Swimming in the Monsoon Sea Page 8

  She saw them at the dining table and came up the steps.

  “Bundle.” She gestured towards the library, with a quick glance at Amrith. “Come-come, child, I have something I simply must tell you. I had a game this morning with Lady Rajapakse and you will not believe what I have learnt.”

  “We know, Aunt Wilhelmina.” Aunty Bundle sighed. “Lucky met Mervin in Fort.”

  “Oh.” She was a bit put out. Then she brightened up. “But, child-child, did you know that he is divorced?” She smiled, gratified by the looks on their faces. “Yes, for a very long time, it seems.”

  Amrith was shocked. Divorce was a very shameful thing. There were a few students in his school, like Peries, whose parents were separated and they never spoke of it, often pretending their parents were still married.

  Aunt Wilhelmina sat down and, sipping a cup of tea Jane-Nona had placed before her, told them all she knew.

  Mervin’s wife, Therese, had left him when Niresh was eight years old. Physical and mental cruelty were the reasons cited for the divorce. Niresh’s mother had remarried. A Canadian man, who ran a cattle farm in a place called Alberta. Evidently, the second marriage was not altogether successful, the man being a crude, bullying type. “Which,” Aunt Wilhelmina said with a sniff, “was to be expected if one went off and married a farmer.”

  Aunt Wilhelmina now moved on to gossip about Niresh. He was sixteen years old. Although he currently lived with his father in a Toronto suburb, he had spent most of his youth in boarding schools.

  Aunty Bundle shook her head, when she heard this. “That poor-poor boy,” she murmured.

  “Evidently, he’s a handful.” Aunt Wilhelmina raised her eyebrows. “Always in some trouble or other. He’s been to three boarding schools and was asked to leave each of them.”

  When Aunt Wilhelmina was told that Amrith was to see his cousin this morning, she frowned. “I’d be careful. Amrith is a very sweet, gentle boy. This Niresh could be a terrible influence on him.”

  The news that his cousin was truant like Suraj Wanigasekera only made Amrith more anxious.

  “The question that interests me,” Aunt Wilhelmina continued, “is why Mervin has returned, after all these years. I have known that blackguard since he was a boy and I am sure money is somehow involved.” She narrowed her eyes. “I have put out some inquiries. Let us see what turns up.”

  Soma dropped Uncle Lucky and Amrith in front of the Mount Lavinia Hotel and went to park. Amrith stood looking at the imposing whitewashed facade, with its pillars and domes. All through his typing exercises there had been a cold lump in his stomach. Uncle Lucky took Amrith’s arm and guided him towards the entrance. A guard in a solar-topee and a white coat swung open the brass-studded door and they entered into chaos.

  The lobby was packed with German tourists checking out, their bags all over the floor. Deputy managers barked out orders; a dozen porters rushed back and forth from the lobby to the waiting bus in the courtyard. The Germans were loud and enormous, their faces florid, their teeth gleaming as they yelled to each other, threw back their heads and roared with laughter, harangued the terrified staff behind the reception desk about their bills. Uncle Lucky gripped Amrith’s arm. They plunged into the Germans and wedged their way past the large bodies, avoiding tripping over the bags or being hit in the face by the tourists’ broad gestures.

  To the side of the lobby was a lounge area, with chairs and settees around coffee tables. His uncle rose from one of the chairs and held up his hand to get their attention.

  As they went across to him, Amrith kept his eyes lowered, even more nervous than before.

  When they reached his relative, Uncle Lucky gently pushed him forward. “Amrith, this is your Uncle Mervin.”

  He held out his hand and his uncle took it limply. He glanced up and saw a forced smile on his face.

  They sat down.

  His uncle looked around, worried. “Niresh should be here soon.”

  Uncle Lucky cleared his throat. He asked Amrith’s uncle how long they were going to be here, where they planned to go, what they had seen so far. Mervin answered, prolonging his responses to prevent any pauses.

  As the adults talked, Amrith began to feel strange, almost surreal, to be seated here in front of a relative of his. He gazed at his uncle, searching his face for any resemblance to his mother. There was none, and he did not know if he was glad of this or not.

  The two men finally became silent, having exhausted all topics of conversation.

  His uncle looked around again, frowning. He signaled to the Guest Relations Officer, who was by the reception desk. She came over to them.

  “You haven’t seen my son, have you?”

  “Oh, yes, Mr. Fonseka, he’s in the pool.”

  “In the pool?” His uncle struggled to hide his surprise. “Thank you.”

  She nodded and walked away, an amused smile on her face. His cousin appeared to be notorious here.

  “I … I don’t understand what he’s doing in the pool.” His uncle stood up. “I told him you all were coming today. Excuse me.”

  “Amrith,” Uncle Lucky said, indicating for him to get up, “why don’t you go with your uncle and meet your cousin?”

  His uncle was rather discomfited by this, but he said, “Yes, of course.”

  Amrith rose shakily to his feet. His uncle led the way across the foyer and he followed, surreptitiously rubbing his sweaty palms against his jeans.

  They were silent as they climbed the red-carpeted stairs. Finally his uncle asked gruffly, “And what grade are you in?”

  “Um … um … grade nine.” Amrith was about to add “Uncle,” like he would have done as a sign of respect to any older man, but the word froze in his mouth.

  “So you are doing your O levels next year?”

  Amrith nodded, so conscious of being unable to say “Uncle” that he felt awkward speaking at all.

  “And what do you plan to study for your A levels? Arts or Sciences?”

  “Um … um … Arts.”

  His uncle glanced at him and Amrith, suddenly afraid that he might be considered rude, blurted out, “Uncle.”

  The moment he said it, a mixture of emotions flitted over his uncle’s face. He looked away.

  They had come out on an elevated terrace, from which there was a sweeping view of the sea below. A hem of gleaming beach curved for miles along the Colombo bay, ending at the office towers of the Fort area. It had rained this morning and there were puddles of water on the terrace, shimmering in the noonday sun. All the objects on the terrace had devoured their own shadows and their colors were stark, without any grace of shade — the brassy pink of the potted bougainvilleas, the harsh yellow of the patio umbrellas, the bloated whiteness of the plastic lounging chairs.

  In the pool, a boy was swimming up and down in an uncoordinated manner, splashing lots of water about as he did the freestyle, his head shooting up to take loud gasps of air.

  His uncle went to the edge of the pool. “Niresh, Niresh.” He had to repeat the name a few times more before the boy heard him.

  Niresh spun around and stood up, all at the same time, the water pouring down his face, his mouth opening and shutting like a fish.

  “Your cousin is here.” His uncle sounded both irritated and embarrassed.

  Niresh looked at Amrith. His eyes grew wide. “Fuck!” he cried, his mouth gaping open in dismay. “What time is it?” He glanced over at the clock on the wall and then thrashed through the water to them. He pulled himself out of the pool, scattering a shower of drops like a dog. His cousin was well over six feet, with gangly heavy limbs, dark hairless skin that had a golden undertone, a wide floppy mouth that hung open now as he struggled to catch his breath.

  When he was sufficiently composed, he turned to his father, his hands on his hips. “Man, what’s your problem?” he boomed. “You told me they were coming at one o’clock.”

  His uncle’s face grew red with wrath. “Don’t call me man. And I did not tell y
ou one o’clock. I said twelve o’clock.”

  “The hell you did. Why would I be in the damn pool, if I knew Amrith was coming?”

  Niresh used his name as if he already knew him. Amrith, who had been intimidated from the moment his cousin had cried out “fuck,” saw now that there was a theatricality to Niresh’s stance. He had his hands on his hips and his voice was raised louder than necessary. This was for Amrith’s benefit.

  “But I told you twelve o’clock, Niresh,” his uncle insisted. “Don’t talk nonsense.”

  “You don’t talk nonsense, man. You’re going senile.”

  His uncle was enraged. Yet his son was taller and stronger than him and, as if to make this point, Niresh stood close to his father, towering over him.

  “I don’t have time for this nonsense,” his uncle said, stepping back. “Wipe yourself off. Put on a shirt.” He stalked away with as much dignity as he could.

  Niresh turned to Amrith, winked, and grinned. “What do you get when you cross a lemon with a cat?” He indicated towards the retreating figure of his father. “A sourpuss.”

  Amrith gave a surprised giggle, and his cousin threw his head back and laughed at his own joke.

  Niresh held out a wet hand. “It’s really great to meet you.”

  Amrith offered his hand and his cousin gave it such a hearty squeeze that he winced.

  Niresh took up his towel. “Sorry about the mix-up.” He grinned at him wickedly. “My fault. I got the time wrong.”

  Amrith was staggered at how well his cousin had faked outrage and innocence.

  Niresh rubbed his head vigorously for a few moments, flung his towel on a lounge chair, and put on a shirt. His hair, which came down to the nape of his neck and covered his ears, stood out at all angles. “Come on, let’s walk around a bit.”

  Niresh led the way along the balustrade that bordered the terrace. “So,” he said, after a few moments, “did you even know I existed?”

  Amrith nodded.

  “Well, I had no idea about you. And we know who’s to blame for that.” He grimaced ruefully at Amrith. By doing so, he both acknowledged and, at the same time, laid aside what was really a tragic omission in both their lives.

  Niresh stopped at the corner pedestal of the balustrade. He reached into his shirt pocket and drew out a pack of cigarettes. He offered one to Amrith, who quickly shook his head.

  Amrith tried not to stare as his cousin, right out here where anyone could see, lit a cigarette. Even the worst boy in his school would not dare to smoke so publicly.

  “So, if a baby was aborted in Czechoslovakia, what would that baby be?” He waited as Amrith dutifully shook his head. “A canceled Czech.”

  Amrith did not think it was that funny, but he grinned nonetheless and his cousin laughed.

  They began to talk, or rather, Niresh questioned him about Colombo and Amrith answered, pointing out various landmarks in the distance, showing him the bottom of their street and Kinross Beach, where they often went swimming.

  Niresh asked him about the Manuel-Pillais. He seemed intrigued by Uncle Lucky’s aquarium, but when Amrith told him that Aunty Bundle was an interior decorator for an architect who specialized in buildings that drew on ancient Sri Lankan architecture, his eyes grew wide. He asked Amrith numerous questions about her work and the buildings Lucien Lindamulagé designed. He wanted to know exactly what constituted a Sri Lankan style of architecture, and Amrith told him about the courtyards and mada midulas, which were interior gardens around which the houses were sometimes built. He also told him about specific wood carvings on pillars and doorways and the latticework above windows.

  His cousin also wanted to know about Selvi and Mala — how old they were and if they had boyfriends. When Amrith explained that Aunty Bundle and Uncle Lucky did not want any of them to date until they were past eighteen, Niresh shook his head in amazement and said that was “far out.”

  As they talked, the high monsoon waves crashed against the rocks below them. Two boys with straw hats were fishing from a large flat boulder that jutted out into the sea.

  Amrith noticed that Niresh had begun to sweat profusely, stains appearing under his arms and on his back, moisture gathering on his forehead and chin and upper lip. Niresh was not used to their tropical climate. He kept rubbing his face with his sleeve, which grew increasingly soggy. Finally, Amrith took out a handkerchief and offered it to him. Niresh looked at the handkerchief, not sure what he should do with it, but when Amrith gestured towards his face, Niresh grinned in thanks and wiped himself with it.

  Amrith was telling Niresh about his school — whose system of houses and prefects and addressing one another by last names seemed to fascinate Niresh, who said it was like something out of an old-time British movie — when he heard his name being called. He turned to see Uncle Lucky walking towards them. He glanced at his watch, amazed at how quickly time had passed.

  Niresh hurriedly stubbed out his cigarette and flung it over the balustrade to the beach below.

  “Son,” Uncle Lucky said, smiling, “it’s time to go home for lunch.”

  “You’re leaving so soon?” Niresh’s jaw dropped in disappointment. “Can’t Amrith stay for lunch?”

  Uncle Lucky struggled with this. The invitation had not come from Niresh’s father. “I’m afraid not. Food has already been prepared for Amrith at home and —”

  “Hold on a sec. I’ll ask my dad.”

  Without waiting for Uncle Lucky’s response, Niresh ran across the terrace and down the corridor.

  Uncle Lucky turned to Amrith. “So you and your cousin are getting on well?”

  Amrith nodded. He was delighted at how comfortable he was with Niresh, as if they had always known each other.

  “Good-good.” Uncle Lucky smiled. “It was the right thing to meet him.”

  Niresh came back in a surprisingly short time. He smiled broadly. “My dad said Amrith could stay.”

  Uncle Lucky seemed a little taken aback that Niresh’s father had agreed to this, but he nodded and told Amrith he would pick him up at five o’clock.

  The moment he left, they grinned at each other and Niresh cried, “Yeah! This is great!” In his delight, he thumped Amrith on the shoulders so hard he nearly coughed.

  Niresh went to change and, when he came back, he led Amrith to lunch. They entered a large ballroom with mirrors on the wall, the lamp brackets and ceiling cornices decorated with gilt. There was a buffet table set up at one end, covered with white tablecloths and piled with both Sri Lankan and Western food. Another table, a little distance away, had the desserts.

  The room was crowded with tourists lining up to fill their plates, or sitting at the round tables and eating. His uncle was alone at a table.

  Niresh led the way towards his father. When his uncle saw Amrith, he looked astonished.

  “Hey, Dad,” Niresh said, as they came up to the table, “Amrith’s staying for lunch.”

  He was not asking his father’s permission, he was telling him. His tone was casually contemptuous, as if his father’s consent did not count at all. Without waiting for a response, Niresh led Amrith towards the buffet table.

  As they stood in line with their plates, Amrith expected his cousin to say something about his lie but, instead, he treated Amrith to more jokes — What do you get when you cross a stripper with a banana? A self-peeling banana. What’s the difference between in-laws and outlaws? Outlaws are wanted. Why did the chicken cross the road twice? Because it was a double-crosser.

  None of the jokes were very funny, but Niresh told them with such an eagerness to please that Amrith had to respond with dutiful laughter. It was clear to him that Niresh was keen to impress him, to win his affection. From the first moment of their meeting, his cousin had set out determinedly to build a relationship between them. Amrith had never been courted in this way by anybody, and it was especially flattering because Niresh was two years older than him.

  By the time they were sitting down to eat, at a table across
the room from his uncle’s, Amrith had forgiven Niresh his lie.

  From what he knew of his uncle’s cruelty to his mother, Amrith guessed that his uncle had been harsh to his son when he was younger. The relish with which Niresh wielded his power over his father made Amrith suspect it was newfound; an ascendancy that had come to his cousin as he grew taller and stronger than his father. Amrith was glad of this shift of power. It was his uncle’s just due for the unhappiness he had caused in so many lives.

  That afternoon, Niresh confessed to Amrith a burning desire he had since coming to Sri Lanka — he wanted to drive one of those three-wheeled, scooterlike, open-sided trishaw taxis that were parked outside the hotel gates. He did not speak Sinhalese and he wanted Amrith to translate for him.

  At first, the trishaw drivers were amused at the proposition but, when they saw that Niresh was serious, they eyed him with suspicion. The youngest among them, a boy about eighteen, wanted to know if his cousin had driven before. Niresh produced a card with his photograph on it, which he held out to them, saying it was his driver’s license. The writing was in English and they could not read it. Amrith could. The laminated card was for membership at a gym. His cousin held his gaze intently and Amrith had no choice but to confirm for the trishaw men that it was, indeed, a driver’s license.

  The youngest driver agreed for the princely sum of three hundred rupees. Niresh was unfazed. He drew out a thick wad of hundred-rupee bills from his wallet and counted three. Amrith watched him in awe. He did not even own a wallet.

  Once the trishaw driver had pocketed the money, he handed over the keys. With a grin of utter delight, Niresh took his place in the driver’s seat. He looked like a giant in a Lilliputian conveyance, his long legs sticking out beyond the edges of the trishaw, his head brushing the roof.

  Niresh started the motor and shouted above its noise for Amrith to hop in. He could not refuse as it would raise the suspicions of the owner. He reluctantly took his place in the backseat. The young driver was showing Niresh the controls, but his cousin seemed to barely listen. He was revving the engine, anxious to be on his way.