The Legend of Pradeep Mathew (57 page)

‘Do you have a husband, Ms Mathew?’

Her two friends squeal with laughter. On TV, a Kiwi batsman skies a sixer.

‘This fella doesn’t beat around the bush, does he?’ says Curly.

‘Yeah, Coruba’s got a man,’ says Glasses. ‘His name’s Siva.’

They laugh some more.

‘I thought it was Shiva,’ says Curly.

I glance at Moustache and feel my pulse quicken.

‘Ms Mathew, your husband’s name is Siva?’

She blushes while her friends chuckle. ‘We named him Shiva last month, ‘cos we’re all getting into Indian yoga meditation spiritual stuff.’

‘Where is your husband?’

Curly and Glasses do not stop laughing.

‘Here he is,’ says Moustache.

‘Come here, Shiva. Where did you go, boy?’

I watch the sheepdog that almost mauled me run into the arms of the woman with the moustache. ‘Where you been, Shiva boy?’

The dog starts licking her face.

I park at Castlecliff Beach, roll up what’s left of my stash and wait for the sun to set. The beach is nothing short of abysmal. The sand is blacky-brown and the water temperature is a single digit despite it being the height of summer. I sit on the rocks and watch some Maori kids playing touch rugby on the hardened sand. I hear boy racers in the distance revving souped-up Holdens on the open road.

Just like love, karma can wield its club in strange ways. Why have I not been punished for all my cruelty? Why have I not been rewarded for my selfless dedication to my father’s cause? Has the Big Man in the sky lost sight of me since I disappeared Down Under?

That would have to be it, I suppose. I’ve given it my best shot. What more can I do other than head home, clean up the book and try and get it into print? I don’t think Lankan publishers are all that picky about books that ramble and have no conclusion.

As the breeze drops I notice the Maori kids doing something curious. They have abandoned their rugby ball and are hammering sticks into the hard black-brown sand. And then from their bag they pull out the two most beautiful things in the universe. A bat and a ball.

I spark my joint and step towards them. If they are not too skilled, I’ll ask if I can join, it has been years. There are five kids all in their early teens and they all have bad haircuts. Mullets, skinheads and everything in between. I’ll tell them I’m twenty-eight.

Before the first ball, they share a cigarette and eye me with suspicion. I turn and face the ocean and wait for them to begin playing. The tall boy with the mullet bowls quickly, but with little accuracy. The short batsman hammers a full toss to the sea.

‘Good one, Corey, ya fucken meat,’ says the boy in a hoodie at short leg.

‘I reckon that’s out, eh?’ says the shaven-headed boy at mid-off.

‘Get stuffed,’ says the shorty with the bat. ‘Yous are cheating.’

De Saram Road, Mount Lavinia. A flock of seabirds skim the horizon and a gang of cars whiz past at twice the speed limit.

From the other end, a fair boy with a mullet bowls from a shortened run-up. His first ball causes controversy. His second ball causes more controversy. His third ball makes me drop my smoke. I run towards them, the argument getting clearer as I near.

‘That ball is sweet-as,’ says Fair Mullet.

‘It’s a fucken no-ball,’ says Hoodie.

‘Just ‘cos you can’t play it.’

‘You can’t bowl that,’ says Shorty the Batsman.

‘Fuck off, bro. You’re out.’

‘Who taught you that?’ I ask.

They all look at me.

‘Who are you?’

I look at the fair boy with the mullet.

‘Bowl that again.’

I pick up the bat from the beach floor and face up. The others sneer at me as the boy runs in to bowl.

He whacks it short outside off. It bounces, spins to leg, bounces again, straightens, and bowls me. It is the ball that bounces and spins twice. I didn’t think it existed. I run up to him and I am screaming.

‘Who taught you to bowl that?’

They mistake my enthusiasm for aggression. Shorty blocks my way.

‘Steady on, bro.’

Hoodie advances, rolling up his sleeves.

‘I invented that,’ says Fair Mullet.

‘Bullshit,’ says the quiet, goggle-eyed one I hadn’t noticed.

‘I did so.’

‘Mr Nathan showed us at practice last week.’

I look at Goggle-eye. ‘Who’s Mr Nathan?’

‘He’s a curry muncher like you,’ says Hoodie and they all laugh.

‘What’s all this?’ The man is scarier than the voice. He is browny-pink, obese, tattooed along his arms and face and wearing leathers. The sort you cross the road to avoid.

‘You making trouble, eh, cuzzy?’

I throw aside the bat and walk up to him. ‘Are you Mr Nathan?’

For the second time I cause the boys to laugh.

‘Not likely, mate.’

‘Where can I find Mr Nathan?’

The man regards me as if to gauge if the contents of my pockets are worth a bullet. I take a breath as he unzips his coat and reaches in. He pulls out a wallet and from it extracts a business card. It is then that I notice his crucifix and his collar.

Mr Siva Nathan teaches maths and science at Wanganui Collegiate School and has done so since 2003, when he moved to Wanganui with his wife and family. The bursar’s secretary is chatty without being nosey. She says he coached the 2nd XI for three years, but is no longer involved with school sports.

School is not due to open till February and both the headmaster and the bursar are away. She is unable to give out staff details. I thank her and run to the WangaVegas phone book, now permanently in the back seat of my rent-a-car.

The address I get is 3 College Street, a street I have travelled through many times before. While I drive there, through roads with more traffic lights than cars, I wonder what fresh disappointments await me. I think of my father jabbing his Jinadasa, tanked up on gal arrack. Did he expect his words to lead his son to a green fence and a flowering garden at the bottom of the world?

Two young boys are kicking a football. At the far end of the fence, away from the flowers, there is a wicket painted on the wall. The grass around it is shorn shorter than the rest of the lawn.

Both lads have curly hair and dark complexions. ‘Is your dad in?’ I ask. As the younger one nods, I pull out the postcard that Shirali Fernando gave me.

‘You must be Luke.’ He gives me a grin with teeth that have fallen out. The elder one ignores me and kicks the ball against the wall.

‘Kula,’ I call out. The boy raises his head, frowns at me, and then looks away.

The garden is like the rest of New Zealand. Spacious, empty and safe. The boys keep kicking the ball as I step onto the threshold.

I look to the sky and thank the Big Man for bringing me here. I ring the doorbell and I wait. The air is still and all I hear is the sound of ball hitting foot. Through the glass, I spy coloured shadows dancing like djinns before my eyes. And then slowly, painfully, and wordlessly, it is opened.

No one wants to touch the fucking thing. Not even Nallathamby Printers in Pamankada. Every bugger I call, when I say I’m Garfield Karunasena, gives me the same reply, ‘This is that cricket book, no?’ I say yes and that is the end of the chat. I have tried big publishers like Flamingo India, but they refuse to even fart on an unpublished nobody from Colombo.

I have renovated the old house, got a regular gig with a jazz band at Barefoot, and done some weddings with CrossFire for extra cash. Jimi will be coming to stay with me this summer. Adriana, who just got back together with her professor, will not be.

The only local house to read the manuscript was BinPieris Publishers. These guys have put a few Gratiaen Prize winners into print. Their books are printed on good paper, have ‘saffron’, ‘monsoon’ or ‘frangipani’ in every other title, and have fewer spelling mistakes than most. When they agreed to read my manuscript even after hearing who I was, my hopes were high.

Two days ago, Frank Pieris told me they were unable to handle my book at this point in time. I leave to pick up the manuscript that cost me 3,000 bucks in toner and paper. I plan on barging in on Farouq Bin’s office to ask what his problem is. If he can publish everyone else’s crap, why can’t he publish my harmless cricket book?

The office is a cottage in Colpetty and my book has been entrusted to a pixie-like girl behind the counter. ‘Mr Karunasena. You’ve come for your manuscript?’

‘No. I’ve come to speak with Farouq and Frank.’

‘They’re at a lunch meeting with a client.’

I plant myself on the couch. ‘I’ll wait. Got anything to read?’

‘The meeting is scheduled through the afternoon.’

This girl is cute, but not really my type. I don’t usually go for Lolitas.

‘Is it, now?’

She frowns. ‘Don’t you want your manuscript?’

‘No. I want to know why those two literary queens, the ones you call boss, why they don’t want it.’

She comes out from reception and I see the rest of the pixie. Under her shalwar kameez I imagine a petite body.

‘Here is your manuscript,’ she says. ‘You better take it home.’

‘I’m not leaving without speaking to Farouq and Frank.’

She casts a gaze down the hallway and whispers. ‘I will call you.’

‘Why?’

She casts another glance down the hallway. She reaches behind reception, pulls out an envelope and hands it to me. ‘Don’t read it here.’

Defiantly, I open it then and there and she goes into paroxysms. She tries to shoo me away. I ignore her and look at the photocopied letter.

I swear very loudly.

She snatches the paper and pushes me. ‘Go now. I have your number. I will get them to call you.’

She shoves me through the doorway. ‘If you want this published, go.’

I stumble down the driveway, look back at the cottage and spy Farouq and Frank peeping from behind a curtain like two pantomime cats.

The call I get is at 8.30 sharp and it is not from Frank or Farouq, but from …

‘My name is Enid.’

‘Like Blyton.’

‘That’s funny. I am calling you to advise you on your manuscript.’

‘Will BinPieris handle it?’

‘Farouq and Frank won’t. I advised them to. But they don’t want risks. That letter was sent to all the newspapers, printers and booksellers. The Prime Minister’s brother is now in charge of the Cricket Board.’

‘You
advised them?’

‘Farouq and Frank don’t know a ball about books. They keep up the image in
Hi!
magazine. Me and the cover designers only read manuscripts and recommend. We liked your father’s book. But we have concerns.’

‘What’s the point if no one will touch it?’

‘We can try international.’

‘Yeah right.’

‘Cricket non-fiction is a small market. We have boxfuls of Pramodya Dharmasena’s biography collecting dust in our storeroom. But true fiction from South Asia on the other hand …’

Her voice changes. She almost sounds human.

‘What’s true fiction?’

‘Are you willing to undertake changes?’

‘Changes?’

‘Get rid of the unbelievable stories.’

‘What unbelievable stories?’

She mentions one.

‘That one’s true.’

‘No, it’s not. What about …’

She mentions another one.

‘That’s true as well.’

‘I would prefer more stories like …’

She mentions one of the more believable parts of my father’s book.

‘That is 100 per cent bullshit.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, my dear.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘Ditto.’

‘Also. Avoid real names. That is what will get you sued.’

‘I have to make up a name for every single character?’

‘Write the book as fiction, not as a documentary.’

‘That’s a helluva lot of work.’

‘If you want international, Mr Karunasena, you need to work. About the writing style …’

‘I can’t change my father’s …’

‘Not his. Yours. You’re cribbing his lines. Stop being lazy. And less swearwords please.’

‘How old are you, Enid?’

‘About half your age.’

‘Funny.’

‘Another thing. Less about you. More about Pradeep.’

I bite my tongue.

‘We do not like your father’s racial stereotypes. Tamils are ambitious, Muslims are greedy, Sinhalese are drunk. Please amend these.’

‘Who is this “we”? How many of you are there?’

‘Editorial decisions are made by three of us. We all have MBAs.’

Enid Blyton is getting on my nerves.

‘One more thing. The ending.’

Enid Blyton is using my nerves as a trampoline.

‘What about it?’ I say as if I am a drunk in a bar wielding a broken bottle.

‘To put it bluntly, it sucks.’

‘I think you suck.’

‘It’s lazy.’

‘It’s poetic. It crystallises the moment of discovery. I want to show that I found him, without revealing what I found.’