The Legend of Pradeep Mathew (42 page)

‘At present 247 are dead and a further 187 injured. Police Search and Defuse Operations also unearthed hidden explosives at Vihara Maha Devi Park and Dehiwela Zoo …’

The knob comes off again in Ari’s hand and the deafening news announcer is silenced. It takes traffic three hours to clear and we are unable to fix the radio.

What’s the capital of Sri Lanka? What’s our national sport? Neither answer begins with C.

Volleyball is our national sport, even though less than 4 per cent of the population play it. My friend Renganathan reckons that elle, a native form of softball, was our national sport at independence till the Sports Minister fell out with the Elle Federation in the 1970s and conferred that status to volleyball. Renga also reckons that Dirk Welham was the best batsman he’d ever seen.

Sri Jayawardenapura Kotte was made administrative capital in the 1980s, possibly because it housed the parliament, or more probably because it contained the then president’s surname. It remains the capital today, which means the majority of Sri Lankans would answer the question that opens this chapter incorrectly.

Kugarajah uses fancy words like genocide and gamesmanship and genius. I wish I had the courage to tell him that just because you say something is something doesn’t mean that it is. And just because you want something to be something doesn’t mean that it will be.

When kadale is boiled and tempered with onion and chilli it becomes more than just a serving of chickpeas. It transforms into a high-protein snack, perfect for both athletes and drunkards.

I make a decision not to get depressed about Jonny. Garfield has been out of touch for three weeks since leaving his wife for the I’ve-lost-count time. Sheila’s good mood has evaporated and she plods through the house, imploring me to do something. As if I possess a global tracking device.

These are the possible scenarios:

I decide to avoid depression, because while C is the most likely, D is not an impossibility. There is little I can do to influence the outcome. Worry for me is like drink. If I start I may be unable to stop.

So I drink tea and hammer at my Jinadasa. But while I write about Charith and Reggie and Danila and defused bombs, my thoughts return to Jonny and his Mam. Ari does not let me read the letter and insists we post it straightaway. ‘It is a man’s private confession, it is not for our eyes.’ Pious bugger.

They can all get fucked. That’s what Jonny said about his brothers and sisters. It is a sentiment I know well.

In other news, Jabir, Ari and the midget have a severe falling-out. Uncle Neiris accuses Ari of stealing spools, Ari accuses Uncle Neiris of taping over them. The midget chases Ari away with a mammoty and says he will curse Ari’s family.

Jabir takes Ari’s side and is also banished. They are told if they reveal the location of the bunker their tongues will rot in their mouths. I am in Ari’s room, looking up the archives of Mathew’s last tours, when the two of them storm in, flustered and flabbergasted, and begin debating whether the old man’s curse has any power.

‘I’m not scared of that fool,’ says Ari.

‘If he can lay curses to keep the Aussies and Windies away, what can’t he do?’

‘You daredevils are shivering over a midget with a squeaky voice?’ I say. ‘Pathetic.’

‘You didn’t see him, Wije,’ says Ari.

‘Ade, what are those?’ asks Jabir, the colour draining from his face.

‘Those are … some … his things,’ Ari stammers.

Jabir picks up the box and glares like an enraged skeleton. ‘You said you returned them all.’

‘I must’ve forgotten.’

‘Very bad, Ari,’ I say, starting to laugh. But Jabir is not amused.

He pushes past Ari carrying the box and storms through the archway. ‘Because of you I will also get cursed.’

‘Shall I come with you?’ calls Ari.

‘Don’t ever come anywhere with me,’ shouts Jabir.

I look at my friend and smile and shake my head. ‘Too much you are.’

He winks at me and grabs my cane. ‘Doesn’t bother me, kid. He didn’t get the real merchandise.’

Then Bogart Holmes reaches behind the TV, fishes out a spool and plops it into his machine, and we sit back and listen. Ari has spent the last five months going through three decades of gobbledygook, a far more tedious task than documenting unreliable memories. In between birdcalls, unintelligible small talk, crowd cheers and unedited stretches of ball hitting bat, he has unearthed a few gems.

We hear a prominent Sri Lankan batsman boasting in the comfort of the dressing room that he only does his best when there’s a car offered for the Man of the Match. The said batsman has won over forty such awards in his career.

We hear an Australian wicketkeeper describe a young Pakistani’s girlfriend in the most obscene language. There is no retaliation, due either to the Pakistani’s sage-like patience or his ignorance of English. Having known a few Pakistanis, I favour the latter.

And then there is this:

I recognise both voices as belonging to two of our World Cup heroes. It’s hard not to.

The spool ends there. I examine the cover, knowing exactly what I will spy there. It is a cover that Jabir has forgotten to take, or one that Ari has decided to keep for himself.

It reads: ‘Test/one Day Matchs, 1987–1992 (NewZe, Indiya, Paki, Aussi).’

The creature returns at the most inconvenient of moments, right when I am telling my wife that we cannot go anywhere for Christmas. She has been spending more of her time at the Mount Lavinia Ladies’ Charity Circle. Chinniah the dentist is taking his wife to New York, Mrs Livera is visiting friends in Bangalore, even old Mrs Bodiyabaduge is being taken to Hill Country with her children.

I tell her I have lots to write. She hands me an ekel broomstick before she storms out. I am back on household chores. ‘Remember when you were writing your poetry to me? Said you would take me to Paris. Leave alone Paris, even Negombo beach will do. I will seriously find myself a rich lover.’

That threat crops up twice every decade. There was a time when it would fill me with terror. These days, if the candidate was suitable, I might even welcome it.

The creature arrives when I’m sweeping the sand from my car-less driveway. I feel my hands turn to jelly and I cannot stop coughing. Kusuma, who has been watching me from the veranda, brings me a glass of water. I hand her back the broom, but she shakes her head. ‘Nona told me not to help you.’

The creature sits at the bottom of my stomach and blows bubbles up through my throat into my skull. The creature is more cat than monkey. It wraps its tail around my spine and blows idly into my head. It is not pleasant.

Will the curse of drink never leave me? When I couldn’t write, I drank in desperation. When I wrote well, I drank in celebration. I drank when I was bored and alone. I drank when I was surrounded by loved ones. I drank on the hilltops of Badulla, in the backyards of Kurunegala and in the verandas of Colombo. I drank when I was an angry young man, a petulant father, and a sad old bastard.

I have done things I cannot remember and things I opt to forget. Let me make this clear. This is not my autobiography. Which is why I have gone through over 200 pages without mentioning ____________.

Or ____________.

Or even ____________.

I have before me a story and I need the strength to finish it. I have no bottle or friendly Geordie to guide me. Is it a coincidence that my crate of Flowery Broken Orange Fanning Special runs out a week after Jonny is imprisoned? Thank God there is no God. Because to believe in him would be to acknowledge that he doesn’t like me much.

I put away the broom and lie down on my haansi putuwa and watch Hansie Cronje, on Ari’s TV, setting the field like a finicky host against our openers in the blistering Sharjah heat. I close my eyes and dream of Jonny.

Again we are in the pavilion of the SSC. Jonny is wearing white and has the creature on his lap. At first I refuse to sit next to him.

‘Relax, WeeGee. It’s harmless.’

Before us Hansie Cronje is setting the field like a finicky host.

‘I think I’ve seen this game before.’

‘Every game has been played a million times before. Even yours and mine.’

Allan Donald runs in like an albino demon and Sanath swings and misses. Next to me Jonny is stroking the creature like mafia dons stroke cats. Though the animal looks more monkey than cat. It falls asleep.

‘It’s Christmas, WeeGee.’

‘Don’t you start.’

‘Are you going to make a list and check it twice?’

I wake up with a jolt and decide to do exactly that.

Since joining the Mount Lavinia gossip circle, Sheila wears more make-up and prettier dresses. She refers to Kusuma not as our servant, but as our domestic, and she has stopped talking to me about Garfield. Perhaps she has acquired that lover after all.

I am waiting for her on the veranda. She steps out of the afternoon sun carrying a flowery umbrella and a plastic bag of groceries. She avoids my eye.

‘We will leave for Badulla on the 15th. We will spend a week there. On the 22nd we will arrive in Kurunegala. We will spend Christmas there and New Year in Dambulla.’

She inspects the swept driveway with suspicion. ‘How are we travelling?’

‘Ari will lend us his Ford.’

‘That wreck won’t even get us down a hill.’

‘It is serviced and ready.’

‘We will break our necks.’

Kusuma brings in the tea and Sheila sits next to me on the ledge. No more Orange Pekoe. This is third-rate factory floor dust, packaged by the name on the cricketers’ shirts and sold to us hapless locals. I do not let this depress me.

‘Money?’

‘I have a bit of the documentary money left. It will be more than enough.’

‘Where will we stay?’

‘Ossie’s son is running the plantation. He says we can stay there. Ossie might come.’

Ossie, a retired planter from Diyatalawa, is one of our oldest friends from our Badulla days.

‘What about Kurunegala?’

‘We can stay with my sister.’

‘What about …’

‘I plan on meeting Loku, Maddhu and Bala. I will speak with them.’

Sheila puts her umbrella down, kneels before me, wraps her arms around me and kisses me full on the mouth.

‘Not here, men. Kusuma will see.’

‘Who cares?’ says Sheila, planting kisses on my cheeks and forehead. I dart my eyes to the sides of their sockets and see Kusuma holding an empty tray. She is indeed looking, but she is also smiling.

It matters little if God exists. Because even if he does, I guarantee he is not in his heaven, but in his tavern. He is probably exhausted from creation and is enjoying a nice long pint of Lion Lager or polishing off an eternal cup of Old Reserve. Enjoying a well-earned thirty-millennium nap. His bit is done and sorting itself out is now the universe’s problem.

We do not have a loving Christian God or a vengeful Islamic God or a non-existent Buddhist one or even a multiple Hindu one. We have an indifferent invisible one. He has done his shift, filled his timesheet and is off for the weekend.

I write to Loku apologising for what I said to his wife. I write to Maddhu saying sorry for the damage to his property. I write to Bala promising to repay him. I write and tell Garfield that I miss him. I tell each of them a white lie. That I am dying and need to see them. Sheila posts all four letters.

Then I make the list. It has ten items on it. I pin it to the wall I stare at and stare at it some more. I hear noises outside. I take down the list and cross out Item 7: Become a cricket umpire. I gaze at Item 3: Write Mathew. I underline this.

I carry my cane and walk outside. The afternoon sun is descending and the light is copper. The trees glisten and a breeze from Mount Lavinia beach catches what’s left of my hair.

On the road the Marzooq boys are arguing a run-out with the beach boys.

‘He was on the line.’

‘On the line is out.’

‘Mad. On the line is in.’

I walk up to the shirtless monkeys and their squabbles. The batting team is costumed in sweat-drenched T-shirts. I smile kindly at the batsman. ‘Sorry, Mufadel. On the line is out.’

‘See, I told you,’ sneers the beach boy.

I stand in the shade behind the wicket and look upon the boys staring at me. ‘From now I am your umpire. New batsman, please.’

‘Last man, have chance,’ says the dejected batsman. I nod.

The fielders slowly return to their corners and the Marzooq boy hands the bat to his younger cousin. The boy steps up the crease and takes guard.

‘Middle and off, sir?’

I watch the sun streak through the clouds onto this wide pavement. I watch the cars avoid de Saram Road, for fear of disrupting the game. I tell the boy there is no such thing and give him a middle guard. I wait till the batsman is ready and I instruct the beach boy to bowl. God is indeed in his tavern and he may have just ordered another round.