The Legend of Pradeep Mathew (34 page)

‘You will not mention this visit to anyone. Not Byrd. Not the suddha.’

Emmanuel Kugarajah offered to manage Pradeep’s career that first night at the Citadel and the boy accepted. His first managerial act was to rid the twenty-two-year-old of his virginity.

‘Fellow said he was waiting for a girl he loved. I said fuck that bullshit. Sorry, Uncle. Got him a Korean when we got back to Colombo.’

Kuga tells me he has an important visitor arriving and that we will make another appointment to meet. He begins putting the discs away and tidying the room.

‘Sudu and Chooti will drive you back. I hope you will not mind the blindfold.’

‘You are joking?’

Standing at full height, Kuga doesn’t look as short as I thought. He is almost at my shoulder. On which he puts his dark paw and squeezes. ‘Sorry, Uncle.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I know who you are.’

He increases the pressure on my shoulder.

‘And because you know who I am.’

As he leads me down the stairs, I wonder if I should tell him that I do not have the foggiest.

New Zealander Dipak Nathu had a beautiful armball that he employed a bit too extensively. So much so that unkind Aucklanders would hold banners saying, ‘Beware of Dipak’s mystery ball. It actually spins.’

ITL has this footage. It is from New Zealand’s mythic 1992 World Cup where they beat everyone in the world, partly thanks to captain Crowe opening the bowling with his off-spinning armball practitioner. They then lose to a beleaguered Pakistan, who go on to whack the cup.

Nathu speaks to Brian Gomez, whose LankaTel T-shirt, cap and tie leave little doubt as to how ITL financed his trip to New Zealand.

‘To be honest with you, mate, I picked up the ole armball in your country.’ Dipak looks Punjabi and speaks fluent Kiwi.

‘Your spinner took 10 wickets against us, eh? I was reserve. I watched that fella bowl in the nets. Beautiful armballs, eh? I can’t remember his name …’

‘Jayantha Amarasinghe?’ prompts Brian, confirming beyond doubt that he is an idiot.

‘Nah, mate.’

‘Sanjeewa Weerasinghe?’

‘Don’t think so. Dark bloke, kinda shaggy hair.’

‘Ah,’ smiles Brian. ‘Ranjith Madurusinghe.’

‘Nah, mate. Not him. Listen, I think we’re expected on the field …’

Brian could have gone on bumbling names. Roger Wijesuriya, Sridharan Jeganathan, Don Anurasiri, Roshan Jurangpathy. Nah, mate. Brian, you moron. Not them.

The Legends Nightclub and Bar is at the top of Empire City, central Colombo’s most overpopulated shopping mall. To reach the top requires braving seven escalators or sharing a sweltering lift with thirty-two armpits. We opt for the former. I observe the Em-Cee Boys gazing over railings at the tops of dresses. This baseball cap-and-chain wearing subculture is the fungus of Colombo’s malls. They are mostly harmless, unless of course you are under thirty and possess breasts.

The last escalator is the least crowded, but I still find the journey nerve-wracking. Decades ago I read about a child in Maharagama whose foot was shredded by the teeth of one of these moving staircases. The thought still makes me shudder.

The Legends sign above the entrance is unlit. The club is filled with afternoon sunlight and scurrying workmen in plain clothes. The walls are plastered with posters bearing the logo of a tea company, the same one seen on the front of our cricketers’ shirts. Danila is trotting in high heels, hair loose, directing young boys in ties. It was Ari’s idea to meet her.

She sees both of us and there is a smile. ‘Hi. Hi.’ She gives us both a delicate handshake. ‘Crazy day, no? They’ve pushed the event to tomorrow. Going mad. Give me a second. I’ll come.’ The smile vanishes as fast as it appears, causing one to question its authenticity.

We sit at the bar and I gaze upon fine vodkas, gins, whiskies and rums hanging upside down, glistening like the pipes of a grand organ. It is then that I realise that my favourite colour is Mendis Double Distilled mixed with ginger beer, a colour somewhere between sunset and gold.

Jonny boasts of his drug use as if he is privy to some sort of divine enlightenment. How can XTC or LMD or whatever these children take compete with alcohol, a drug refined over the centuries by all the great civilisations?

‘Take it easy, Wije,’ says Ari, reading my face. ‘Two bitter lemons, please.’

‘I’ll have water,’ I say to the giraffe-like bartender. He looks at me an instant too long.

‘Today you are doing the talking,’ I say to Ari as we lean back and look upon the club’s leather-clad interior. Couches where who knows what debauchery takes place. I have seen how Ari’s Melissa and her friends dress on a night out.

‘Of course,’ says Ari, doffing his silly cap. ‘Leave it to me, Putha.’

‘Excuse me, sir,’ says the bartender. ‘Are you related to Garfield?’

I narrow my eyes at the giraffe. Ari breaks the pause.

‘Yes. Yes. Garfield is his son.’

‘You have the same face cut,’ says the barman. ‘Garfie played bass for Apple Rain after Joe died. Good fellow. How is he?’

I sip my water hoping this overgrown horse will shut up. But he doesn’t.

‘I heard he got a break in Switzerland with Capricorn. There money is good, ah.’

I begin picturing the bartender’s giraffe head impaled on a cocktail skewer marinated in single malt whisky when Danila comes over. ‘Come, let’s sit.’

She is wearing a short skirt and a saffron blouse that curves with her figure.

‘Tell Garfield that Manilal said hi.’

‘Of course,’ says Ari, as we take the couch by the window.

‘We are playing well, no?’ says Danila.

‘Only at home,’ says Ari. ‘Let’s see how we do in England.’

‘You’re not at the Cricket Board?’ I ask, pretending I am unaware of the scandal draped across the pages of last year’s
Leader
that had forced her out of the cricket board.

‘I’m back in advertising.’ She fishes a card out of her handbag and places it before us. Her title and the three letters that describe the firm are meaningless to me, but I presume it is a good position, which allows one to order around young boys in ties.

‘I’m also not with that bastard,’ she says, fingering a cigarette. Had the whole town suddenly taken up smoking?

‘Which fine gentleman do you refer to?’ I realise to my dismay that Bogart is back in Ari’s voice box. ‘The ex-president of the SLBCC or Pradeep Sivanathan Mathew?’

Danila glares at me and I do not know where to look, so I let my gaze fall.

‘Are you looking at my …’

Ari chuckles and I feel blood rush to my ears. ‘No. Are you mad?’

‘Why not?’ asks Danila, arching her back and looking down at her cleavage. ‘They’re perfectly worth looking at.’

I feel blood rush elsewhere.

Ari coughs. ‘I am sure many men have fallen for your … charms, Danila. Or should I call you Shirali?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Are you not Shirali Fernando? Former lover of Pradeep?’

She leans back, less like a lady taking offence, more like a rat snake about to strike. She keeps her eyes on us as she calls one of her minions and with a cupped fist orders a glass of wine. Then she doubles over in laughter.

‘You’re serious?’ The glass is placed and another cigarette is lit.

‘We know that you met him in Melbourne in 1989. We know that …’

‘My God. You are serious. Uncle, can I ask you? Do I look stupid to you?’

Ari stops his monologue, I almost stop breathing.

‘If you knew how much I hated that bitch.’ She calls out to the bar. ‘Upendra. Where the hell is the band, men? Call that bloody Manilal.’

She leans forward, smiles at me, and points at Ari. ‘He goes.’

‘What do you mean?’ splutters a flabbergasted Ari.

‘I’m sorry, Mr Byrd. I’m not discussing my personal life with you.’

‘It’s OK, Ari,’ I say. ‘Let me take this.’

Ari walks off cursing and sits at the bar. I resist the urge to punch the air like Tim Henman.

Ageing has many drawbacks. Not least the proximity of death and the visibility of decay. But also, in the eyes of the world, you cease to be a sexual being. Children are repulsed at the thought of their parents at it. Nauseated by the very act that spawned them.

We are all as old as our eyes and slightly older than our teeth. Everyone has blood running through their veins. Sheila and I have enjoyed a full and rewarding sex life. We don’t have to dress like prostitutes to advertise it.

Why should we deny and suppress our desires while the young are allowed to drape theirs across our faces? If a twenty-eight-year-old puts her hand on my knee, she is being warm and endearing; if I do the same I become a rapist. And that is why the young have power. Because they are desirable and we are not.

She tells me she ‘dated’ eight Sri Lankan cricketers since 1990 but only ‘went out’ with two. I must ask Ari’s daughters to decipher these terms for me. She tells me she broke off with the president of the SLBCC because he slept with his servants. She speaks of her lovers without shame, perhaps believing she is being refreshingly honest. This I find insulting. Though I am unsure how to feel about the hand on my knee.

She joined the three-letter-named agency straight after her A-levels. She went to Bishops College and liked to party.

She worked on the SLBCC account as a junior executive, long before World Cups and multi-million rupee deals. The Cricket Board may not have paid as much as her other client, Anchor Milk, but it brought prestige, a rich social life and the occasional overseas trip. She was promoted twice and in ’95, the client offered her a job at the SLBCC.

‘Was that when you began your relationship with the MD?’ I ask as politely as I can.

‘No. That was after Pradeep left me.’

Ari calls out to us from the bar. Tells us he is departing. We wave him off. Thankfully there is a table between his line of vision and the hand on my knee.

‘Aiyo. Change the music, men. Kenny G is bit G, no. Play that blues CD I bought.’

The man behind the bar executes Danila’s bidding. A ballad sung by a lady who sounds half asleep floats through the ceiling speakers. Danila lowers her eyelids and sings along to the chorus.

‘I love this song.’

‘Sounds to me like she’s taken drugs.’

‘She probably has. Listen to how sad she sounds. Listen to this song enough times, Uncle, and it will be your friend.’

The hand removes itself as she tells me that a certain top order batsman kisses like a goldfish. That a certain bowler is a bit too quick between the covers. That the vice captain took her to Kandalama Hotel before and after his marriage.

‘Do you know she never let Pradeep have sex with her? Some virginity pact with God. Then she blamed him for straying. He worshipped her. Said she was the only one who believed in him.’

Danila’s first meeting with Pradeep was during the 1992 test against Australia played in Sri Lanka. Mathew had been recalled to the side and Danila was between boyfriends.

‘I picked him up,’ smiles Danila. ‘Believe me, Uncle, that’s something I hardly ever have to do.’ She tilts her head, blows smoke and flashes her eyes. I believe her.

‘I told him, “Pradeep, keep me away from that Ravi de Mel.” He smiled and asked me why I was hiding. So I told him.’

She had been drunk at a previous function, had sat on de Mel’s knee, but had ended the night kissing one of the Aussie batsmen. ‘Men are like Montessori babas in a sandpit. If one picks up a toy, everyone wants to play with it.’

Pradeep kept his arm around Danila when his fast-bowling nemesis approached. During the evening, he complained about Shirali and how she didn’t like his friends.

‘“What friends?’” I asked, “Charith?” He laughed and told me that he hung out with gangsters. I thought he was trying to impress me.’

The Aussie batsman approached, hoping for a replay of the previous night.

As did each of Sri Lanka’s top order. But Danila stuck by her date. ‘He would have to be the first cricketer not to try and feel me up on the first night.’

The match was going well and Sri Lanka looked on the brink of an improbable victory. Pradeep said his girlfriend had told him to choose between his friends and her.

‘Who were the friends?’

‘I never got to meet any of them,’ says Danila, not without sadness.

They had an ‘on again, off again’ for two years, her longest relationship to date, aside from her recent broken engagement. While Shirali was away in Washington, they became weekend lovers, committed but not exclusive.

‘Why did Shirali leave him?’

She blushes and shrugs and tells me. ‘She caught him with me.’

‘He never got over it,’ says Danila. ‘Even when he was with me, he was with her.’

The tea company client arrives and she has to be excused. But she asks me one more question and it is the only time during the entire conversation that I feel I am speaking to the real Danila.

‘Last time you said he was dead. Is he?’

I tell her I am no longer sure.

You may remember that I pinned my classified ad to the Bloomfield noticeboard sometime back. And that it resulted in Ari and me being banned from the club.