The Flower Boy (4 page)

Her wet diya reddha outlined every contour of her slim, supple body. At the well, she looked her age and not a day older.

She was twenty-eight.

She was not beautiful, but her olive skin was smooth and clear, and her eyes were like cinnamon stones, dark brown sometimes, lightening to dark gold at others.

Under them, her nose was too small and her mouth was too wide. While she wasn't strictly beautiful, she was at least unstrictly so.

With water dripping down her body and slivers of sunlight on her face, Chandi thought she looked like a laughing brown goddess.

After he had lathered himself, she would take her pol mudda and scrub him from head to toe. The rough fiber sometimes made his back sore but mostly it tickled, especially when she got to his feet.

After they had both finished, she washed the clothes.

He enjoyed that part too. Watching her lay each piece of laundry down, rub it with soap, gather it into a bunch and scrub it, then dash it against the washing stone. He helped her hang them out on the two long clotheslines near the well. This was their talk time.

“School okay?” she asked.

“Mmmm,” he mumbled back, reluctant to get into school talk.

“Been studying hard?”

“Mmmm.” He wished she would talk about other things, tell stories about her childhood in her village of Deniyaya, like she did sometimes.

“You have to study hard if you want to be somebody. Look at your father and me. You don't want to be like us. You should be a doctor or something,” she said.

He didn't know exactly what he wanted to be besides a rich England returnee, but he definitely knew he didn't want to be a doctor.

The only doctor he knew was Dr. Wijesundera at the free Nuwara Eliya clinic, and everyone said he was a quack. His own mother said if a person was not already dead, a visit to Dr. Wijesundera would kill him. He smiled a lot, displaying dirty yellow teeth. He had long, dirty fingernails too, and from the way he dressed, he didn't make much money either.

No. Medicine was not an option for Chandi.

However, he had had this conversation with his mother enough times to know the dangerous direction it went in—bad report cards, too much playing and not enough studying, complaints from teachers, etc.

It was time to change the subject.

“Ammi, look! There's Krishna peeping from behind the kumbuk tree!” he exclaimed.

She swung round angrily. “Krishna! You worthless lecher! I told you the next time I caught you peeping, I'd tell Appuhamy! Get back to your work, you shameless animal! Just wait and see what I'll do to you!”

Krishna slunk off sulkily. There was always tomorrow.

Premawathi would carry on hanging out the clothes, muttering to herself. Chandi would feel sad that the precious time of closeness was gone, but it was better than the school talk.

Once the last bit of laundry was swinging lazily in the afternoon breeze, she returned to her brisk, busy self.

“Hurry up, hurry up. We can't stay out here all day. I've got my work and you've got your homework,” she'd say.

And so Chandi, like Krishna, would wait patiently for tomorrow.

THE SKY WAS still a dull gray, so he had no idea what time it was. He wondered if Ammi would bathe him today, although he doubted it. Besides, he had already had a bath. Sort of.

Through the veil of rain he could see the mountains rising like vague specters, their tops thickly swathed in mist. Down the path, he could see the smaller mountain of muddy earth that had slipped down the hillside. He could just make out the tiny figures of the people clearing it.

Most of them wore colorful sweaters to ward off the chill; they looked like a colony of exotic ants crawling around a giant anthill.

His mother rushed into the kitchen, startling him. She dumped her arm-load of bedsheets in a corner, lifted the big iron kettle from the woodstove and was on her way out when she saw him.

“What are you doing?” she asked suspiciously.

“Nothing,” he replied in an aggrieved tone. Couldn't a person just sit without being asked why?

“Well, don't get into trouble and don't go inside the house,” she instructed.

“Ammi?”

She looked back at him.

“Has the baby come yet?”

She shook her head in exasperation. “What's it to you? Now stay out of trouble,” and she was gone.

It was everything to him. There hadn't been a new baby in the house as long as he could remember, and he was excited. He had already decided that this baby was going to be his special friend. He thought about digging up his two rupees and buying the baby a present, but then changed his mind. England was more important. Besides, when he got back he could buy the baby all the presents it wanted.

He stood up. There was still the business of the red-and-green-checked shorts on the croton hedge to take care of.

THE CORRIDOR WAS long and dark. Chandi edged his way along until he reached the dining room. The dining table was there, a huge ebony affair with six carved legs that ended in lions' paws. The twelve chairs around it also had lions' paws. He was slightly afraid of those paws although he knew they were wood, because once he had dreamed that they had come to life and grabbed him.

In spite of the large vase of fresh flowers on the sideboard, the dining room looked dark and gloomy. It was deserted.

There were four doors leading off the dining room. One to the side veranda where the ginger beer was, one to the far end of the driveway, one to the pantry and one to a small guest bathroom. They were all closed. The long corridor that connected the dining room to the drawing room, the one where the bedrooms led off, was dark and silent.

Chandi tiptoed to the bay of windows that overlooked the garden, trying not to make his ankles creak, which they did anyway. He slid behind the curtains and pressed his nose on the thick glass windowpanes, trying to spot the croton hedge. The still-pouring rain made visibility difficult and he couldn't see very far, which was both good and bad. It was good because nobody looking out of the dining room window would see his shorts. It was bad because it meant he had to venture even farther into forbidden territory.

Everyone had to be somewhere, and if they were not in the kitchen and not in the dining room, then they had to be down the other corridor.

Having come this far, he knew he had to keep going. He silently slipped down the dark corridor like a small ghost. Past Anne's room, the door to which was shut, past Jonathan's room, which was empty, past the seven other bedrooms used for guests who arrived in their loud cars with their loud offspring. Then the set of rooms that the Sudu Mahattaya and Sudu Nona slept in. After that, the corridor widened into the large, formal sitting room, where the Sudu Nona held court on evenings when people came to visit.

Everything was quiet, even his ankles thankfully.

The scream was so sudden that it made him scream in fright too, but it was so loud that it drowned out his own scream. A spider scuttled out of a corner and made its indignant way to another corner. Chandi pressed himself against the wall, trembling, as the scream tapered away into a thin, high wail.

Quietness descended on the corridor again, like a thick choking cloud. It was almost as terrifying as the scream. He felt a coldness on his legs and discovered he had wet himself.

The kitchen was too far away now, so he had to keep going toward the living room. He took two trembling steps forward, and froze as the darkness ahead was suddenly broken by a tiny, trembling light.

He had just enough time to make out the Sudu Mahattaya's dim form before the match went out.

And then another scream split the silence open.

Chandi pulled open the door behind him and ran inside the empty room, searching wildly for its windows. For a brief moment, he thought there weren't any, and then he saw them, shrouded by curtains.

The window hadn't been opened in quite some time; after much struggling and a set of bruised fingers, he finally yanked it open, climbed out and let himself drop down to the ground below.

The impact jarred him and the pain temporarily took precedence over his fear. He covered his face with his hands and sat there, wishing he hadn't gone out in the rain, wishing he hadn't taken off his clothes, wishing he hadn't left his shorts on the croton hedge. Most of all, he wished he was back in their little room off the kitchen.

After a minute or so, he opened his eyes, brushed away his tears and looked around. The first thing he saw was his shorts on the croton hedge, in plain view of the world. He ran over, grabbed them and flew around the outside passageway to the back garden. He didn't stop running until he was inside their little room.

“Chandi, what happened?”

He yelled in fright, and spun around to see Leela sitting in a dark corner of the room.

“Nothing, nothing. Buster scared me, that's all,” he managed, trying to hide his wet shorts behind him.

“You're all wet. You shouldn't have gone out in the rain,” she said.

He looked down at himself. She was right. He was wet and he didn't even remember getting wet. Then he looked at her. She didn't sound loud and bossy like she usually did. This was a softer Leela. A frightened Leela, he realized suddenly.

He dropped his shorts in a soggy heap behind the door and went over to sit with her. She absently rubbed his wet head, not seeming to mind that the sleeve of her dress was getting damp from his shirt. They sat there for a while, each with their own thoughts, united by their individual fears. He was afraid even to speak, but he had to know.

“Leela.”

“Hmmm?”

“What's happening? Where's Ammi?”

She still rubbed his head. “With the Sudu Nona.”

“Is she all right?” he asked.

“Who, Amma?”

“No, the Sudu Nona,” he said.

“I think so,” she said uncertainly.

He looked up at her.

“Did you hear?” he asked.

“Hear what?”

“You know, the noises,” he said, “like when Krishna kills the turkey at Christmastime.”

“Yes,” she murmured.

“Were you afraid?”

“Yes.”

“Don't be afraid,” he said. “I'll look after you.”

She laughed shakily.

He sat quietly, relieved that she hadn't asked how he had heard the noises. He breathed in the smell of her deeply, as if that would unwind the impossibly tight coil of fear that hurt his stomach. Her smell was like Ammi's: a mixture of freshly washed clothes, Pond's talcum powder and coconut oil.

He smelled of urine.

“Leela! Leela! Where is that girl!”

It was their mother. Leela jumped up and ran into the kitchen, Chandi at her heels. Ammi was standing there impatiently with another bundle of bedsheets in her arms, checking the kettle, which was boiling once again.

Had it been that long? he wondered.

“Put these with the others to soak and give that child something to eat,” Ammi said, thrusting the sheets into Leela's arms at the same time. She picked up the kettle and started back down the corridor. Leela rushed to the door.

“Amma?” she said questioningly.

She suddenly smiled and nodded. “A girl,” she said.

Leela had long gone. Chandi still stood there, his thoughts in a whirl. A girl! Was that what all the noises had been about? A girl born to the screams of her mother. A new baby, not yet taken by anybody. He would show her all his secret places. Show her all his secret things. A best friend. His very own best friend.

A grin split his face.

“Babygirlbabygirlbabygirlbabygirlbabygirlbabygirlbabygirl,” he sang, doing a wild jig in the middle of the empty kitchen.

Exhausted by his dance and the events of the day, he sank to the floor. He wondered when he would be permitted to visit his new friend. He looked outside.

He wondered when the rain had stopped.

He trotted off to change out of his urine-smelling shorts. Three pairs in one morning. He would have a lot of explaining to do.

SIX HOURS LATER, Chandi was more than a little discouraged.

Ammi seemed to have disappeared. So had Leela. Rangi knew nothing. The other three servant girls didn't even know a baby had been born, and had giggled behind their hands when Chandi had asked them. Krishna didn't even bother to answer. And Appuhamy also seemed to have vanished, not that he would have said anything to Chandi anyway.

It was nine o'clock. No one seemed interested in dinner, although the alarm in Chandi's stomach had sounded over an hour ago.

He had gone out while it was still light to examine the garden after the rain.

The leaves wore a well-washed but slightly bruised look, like Chandi after a pol mudda scrubbing. His England fund was safe, the flat stone still in place although the coins were streaked with mud. He carefully rubbed each one, face side and writing side, on his shorts and replaced them under the stone.

Satisfied that England was still a distinct possibility, he had returned to the kitchen to await his summons.

None had come.

Outside, the generator hummed steadily. Rangi looked up from the book she was reading.

“Are you hungry, Malli?” she asked.

“I don't know. I suppose so,” he said gloomily.

She looked up at him. “Are you okay? Did you get into trouble?”

“No,” he muttered sulkily.

She stood up and dusted the back of her dress. “Well, let's find something to eat. You have to go to sleep soon, or you'll never wake in time for school tomorrow morning.”

He looked at her in alarm. “I'm not going to school tomorrow.”

“Why? Are you not feeling well?” she asked in concern.

“I'm staying home so I can meet the new Sudu Baby and help to look after her,” Chandi said loftily.

She laughed softly. “Chandi,” she said gently, “Amma will look after the baby until the new ayah comes. I'm sure you'll see her soon, but you've got to go to school tomorrow.”