The Legend of Pradeep Mathew (50 page)

On the field the score keeps decreasing. It was 400 for 5, now it is 210 for 7. The blues and greens hurt my eyes; there is the noise of papare and cheering everywhere. David Bairstow, honk-nosed ex-England wicketkeeper, sells us sweep tickets. He too does not speak and his tickets all carry the number 5198. And then arrives the bum. ‘Got some spare rupees, brother?’

‘Jonny?’ says Ari.

I see that beneath the grime it is indeed Jonny. We seat him next to us and give him kadale.

‘Things aren’t going well,’ says Jonny, bottom lip quivering.

‘You still didn’t get to heaven?’

‘No, look. England are 33 for 9.’

Minister C.V. Gooneratne is batting in blue. Wasim Akram races in and hits him on the thigh pad. The fielders go up and so does the umpire’s finger. Then the umpire runs up to the wicketkeeper and high-fives him.

All the players come and hug the umpire. The batsman storms off in disbelief.

‘Ari. WeeGee. I knew he was fourteen.’

‘But you said you didn’t?’

‘Anthony was sixteen. Joseph was fourteen. I knew.’

I look at Ari who looks away. ‘There’s Ole Neiris. I better be off.’

I see Ari disappear into the crowd though I see no midget.

On the field Pakistan are now batting, though I recognise the batsman as Lalith Dissanayake, the late minister. Vaas’s first ball shatters the bat. A shard of it lands on the wicket. The crowd cheers.

‘It’s not what you think, WeeGee. I loved him.’

‘It doesn’t matter, Jonny.’

‘He loved me. He even visited me in prison.’

‘I don’t need to know.’

Clear the air passages. We need more oxygen.

Man with glasses and beard looking down. My office ceiling fan turning.

The next batsman is Derek Randall, who is followed by a butcher with a wheelbarrow of pork chops. ‘He gets a chop for each boundary he scores!’ says a man who may not be Justin Fashanu, the homosexual footballer who hanged himself a year ago.

Unrecognisable faces. Except the angel in the back who is crying.

Lots of voices, none in unison. Don’t cry, Sheila. I tried.

Buck Shelford is wearing a headguard and bowling off spin to Ranasinghe Premadasa. On drive. Georgie Best gives chase from mid-wicket and stops a certain boundary. ‘Georgie, where did it all go wrong?’ shouts someone in the crowd.

Jonny taps me and shows me a fifty rupee note. ‘Why is Jimmy Carter in a nilame outfit on the back of our fifty rupee note?’ I reply that I do not know but that it is so.

Ambulance doors, white pre-coffin. Two faces, both I recognise and love.

One says, C’mon Wije. Stay with us. The other sobs.

Minister J.R. Athulathmudali gets hit in the unmentionables by an underarm full toss from English aristocrat bully Douglas Jardine. The crowd boos.

Doors. Ceilings. Faces. Voices.

I’ve lost pulse. Get him to theatre now.

Pradeep Mathew is facing Kerry Packer. Mathew in green, Packer in blue. The ball is skied for a certain 6, when from the stands out jumps a hairy man. It is Colombian goalkeeper Rene Higuita. He runs to the boundary and scorpion-kicks the ball back into play. The crowd goes wild.

So now we are back at Nawasiri. Different room, worse view, no AC. Always hot or maybe that’s just me. I am hooked up to a fish tank and I have a new term in my vocabulary: renal failure. I could explain to you what it means, but I have bored you enough already.

That last chapter was written in bed by hand on this exercise book where I used to record Colombo Municipality rates. I see I paid them diligently in the 1970s and then let them slide in the 1980s when our taxes went towards rifles and not roads. The government stopped caring, I stopped paying.

The ache in my fingers has travelled past my wrist and has annexed my shoulder. Only if I hold my torso at a precise angle can I prevent the pain from shooting up my side whenever I put pencil to pad. Ari has offered me a solution, a very generous one. He has offered me his daughters.

Each one has volunteered to come on a different day, to record my ramblings and then to faithfully type them. Manouri even made up a roster:

If I’m to be under observation for a month, this is a sustainable way of finishing my work. But the chaos of five different hands and five different brains fills me with dread. How do I revise when I know not who typed what? I can barely tell Ari’s daughters apart by sight. Manouri came over and provided me with photographs and biographical details and kind assurances that ‘The girls are happy to do it, we all enjoy your writing’.

I am touched though I do not say so. Though I’m still nervous about having five different middlemen (who are girls) between me and the page. Then I see a picture of a recent Byrd family trip to Adam’s Peak and an idea hits me.

Sri Lankan folklore is littered with as many buffoons as the Sri Lankan parliament. One such character is Maha Dena Mutta, a foolish sage with five dimwitted pupils. The bumbling adventures of this merry troupe involve a goat’s head, a boggy marsh and buckets of slapstick. While the tales are somewhat forgettable, the names and physical descriptions of his five pupils are most definitely not.

The shortest is Rabbada Aiya (Toddy Belly), the simplest, Puwak Badilla (Areca Nut Eater), the tallest, Kotu Kithaiya (Stick Figure), the chubbiest, Polbe Moona (Coconut Face), the thinnest, Indikatu Pancha (Tiny Needle). Looking over Manouri’s photos and hearing her gossip-laden descriptions of her stepdaughters, the stories of Maha Dena Mutta and his men come to mind. I now have both a system and a method:

Graham Snow visited me yesterday.

Everyone in the ward is excited and for a day I am more popular than the curly-haired quadruplets born upstairs.

Graham brings me books I cannot hold and VCDs I cannot watch.

‘I hear you’re finishing your book. Did you read mine?’

‘I didn’t like your chapter on the ’76 summer.’

‘Make ‘em grovel?’

‘It sounded a bit bitter, not like you.’

‘You and Ari know how bitter I can get. What are your thoughts for the World Cup? You gave me a good tip last time.’

‘Forget Sri Lanka. Bet on Australia.’

The male nurses come into my room at five-minute intervals and pretend to tidy things while grinning at my guest.

‘What about Pakistan? South Africa?’

‘Forget all. Australia will win this. Maybe even the next.’

‘You’re all doom and gloom, WeeJay. Cheer up, fella.’

‘I’m dying, Graham.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. I talked to the doc. He says you’ll be right as rain. Now who’s sounding bitter?’

‘A good captain knows when to declare.’

‘Not your innings, mate. Who will I visit to get my World Cup tips for 2003? Now stop talking like an old woman and cheer up, willya? Did I tell you how I met Ross Emerson in the changing rooms …’

Everyone brings me fruit. Bottles of apple juice that will stay unpoured stand in single file next to both my Sportswriter of the Year awards. Ari has had the trophies polished and is currently editing my manuscript. He wants me to sit with his daughters and dream up an ending. Manouri, the stepmother of the fair girl holding this tape recorder, has tried unsuccessfully to sell me religion. I suppose the hospital bed provides the church with most of its customers and I shouldn’t blame her for trying. She has after all been very kind to me. There is enough cricket on TV to keep me annoyed. As I see our geriatric team find new and creative ways to mess things up, it is obvious that the vintage of ’96 has now turned to vinegar.

Ari’s optimism is what sustains me, along with Sheila’s love. My doctor is the same pup who diagnosed me many months ago. He does not recognise me, but pretends to. These days I can tell a liar from their eyes, a skill like many I wish I’d had when I was younger.

I urinate through tubes and I shit not at all. Apologies, my dear. I know that I smell and I am grateful you and your sisters come here at all.

Yesterday brought Newton Rodrigo.

When he comes in I begin shivering and require more blankets. Why do I only see him when I’m on my deathbed?

He has shaved his moustache and his hair and wears Gandhi glasses. His head resembles a half-inflated rugby ball with intellectual leanings. He brings a copy of
The Art of Cricket.
I turn to the front page and see:
To Gamini, Best Wishes Donald Bradman

I giggle.

‘Good to see you’re in good spirits. How’s the Pradeepan book?’

‘Almost done, just like me.’

‘Why don’t you stop being negative and pull through this?’

‘OK. I might do that. Thanks. Is your coaching advice this insightful?’

He rises. ‘Wije, I just came to give your book. No need to insult.’

‘My book did not say
To Gamini
on it.’

‘What?’

‘Sit, Newton. Tell me more stories about Mathew.’

‘What else did you find?’

‘That he was brilliant and unlucky.’

‘I believe you make your own luck.’

‘You would.’

‘What’s your problem, Wije?’

I look at him with his shirt and his chains and his jiggling car keys. Even the hair on his arms looks groomed. I am aware how repulsive I must look to him.

‘When I taught you to write at the
Observer,
did you think we’d end up like this?’

He shrugs and looks at my polished awards.

‘You make your own luck.’

‘It’s a good thing Bradman’s still alive.’

‘What?’

‘You were too proud to admit you’d lost my book. So you went to the extent of getting another signed, rather than apologise to me.’

‘You’re delirious.’

‘I am. But I’m not a hack like you. You think I can’t tell when a signature’s forged? I know who gulled my book from you.’

‘I don’t know what you’re saying.’

He gets up. ‘See you, Wije.’

‘You made this entire six-finger thing up just to impress me?’

‘Don’t blame me because your life is over.’

‘Pradeep said you were a racist and an opportunist.’

‘Where did you hear that garbage?’

‘A man called Kugarajah.’

He shakes his head. ‘You will get better if you let go of your anger.’

‘Why should I be angry?’ I call out.

He stands at the doorway, his shoes and his bald scalp shining.

‘Because you wasted your life.’

‘And Sheila chose me.’

For a long while he is silent. Then he comes to my bed and whispers, ‘If that is all you can boast of after all these years, then you are more pathetic than I thought.’

He leaves and it dawns on me that if I am soon to be dead, then I had better get used to not having the last word.