Mosquito (19 page)

Giulia began reading Nulani’s letter out loud. The words erupted across the page, confused and desperate.

I don’t know what I’m doing here. I feel I can’t go on living. Everything is finished for me. Yesterday I was eighteen. How many more years of my life must I live? Have you no news for me? Have you nothing at all? I tried ringing you many times but the lines were down. Jim met me at the airport. He took me to the place where I’m now staying and a friend of his said he knows of a job close by. I haven’t gone out much since I got here. It’s so cold and I’m so tired, Giulia. I want to come home. Jim is busy, he is happy with his studies
but what is there for me here? All I really want to do is sleep. Waking is terrible. Will my whole life pass as slowly as this?

The writing meandered on in this way, starting and stopping, repeating itself, full of pain. full of the absence of Theo, understated, desperate. She talked a little about her brother. Giulia was alarmed.

Yesterday I saw Jim again. He is pale, the same, but paler. He’s my brother but we have nothing left to say to each other. Although he has been good to me we hardly speak. The astrologer was right. Jim talked about Amma. Why didn’t I go to the funeral? What could I say? Jim says I’m selfish. We met in the railway station café because he was in a hurry. Then he went back to Sheffield. He can’t see me until next term he said. I’m staying at the address you gave me. Using the money you gave me. I don’t know what else to say.

Nulani.

That was all. When she had finished reading it Giulia sat staring into space.

‘Perhaps we shouldn’t have sent her,’ she said uneasily. ‘She’s in a bad way.’

‘What was the choice?’ asked Rohan.

Giulia sighed. Why had they thought it would be that simple?

‘I know. I thought her brother might have helped her, somehow.’

Rohan made a sound of disgust. Then he took the letter from Giulia. Yes, he thought, it has been opened. Tomorrow he would make some enquiries about leaving.

‘If only they had married before this happened,’ Giulia said, beginning to cry. ‘She would at least have had his name.’

‘She would have had the royalties from his books too. Although,’ Rohan stared at his hands, ‘it’s only money. It won’t bring him back. She’d still be alone.’ He stared bleakly at some point above her head.

‘One day she’ll make money, you’ll see. That much I believe. She’s a damn good painter, you know. It won’t go to waste. You watch, it
will
surface. Give it time.’

He nodded, sounding more certain than he felt. Outside, the curfew had just begun. Thank God I still have a British passport, thought Rohan. And thank God Giulia was an Italian citizen. He wondered if it was possible to buy two tickets to London on the black market. Before it was too late.

After the disappearance of the Tamil brothers the atmosphere in the prison cell quickly turned to one of despair. The next day the small boy captured during the guerrilla fighting was taken out to the firing squad and shot. No one in the cell uttered a word. If they said nothing, maybe they could believe nothing had happened. On the afternoon of the following day, the metal door opened and the warden came for Theo. A simple interrogation, he said, just a few minutes. But first, a short journey. The old man shouted his goodbye first.

‘May God protect you,’ he said. ‘You’re a good man!’

Some of the others joined in.

‘Maybe we’ll meet in the next life.’

Before he could answer Theo was pushed outside.

He had lost track of how many months had passed. Barbed wire stood silhouetted in drums across the sky. It was late afternoon. Long shadows stretched across the ground. A fresh breeze lifted the edges of the heat as they began the drive to the army
headquarters. Perhaps because of the happiness he felt from being in the open, Theo experienced a sharp stab of optimism. He did not have the blindfold on this time, the warden was driving him personally instead of some thug. Could it be his release was imminent? Here and there he caught sight of a flash of colour. Birds, he thought excitedly, he hadn’t seen a bird in months. Then he saw glimpses of acid-green paddy fields and guessed they were somewhere in the eastern province. How he had got there was a mystery. He had been certain the first prison camp had been close to Colombo.

They drove on. Occasionally Theo thought he smelt the sea somewhere in the distance, but again, he could not be sure. Every now and then they passed the burnt remains of a village. They passed a truck overturned by the roadside, pockmarked and riddled with bullet holes. Once, this had been a fertile land with rice and coconut as the economy. Once, this had been a tourist paradise, lined with rest houses. The port had been an important naval base. Now there was not a single person in sight. He was hungry. They had left before the daily ration of food and uncertainty and hope were making him light-headed. After about an hour or so, he sensed rather than saw they were heading away from the coast towards the interior. Hunger gnawed at him and anxiety too began to grow. Where were they going? The warden had said it would be a short journey. Theo judged they had been driving for about two hours.

Suddenly the truck swerved and braked violently. In front of them was a roadblock. He had just enough time to register this before there was a loud explosion and a volley of gunfire. He ducked and the engine strained into reverse. There was shouting and then more gunshots. The truck swung backwards along the track they had just driven on, swerving and lurching. He tried to stand up, tried to shout to the driver, but the violence
of the movement sent him flying towards the door, hitting his head against the handle. He must have passed out.

It was dark when he came to. A foul chemical smell hung in the air and he could not see clearly. His head seemed to have a tight band holding it together. Slowly as he began to focus in the half-light he saw four lengths of thick rope attached to blocks of wood screwed to the ceiling. On the opposite walls were some metal plates attached to some electric wires. Someone was shining a torch directly into his eyes and his mouth seemed full of foam. He tried to speak but his tongue was unaccountably leaden and stuck to the roof of his mouth. Still the torch continued to be directed at his left eye and he realised that, once more, his hands were tied behind his back. They were talking to him in Tamil. They asked him a question. When he didn’t reply they spoke in English.

‘So, you Singhala bastard, so, you dog, what d’you say to us now?’

‘You thought you were in safe territory, did you? Oppressor of the Tamil people, why are you silent?’

‘Where’s your wonderful army to defend you now?’

‘The only good Singhalese is a dead Singhalese!’

‘Go on, beg. Beg!’

Again Theo tried to speak, tried in vain to say his name. He opened his mouth but no words came. In that moment it seemed that all the resistance within him, all that had kept him sane over the last months began to crumble. He could stand it no more. His mind had reached its limits. He saw a pair of hands coming towards him and a black sack was pulled over his head. The stench of foul-smelling chemicals grew stronger and was mixed with another smell, something that he vaguely recognised. Then they hit him. Soon he was suspended from the ceiling. His handcuffs were taken off and he felt something cold
being stuck to the palms of his hand and to the back of his neck. He knew, with the part of his mind still functioning, that he had entered a hell like no other. That this tunnel he was being forced down was narrowing to a point where every last glimmer of hope was being extinguished. He knew that the best option for him was that he should die now, here, and instantly. Someone peeled his trousers off amid hoots of laughter, and he hung for a moment while a flash bulb went off in his face. Something wet and putrid was smeared all over his nakedness. Laughter surrounded him like baying dogs, high and inhuman. Although the heat in the room was oppressive he was shivering and although he was crying no sound came from him. They hosed him down and the metal plates began to burn steadily into his hands. He felt the heat rise through him, swiftly reaching a point where he could no longer bear it. In a flash of understanding, moments before his body jerked into the air, he saw in the distance the stone face of a god he had once believed in, turning away. Then, mercifully, he passed out.

R
OHAN WENT TO THE BEACH HOUSE.
The doctor had found a man to drive him there. Giulia didn’t want him to go but he went, promising her that if there were signs of trouble he would turn back. The driver was a patient of Dr Peris’s.

‘You can trust him,’ the doctor said. ‘He’s helped other people for me. He’ll take you along the side roads. It’s safer than the coast road.’

The doctor spoke calmly, not wanting to alarm them. Knowing they were incapable of doing anything in their grief, he managed to make the house secure through a local contact. But he did not tell them this. Neither did he tell them that he had received a warning that the house was likely to be looted and probably vandalised. He did not tell them he had paid a man to watch over the place. He saw no point in upsetting them further. The doctor had admired Theo Samarajeeva’s books and he felt it was the least he could do.

‘It shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours to get there. He’ll come for you early. Take everything of value.’

So Rohan went. In spite of Giulia’s fears he went. In the end
it had taken fourteen months for the doctor to think it safe. On the morning before he left, a letter arrived from the girl. It was only her second letter, written months before, and this too, Rohan observed, had been opened. England, she wrote, suited Jim. He did not miss his home, she said. Unlike Nulani herself who thought of nothing else. The letter meandered disjointedly on.

Jim says home is a place full of foolish superstitions, best forgotten. He wants me to stop being so useless. But useless is what I am. I started to tell him a little about Theo, but I don’t think he really understands.

‘Well, that’s a surprise,’ said Rohan, grimly.

‘Listen to this, Rohan,’ said Giulia uneasily.

What use is anything without Theo? How can I say this to my brother? How can I tell Jim that everything I do, even eating, is a betrayal, because I live and he does not? Jim will never understand. How could he, he didn’t know him. I’m glad there’s no sun in this place. I’m glad it’s grey. I’ve never seen so many shades of grey. The sky, like my heart, is full of greyness.

The worst thing of all is that already, so soon, I have started to forget things. What is happening to me? All our memories, all the things we shared, those last hours, are not clear any more. Things I should not have forgotten are evaporating. And then, at other times, everything reminds me of him. But yesterday I couldn’t remember his face. However hard I thought, my mind stayed a blank. I have left all my notebooks in the beach house. All my drawings of him. My life. Everything.

‘Rohan, I’m worried. D’you think she’s…’

‘Why doesn’t she draw him from memory?’ murmured Rohan. He couldn’t bring himself to mention Theo’s name.

Some time later Rohan reached the beach house without a hitch. Bypassing the town the driver went towards the railway station and down a dirt track towards the beach. Nothing stirred. Flat-webbed fronds of fishing nets dried in the sun. Rubber tyres hung like nooses on trees waiting for men to swing for unknown crimes. Rohan looked nervously about. There were bullet holes everywhere.

‘I’ll turn the car around,’ the driver said.

Rohan saw him look sharply up and down the empty road. Something must have caught his eye.

The house, when Rohan entered it, had changed subtly. The outside had come in. Small plants grew in cracks; fine sand had blown in with the gales, bringing salty smells and scraps of rubbish. The house had an air of haste and sea grass. Three large terracotta urns stood half in shadows growing tired cacti. Nothing moved. The sea-moistened woodwork had small patches of mould. Months of wind and monsoon rain had left telltale marks of destruction everywhere; on the dust that fingered the pages of the many books lying around, in the open record player. A typewriter stood on a small table, one key, the letter ‘E’, stuck down as though in mid-sentence. Rohan passed into another room full of dried-up paint tubes. Stiffened rags, moulded into the shape of the fingers that had once held them, were scattered everywhere. Sunlight poured into an old glass jug. Two sea urchins and a pink conch shell sat on a shelf. There was a photograph of Anna smiling out at eternity. Rohan stared at it. It had been a beautiful day when it had been taken. The house, the place, the day, all seemed insubstantial suddenly. Rohan felt his stomach churn. He felt unutterably depressed. Sitting on a stool he lit a cigarette. He should not
have come. Every part of Theo’s life was public property here; stories fell open around him. The girl’s notebooks, the paintings, how many had she done, Rohan wondered with a sense of paralysis. He felt unable to move, the heat seemed to immobilise him. A typewriter ribbon spooled on the table. He felt grief, suppressed for too long swell inside him like seawater. But whatever he had hoped to find was not here. Bastards, he thought, bastards! He took those things he could carry, three paintings of his friend, the photograph of Anna, the girl’s notebooks. He began loading up the car. She must have what little is left of him, he thought grimly. He had not noticed the half-finished portrait of Sugi tucked away behind the mirror. They will be her memories now, he thought. And in that moment, he knew, he would leave for Europe soon.

Afterwards Theo Samarajeeva had no idea how many days or nights he spent in that place. Or how often they beat him with the hose, nor how many times he was burned. He did not recall being dragged by his feet to a cell where, semi-naked and bleeding, he was left for dead. Trauma locked his memory out. His hands were almost paralysed and there were great weals across his back. If he had had a wish it was simply to die. That he survived at all was a miracle, for in those lost hours, without pity and without witness, humanity itself was violated and what was left of his spirit was broken. Nothing in ordinary life had prepared him for this journey. Moving in a blur of constant pain to some sealed spot, silent, isolated and alone, he dreamt of the sea. It was blue and huge and the horizon rose before him, moving as one with the sky. Although he was unaware of it his body had finally given way to a fever. He shook uncontrollably, sweat poured from him and he grew weaker. But still, he remained only semiconscious. He had no idea if there were others around; he heard voices but they were indistinct. Lights flickered on and off. Sometimes he dreamt the
sea was on fire and he burned alive. And he dreamt of the girl. In his dream she told him her father had burned like a tiger, running through the streets. He saw her face, very serene and certain, her eyes large and very lovely. And he heard her talk to him. Her father, she said, had been running forever. It was time he stopped. And then, she reached down and touched the great wounds on Theo’s body. Screaming, he opened his eyes and found that he was lying on a bed in a white room. The sun had forced its way to the edge of the blinds. It slipped through the veiled slats in the windows and a cool breeze lifted the edges of the sheet. His body ached. Someone, some indistinct figure, stood over him offering him a glass of water. He drank it and the water tasted clean.

‘It was a mistake,’ the figure said. ‘I am sorry to say they got the wrong man. You aren’t one of them. It was a mistake. Some idiot was left in charge. So now, you must rest here and when you are better you will be released.’

The man addressed him in English. A bowl of hot rice was held out to him. Seeing it, Theo felt his stomach contract. He vomited before passing out once more.

It was several days before he was awake enough to understand that he was in a makeshift hospital in Kandy. This time when he woke, it was a different voice that talked to him.

‘We’re sending you to a safe house,’ the voice said. ‘To rest. All you need to do now is rest and eat and not worry. It’s been a bit of a mix-up.’

The voice made it sound very easy. He, it was a man, Theo saw, smiled thinly, showing gold-capped teeth. He told Theo that he had pardoned two other prisoners that very morning.

‘Nothing to worry about,’ he said. ‘It was an unfortunate mistake. You are our guest now. Just ask if there’s anything special you want to eat. We have a very good cook here! Tamil cooks are the best in the world.’

The man laughed good-humouredly. Outside the sun shone tight against the khaki blinds.

‘We are fighting for recognition and freedom,’ the man said, his eyes glazing over. ‘We’re fair-minded people. But sometimes in these troubled times, we make mistakes. It is impossible not to make mistakes during a war. Don’t forget,’ he said as though Theo had argued with him, ‘this is a war brought on by others. But you know all that!’

Two small boys holding Kalashnikovs stood guarding the doorway. They wore camouflage and around their necks were cyanide necklaces.

‘See,’ said the man, ‘they are your personal bodyguards. If there is anything you want just ask them.’

He smiled again and ruffled the heads of the boys, who grinned. Then he left. Theo stared after him, unaware that his face was wet. Outside the Kandyan heat simmered gently. He stared at a patch of uninterrupted sunlight. It was dazzling and very clear and also, for some reason, unbearable and full of life. Then he turned his face to the wall, away from the bright luminous heat outside, folding himself against the cool parts of the bed. Slowly, like the leaves of the nidikumba plant, he closed his eyes.

In Colombo, the dark face of the army was on alert for the beginning of the election campaign. White uniforms paraded the streets. They marched purposefully among the monks, the rickshaws and the propaganda blasting out of loudhailers. Angry mobs formed and re-formed like armies of beetles. Riots were hastily staunched only to spill out in other places. Outside the parliament buildings, and in between the cool water sprays of Cinnamon Gardens, the limousines glided like stately barges.

‘I simply cannot stand this any longer,’ shouted Rohan.

He had not painted for months. He had not stretched a single
piece of linen on its frame. His dead friend’s life spilled across every empty canvas. On their return from the beach house, the driver had noticed they were being followed. Later on, someone had tossed the bones of a chicken into the garden. Luckily Rohan had been outside when this had happened and he had managed to remove them before Giulia became aware of anything amiss. Then one morning a roadside spirit offering was left outside the gate. Rice and fish and pineapples were placed in a coconut woven basket, threaded with crimson shoe-flowers. Passers-by crossed the road to avoid it. Later on, Dr Peris came to visit. Two bombs had gone off in his part of town and his days had been spent dealing with the victims. The first blast had been the result of a suicide bomber. Dr Peris had come to talk privately to Rohan.

‘You should leave,’ he said. ‘While you still can. I can get you two tickets. One of my patients has a source…it isn’t safe here for you both.’

He looked meaningfully at the painter. His friend the driver had been watching their house, he said. There might be trouble ahead.

‘My advice is go. While you can.’

Two days later the telephone rang several times in the middle of the night. But when they answered it there was no one there. They had not heard from Nulani again. The post was no longer getting through. Rohan got the tickets. They would fly, via Singapore, to Milan. Then they would take the train to Venice. They had no place to stay in Venice yet, but it no longer mattered. Something would come up.

‘This place has defeated me,’ Rohan said. ‘Ultimately, even I have given up on my country.’

The new year had not brought peace. They were being buried alive. Someone threw a petrol bomb into a crowd and death stalked the city in a monk’s saffron robe. Petrol was in short
supply, except when it was needed for random burnings. How had two thousand years of Buddhism come to this? A Cabinet minister was assassinated, seventeen members of the public injured, three killed on a bus. Glass rose like sea spray, shattering everywhere. But the radio stations still played
baila
music in a pretence of normality although no one knew what was normal any more. They packed. Hastily, frightened to speak of their imminent departure, frightened to use the telephone, frightened to leave the house for long, they packed.

They were to leave at night. But because of the curfew and the unpredictability of the journey they decided to leave in early evening. They hoped there would be less likelihood of ambush if they left while there was still some light. The last of the sun was disappearing rapidly, the evening had a rosy glow, and the air was filled with the distant cry of birds. The plane would take off at midnight. Once in the airport their tension eased slightly. No one knew they were here and for the first time since Theo had gone they felt they were safe. The airport itself was subdued and empty. Security was much heavier since the bombings of eighteen months previously. There was only one flight out of the country and they had hours to wait before they could board the plane. But it was worth it, they told each other. Better than driving through the jungle in the dark, they said. The trip with Nulani had been enough, they added, remembering the last time they had come here. That too was already a lifetime away. And already, Giulia thought sadly, they had accepted Theo’s death.

‘I’ll never return,’ Rohan said with finality. ‘This time I’m finished with this place for good.’

He told her he had worried they would never be able to leave. He had been afraid, he said, that something would have stopped them, that one of them might have been captured.

‘The house was watched, you know,’ he told her, in the safety
of the airport lounge. ‘Every time I went out I knew I was watched and I wondered if I would return home again. Or if you were all right on your own.’

Giulia shivered. Now he tells me, she thought.

‘There was a man on the hill above the bay, watching us through binoculars. I’m not sure if he saw me take the paintings from Theo’s house. Not that I cared. I wanted Nulani to have something of him. But we were followed all the way back to Colombo.’