The Legend of Pradeep Mathew (58 page)

‘It’s a cop-out.’

‘I made a promise not to tell.’

‘I’m sure it won’t be the first promise you’ve broken.’

‘I don’t like your tone …’

‘Will you write down what happened? Get it to us by Thursday and we shall have a contract ready.’

‘A contract for what?’

‘I shall be in touch on Thursday. See you later.’

Click.

The door opens and the man before me is neither bald nor mulleted nor slit-eyed nor Pinocchio-nosed nor skinny.

‘Mr Nathan? Mr Siva Nathan?’

‘That’s me.’

‘I just moved with my wife to Bulls. Was down in Castlecliff on business and I got your card.’

I hand it to him. He nods, obviously having seen it before.

‘Was looking for a cricket coach for my ten-year-old. Do you take youngsters of that age?’

‘Not really …’

‘I also have a thirteen-year-old. He’s really keen to play.’

‘Right. Come in, will you.’

He calls out. ‘Luke, just ten minutes, then homework, OK?’

He is Friar Tuck in a tracksuit. He is stocky with dark hair on the back and sides of his head but none on his crown. The drawing room is blue carpets and green sofas. There is a cat asleep in a basket by the windowsill. Thin light comes through slats from venetian blinds. I see no sporting trophies.

‘How long you been in New Zealand, Mr …’

‘Garfield Karunasena. Is it that obvious?’

‘I’ve been here a while, I can spot someone fresh off the boat.’

‘How many years have you been here?’

‘This is the thirteenth.’

‘We landed last month. I’m a quantity surveyor.’

‘Don’t know what quantity you’d be surveying in Castlecliff.’

‘The new … Japanese … construction. I was glad to meet you. My boys are cricket crazy, but there’s no good coaches in Bulls. I’m Sri Lankan, so cricket’s sort of a tradition for us, you know.’

Mr Nathan smiles. ‘Kohomada? How? How?’

‘Don’t tell me?’

‘Hard to believe, huh? Everyone here thinks I’m part Maori. Can I get you anything to drink?’

‘Just water, thanks. Where in Sri Lanka are you from?’

‘Moratuwa.’

I walk towards the window and spy some photos on the sill near the cat. The boys appear in various sizes and guises. I do not recognise Mrs Nathan in the large family photo. She is a tubby woman with short hair and faded skin.

‘Your boys bat or bowl?’ asks my host, handing me a glass.

‘Youngest is a wild pol adi batsman. Older one is a left-arm spinner.’

‘Ah really. What type?’

‘Chinaman.’

‘I also used to bowl that at one time.’

‘Did you ever play professionally?’

His accent is curious. It retains its Lankan lilt, but also has a rough chipped quality. Part Maori, part something I cannot identify.

‘Bit of club cricket here and there. But never had the temperament.’

‘Everyone says that you’re a wonderful coach.’ I almost tilt my neck and bat my eyelids.

‘I’m a much better coach than a player. As a player I never thought about what I was doing. Just did it, you know. When it worked, I rode it. When it didn’t, I fell apart. What about you? You play?’

I let myself blush. ‘Badly. I prefer to watch.’

‘Are you sure you’re OK with water? I have an arrack.’

I smile and shrug. ‘As long as I’m not intruding on your day.’

He walks over to the decanter by the trolley.

‘In Wanganui, things don’t really intrude on your day. I’m surprised to see a young guy like you. Most Sri Lankans get bored here and want to go to Auckland or Wellington.’

‘You’re the only Sri Lankan here?’

‘There’s eight families on the other side of the river, some have been there for two generations. None of them are talking to each other.’ He chuckles and passes over his drink.

‘You don’t mix with the other Lankans?’

‘They all know me, but I try and keep away. I used to play cricket in Manawatu with some Sri Lankan doctors. Half the time buggers were fighting with each other. I’d avoid Sri Lankans if I was you.’

‘Sounds like good advice.’

‘Kula, Luke.’ He taps on the window and gestures through it. ‘Enough now.’

He turns to me. ‘My children hate cricket. Older one watches rugby league, the younger likes soccer. What can you do?’

‘My ones love it.’

‘Best thing you can do as a father is let things happen. Let them do what makes them happy.’

‘Kula and Luke.’

‘Both named after great men.’

I scratch my head. ‘Only great man I know named Luke was Skywalker.’

We both laugh.

‘A man called Lucky, my first coach, taught me a lot of things. I didn’t always listen to him.’

The arrack stops in my throat.

‘Kula was named after Mr Gokulanath, the man who taught me everything I know about cricket. Sadly, both men are no more.’

‘I have heard that name …’

‘Very strict man. Could spin a ball on water. Taught me all the grips. Told me to think of nothing when I bowled. To empty my head of thoughts.’

‘There was a famous coach called Newton Rodrigo. Had six f …’

‘Who?’

‘Newton Rodrigo.’

‘Never heard of him.’

I have to put my glass down. ‘Excuse me, could I use your …’

‘Sure. Down this way.’

I splash my face with water and glare at my eyes. I look more human on the days that I don’t smoke. On the way out I pass an open door. The two boys are seated at desks listening to terrible, terrible Pacific Island hip-hop. I peep in.

The walls are covered with posters of severed limbs with the words Saw on them. The computer screen is bigger than my TV at home and is rigged to what looks like several time bombs. Wires scale the walls like ivy and creep along the floors.

‘It was you, Kula. Wasn’t it?’

The boy on the larger desk with the larger head of curly hair turns and looks at me. ‘What?’

‘You put your dad on Crikipedia.’

‘Is that why you came?’

‘Yes.’

For the first time he smiles. ‘Good.’

Back in the sitting room, Mr Nathan is pouring a second shot. ‘Come, let’s sit in the garden.’

The Kiwi sun glares its lasers into my skull. We sit on a bench and look over the shorn lawn.

‘Bring your boys next week. I don’t charge, but we encourage parents who can afford it to donate towards equipment and stuff.’

‘Sure. What made you coach there?’

‘I used to coach at Wanganui Collegiate.’

I nod. ‘The old English boarding school?’

‘The job pays and the facilities are good and all, but I couldn’t stand the kids. Bunch of rich brats. Spoilt. I teach there for the money. I guess that’s why we all do things.’

I nod and sip.

‘But some of these Maori kids, you should see their talent. Raw talent. Like our guys.’

I nod and sip and nod.

‘I have one guy like Joel Garner. Big fella, thundering pace.’

‘I saw them playing on the beach. There is an interesting spinner. Fair boy.’

‘Ariki. Troublemaker, but he’s a quick learner.’

‘He was bowling this strange ball. Bounces twice.’

‘Oh yes,’ he smiles. ‘That was a thing my coach Mr Gokulanath invented. You can’t bowl it in a match. It’s illegal.’

‘It’s genius. How do you bowl it?’

He gestures to the wicket painted on the fence. ‘C’mon. Grab that bat.’

I don’t think. I just do what he says. I stand where the fence is. He warns me to watch my shins. And then he runs in.

I have seen genius twice in my life. Once was in a garden in provincial New Zealand. The other was on the streets of Covent Garden.

The kid was dark and lanky, almost hunched. He had a weasel face and thick hair. Behind him was a tabla player and an amp. Surrounding him were about a hundred people, all with their jaws on the pavement.

His guitar spoke languages, sang sonnets and hypnotised strangers. The Guatemalan kid could push buttons that I could barely reach. I hated him for having a gift I would never share regardless of how many decades I practised.

I think of the Guatemalan as I watch Siva Nathan bowl. I watch the ball become conscious as it is guided by something other than gravity and wind. I give up trying to hit the deliveries and just marvel at the man’s skill. The ball sits in the air for longer than necessary and spins at impossible angles. ‘Play late. Watch the ball.’ Mr Nathan has barely broken a sweat.

After missing several overs’ worth, I finally manage to hit a double bounce ball back to the bowler.

‘That’s right,’ says Mr Nathan. ‘Play late. Always play late.’

He holds the ball with his long fingertips and turns it into a gyroscope.

‘Don’t think about it. Just see it in your head. And push your wrist this way. Simple.’

Simple is one thing it most certainly is not.

As the sun snuggles behind a cloud, we sit under the apple tree and watch cars glide down College Street.

‘Why don’t you come back to Sri Lanka and coach? These foreign coaches are no good.’

‘Last year seventeen murders in Castlecliff. One twelve-year-old boy was knifed in the throat last Christmas. This year none. Not one. All the gang boys play in my teams. Our 1st XI beat the Collegiate seconds.’

‘The Collegiate headmaster doesn’t mind you training rival clubs?’

He drains his glass and smiles.

‘He knows I work harder than half the teachers there. I used to be lazy. Can never understand that. Sri Lankans suddenly become model workers when they go abroad.’

‘We have seventeen murders every day in Lanka. And those are the good days. Your country needs you more.’

He shakes his head. ‘If I come back and try to do something, there’ll be a thousand and one reasons not to and a million and one people to prevent me. In the end nothing will get done. I’ll just get frustrated. Trust me. I know the scene.’

‘It’s not so bad,’ I say, as a blue Peugeot pulls into the driveway.

‘Here, the air is clean, you can live a good life, do your bit. There you just waste your energy. That’s my wife. I think I may have to go.’

I recognise the woman from the photograph, though her skin is glossier in person. She carries a bag of groceries and her tracksuit trousers hang on her chubby waist. She looks sweet and matronly, somewhat of an MILF.

‘Meet my wife Danila. Dani, this is Garfield …’

I drop my glass, but luckily it is empty and luckily it bounces off the grass. I squat down and pick it up. When I look up, she is staring at me.

‘Garfield Karuna … tilaka.’

‘I’ve seen you somewhere. Where did you work in Colombo?’ ‘I was mostly in Dubai,’ I stammer. ‘Thank you, Mr Nathan, for the drinks. I’ll be in touch.’

I turn to his wife, who is now frowning. ‘No. No. You must stay for tea. Siva, bring some ice cream after you drop the kids.’

‘I really have to …’ I stammer.

‘We don’t get to meet many Sri Lankans, no, Siva?’

‘The tragedy of our lives,’ says her husband, twirling the car keys. ‘Luke, Kula. It’s almost 4. Come now.’

Siva bundles the two curly-haired lads into the car. The elder one smiles at me this time.

‘If you’re gone when I’m back, I’ll see you Tuesday with your boys, eh?’ says Siva, turning the ignition.

I reach into the car, shake his hand, bow my head and say thank you.

‘Excuse me,’ says Danila, ‘I need to make some calls.’

I am served Dilmah tea and Anchor milk and sit in the study as she makes her calls in the living room. The house is messy but nice. The study is filled with files and a small computer. After about fifteen minutes, she joins me. She sits at the computer and types.

‘You look a lot like your father. Same face.’

I say nothing.

‘Did he finish his book?’

I say nothing.

‘Didn’t think he would. I never told Siva about his secret biographer.’

‘You mean Pradeep?’

‘Reggie Ranwala went around telling everyone that Karunasena’s book would ruin the SLBCC. You’ll have trouble publishing it.’ ‘I don’t intend on publishing.’

She looks at me and winks. ‘Your father used to scratch behind his ear when he was lying.’

I stop scratching behind my ear.

‘Here we go,’ she says looking at her screen. ‘“Alice Dali. US/Swiss/Sri Lankan Post-Grunge 4-piece. Bass: Garfield Karunasena.” Hmm. That picture was such a bad idea.’

I know exactly which picture she is referring to and I nod. ‘You got me.’

‘And are you going to get us?’

‘Can I interview him?’

‘No.’ She holds my gaze and watches me flinch. ‘His sister says the threatening calls have stopped. We have a good life here.’

Danila Guneratne was the one person in the book I most wanted to meet. I expected a femme fatale, not a soccer mom with an evil glare.

‘I’ll leave all of this out. I’ll say I never found him.’

‘Can we trust you?’

‘I give you my father’s word.’

She laughs. I’m not sure if it is out of scorn for my father’s word or out of contempt for me.

‘I have a note for Pradeep.’

‘From whom?’

I fish out the paper I’ve been carrying with me for almost a year. ‘Someone who said he was a friend.’

I have kept this paper in the condom pocket of my wallet. It has tears around the creases, but it is in decent condition.

‘Who’s it from?’

‘A man called Kuga.’

She takes it and does not look at it.

‘Do you smoke?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘Come outside.’

We sit on the porch and she borrows the lighter that I bought from the P. addict in Aromoho.

‘Put your ash here,’ she says, pointing to a barbecue-like contraption. ‘In clean, green New Zealand, there’s a separate bin for every type of rubbish.’

‘So you’re happy here?’ I ask. In the warm porch light, caressed by shadows, she begins to resemble the creature my father once described.

‘Siva doesn’t know I smoke,’ she says, staring at the McGillicuddy logo on my lighter. ‘Soon I’ll give up and he won’t have to know.’ ‘He’s a brilliant cricketer.’

She shrugs and eyes me with something resembling menace. ‘You won’t let us down, will you?’

I watch her spark the lighter, hold its flame to the air and set fire to a note that she hasn’t even read. The corner glows orange and then fat flames grope her painted fingers. She drops it. It curls into black powder in the ashtray grille and we watch the flame turn it to dust.