The Legend of Pradeep Mathew (24 page)

‘Wije, you know what is the meaning of life?’

The creature is starting to scratch at my throat. I manage a grunt.

‘Grandchildren. Your grandchild on your knee is the meaning of life.’

‘Yes, Papa,’ chimes in Manouri from the back.

‘I hope the little brat torments Garfield.’

‘Gamini …’ says Sheila.

Ari grins as he brings the Ford Capri into the Masonic Hall car park.

The hall is filled and everyone is well dressed. The invitation mentioned dinner, but I see no tables. I recognise few faces. I see no Mendis or Ranatunga. There is a large stage with a backdrop saying SFC and two microphones. The insignia has two swords crossed, a Christian cross minus the scantily clad gentleman nailed to it, and a phrase in Latin fluttering at the base. Not a bat or a ball in sight.

‘How? Logo and all?’ I smirk at Ari.

The Sports Fellowship Club had its heyday in the 1960s when it used to screen the previous year’s test matches and collect donations for underprivileged sportsmen. It had been silent since the advent of TV. There had been a few events, but I had failed to go to any as, I suspect, had most of its members. Today was the first time they were offering dinner and guest speakers.

‘Fellowship crowd has changed,’ I murmur to Sheila. Then the FLC appears on stage and urges everyone to get to their seats. In the throng I am shoved into a corner next to Manouri. I am two seats removed from Ari, but it is too late to move.

After customary thank yous into a crackling mic, the FLC begins introducing the first speaker, who appears to have done everything and nothing. The FLC waxes pointless about the man’s rugby career, stint in a band, job at the World Bank and finally his current role.

He talks of how Brother Sumith helped him when he gave up his cricketing career.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, Brother Sumith is the reason I am a commentator!’

The packed hall applauds. Ari and I exchange glances and withhold comments.

‘Woe to those who rise early in the morning to run after their drinks, who stay up late at night till they are inflamed with wine!’

Brother Sumith raises his arm as if conducting a choir. I look around for Duleep Mendis, then I see a face I recognise. An old man and an old woman who recently confessed to having sex. They smile at me.

‘Woe to those who are heroes at drinking wine and champions at mixing drinks.’

Brother Sumith walks to the right of the stage and points a finger.

‘Priests and prophets are befuddled with wine; they reel from beer, they stagger when seeing visions, they stumble when rendering decisions.’

He comes to our side of the stage and glares directly at me.

I turn to Ari and speak over the laps of our wives. ‘You did it on your new computer internet gadget, no?’ They all ignore me.

‘Arrack. Whisky. Gin. Vodka. Kasippu. Satan! Satan! Satan!’

People start standing and raising their hands in the air.

I repeat, ‘You printed the invitations with your fancy new internet gadget, no?’

Ari’s eyes flicker in my direction, the women fold their arms and do not budge.

‘If you allow the touch of Jesus on your brow, the demons that drive you, like swine to a trough, they shall be gone!’ Brother Sumith is screaming.

‘You actually forged an invitation to get me here? Maara impressive, ah? Maara impressive.’

Manouri, Sheila and Ari gaze at the stage where the action is and ignore me. There are cheers and more standing. I stand as well. I hold my stick aloft.

‘Sheila, if you do not let me out, I will hammer these mad people with my stick.’

Sheila looks at Manouri. ‘I told you …’

As I leave through the archways people are swaying and chanting. Brother Sumith’s voice booms through the PA system. The creature is kicking at my chest and pounding my skull.

There is a stack of leaflets at the entrance. I grab one. I exit for a three-wheeler as Brother Sumith places his sweaty palms on the shuddering body of the old man who recently had sex.

‘Yeah, Sheila,’ says Jonny Gilhooley into his phone. ‘I’ll drop him home.’

His Attidiya home is not as flamboyant as Bolgoda. It is smaller, less open and less well furnished. He smiles. ‘They took you to a prayer meeting?’ I hand him the leaflet.

‘They told me it was a Sports Fellowship Club dinner.’

‘That’s bloody funny,’ says Jonny.

‘No scotch?’

‘How long?’

‘Thirteen days and fifteen hours.’

‘You’re almost through the worst. You on the Twelve Steps?’

I hold up my hand as I blow on my tea. It is the colour of sunrise and smells of ginger. I have read up on the Twelve Steps and they are as follows:

‘If you eliminate God from the Twelve Steps, it’s just making a list and checking it twice.’

‘Not a bad way to start, WeeGee.’

Then he tells me how he spent the 1960s stoned off his skull in Kathmandu, how he spent the 1970s in a rehab centre in California.

‘Coke, Pills, Ludes, Booze, Weed, you name it, mate, I did it.’

‘I am not a drug addict,’ I say, meaning it.

‘Yes, you are, bonnie lad.’

Ari and I had a game. We would try and speculate on Jonny’s past. Ari’s guess was that he was Charles Sobhraj, the gentleman serial killer of the hippie trail. Mine was that he was a UK mercenary, a James Bond type, looking after British interests in Kashmir, Afghanistan and here.

‘You know, me and Ari had a game trying to guess your past. I thought you were a spy. He thought you were a killer.’

‘I’m a homosexual.’

Jonny’s Adam’s apple bobs up his neck. I take a gulp of tea.

‘He thought you were trained by the IRA. I said you were more Mossad-like.’

There is silence.

‘This is damn fine tea. I don’t go for tea, but superb.’

‘It’s Ceylon tea.’

‘Don’t tell lies.’

We sip. He looks at me, I return the gaze and nod.

‘I didn’t know he was fourteen. And I didn’t force myself on anyone.’

‘Jonny …’

‘It’s fine. I’ve lived in Asia for over thirty years. I’ve handled worse.’

‘Don’t tell Ari. Bugger’s a Christian and all. They don’t take kindly to … buggers.’

He laughs and so do I. He leans over and punches me, this bear of a man.

‘I’ll tell Ari when I’m ready.’

‘I want a pavilion ticket when that happens.’

We keep laughing and I sip.

‘Damn fine tea.’

‘I’m giving you a crate. It’ll help you give up.’

I stare at this fan of Newcastle United, Derek Underwood, The All Blacks …

‘Statistically homosexuals are 1 in 10, yes?’

Jonny looks irritated. He scratches his head. His hair is not quite blond, not quite brown. His teeth are not quite white, not quite yellow.

‘So statistically one All Black is a homo?’

‘There’s three in the current team,’ says Jonny, pouring more tea.

‘Who?’

‘I’m not going to tell you. You’d publish it. Look what happened with Fashanu.’

Justin Fashanu, pariah of English football, played for the legendary 1981 Nottingham Forest side and admitted to being homosexual in 1990. Publicly disowned by his brother, footballer John, subject to crowd abuse and changing room jibes, Fashanu committed suicide just a few months ago.

‘I love drinking,’ I say. ‘Without it I can’t write, I can’t talk …’

‘Bollocks. The writing and talking comes from you. When you give up something, stop thinking of it as denial. You’re gaining, not giving up … ‘

‘Don’t preach to me, Jonny. I’ve had enough.’

I do not tell him about the creature, even though he would probably understand. I try not to think of three All Blacks being homosexual. Or of my friend and a fourteen-year-old.

‘When you feel like drinking, have tea. You don’t have to believe in God, but you have to believe in a purpose.’

I believe in my powerlessness over alcohol and I believe in a higher power. Though I’m certain his name isn’t God, Allah, Buddha or Shiva and I’m equally sure he isn’t as unkind as those who claim to follow him.

‘What purpose?’

‘Ignore the cravings. Focus on the writing. If you fancy a drink, call me first. I’m the only one you drink with. OK?’

Jonny serves the only biscuits I consider palatable. Chocolate-coated things with marmalade in the middle called Jaffas. He gets crates shipped to the High Commission. Or used to.

‘How’s the case?’

He shrugs as I step into his car, clutching my tea like a lifejacket. The creature is silent.

‘No one’s shitting in my pool. Probably ‘cos I no longer have one.’

As the driver puts the Jag into gear, Jonny leans into the window. ‘If you feel better after a week, think about writing that list. It’s the only step I recommend. And stop sulking.’

And that is how it happened. As slowly as the ending of the Cold War. As inevitably as the beginning of the oil war. After fifty years of distinguished liver abuse, I, W.G. Karunasena, gave up booze.

The first time I saw him in the flesh was in ’86 at the Tyronne Cooray Stadium. The stadium got its name from the Minister who presided over its upgrading and who, in the late 1970s, tried fighting, lobbying and cajoling the ICC into granting Sri Lanka test status. That failed. He then tried wining, dining and bribing. That worked.

These days, hardly any matches are played at the Tyronne Cooray. But back in ’86, it hosted test matches.

I must warn you, the following story features midgets and racist language. While I myself may be something of a freak, I am certainly no racist. Sinhalese, Tamils, Muslims and Burghers all nauseate me in equal measure.

It begins under a bo tree, early morning, in a rainstorm. The bo tree is on the side road connecting the cricket ground with the town of Moratuwa. There I am, asleep under the bo tree, about to be woken up by rain. Two millennia ago a man, just like me, abandoned his wife, son and responsibilities to go sit under a bo tree. Unlike me, that man wasn’t drunk after a cricket match. And so he ended up becoming the Buddha.

My bed of leaves receives spit from above, dollops of rain as thick as curd. I crawl to where the trunk curls inwards, to where the wood has wrinkled. I check my shirt and my slacks for unusual stains. There is a reason for this. I once woke up under a postbox to find the chest pockets of my borrowed suit filled with vomit – the previous evening’s potato masala, if you must know.

It is the final day of the second test vs Pakistan. Sri Lanka are 45 behind with Arjuna and Guru new at the crease, negotiating grenades from Imran, Wasim and Qadir. Much to the glee of the crowd and the dismay of the touring team, the umpires halt play for bad light.

Rumour has it that the Minister and the SLBCC have instructed the umpires to deliver victory. I believe the bad umpiring is the result of incompetence and not partiality. No one at the clubhouse last night seemed to agree. I remember arguing this with Brian and Renga at one in the morning. I do not recall how I came to be lying here.

A prod in my ribs.

‘Yann. Ah.’

‘Uncle is asking you to go.’ A female voice with a Tamil cadence. She is dark, with an apron over her sari, holding a bag filled with ticket stubs, plastic cups, cigarette butts and paper plates. Next to her, attached to the umbrella poking my ribs, is a midget in a white Sri Lanka cricket shirt. His head is shaped like a dented papaya and he is the height of his umbrella. Behind him is a cart filled with empty bottles. Both characters smell of garlic and sweat.

‘Uncle says you can’t sleep here.’

The midget continues his unintelligible grunts. His words are burped out at intervals and appear to have little connection with each other. The woman translates.

‘Uncle has looked after this ground for forty years.’

I realise sleep is now an impossibility. The midget walks off. From a distance I observe the boils on his feet, the shuffle in his gait and the indecipherable tattoos on his arms. The woman gargles spit and squirts betel juice across the pavement.

‘You both sell kadale in the stands, no?’

‘We sell so many things. You want madana modakaya?’

A Double M is a mixture of cough syrup, ganja and foul-tasting herbs. Favoured by some drunks, it guarantees three hours of intoxication, a splitting headache and at least one erection.

‘Too early, no? No thanks.’

‘Uncle works in the scoreboard,’ says the woman. ‘He supervises the pitch. Because of Uncle, Sri Lanka has never lost here.’

I call out to the unlikely curator of the Tyronne Cooray. ‘Uncle. You think we can draw this game?’

He snorts. ‘Ani. Vaaren. Ekek. Out. Na.’

‘Uncle says no Sri Lankan batsman will get out today.’

The sound of grasshoppers and frogs has given way to crows and distant cars. Light reflects off the metal chairs in the stands. The stadium is small and tacky. In three hours it will be full.

‘Does Uncle think the umpires cheated?’

‘Umpire hora. ‘

Uncle launches into a tirade. I only catch a few words. ‘Para demala. Umpire Francis, Buultjens, Ponnadurai. Lansiya. Demala. Horu. Pradeep Mathews.’

‘Uncle says the umpires are Tamil and Burgher and all crooks. Like Pradeep Mathews.’

‘Aren’t you Tamil?’

‘Uncle is OK with me.’

‘Tell Uncle he’s a racist pig.’

Pradeep Mathew has done nothing so far in this, his second, test. He has stayed at the crease for two hours and scored no runs. He has not been asked to bowl.

‘Uncle says you are a disgrace, but Mathew is a bigger disgrace.’ She smiles to reveal dentistry that hasn’t seen a dentist in a while and to distance herself from the messages she delivers. She wears a pottu and a sparkle of silver in her nose.