The hotel owner laid out a simple breakfast for us on the veranda and, after we had eaten, we would go down to the beach, go out on the bike, run, surf, walk or just loaf around together in the room doing nothing. On a few days we paid for a guide and explored the lagoon which is full of wildlife, especially beautiful kingfishers.
There were also times when we both had bursts of energy, doing things that were as wild as we could make them. Sometimes, when the madness struck again, it was beyond the reach of the vocabulary that I would want to muster here. That was just immediate, overpowering and, afterwards, so funny that we often found ourselves laughing to the point that we had tears streaming down our faces.
‘What was that?’ ‘Säg det igen på Svenska.’ ‘You’re kidding.’ ‘OK, brilliant.’
That sort of thing. That’s joy. Then Josh snoring. That isn’t.
Most of the time, though, it wasn’t like that at all. Fresh fruit, coffee and bread in our room in the morning, that’s the image I remember, rosetinted though it may be. We learnt some yoga together. We learnt massage. Then things went smoothly, easily, into their natural course. Watching, explaining, asking, showing. And in the night time, after the heat of the day subsided and we had showered we both knew what we wanted. And then we slept. We slept in peace, really deeply.
Other times we went out on the bike, riding around like twenty year olds. There is nothing like the freedom of motorbiking. We took it in turns to ride pillion - and riding pillion properly involves mutual trust and balance because you have to learn to lean the right way at the right time. Many of the roads here are still rubbish, full of potholes, they haven’t repaired the main street in Pottuvil yet after it was ripped up by the tsunami. The civil war doesn’t help.
I had ridden bikes for years and was confident, Josh hadn’t and wasn’t. Initially, when we first got the bike in 2005, he made some fantastic mistakes that left me with nothing to say other than ‘Oh, fucking hell, that was close.’ Sometimes the sheer exuberance of the moment would get the better of him and he would zigzag (by which I mean wobble) down the road, singing. Singing! Well, eventually (maybe there is a God in heaven) he learnt to ride the bike properly but only after I had learnt that underwear is replaceable.
For the first few weeks at Arugam Bay I didn’t want to leave Josh’s side and, although I didn’t give him the option, I think that he felt the same. But after a while we started to give each other space and that’s when I really took up surfing again. We did a bit together but, to my surprise Josh did not really take to it – or maybe he just saw that it was something he could step back from because he knew that I enjoyed it. I had surfed a lot in Croyde when I lived in Devon as a child and so knew the ropes, whereas Sweden is not generally known for its surfing opportunities. So, after a few weeks I started surfing on my own for a couple of hours a day with Josh usually sloping around on the beach being a lazy bastard. Surfing, motorbiking, hot sun, good beach. Loads of time to relax. It was a good couple of months.
From Arugam Bay we then headed inland, along the winding A4, to a place called Belihuloya. That’s where the waterfall was.
There are loads of waterfalls around Belihuloya. Pahanthuda Falls, which are about a mile out of Belihuloya and have a base pool which is said to be shaped like a clay lamp, are well known and very much on the tourists’ beaten track. We went there a couple of times and swam in the pool but it felt like a spectator sport. We also walked to some of the bigger waterfalls, including the Bambarakanda Falls which are the highest in Sri Lanka and boast 48th place amongst the world’s highest waterfalls, so they say, but I can only say that I was totally nonplussed by that sort of thing.
But we found another waterfall after a couple of weeks. The hotel owner told us about it but said people rarely went there because it was five miles away and the path went through some dense vegetation. He warned us about snakes, but we had leather motorcycle boots and wore those when we walked. We took a guide with us when we first went. It is an image from there that I have stuck in my mind and I want it to be the last thing that I paint here.
CHAPTER SEVENTY
The wide river falls lazily for about ten feet into the pool below the waterfall, its flow divided by a large rock that lies sleeping at its head. At the base of the fall the pool is wide and, in places, over six feet in depth, too deep for me to stand. In the middle of the pool there is another large, flat rock that stands proud of the water and provides an obvious place to lie or sit. The top of the rock is dry and warmed by the sun.
The river seems almost to meander its way over a shallow bed of stones before sliding over the top in sheets of silver water and emptying itself into the pool, throwing up a gentle spray at the bottom. The current in the pool is slow, pregnant from the river’s release. The water at the head of the fall and also in the pool below is crystal clear and tastes beautifully fresh. Small balls of water skit across the surface of the pool, as if made of mercury before disappearing into the stream, reminding me each time I watched them of how human life disappears into God. Because the water had come from the mountains it felt cold and tasted clean but with a slight flavour of the rocks and vegetation that it had crossed on its way. There were no signs of humanity’s spoiling hand and we never left any marks of our own trespass upon this reserve of nature.
The vegetation around the fall was dense but, although branches overhung the edges of the river, there was nothing to obstruct the sunlight above the fall or the pool. The air smelt fresh and clean, full of spray but bearing the discrete scent of the plants around it. The sound of the river was constant but hidden within its music were notes of infinite variety with the birdsong giving the treble part to the piece. The insects in the trees were the percussion section.
The combination of sound, smell and nature was electrifying. It was a place for the Gods of old.
And where were we in that picture? Well, I see you, lying again in your wet shorts on the rock at the head of the fall, looking down at me as I swim in the pool. I see your smile, your beautiful, beautiful smile and I see your eyes. I see you watching me, both lazily and closely as I swim and I look up to you as you lie on the rock. And I smile back at you as I loaf around in the pool, turning in the water, playing under the waterfall, swimming into and out of the slow current, watching you. From time to time I claw my way up onto the rock in the middle of the pool, shake myself dry and warm myself there before diving back into the water. You keep lying on the rock, watching. Watching and smiling.
‘Josh, how do you say lazy bastard in Swedish? Is it lat jävel?’
There are pebbles and small stones on the rock where Josh is lying and he picks up a handful of them.
‘Ah, min kära engelsman. Simma. För nu har jag dig i min makt’ - ‘ah, my dear Englishman. Swim. For now I have you in my power.’ I hope my Swedish is right – probably not.
Then you pelted me with the pebbles and stood up to jump into the pool.
I called you a ‘jävla Viking’ - a fucking Viking and beseeched you ‘bespara kvinnor och barn’ - spare the women and children. You just told me that I needed to work on my Swedish and bombed into the water, frightening me that you might hit the bottom of the pool. But you didn’t.
There is a wide pebble beach (is that the right word?) on the opposite side of the pool from the waterfall, far enough from the trees to light a fire; when the river flooded the water must have reached beyond the beach to the edge of the vegetation. There was plenty of dry wood around so we used to light a fire and lie on our clothes, smoke side down from it to keep the flies away, drying out in the warmth of the sun, looking up into the endless sky above, our sides touching.
‘This is where God lives. In this time and in this place.’ That’s what you said.
‘No, Josh, it isn’t.’ I rolled over on to my side, resting my weight on my right forearm. I looked down at your face as you looked up at me, smiling. I put my free left hand on your chest.
‘This is where God lives.’
Then I moved my face slowly down to yours and I kissed you. ‘Simon.’
‘No, Josh. No words.’
I moved to lie on top of you, using my elbows to shield you from my weight. I held your face in my hands and I kissed you again. Gently, kindly, softly – in the way that you had taught me.
‘Josh. That is where God will always be.’
That is how I felt.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE
And how did you feel? What did you tell me?
‘Simon, I want you to close your eyes. I want you to picture that we are sitting down together on a clear day at the top of a mountain looking down on a field of swaying and golden corn far below us, just before the harvest.’
‘Van Gogh?’
‘No Simon, this is not about Van Gogh. Close your eyes. I want you to imagine that, in the middle of the field, there is a sandstone gateway with its doors wide open.’
I reached for your hand. Then I closed my eyes.
‘Can you see it?’
‘Yes, I can see it Josh.’
‘Now I want you to imagine that there is a path that leads across the cornfield, through the gateway and out to the other side. Can you see that?’
‘Yes, I can Josh.’
‘Now I want you to imagine that you and I have walked along that path, through that gateway and up here to the top of this mountain.’
‘OK.’
‘And I want you to imagine that the view from the top of this mountain is the most beautiful thing that you have ever seen. The most beautiful thing that you have ever known. I want you to feel the warmth of the world around you and to look at the path as it continues down the other side of the mountain until it disappears in the distance across the landscape. I want you to smell the earth around you and listen to its sounds.’
‘OK.’
‘Simon, that gateway is the love that I bear for you. We have walked together through that gateway and we are now way beyond love, in a land where we both belong. We will continue to walk along that path side by side and as we do so the world will keep getting more and more beautiful. And, at the end of the path, there is a clearing in a wood where we will both rest together for eternity. That is where the wild hyacinths grow.’
I opened my eyes and took hold of your other hand as well. Then I just looked at you.
‘My father called them that, too.’
‘What?’
‘Bluebells. He called them wild hyacinths, too.’
CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO
We stayed in Belihuloya for about six weeks, went up a soggy Adam’s Peak and then went walking in the northern side of Horton Plains National Park. There are no more wild elephants in the park due to over hunting in the past and very few leopards, if any - we certainly did not see any. However, the park is teaming with vegetation, bird life, deer and butterflies. We spent easy and happy days there before returning to Unawatuna at the end of August for a week to check everyone there was OK. Then it was back to Arugam Bay before the monsoons set in. Back to the same hotel for a couple of months, back to the same way of living, playing in the sun. Then in late October the rains started and it was time to go back to Unawatuna in readiness for the busy time of the year at the hotel - the hot season starts there towards to the end of November and lasts until April, and Christmas was looming. We had been away for nearly six months. On our own and it had worked. Well, it had more than worked.
Sunil and Raja were pleased to see us but it was obvious that they had been fine while we were away and had developed a routine without us. Raja had taken on paid help in the hotel and the place now hummed like a proper business under his sole management. It all seemed to have ticked along nicely enough during the wet season but we knew that the next two months would be busy. Although we helped, things were different for us by then; we were no longer integral to the working of the hotel.
It was during that time that I raised another thing with Josh that I had been thinking about a lot.
‘Josh, what do you think we should do about the people we know in Europe?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Your family. My family. Our friends.’
He had been thinking about it too, I could tell.
‘Do you think we could be in touch with your parents?’ I knew that it would mean a lot to him to heal that wound.
‘Let me think about it. It’s a big deal.’
‘I know. I just want you to know that I want to help with it.’
‘What about you?’
‘Well, my mother’s hardly going to welcome me with open arms but I would like to get in touch with Jennifer again.’ I hadn’t written to her for months.
That all took a lot of discussion before, eventually, Josh wrote to his parents, Alfred and Dagmar and, a couple of weeks later, got a letter back.
Josh read it quietly and I could see that he had tears in his eyes by the time he had finished it.
‘What does it say?’ I put my hand on his shoulder as he sat on one of the benches outside the hotel.
‘It’s my mother. She has said sorry. They want me to be in touch with them.’
‘How do you feel?’
‘Simon, would you mind if I did get in touch with them?’ He looked up at me and then looked down at the sand on the beach.
‘Josh, you don’t need to ask me.’
‘I do. I want to ask you. It matters.’
‘They must be lovely people and you must be really precious to them. You’re their only son. Please get back in touch with them.’
‘Thanks…and your mother?’
‘Well OK. I’ll try. But that’s different.’
He did write back and then there were text messages and a few phone calls.
‘Why don’t you Skype them’ – that was Sunil’s suggestion. The hotel internet was working by then and, like all kids of his age, Sunil knew more about it than we did.
We left it until after 3 December so as not to risk wrecking that first anniversary if things went wrong but then he and his mother arranged to speak by Skype. I left Josh to it – the computer was at the back of the reception area of the hotel so it was hardly private but they spoke in the middle of the afternoon and there was not a lot going on. I told Josh that I would wait for him in the shack.
‘How did it go?’ I asked when Josh came in after about twenty minutes.
Josh lay down on the bed next to me and curled into my side.
‘Thank you. That has meant so much to me.’ Well, that had worked too.
‘Josh, when the time’s right – and not before – I would love to meet your mum and your dad. And Anna. Only when the time’s right and only if you want to tell them about me.’ He needed my support with this, I knew. It would put so many things from the past right for him if this worked.
After he had Skyped them a few times, he told them about me and they seemed to take it, to accept it. He told them what we planned and what we had done together. He told them everything.
‘It’s the only way that it will work. If I am honest to them from the start. Then there are no disappointments.’
Then, shortly before Christmas, he spoke to them again and said to me: ‘Mamma has asked if she and Pappa can speak to us both on Christmas day. She said that it would make their day. I know that it is a lot to ask.’
‘It isn’t. I would love to talk to them. Thank you for asking.’
It was very strange to be introduced to them as Josh’s partner. For some reason I felt like a tart. Josh found it difficult too and stumbled with his words. But his mum, Dagmar was incredibly kind. I had not been introduced openly as Josh’s partner before to anyone, because you just don’t do that here, so to be introduced in that way for the first time to his parents felt odd, somehow very western. I also felt that Josh’s dad, Alfred, was less comfortable about it all than Dagmar but realised that was probably a father and son thing. His sister Anna joined in the call for a bit and, even over the flickering Skype picture, I could see the family resemblance.
Josh and his parents agreed to speak to each other every week on a Sunday and I would often say a few words as well, so in the end we all loosened up a bit. They were visibly excited and, I think, saw it as a chance for a new beginning. I hope so.
The quid pro quo (spot the former lawyer, old habits...) was that I had to agree to write to my mother and also to Jennifer. Writing to my mother really was weird because I did not know what to say, so I told her the lot in a fairly tightly worded letter in French, to try to make it seem more appealing and personal. About six weeks after I wrote I got a short letter back in her distinctive hand writing. I think that she must have thought that I had in mind to turn up at the farm in Nuits St Georges with an outrageously gay lover. Her letter ended with ‘je te souhaite la bonne chance’ and she signed off with ‘adieu,’ which is pretty final.
‘Perhaps we should turn up in drag,’ I joked after I had read it.
‘Simon, I am so sorry.’
‘I knew that it was coming. My life is not going to fit in with the life of a Catholic and conservative widow living on a family farm in Burgundy, is it?’
‘Still, I am really sorry, Simon.’
‘I know, Josh. But, you know, you’re my family now. I don’t want more.’
‘Simon, don’t do that. She’s your mother. I need you to talk to me about it. About her. You’re shutting me out by pretending it doesn’t matter. It does matter. I need to know that I can help you with it.’
So we did talk about it. A lot. And Josh was right. It did matter to me a lot. I had forgotten the sadness, the loneliness that I felt as my mother shut down on me after my father died, consumed by her own grief and isolation. I had forgotten my resentment of the church into which she retreated. I had forgotten the downpour of tears that I cried on my own at night, afraid of the dark as I heard her crying on her own downstairs listening over and over again to the same music. I had forgotten my hatred of the kitchen in the house where we had remained after my father died and the way that I used to step round the tiles on the floor in the area where I had found him. I had forgotten the times before my father died when my mother would smile, kiss me, hold me at night. And the times when I succeeded at school and at university and only my grandparents were there to see.
The Water Is Warm Page 34
