The Hungry Ghosts (26 page)

“See, your Aachi is as clever as always.” He grinned at me. “The stroke has barely affected her.”

“Oh, no, Chandralal,” my grandmother said with a small laugh that was almost coquettish, “I am now truly an old woman, approaching death.”

“Ah, madam, don’t say that. You are only sixty-four. You will outlive all of us.”

“It’s nice of you to say that, Chandralal, but you know the wheel must turn and I must pass to my next life.” Her sad gaze was resting on me, as if she hoped to memorize my face and take its impression into her next reincarnation. She gave herself a little shake. “So, yes, I’m happy to hear demolition starts tomorrow.”

They began to discuss the architect’s blueprints Chandralal had brought, spreading them out on a windowsill. He explained to her the various stages of the building process and she expressed her amazement and praise at how fast he was getting everything done. Since I was not needed, I went through the house, looking in the rooms. The family had left nothing, not a broom or an old toy, but in the back garden three girls had crudely carved their names in the trunk of a mango tree.
Ratna, Mala, Sundari
.

I turned back to the house, heavy with questions I would not allow myself to probe, a gloominess settling on me like the salty crust of a sea mist.

Later that afternoon, while my grandmother slept, I found myself wandering around the saleya. I drifted into my mother and sister’s rooms, whose doors and windows Rosalind kept shut to keep out the dust. The tomb-like quality of these rooms, the greyish light filtering in through glass panes smoky with dirt, only increased my melancholy.

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S
RIYANI’S ASSISTANT CALLED SOME DAYS
after our lunch to invite me to a party at the Karunaratnes’ home. I told my grandmother, who was lying down after our morning errand, head propped up by pillows. “Ah, yes,” she said, “the communist man’s daughter. Mother was Indian, distantly related to Nehru. The father met her when he was in Bengal studying at Tagore’s school. He came from one of those old Cinnamon Gardens karaya families. The parents were very revolutionary in their time. I believe both were jailed for sedition by the British. Nice woman, the mother. Her Sinhala was better than a lot of real Sinhalese. And now didn’t she hold a seat in parliament? Yes, I think she did.”

My grandmother, a woman of her time, knew the genealogy of every important family.

“You have been bored here, haven’t you, Puthey?” she said suddenly. I began to protest, but she waved her hand. “Don’t say no, you are my grandson, I know you.” She closed her eyes and nodded. “Yes-yes, this is good. It’s very kind of Mrs. Karunaratne to take you under her wing. We have some nice papaws ripening in the garden. I’ll have Rosalind send her a box.”

Sriyani’s husband was a successful hotelier and they lived in the wealthy enclave of Cinnamon Gardens. My grandmother had loaned me her car, and as I was driven to the party I found myself both nervous and exhilarated at the prospect of seeing Mili Jayasinghe there. Since our last meeting, I had thought about him a lot and the possibility he might be sexually interested in me. Yet I had warned myself that Mili’s interest could be nothing but the cordiality of an old school acquaintance; his displaying himself, even his mild flirtation, nothing but the posing beautiful people indulged in without thinking. Yet as the car turned down Rosmead Place, where Sriyani lived, I could
not subdue the warmth that spread through me, even as I told myself this hope was ridiculous.

Sriyani was on the verandah of the Karunaratnes’ sprawling old colonial bungalow, wearing an avocado salwar kameez and lilac shawl, greeting the many guests who milled around her. As I went up the steps, I could hear a slightly scratchy recording of “Isle of Capri,” the laughter and chatter of guests like waves breaking around the
oomphing
of the tuba. Sriyani excused herself from the visitors and came to me, saying, “Ah-ah, you’re here, I must present you around.” She introduced me to her husband, Priya, who was standing by the carved teak front doors. He was well over six feet and stooped in that way of tall people who are constantly bending to those below them. He wore a batik shirt, crisp linen pants and smoked a pipe, its stem hanging from a corner of his mouth, which was twisted with wry amusement at this odd assortment of his wife’s friends drawn from different social classes.

Sriyani ushered me into the living room with its antique furniture, holding on to my arm so she would not lose me in the jam of guests, the air hazy with smoke that shimmered a mother-of-pearl under the lights.

The inside of the house had been renovated to resemble the vernacular style of architecture, the back wall removed so the interior and exterior mingled. In the centre of the living room was a sunken mada midula open to the sky with large-leaved crotons and palms in pots. There were Hindu and Buddhist statues in nooks and paintings on the walls by famous Sri Lankan artists like Ivan Peries, Senaka Senanayake and George Keyt.

Sriyani guided me to the mada midula, where guests were lying on mats among the plants, bolstered by large colourful cushions. Mili Jayasinghe was laughing and chatting with Ranjini and other workers from Kantha, his lanky frame stretched out across the floor, more like the teenager I remembered. As Sriyani came down the two steps to the mada midula, the men started to rise hastily in respect. She gestured for them to stay where they were. Mili saw me and he looked flustered. “Shivan,” he stood up. “How are you?”

“Oh, fine, fine.” I realized I was picking at the edge of my collar and quickly dropped my hand.

“Now you are safe,” Sriyani said to me with one of her inscrutable smiles. “Look after your old school chum.” She wagged her finger at Mili, and went back to the front verandah.

He beckoned me to join their group, but I sat on the steps, too much a stranger to sprawl with them. Mili made to resume his earlier position, but then picked up his drink and came to sit by me. I felt a little fizz of delight.

The others asked me about the politics of the growing Jaffna Tamil community in Toronto, which numbered close to a hundred thousand. They were keen to know if I thought the community donated voluntarily to the Tigers or did so out of fear for their families in the Tiger-controlled areas. I told them I had no contact with the Jaffna Tamil community, being half Sinhalese and from Colombo. They seemed rather disappointed, as if they had hoped for an on-the-ground report.

Ranjini had come to sit on my other side. She appeared, for some reason, to have taken a fondness to me, smiling and nodding at me with great friendliness. Once they had quizzed me, Mili’s friends returned to talking about the latest exploits of the JVP which included setting fire to some government-run buses and the killing of a minister in the south, along with his body guards. After some time, I asked Ranjini if she knew where the toilet was. Hearing this, Mili promptly jumped up. “Come, I will show you.”

There was a modern extension, its two floors carefully concealed behind trees so as not to overwhelm the old bungalow. As he took me to the stairs that led to the second floor, he inquired about how I was finding Sri Lanka and what I had done so far. Then we both fell silent, our footsteps loud on the polished concrete steps. On the second floor, he led me along a dim corridor lit by an occasional sconce and pointed out the bathroom.

When I came out, Mili was leaning against the wall near the door. He nodded and went past me to use the toilet. Alone in the corridor, I was seized with the idea that if anything was going to happen between us, I would have to propel it, have to act now when he came out. There were various pieces of art on the walls, and as I glanced at them I noticed a framed black-and-white photograph. A young man was turned three quarters towards the camera, right hand on hip. He was naked, save for a loincloth through which his genitals were visible, his body lean and hairless, his oiled skin bringing out the play of light and shade on his muscles and ribs.

The door to the bathroom opened. Mili came towards me. I gave him a quick tense smile, then turned back to the photograph, fear tightening a band across my forehead. After a moment, I felt his presence next to me.

“That’s a Lionel Wendt photograph,” he said quietly. “You know, the man the theatre is named after. Did you know he was a photographer?” He smelt of rum and salty sweat and some muskiness.

“No.” I looked up at him, then plunged forward. “The man, he’s so beautiful, don’t you think?”

He held my gaze, even though I could see, from the timid terror in his eyes, it was taking all his will. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple straining against his throat.

There was a burst of guffaws from the main house and we glanced involuntarily in its direction. Then, seeing each other’s consternation, we laughed.

I took Mili’s hand, opened a bedroom door and pulled him inside.

The room was dark except for a lamp on a dresser. I pressed him up against a wall, my tongue pushing against his teeth, trying to force his mouth open. His hands trembled as he gripped me by the upper arms, then pushed me away.

“Shivan, Shivan,” he whispered, “someone … someone might come in here.”

He was gesturing towards the door, and I stared at it, dazed, then quickly leaned past him to lock it. “You really are a jumpy bugger,” I said with a little choked laugh. I pushed my tongue against his teeth again. He opened his mouth, half smiling, half shaking his head, at my boldness. We kissed, our breath escaping in little impatient-sounding sighs. Mili ran his palm down my back and tugged at my shirt to slip his hand underneath. I reached into the waistband of his trousers, my hand sliding beneath his underwear to his buttocks. He groaned against my lips and pressed his arm between us to stroke me through my pants.

Someone was coming down the corridor towards the toilet. We pulled back from each other.

“I really think we should go downstairs,” Mili whispered.

“Yes,” I replied reluctantly.

We tidied our clothing, now shy to look at each other. Mili opened the door, glanced in both directions and signalled that the corridor was empty. As I passed him I rested my hand on his chest.

When we were amongst the guests, as if by some unspoken agreement we separated. I returned to the mada midula and sat next to Ranjini, and Mili went to talk with some men who had just come in.

Ranjini was very curious about my life in Canada and told me, in return, about the village she came from near Matara and how she had studied Buddhist literature in university. There was a man named Sri with the bushy beard of a poet or a revolutionary who sat next to her as we talked. He also worked at Kantha. Stocky and very dark-skinned, he had that Negroid hair and nose that some Sri Lankans have. I could not tell if they were a couple. They did not touch, but then Ranjini, with her traditional ways, might not have been comfortable doing so in public.

Dinner was soon served, and by then I had grown weary of the small talk, which I found hard to keep up with, distracted by how Mili so assiduously kept his distance from me. Once the meal was over, I made my excuses, lying that I was still having terrible jet lag. Sriyani walked me out to the front verandah and we chatted while one of her houseboys went to look for my driver among the vehicles on the street. Just as my car was pulling up the driveway, Mili came hurrying out onto the verandah. “Shivan, I didn’t know you were leaving.” He looked alarmed but chastened.

“You seemed so involved in your conversation. I didn’t want to bother you.” I offered my hand, and when he placed his in mine, I shook it formally.

“But why are you going so soon?” He gave me a pleading look.

Sriyani was watching our interaction, smiling in that subtle way of hers.

“So, then, I’ll see you tomorrow?” I said on impulse, as if we had already discussed this.

“Yes,” he replied after a moment. Then he grinned, eyes crinkling up, shaking his head ever so slightly at my quick thinking.

I barely slept that night. As the fan clattered above my bed, its breeze slapping the curtain against the wooden window frame, I lay with my hands under my head wondering, in that way one wonders in the dead of night, if I had imagined the whole thing. It seemed impossible to reconcile the Mili I had known in school, star cricketer, head prefect, with what had happened in that bedroom. Yet this was not his first time. Once he had got past his nerves, there had been no fumbling awkwardness.

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