The Legend of Pradeep Mathew (20 page)

‘They’re making out that I’m a … you know … like Arthur C. Clarke.’

‘That you’re a scientific visionary?’

‘No. That I’m friends with young boys.’

Ari bleats like a lamb. ‘Who? Who? Who is saying? I have played table tennis with Sir Arthur. He is a gentleman and so are you. That is defamation. I know some lawyers.’

Jonny sips from a can. ‘I already have lawyers. It’s gone to the cops. Don’t think they have a case. Just thought you should know.’

The lights come on at midnight as promised. The newspapers announce powercuts from 7 to 9 every night for the next two weeks. These powercuts are less than punctual. Some arrive at 6, some well after 8. Some last for forty-five minutes, some for three hours.

As a result, we manage to catch seventeen minutes of the Sanath show, six minutes of the Sathasivam show and twenty-five minutes of the Arjuna show. Aravinda is not seen, Mathew is not repeated. Ari reckons the timing of the powercuts is political; that it is no coincidence which shows ran for the longest. I remind him that Arjuna is our only international cricketer not to appear in commercials and that he probably deserves some airtime. Ari scratches his bald spot and tries to think of a response.

‘Don’t worry, Gamini,’ says Sheila. ‘They will repeat the shows after these powercuts are over.’

I do not worry, even though I know they will not.

During the powercut months, families get closer, sales of battery-powered inverters increase. Ari makes a few from car batteries in his garage and makes a buck. People go for walks on Galle Face and parliament grounds. Isso vade salesmen do good business. Tales of gross mismanagement flourish. The government spends half the rescue budget on generators from Singapore that don’t work. Advertising revenues plummet. ITL goes out of business. And I, W.G. Karunasena, sit in the darkness and drink.

The first test meanders across the screen, punctuated by so many ads that we sometimes miss the first ball of the next over. Even though the action takes place in Cape Town, RupaVision have found a way to pollute what we see with their logos, their sponsors’ logos and an unending stream of selling messages at the foot of the screen.

Welcome to Sri Lankan cricket in the dot-co-dot-lk era. Ari is about to invest in a computerised internet thing. I gaze at my browning papers and the scrappy books crowding my Jinadasa typewriter and realise that I am too old for new tricks.

I pour another shot. On African pitches, Sri Lanka’s bowling attack looks particularly pedestrian. Cullinan, Cronje and Kallis help themselves to runs. ‘This is buffet bowling. Help yourself,’ says the Yorkshireman in the commentary box, reading my thoughts.

The creditors representing ITL sue SwarnaVision for violation of copyright. SLBCC sue SwarnaVision for unauthorised use of images. All live shows are confiscated by the court. All revenues are frozen.

On TV, Muralitharan is the only bowler who is testing the batsmen. What a bowler he has blossomed into. His wrist flapping in the wind, unleashing curling deliveries that drop just out of the batsman’s reach and turn at impossible angles.

I have spent the morning checking my books. As far as I can ascertain he is the only wrist-spinning off-spinner in the history of the game. While he may not quite have the genius of Mathew, he appears to have a discipline over his art that eluded Mathew. Even though his career had some overlap with Pradeep’s, sadly, we are unable to interview him for our articles.

‘What a bloody pigsty.’ Sheila enters and grabs the glass from me. ‘Gamini. It’s 9.30 in the morning.’

She is right. It is too early in the morning for a domestic row.

‘Very nice. Now your documentary is over, you’re just going to sit around drinking. Is that your plan?’

‘Sheila, leave me alone, I’m tired.’

‘Today the powercut will be six hours. Enough time for you to drink. Come, let’s tidy up this mess.’

‘I don’t know what y’all are writing.’ Sheila is filing Ari’s diagrams and dusting the shelves. I am collecting empty crockery. Glasses outnumber plates by 4 to 1.

‘What happened to your book?’

‘It’s been shelved,’ I murmur.

In forty-five minutes the room looks liveable again. I give Sheila a hug, she pushes me away.

‘Aney, brush your teeth, men. Smell like a tavern.’

We do not mention last night’s argument, which had me sleeping in the office room. Garfield had sent a letter. His contract in Switzerland was being extended. He was getting married to a Swiss girl named Adriana.

The boy would end up a performing monkey with zebra-coloured children. Another failure to add to my trophy cupboard. With the money from the World Cup all but over, I discontinue running the classified ad.

I spend the next few days slumped in my chair, watching the so-called World Champions being outplayed by Hansie Cronje’s men. There have been rumours of corruption and match-fixing in South Africa, though it is hard to believe, judging from this polished South African performance.

Images flash across my face. My eyes droop. I do a cost–benefit analysis of walking to the wine store vs lying here thirsty. And then Ari bursts in and tells me that Jonny has been arrested.

Jabir’s trishaw arrives from Dehiwela and takes us south on Galle Road.

‘How much are you drinking, Wije? Sheila is very worried. Me and Manouri as well.’

I have agreed to associate with Ari since he gave up booze on the condition that he doesn’t try to convert me. He is about to give me an I-have-seen-the-light speech.

‘Wije. I have seen the light …’

‘You will see stars soon, if you don’t shut it.’

Neither of us discuss Jonny, the charges, or the possibility of his guilt. We have known him for almost twenty years. That is all we need to know.

At the Moratuwa cop shed, Jabir tries the back door, Ari tries the front.

But no favours are being offered. Jabir reports that the suddha was arrested last night.

Ari calls DIG Raban, an old Thomian. I watch Ari’s tone simmer and his body language atrophy. The news appears bad. Ari hangs up and shakes his head. ‘Three different boys around Moratuwa have brought complaints. All are under sixteen. The bail hearing is tomorrow.’

We and the lawyer are the only ones in the court on Jonny’s side. Though at times I am not even sure about the lawyer. No one from the High Commission shows. Bail is set at Rs 50,000, which the lawyer has managed to raise. Ari and I sign for the defendant.

Jabir helps us jostle the crowd. A crowd who are hooting and jeering. A rotten guava hits Jonny on the side of the head and the police jump in with their batons.

‘Good arm, whoever threw that,’ smirks Jonny.

‘Must’ve been Jonty Rhodes,’ I say.

The first words he says when we climb into the lawyer’s car are ‘Ari, WeeGee, I didn’t do what they say I did.’

‘Of course. Of course,’ says the lawyer. ‘Even if you did do it, they can’t just arrest you like that.’

Ari and I sit in silence as the lawyer advises how to set about the trial.

‘Does it have to go to trial?’ asks Ari.

‘Of course, Uncle. Child abuse is not a joke. Especially by a foreigner.’

Jonny gazes out of the window. Arms on his drooping belly. ‘The foreign service fired me. Do I have a case for wrongful dismissal?’

‘Otherwise? Of course you do, Mr Gilhooley.’

‘Why don’t you leave the country for a little?’ I ask.

‘Court has his passport,’ says the lawyer.

We drop Jonny in Bolgoda. We offer to stay with him, but he says he prefers to be alone. Ari hugs him, the lawyer hugs him. I shake his hand. Dark thoughts accompany me home. All the good in the world you can fit inside a rambutan. And still have enough room for you and me.

The match is on and there is no powercut. Ari sips tea as I find the bottle I had hidden behind my
Wisden Almanacks.

‘You think he did it, no?’ asks Ari.

‘Has he ever talked about women since we’ve known him?’

I begin clearing the floor of notes from the previous months.

‘Jonny doesn’t talk about anything except cricket and Newcastle United. That doesn’t mean he’s a homo.’

‘I will support him.’

‘So will I.’

Ari joins in the clearing. Some paper napkins fall from a folder that Ari is shelving. They are in Ari’s handwriting and we both recognise them.

‘I say. You kept those napkins from when I hammered Newton?’

I nod with a grin. I have bus tickets from 1963, when I was courting Sheila. I have notes passed in class at Maliyadeva in the 1950s. Throwing away is something I do reluctantly.

‘Gamini. Phone call.’ She is looking sternly at me. ‘Now speak nicely.’

I take the receiver.

‘Hello, Thaathi.’

‘Hello. So how are things?’

‘Going well. Working …’

‘Do you need money? Is that why you’re calling?’

Pause.

‘No. Do you?’

‘Ammi says you’re getting married?’

‘I got married this morning.’

‘Is she pregnant?’

He laughs. The way I do when I’m upset.

‘No. But she will be soon.’

‘And you can support your family playing your music?’

‘Musicians make a lot more than journalists.’

I hand the receiver to Sheila and walk off.

‘What did you say?’ she squeals into the line.

In the room, Ari is smiling, scribbling and looking through the napkins. Sri Lanka is 290 for 8, chasing 377. Donald and Ntini are machine-gunning the tail-enders. The match is all but gone.

Ari hands me the napkin. I recognise the list that caused a punch-up at a wedding. Hobbs, Gavaskar, Tendulkar, Richards, Bradman, Sobers, Akram, Lindsay, Barnes, Lillee, Mathew. I realise that it was almost five years ago. Ari hands me a piece of paper, one he has just written on. It is an all-time Sri Lankan team and to me it borders on the surreal.

I drain my glass and snort. ‘Kehel Yaka? Madugalle?’

‘Even though Madu was a Royalist, he was class. You know he started as an off-spinner and when he was fifteen he took 8 wickets against …’

‘Pakistan, yes. Why no Ranatunga?’

‘There are better batsmen, no?’

‘No Murali?’

Ari looks at his shoes. He rises and looks at his watch. I eyeball him.

‘Why no Murali in your team?’

There is a pause. I begin smiling. ‘Did you forget? Useless fellow.’

Ari looks me in the eye and speaks, but his voice sounds different. ‘No, Wije, I didn’t forget.’

‘So? Shall we put him instead of Jayasundera?’

‘No, Wije.’

‘What do you mean, no?’

There is a longer pause than before and I know what Ari is going to say before he says it. ‘I’m sorry, Wije, but I think he chucks …’

Sheila enters about to castigate me for not speaking to my son. She sees the look on my face and backs out of the room, closing the door. I lower my voice. ‘The ICC have cleared him.’

‘If he was white, you would’ve asked for his head.’

‘What colour is the ICC? Purple?’

‘Today the ICC is the same colour as you and me.’

‘It is a bloody optical illusion, Ari. You of all people should know that. The wrist …’

‘I do not want to talk about this, Wije.’

And so begins the ugliest argument I’ve ever had. More foul-mouthed than when Ceylon Electricity overcharged me Rs 10,000. Angrier than when my wife found out I had been fired from my third successive job. Louder than when my son told me he was quitting the cricket team.

I remember every word, but I do not wish to repeat them. I also remember how it ended. With me holding my abdomen and falling to the floor. Feeling paralysis go through my right shoulder and sharp pains stab my stomach.

As I lie on the floor of my study I can hear Ari shouting for Sheila. I hear footsteps and raised voices. In the distance I hear the last wicket fall and the test being lost. Sri Lanka all out for 306. The last man, run out by Jacques Kirsten, is none other than Muttiah Muralitharan. I can no longer feel below my neck and warm liquid is escaping my lips.

In my mind, I go through lists of my own. My proudest moments on earth in no particular order. Marrying Sheila at Galle Face Hotel. The birth of Garfield. Watching him hit three sixers against his cousins eight years later. Being awarded Ceylon Sportswriter of the Year in 1969. Winning it again in 1976. Watching Wettimuny at Lord’s in 1984, the first time I realised that a Sri Lankan could be as good as anyone else.

Someone is shaking me, but I do not feel like waking. I am at Bolgoda. With Ari and Jonny. The lake outside is orange and there is footage of Mathew on the giant screen and scotch in our veins. In a time before powercuts and court cases. I close my eyes. I feel no pain. Only joy.

It is nothing like the films or the books. There is no floating, no white light, no wings or hooves. I’m at my desk, back to the window, face to the typewriter, scene before me. I attempt to hit a key, but the key does not notice. I watch my body shuddering on the floor and witness the hoo-ha it inspires.

I look smaller and scruffier than I always imagined. My glasses are halfway down my nose, there is vomit forming a bib over my shirt. Ari is directing ambulance men in white smocks and Sheila is wiping my face and blubbering.

I try to type these words, but these words remain un-typed. My fingers touch objects, but objects fail to respond. The ambulance is only fifteen minutes late, which is not bad. They say ambulances in Sri Lanka barely make it to the funeral.