The Legend of Pradeep Mathew (19 page)

Then he will ask you to come back next Wednesday when he has typed it up and shown it to the SSP and the ASP.

But I could not deny that this was exciting.

I call Ari and tell him the news. He is over in minutes. He enters with a bottle of greenish juice. I decide not to ask.

‘Ari, why are you wearing a raincoat and a hat?’

He pulls out a cigar and begins pacing and talking like he has a mouth full of bulto sweets. ‘What we have here is a sap who is trying to play games. Let me see the note, Jimmy.’

‘Who’s Jimmy?’

‘Just as I thought. Guy’s an amateur.’

‘How the hell do you know he’s an amateur?’

Ari waves the cigar. ‘You gotta lot to learn, son. A pro would misspell words to throw us off the scent.’

‘What scent? The only scent here is coming from that green stuff in your bottle.’

‘It’s important how we respond to this.’

‘I already have,’ I say, handing him a typewritten paper.

Ari frowns. ‘As usual, you have written an essay. And why mention my name?’

‘Why? Scared?’

He adopts that silly bulto voice. ‘Kid. I’m an undercover cat. I don’t need the publicity.’

I fold the paper. ‘We put this in the envelope and we keep the original.’

‘Let me get a siri-siri bag. We must preserve the fibres on the note.’

Ari comes back with a supermarket bag and a permanent marker. He gingerly places the note in the bag. He crosses off the word Cargills and writes ‘Exhibit A’.

Sheila walks in with the tray of tea; she smirks at Ari in his raincoat and sarong. ‘Who’s this? Kalisama nathi Bogart?’

Ari allows a grin. ‘Who’s this broad? Of all the tea joints, she had to walk into mine.’

Sheila looks at our evidence bag and walks out, saying, ‘Y’all are mad.’

Ari suggests we spend the night on his balcony, where we take turns doing surveillance on my letter box. The plan is hatched and the bottles are opened. We put the note in the envelope. We drink and stay up till dawn. Ari, his juice; me, my arrack. We discuss who the letter writer might be. Bloomfield? Newton? Ari suggests it’s someone playing a prank.

‘How many know about what we are doing?’ asks Ari.

‘No one cares. You, me, Brian, Sheila, Manouri.’

‘I bet Sheila is up to something.’

‘Maybe Brian or Jonny.’

‘Ah. What are you saying? Of course it is Jonny. Who else?’

‘Have you heard from Mr Jonny?’

‘No, fellow has been a bit strange lately.’

‘How?’

‘I don’t know, something is going on with him.’

We fall asleep at sunrise and Manouri shakes us both awake at nine. ‘Like children y’all are.’

Ari gasps. ‘Postman, postman.’

A bald man on a bicycle in a dung-green uniform is inserting letters into the box of 20 1/1 de Saram Road.

Ari croaks, ‘Oi, don’t remove the letter already there.’

The postman looks up. ‘What letter? No letter, sir.’ And rides off.

By the time we rub the sleep from our eyes and will our bodies to brave the stairs to the letter box, both he and our letter are nowhere in sight. Just junk mail from Regnis offering easy payment on sewing machines. In the evening comes the call.

Gruff Voice:

Mr W.G.?

Me: Yes.

G.V.: I told you to write on that very page.

Me: Didn’t have room.

G.V.: I suggest in the future you do exactly what I say.

Click.

And for a while at least, that, as they say, is that.

One week to go. ‘Which will they air first?’ I call Rakwana. I am the only one still speaking to him.

‘Not entirely sure. We’re still putting the finishing touches. The edit is complex and nefarious.’

‘I thought Aravinda, Pradeep, then Sanath, Satha, Arjuna would be a good sequence.’

‘No sirree. There are other factors to consider, Mr Karoona.’

‘Have you been to Texas recently?’

‘No. Why?’

‘No. Just.’

‘Power cuts may happen later. In the second month. We’ll save Mathew and Satha for then. Put the important ones first.’

I bite my tongue. ‘Can I get a preview?’

‘Even I may not get a preview. But I’ll try my best, pardner. Definitely.’

Danila Guneratne asks to meet for coffee. Sheila sees me polishing my shoes and combing my hair. ‘Wedding or something?’

‘Business meeting.’

‘Me and Manouri will watch your show from here. Can’t come all the way to Bolgoda.’

‘Aiyo. In vain. Would’ve been fun,’ I say, hiding my delight. Jonny’s place is no place for maidens.

Danila is to meet me at the Cricket Café in Colpetty. Is this what the youngsters would describe as a date? The room turns its head as she enters and even though she walks bow-legged and wears glasses, her allure is undeniable. Miniskirt, red blouse, straightened hair.

‘Ah. Uncle.’ She kisses me on the cheek; her perfume sweetens the air.

We sit in a corner next to a framed photo of Curtly Ambrose in delivery stride. The café walls are adorned with cricketing memorabilia. Autographed bats, framed newspaper cuttings, photos, caps. The furniture is varnished wood and the menu is laden with pub food named after cricketers.

Sometimes the links are obvious (Allan Lamb’s Lamb Chops), sometimes tenuous (Augustus Logie’s Caesar Salad), sometimes unappetising (Merv Hughes’ Meat Balls). The prices appear designed to keep locals away.

‘I heard your documentary with SwarnaVision is going to air.’

I nod as Danila stirs her coffee. I watch the men with women at other tables trying not to get caught copping a look. She fiddles with my cufflinks and plays with her hair. I remain calm.

‘Uncle. I’m telling you in confidence. I don’t think the documentary will run. ITL are planning on suing. The SLBCC is also very powerful these days.’

She ties up her hair and plays with her teaspoon. ‘Not that. I had something else to ask.’

Steady old boy. Play it cool.

‘What can I do to you?’

Idiot.

‘I’m sorry … for you.’

She giggles. ‘Shall we ask for the bill?’

The waiter arrives and she places a gold card on the table. I don’t even pretend to reach for my wallet.

‘You’re the one putting classified ads about Pradeep Mathew.’

‘Unless there’s another W.G. Karunasena.’

‘A lot of people are upset at the Cricket Board.’

‘Why?’

‘Mathew wasn’t very popular. He let a lot of people down when he left.’

‘Like whom?’

‘He owed money. He fought with everyone. Be careful, Uncle.’

‘The G in my name stands for Gutsy.’

‘Why you’re so obsessed with Mathew?’

‘He is the greatest cricketer this country has ever produced. If you knew …’

‘Do you know where he is?’

‘It seems he may be dead.’

Her face flattens and her eyes cave in. Her voice becomes a squeak. ‘How?’

I tell her about the sister and the notification of death.

‘Personally I don’t believe …’

She is not listening to me. Her gaze is directed at the table between us. Her eyes turn glassy. The glass turns to liquid. A drop spills from the corner of her eye, leaving a trail of mascara down her cheek.

‘Danila?’

‘Sorry, Uncle. I have to go.’

She grabs her bag and leaves me to sort out the tip.

I don’t tell Ari about Danila, knowing he would disapprove of my unchaperoned visit. It has been raining in Bolgoda; the lake and the air around it are murky. It is just us men and our bottles and our widescreen TV. About to witness the fruit of two and a half years of labour. This time I bring the Chivas Regal. Ari brings the cutlets and the litre of apple juice.

‘Ah, bless the rain,’ says Jonny. ‘Reminds me of Newcastle.’

‘That Shearer fellow is a bit of a flop, no?’ I say.

‘He’ll keep,’ says Jonny.

Ari pours drinks and eyes the sky. ‘At least these rains will keep the power cuts away.’

The sound of an over-revved engine cuts through the sound of water hitting rooftop. In tumbles Brian, carrying a crate of beer and grinning. Brian appears to have a suntan which has turned his black skin purple.

‘Thought you weren’t coming,’ says Jonny.

‘Otherwise? Jonny my bonnie. Would I miss this?’

By 8 o’clock we are seated and restless.

‘Don’t know if they’ll even put our names,’ says Ari.

‘Uncle Wije’s name will be there,’ says Brian. ‘Him and Rakwana are thick pals.’

‘Dr Rakwana …’ reminds Ari.

‘Yeah, right,’ says Brian. ‘And I’m a chinaman with a ponytail.’

Then the plink-plinks of Dilup Makalande’s piano and soft dissolves of Aravinda, Sanath and Satha fill the screen. We all cheer. The title appears: ‘Sri Lanka’s Finest.’

‘Your title, Wije?’ asks Brian. I nod my head.

The next title appears: ‘Pradeep Mathew. The Mystery.’

We all gasp. Everyone looks at me. I shrug.

And over cricket footage, carefully selected in this very room, the following credits appear. Most are greeted with catcalls and shrieks of disbelief; some with applause, some with cheers.

Brian is yelling filth at the TV. ‘Calm down. Calm down,’ yells. Jonny ‘Let’s watch the damn thing.’

They had remained faithful to my script. Almost to the word.

Ari looks at me. ‘How many times has he come to Sri Lanka? Not even one call.’

‘Aiyo, Ari. Don’t start.’

‘Shh!’ says. Jonny

‘&@#%$,’ says Brian.

We all erupt in laughter. ‘Very good for the bastard,’ says Brian. ‘Look at him, sweating like a pig.’

Brian and Ari jabber on their cellulite phones. Jonny and I light candles and open the French windows. The rain has stopped and the night is cool.

‘Brian! Language!’ calls out Jonny. ‘WeeGee, mate. I’d like to talk to you after this fool goes home.’

‘Something serious?’

‘Hope not.’

‘I’m going home,’ announces Brian. ‘All-island powercut. Will continue till midnight.’

‘Isn’t there a place with a generator where we can watch?’ I ask.

‘By the time we drive into town, show will be over.’

After he leaves, we sit by the lake.

‘How can there be powercuts with all this rain?’ asks Jonny.

We speculate that there is a drought in the hydro catchment areas. Or that Ms 2ndGeneration’s regime is helping itself to more than the usual quota.

‘Why are we still relying on hydropower?’ asks Ari.

‘Imagine if we had nuclear,’ I say.

We all shudder at the thought of Lankan bureaucrats splitting atoms.

Jonny tells us how much he loves this country. ‘But your idiots are fucking it up. You’re killing the wildlife, robbing the holy cities and sticking DVD shops in the Galle Fort. The only people who care about preserving this island are suddhas like me.’

A mild breeze ripples the lake. Jonny is wearing a batik sarong and no shirt; his skin is hairless and freckled pink. He has seen more of this country than Ari and me combined. He once tried to build an eco-resort in Dambulla, but was blocked by the local authorities.

‘Most of the local council are hunters. Found this beautiful place in Digana. Government wouldn’t let me buy it.’

The word Jonny should have used was poachers. Hunting is what his ancestors did in those very same forests hundred years ago. I keep my thoughts to myself.

‘Lads. I want you to hear this from me.’

Bats skim the night sky in silence. Ari and I exchange glances.

‘There’s some trouble around the village near Lunawa. To do with some of the locals. It’s all bullshit. Most rumours are.’

‘What kind of trouble?’