The Hungry Ghosts (37 page)

“Don’t make a nuisance of yourself, Puthey, and disturb Chandralal on a Saturday evening.”

Rosalind had been standing outside the back door on the verandah, and when I came out she grasped my arm, forcing me to stop. “Baba, please don’t get involved any further.”

“But Rosalind, what can I do? I am involved. His life is in danger.”

She shook her head in distress but let go of me.

As the car took me to Kotahena, I reviewed what I would do. I still felt it was a bad idea to tell Sriyani, but I would use her and Tudor Jayasinghe’s renown to make Chandralal release Mili. I would assure him that if he let Mili go we would not report the abduction, as it would compromise my grandmother. Part of me watched this cool planning with wonder.

When the car stopped in front of Chandralal’s house, I sat, hands in my lap, palms pressed together as if in prayer, bilious at the thought of having to be meek and diplomatic. I got out and knocked on the gate. A peephole slid open and the security guard glared out. “Ah, mahattaya!”

He opened the gate beaming, escorted me up the driveway, rang the bell and told a surprised servant to get Chandralal. Then he bowed and returned to the gate. How incongruous his respect was, given the begging mission I had come on.

I sat on that red velvet sofa with its stink of animal fur and gazed at the glass-fronted cabinets filled with his wife’s bric-a-brac. The porcelain crinoline ladies, cavorting horses, European peasants, Japanese dolls in silk kimonos, Wedgwood bowls, platters and tea set were the same sort of trappings my grandmother and ladies of her social stature amassed.

After some time, Chandralal came out wearing a sarong and buttoning up his dress shirt. “Ah, baba,” he gave me a keen look, “what a pleasant surprise, what an honour. Wait, let me ask my wife to bring you a drink.”

“No, no.”

He lowered himself languorously into a chair across from me as if settling in for a long, relaxed chat.

“Chandralal, I want you to release my friend. He has done nothing wrong. My grandmother has completely misunderstood our friendship and has assumed all the wrong things about it.”

“What has she assumed, baba?” he asked mildly.

I dropped my eyes under his gaze. “Vile, untrue things. She is just jealous of any friendship I have. Even when I was a child, she did not like my mother spending time with me and tried—”

“Your grandmother is a good woman,” Chandralal interrupted gently. “She is renowned for her pious deeds. Look at this bana maduwa she is building.”

“I have promised my grandmother I will no longer see him. Within a year, I will get married,” I found myself adding. “It will be entirely her choice whom I marry, Chandralal. Also, I am guaranteeing you that my friend will not speak of this abduction. Neither he nor I would want to see an old woman suffer. You know, Chandralal, I could go to Sriyani Karunaratne, who runs the human rights organization where my friend works. Do you know who my friend is? He is the son of Tudor Jayasinghe.”

“But what will you tell these people, baba? Particularly Mr. Jayasinghe? He will surely want to know the reason for your grandmother’s anger against his son? And if he wants some action taken, won’t he have to tell his friends in the police or army about her reasons too? They will want to know.”

Chandralal turned from me to his wife, who came in bearing a tray with glasses of lime soda and a bowl of fried del chips, “Ah! Here are some refreshments.”

As I took the glass he held out I understood I was at his mercy. I had to do as he wished if I wanted to protect Mili. So I forced myself to eat their chips, drink their lime soda and chat to his wife, all to show Chandralal I was obedient.

Later, as he walked me down the driveway, I made one last attempt to assert myself. “The leader of those men you sent advised me not to inform the
police. I have followed his advice, Chandralal. I am keeping up my part of the bargain. You must keep up yours, Chandralal.”

“Ah, baba, you worry too much.”

“So, it’s a promise, you will release him?”

He clapped me on the shoulder. “You are like a son to me, baba. Would I do anything that would cause you true distress?”

“Thank you, Chandralal.” I grasped his hand and shook it. “Thank you.”

My grandmother was waiting for me on the verandah. “So,” she said, as I came up the front steps, “it was just as I said. No harm will come to that Jayasinghe boy.”

I collapsed into a chair and leaned my head back, eyes closed.

“And what did Chandralal say?”

“He will not do anything that would cause me true distress.” My voice trembled with weariness.

“There, Puthey! It will all be resolved by tonight. That Jayasinghe boy will be home safe and sound.”

I turned towards her as a thought struck me. “How did you know where we went?”

“I called Mrs. Karunaratne’s assistant and got the address. After all, you went there before, no?” She gave me an indulgent smile that faded into a defeated grimace under my glare.

I was revolted by the sight of her, yet straining not to show it, reminding myself over and over of that apartment in Toronto, how wonderful it would be to wake every morning with Mili, how he would gently cuff my chin before he got out of bed, just as he had at the beach house.

My grandmother retired for the night, but I stayed on the verandah, eyes riveted on the gate, as if longing hard enough would bring Mili on his motorcycle to stop outside. I thought again of going to Sriyani, but after seeing Chandralal I knew it would be a misstep. I clung to how he had said I was like a son and he would never cause me true distress; reminded myself of his affection for my grandmother, for me, his loving indulgence towards his daughters, his jolly wife.

Rosalind started to close up the house and I went to bed after instructing her not to padlock the gate in case the Jayasinghe Mahattaya came by. I did
not change into my sarong but lay down as I was. The events of the day had exhausted me.

I was woken just before dawn by the faint clang of the gate being opened. A vehicle came slowly up our front driveway, the gentle grumble of tires crushing gravel. It passed my window and stopped under the carport. I heard the clunk of one of the vehicle’s doors, Rosalind hurrying across the saleya, her murmur of greeting. Chandralal replied gruffly and their footsteps clipped towards my grandmother’s room. I sat up in my bed, clutching the edge of the mattress. I heard the lilting of their voices and then my grandmother letting out a choked gurgle. I rushed to the saleya. Chandralal was coming out of my grandmother’s bedroom. Our eyes met and I saw he was frightened. He strode on towards the front door.

I found my grandmother lying with her arm across her eyes.

“Aacho?”

She lowered her arm and her gaping horror made me fall to my knees by her bed.

“Puthey, those men … they did not know to be careful with that boy. One of them struck him. He fell and hit his temple against the corner of a table and …” She began to cry.

I grasped her hand. “What are you saying, Aacho?”

“In the middle of the night, they took the body and released it beyond the reef so it will not float back to land.”

I got up and hurried towards the door as if I had somewhere urgent to go.

“Aiyo! See what that boy has brought on us. He was a curse from the moment he walked into this house.”

I made it to the verandah before I had to sit down in a planter’s chair. Rosalind came and squatted by me. “Baba, do nothing, do nothing. Our Loku Nona is involved in a murder now. How can she spend the rest of her life in prison?”

Before I could respond, the phone rang. Rosalind frowned. “Should I get it, baba?” I stared as if not understanding her question. She went to answer, then returned. “It’s the Karunaratne Nona.”

A panic took hold of me. “Tell her I’m not here,” I whispered. Rosalind continued to stand there uncertainly and I finally got up and went to the phone.

“Shivan,” Sriyani said abruptly. “I am coming to see you.”

“No, no, I … I’ll come to you.”

“You will come right away, won’t you?”

“Yes.” I licked my lips. “Yes now.”

I put down the receiver.

My grandmother had come out of her room. “Who was that, Puthey?” she asked cautiously.

I shook my head in dismissal and went towards the front door.

“Aney, Puthey, tell me, will you? Tell me.”

The driver was standing ready by the car, having been woken by the commotion and guessing his services would be needed.

There was a Sunday calm all around as we drove along Bullers Road to Cinnamon Gardens, the sun rising. Early devotees were entering a temple, summoned by the bell’s dolorous clang and chanting of the monks. The women wore white saris, the men white pants and shirts. They carried shallow round coconut-frond baskets, overflowing with araliya and jasmine. How disconnected this serenity was from me; and yet this very disjunction made my present anguish all the more real.

I was terrified at having to tell Sriyani what had happened to Mili. “Ah, no,” I whispered, shaking my head. For I could hear her crying out that we could have saved him if only I had told her what I knew.

The driver let out a low exclamation. “We are being followed, mahattaya.”

A man on a red scooter was tailgating us. He wore a black helmet, only his eyes visible. When he saw me staring, he raised his hand briefly in acknowledgement. I wanted to sink into my seat, but a modicum of pride made me sit straight and stare ahead.

While we waited for Sriyani’s gate to be opened, Chandralal’s man parked across the road and took off his helmet. I had seen him before on various occasions. He smiled in a friendly, deferential way. I looked away.

It was Piyasena, from the beach house, who let us in. His left arm was in a sling. A dark bruise bloomed on one side of his face like a purple hibiscus. I stared at him in horror as we drove past, and he held my gaze with miserable anger.

Sriyani and her husband were on the verandah, faces set, as if prepared for bad news. “I’m being followed,” I said, as I went up the steps, “I’m being followed.”

“Are you sure?” Sriyani asked.

“Yes, yes, it’s his man, Chandralal’s man. I know him. He’s probably the one who followed us when we went to Mount Lavinia and—”

“Shivan, Shivan.” Sriyani grabbed me by the shoulders.

“He needs a cup of tea,” her husband said.

There was already a tray with cups and teapot in the living room. Sriyani sat on the couch and I collapsed into an easy chair. Her husband stood a little distance away, watching. She had lost her usual composure, features gaunt with worry. Her hand shook as she poured me some tea.

She waited for me to have a few sips, then took a deep breath and let it out in a stuttering sigh. “I dread to ask, but I must. Where is Mili? Is he alive, do you know?”

I began to cry. Sriyani leaned forwards and shook my knee. “Shivan, gather yourself together. Every minute makes the difference between Mili being alive or not.”

I put my head in my hands, hardly able to breathe between sobs.

“Stop!” Sriyani pulled my hands away from my face. “Stop crying or I will give you a slap.”

I forced my sobs down, chest aching.

“That’s better now,” she said gently.

I told her of Chandralal’s visit that morning, the news he had brought. Once I began, I could not stop talking, spilling out the story of how my grandmother had discovered our relationship, how she had called on Chandralal to intervene. By the time I finished, Sriyani was bent forward, fingers pressed into temples. Her husband had gone to stand at a window to hide his shock.

“I should have come to you right away. I should have taken my grandmother’s discovery of us more seriously. I, more than anyone, should have known what she was capable of. By my stupidity I killed him. You warned me, Sriyani. Why didn’t I listen?”

“Shh, Shivan.” She pressed my shoulder.

In the stillness I could hear a flock of babblers in the garden, the hiss of frying in the kitchen.

Sriyani turned to her husband. “What are we to do, Priya?”

“Well, Sriyani, you know what you always say.”

“Protect the innocent and vulnerable first.” She sat back, hands cupping her neck, gazing at the ceiling.

“Yes, that’s right.” Then he added, “Piyasena.”

“And Mili’s parents.” She continued to address the ceiling. “It would kill them to be confronted with their son’s true nature.”

“We cannot bring Mili back. Nor do we have proof to back up any accusations.”

Sriyani hunched forward, her hands clasped, jaw pushed out. She looked so sad and tired. “We shall say that Mili was spending some time at our bungalow alone. He went for a late-night swim and currents …” She rubbed her forehead. “I’ll make some calls. Let friends at newspapers know about this accidental drowning.

“Priya, can you call the police station in Bentota and report Mili’s disappearance? I don’t have the strength for that. All you have to say is he might have drowned. They will understand, and the rest will flow smoothly.” She smiled bitterly. “Yes, our state machinery is a well oiled one when it comes to these obfuscations. We received it well oiled already from the British.”

Sriyani started to walk towards her study, then stopped and stared speculatively at me, as if she had forgotten I was there. “You must get your grandmother to tell Chandralal our decision. You also need to leave.” Just in case I misunderstood, she added, “Leave for Canada.” She squinted at me. “You will leave, won’t you, Shivan?”

“Yes,” I whispered, “yes.”

“And I don’t blame you for anything. You loved our Mili and perhaps that made you a little blind, but so were Ranjini and Sri. You could not have known it would come to this. If you don’t mind me saying, you misjudged this country, because you are now foreign to it. You wanted poor old Sri Lanka to love and accept the person you became in Canada. But it cannot. That does not make you responsible for Mili’s death.”

On the way home, our car was stopped at a checkpoint that had sprung up on Bullers Road. Two soldiers carrying machine guns came along either side and peered at us. They got the driver to open the trunk, rifled through it, then pointed to the side of the road, where we were to wait. The president was passing.