cloth lying on the floor. He could hear the sound of the sewing machine rattling on and, further back, through the closed doors, he heard raised voices. He watched as Nulani Mendis, ignoring everything, began to tidy up the room. There was something oddly dreamlike in the way she moved, he thought, puzzled. It was as though the girl was somewhere else entirely. She began folding her brother’s clothes. She gathered up his books and picked up his shoes. Vikram watched. She moved his cricket bat and his kneepads. And she knocked the mirror over.
The mirror, shattering the light, crashing against her brother’s shoes, his cricket bat, his kneepads. It fell to the ground, breaking into many pieces of silver, fragmenting the room, spewing dust, bringing Mrs Mendis in. Mrs Mendis let out a cry, a t
hin wail of despair, a long whine of sorrow. Broken-mirror dust was everywhere.
‘There is no escape,’ cried Mrs Mendis, ‘Aiyo! My brother was right.’
Misfortune lay across the room. The girl stood looking at her hands while her mother’s fears clogged the air. Vikram could feel her fears, even from where he stood, prickling against his own skin. He felt them, darkly unbending. Only Jim’s cricket bat remained unharmed. Only Jim, out at the time doing whatever came easiest to him, did not witness the broken glass. Lucky Jim.
Theo had not slept. Happiness stopped him from sleeping. It was no longer possible to hide from his thoughts. The truth washed bare, rising to the surface, clear and clean like the beach. Had it only been a matter of hours? he wondered in amazement. He felt as though he had been travelling for aeons. Sugi had been waiting for him when he finally got back. The lights in the veranda shone, the beginnings of rain dampened the air, and the sound of the waves seemed louder. Sugi had gone for his beer as soon as he heard the gate and Theo insisted he join him. So they had sat and smoked in companionable silence for a while.
‘I will set the table, Sir,’ said Sugi. ‘You must be hungry.’
But he had not wanted food. And Sugi seeing this, waited patiently.
‘Have I changed, Sugi?’ he asked. ‘Since I first arrived here, do you think I am different?’
‘Of course, Sir,’ said Sugi. ‘You have been changing for months now.’
‘How?’ asked Theo, wonderingly, smiling, wanting to be told.
‘You are happier, Sir, you know; really, so much happier. You were very sad when you arrived, but…’
‘What? Tell me.’
‘I…Sir…you must be careful. I understand and I’m glad to see you this way.’
He did not ask how the day had gone. He knew it had gone well. So he nodded gently instead. For Sir was being blessed by the gods in some way. What was there for him to say?
‘I’m no longer…a young man, you know, Sugi,’ Theo said hesitantly. ‘You know that…it isn’t…I’m worried about this. I will grow old long before her…’ He laughed.
Again Sugi hesitated. The effort of denial had been great, he knew. Now that barrier had been removed. Sir’s face was radiant. It made Sugi both sad and happy.
‘Some time has been lost, Sir, that’s true,’ he said at last. ‘You had to wait for her to be born, to grow. But she is here now. In your life. I think, for ever,’ he added.
‘Ah, Sugi,’ said Theo, looking up at the star-spangled sky.
He felt overcome, he felt happiness detach itself from him and float towards the trees. Filled with a sudden burst of energy, he wondered if perhaps he should do some work. And then, he thought, perhaps he would simply go to bed. Sugi smoked his cigarette. He was silent. Sir’s happiness was such that it should not be disturbed. The darkness enfolded them both.
‘Sugi!’ said Theo at last, looking at him. ‘If only you knew…how lucky I was that day to meet you! What would I have done had I not? It was as if you were waiting for the train I was on, waiting for the last passenger to walk up the hill.’
He shook his head, smiling broadly, wanting to say more, unable to express all he felt, his optimism for the future, and his affection for Sugi. But there was no need.
‘Perhaps I was,’ said Sugi. ‘Without realising!’ In the light his face looked tired.
‘You mustn’t worry about me, Sugi,’ said Theo, gently. Tonight, he felt his heart was overflowing with almost unbearable gladness. ‘Things are simpler than you think. You know I have to go back to England briefly, don’t you? For the film?’
Sugi nodded.
‘But I’ll be back as soon as I can.’
‘Everything will be fine here. Don’t worry, Sir. I will look after things here,’ he said, meaningfully.
There is no finer friend to be wished for, thought Theo. I hardly need to say anything, he knows already. And he smiled in the darkness.
‘I think I might go for a walk on the beach. I’m not sleepy. And the day was a success, you know. Rohan loved her. And her paintings!’
‘Be careful, Sir,’ said Sugi, out of habit. But he spoke softly, as though afraid of breaking some spell.
Twenty-eight years, thought Theo walking across the smooth sand, listening to the screams of the wide-mouthed gulls. All the madness and hell of this country seemed nothing beside the astonishment of what he felt. The last love of my life, he murmured, that’s what you are. There, he thought, I’ve faced it; that’s what you are. Beyond reason, beyond practicality, that is what you are. And then he remembered her hands and the ways in which they made sense of the material world. Where has this talent come from? Will you love in the same effortless way that you draw? How will you love? Dare I even ask the question? I am forty-five, an old man by your standards. And in spite of the implausibility of our two ages, even as I hear the warning bell, I know it is too late, I will never let you go. He saw that he had arrived at a point of no return and that the girl had left her imprint on his imagination in ways he could never have foreseen. Throwing his head back, breathing in the fresh salty air, laughing out loud, he understood with the utmost certainty there were no more journeys for him to travel. Gazing up at the stars, dizzy with happiness, he cried: ‘This is where I shall stay, until I die. Here in this place, with you.’
And as he watched, the ships on the horizon seemed sharply defined, glittering like diamonds against the night sky. Yes, he loved her. And yet, he thought, wistful now, you who are only just beginning to close the gate on your childhood, how could you understand the wonder of loving so late?
Looking out across the water, into the distance, he imagined her father speaking to her. She had told him that her father used to say: ‘There’s nothing except Antarctica from here. Nothing, no land, nothing.’ Staring into the darkness, Theo tried to imagine her six-year-old incomprehension. And then his thoughts turned slowly towards Anna, seeing her with fresh understanding. Remembering too how once, many years ago, he had walked across another, wilder stretch of beach with her. They had been newly married. He had not known that after she died time would stop. But now, at last, he began to understand the indestructibility of things. Overnight almost, the memory of her had shifted and changed and miraculously, no longer cluttered by pain, become a peaceful thing. And it felt, in that moment, that Anna and their time together threaded like the strong ribbon on a kite, running through all he had just discovered, anchoring him. In this way, thought Theo, the dead return to bless us. In this way, through the new, will I remember the old.
He stayed out almost until dawn. And went back to sleep. When he woke Sugi had set the tea things outside on the table and he told Theo that the talk in the town was all about the murder of the two ministers and their families.
‘We saw it,’ Theo said quietly.
Not wanting to talk about it, not wanting the day to be spoiled, he told Sugi about Colombo and the lunch with his friends, and the girl. The day was hot. Sugi bought some fish. He cooked lunch and squeezed lime juice for the girl. But she did not appear.
‘I expect her mother has got some jobs for her,’ said Sugi, noticing Sir was not working. Noticing he had walked to the gate and was looking up the deserted dirt track for the fourth time.
The afternoon dragged on. The sounds of the cicadas filled the air and the mosquitoes too were back with a vengeance. But there was still no sign of the girl. They both began to listen out for the click of the gate. Theo had found a place to hang the paintings, away from the light, and Sugi took a hammer and put them up. But still, there was no sign of her. What had happened to her? wondered Theo uneasily.
‘Don’t worry, Sir,’ said Sugi soothingly. ‘My friend said Mrs Mendis is very upset the boy is leaving. She’s probably given her some work to do.’ The afternoon was nearly over.
‘Perhaps I should go over there,’ said Theo.
‘Sir,’ said Sugi, and he shook his head. ‘It will do no good and it might even do harm. She will come. A
s soon as she can, she will come, I am certain.’
Towards evening, just before it became dark, Theo slipped out to the beach. Sugi watched him go.
‘Don’t be too long, sir,’ he said. ‘There’s talk of a curfew. If you see the searchlights, come back immediately. These army types won’t stop to look. They simply shoot, you know.’
As always at this time the beach was deserted. Theo was trying to light his pipe, bending away from the wind, when he saw her. Hurrying across to him in headlong flight, running heedlessly along the empty stretch of sand. Carrying her mother’s wails of superstitions, chased by unseen demons, straight into his arms. And for the first time, as he held her like a child, relieving her of her fear, he saw how much she had begun to depend on him. And he saw also from her eyes that she was beginning to understand, too sharply and too finely perhaps, the many things that had not worried her until now. At last she saw what there was to be afraid of in this war. And he felt his own feelings for her break open and flower in some unbearable and inexplicable way.
Mirror dust fell everywhere, sparkling between them. Looking at her face he thought, once again with amazement, how it was that in so short a time, she seemed both older and yet so young. And then he knew, without a shadow of doubt, that he could never live in England again. So he laughed at her, teasing her about her mirror-fears, holding her as though she was a child woken from a nightmare, telling her it was all nonsense.
