|
             
| |
A HOUSE IN THE COUNTRY Romesh Gunesekera
THE NIGHTS HAD always been noisy:
frogs, drums, bottles, dogs barking at the
moon. Then one evening there was
silence. Ray stepped out on to the
veranda. There was no wind. He pulled
up a cane chair and sat down. The
fireflies had disappeared. The trees and
bushes in the small garden were still.
Only the stars above moved, pulsing in
the sky.
These were troubled times in Sri
Lanka, people said, but nothing had
happened in this neighbourhood. Nothing
until this surprising silence. Even that,
he thought, may not be new. He was
becoming slow at noticing things.
Then a shadow moved. A young man
appeared, his white sarong glowing in
the moonlight.
He was much younger than Ray. Not 20
as tall, but stronger, smoother skinned.
His eyes were bright and hard like
marbles. He came and stood by a pillar.
A moth flew above him towards a wall
light.
'What has happened?' Ray asked,
looking around.
Siri scratched his head, gently rocking
it. 'Don't know.'
'There's not a sound.' They spoke in
slow Sinhala.
Ray liked this extraordinary silence.
He liked the way their few words burst
out, and then hung in the air before
melting. It was the silence of this winter
England transplanted. The silence of
windows and doors closed against the
cold. Lately Colombo had become too
noisy. He had never expected such
peace would come so close to war. 40
'The radio?' Ray asked. Siri always had
a radio on somewhere in the house
droning public service. 'Radio is not on?'
Siri shook his head. 'No batteries.'
He bit the edge of this lower lip. 'I forgot
to buy new ones. Shall I go now?'
It was late: nearly eleven at night. The
little shop at the top of the road would
have closed. Ray felt uneasy about Siri
going too far. 'No. Go tomorrow. Better
than now.'
Siri nodded. 'Too quiet. Maybe another
curfew?'
But it was not simply the silence of
curfew. There seemed to be no sound at
all. In the two years Ray had been back
in the country there had been many
curfews. They had lost their
significance. Only the occasional
twenty-four-hour curfew had any 60
impact. Even those rarely
inconvenienced him; he was often
content to stay in this house.
But in recent months there had been a
new wall to build, shutters to fix. Each
day had been shattered by hammer
blows aimed at protecting this future
privacy. Ray had taken to escaping to a
bar off Galle Road; it made him more
than usually melancholic.
'Didn't you go out at all today?' Ray
asked.
'These shutters,' Siri pointed inside. 'I
wanted to finish the staining . . . '
'Good. They are very good.' The
wood had the perfume of a boudoir.
'I was working on that, the last coat.
Finished about seven-thirty. And then,
when I was listening after my bath, the
radio stopped.' He twisted his fingers to 80
show a collapse into chaos. 'I didn't go
out then because I thought you would be
coming home soon.' His face widened in
an eager smile.
Ray looked away. His long shadow
danced down the steps. A gecko
twitched. Ray had come home late.
Siri shifted this weight and moved
away from the wall. He sat on the edge
of a step. 'What do you think they'll do,
2
Sir?'
'Who?'
'Government.'
Ray leaned back in his chair with
both hands clasped behind his head and
stared up at the night sky. He saw only a
waning red moon. 'I don't know. What do
you think?'
Siri rubbed his thighs. He'd heard
people say they should hold elections - 100
the government might even win; but
people also said that there probably
wouldn't be any elections. They'd try
another 'military solution' against the
JVP - the People's Liberation Front -
like against the Tigers, and get stuck
with war.
'Trouble is no one knows.' Siri's mouth
turned down at both ends, but this was
not a face that could show much
distress. 'Nobody really cares, do they?
Except for themselves. '
Ray put his hands together, matching
fingertips, and half nodded. 'Not many
people do.'
Ray had not planned on having any help
or company when he first returned to
Colombo from England. He'd had a
secure job with a building society, a flat 120
in London, a car, and a happy circle of
acquaintances. There had also been a
woman he'd spend a night or two with
from time to time. But they never had
much to talk about and quite often he
simply thought about going back to Sri
Lanka. One summer she went back home
to Ulster; she got married.
That year he too decided he would go
back home. He resigned from his job,
sold his flat and left. The business of
moving absorbed his energies, and he
had no time to think. He had a house left
to him in Colombo and money saved over
the years. He hoped he would find out
what he wanted once he had freed
himself from the constraints of his
London life, and once he had retrieved
his past.
The first time he saw the house this 140
uncle had left him, this blood turned to
sand. It looked like a concrete box
shoved into a hole. Nothing of the
elegance of his converted London flat,
nor the sensuality of the open tropical
houses of his Sri Lankan childhood. But
then he found Siri.
It was the luck of a moment. Ray was
with a friend at a bar. They were
drinking beer. His friend asked about the
house, and Ray said he had too much to
do. He needed builders, renovators. His
friend mentioned Sirisena, Siri, who had
done their house.
A few days later Siri turned up. Ray
liked this quiet competence; the strange
innocence in his eyes. He didn't quite
know how to develop their working
relationship. To him it should have been
simply a relationship of employment. 160
The old conventions of Colombo serfdom
died years ago, but Siri kept saying 'Sir'
and circumscribing their roles. He
developed his job from artisan, to
supervisor, to cook, night-watchman
and, in effect, the servant. Ray felt
things had to change incrementally: he
acquiesced and played the roles Siri
expected. Siri himself was too deep in
this world of manners to feel the pull of
revolution being preached across the
country.
Siri did the carpentry, found the
plumbers, the electricians. He moved in
and slowly rebuilt the old house around
Ray. Walls were replastered, doors
rehung, floors tiled. And he kept the
house in order.
Although in England Ray had done
many of these things himself, here he 180
found he needed Siri. Much of the
renovation was straightforward, but from
time to time he would see the need for
change. He would talk it over with Siri,
3
his fingers designing in the air. The next
day Siri would start on the work.
In this way a new veranda was
created; rooms divided. The curfews
allowed him to examine progress. They
provided the snapshots when activity
was suspended. The workmen didn't
come; it was only Ray and Siri.
It was the first time since childhood
that Ray had had a constant companion.
He encouraged Siri to talk and wished, in
a way, that Siri could turn into this
confidant. He wanted to ask, 'Why do
you treat me like a . . ' but could never
bring himself even to suggest he saw
himself as a master. Siri simply showed 200
respect in his antiquated fashion.
Ray's only response was to care. He
didn't know how to respect in turn, but
he felt a need to protect in a way he had
never felt before. He tried to be
generous with the pay and reasonable in
his demands, but Siri seemed to want to
do everything that needed doing and to
spend all his time in the house. He
hardly ever went back home to his
village.
When Ray bought furniture for Siri's
room, Siri looked dismayed.
'What's wrong?'
'I don't need all this.' Siri pointed at
the cupboard and the new bed, the new
pillow and mats.
'Some comfort won't harm.'
'I have nothing to put in the
cupboard. The old bed was fine, just as it 220
was.'
Ray said now that Siri had a steady
job he might accumulate some
possessions.
'What for? My family need things, my
mother, my brother. I only need
something to do. Some place . . . Sir, this
house I am making for you. It will be
beautiful. To me that is enough.'
Ray didn't know what to do. He was
embarrassed and puzzled. He pulled
down his chin and snorted, like a bull
backing out of a shed. The early days
were confusing. Siri seemed exhilarated
by the freedom he had to use any
material he desired to turn ideas into
reality, even this own ideas. He had
never been given such complete
responsibility before. Ray didn't
understand this. It took time for him to 240
see Siri as himself.
That night, that silent night, back in his
room Ray kept thinking about Siri. He
felt uncomfortable. He would have liked
to have talked some more. To have said
something to Siri that would have helped
them both understand what was
happening. Instead they had sat there
swallowing silence.
The next morning Ray woke to the
scream of parrots circling the mango
tree in the garden. He dressed quietly
and stepped into the soft rubber of his
shoes. In fifteen minutes he was out of
the house.
The road was deserted. He walked to
the end and crossed over into the park.
He had a route he could follow with this
eyes closed, carefully planned and timed 260
to avoid other people.
He liked walking alone, in control of
the sound around him: the thud of his
feet, the blood in his ears.
The sky that morning was grey. Large,
heavy clouds rippled overhead. Crows
crowded the flame tree by the main
road. Bats hung on the telephone lines.
Usually Ray walked for about twenty
minutes. On his way back he would
collect a newspaper from the small
general store near the temple. Then at
home he would savour a pot of tea and
read the news. This morning he was
looking forward to returning to an almost
completed veranda.
Siri would have prepared the tea and
disappeared: a tray with a white cloth, a
4
small blue Chinese tea pot filled to the
brim and protected by a embroidered 280
tea-cosy, one plain white cup and
saucer, a silver jug of boiled milk. A
silver spoon. Ray would normally find
the tray on a glass table. He had learned
to accept this service as a part of life.
He no longer resisted it and he never did
the same for Siri. He never went that far.
But some times, in the evening, he'd
offer Siri a drink. He would find Siri
sitting on the steps or stalking about the
garden.
'Have a beer?' he'd say.
Siri would nod hesitantly and
approach Ray smoothing his sarong. He
would take the glass and sip slowly. He
never sat down when he had a beer. He
would stand while Ray sat. Whether they
shared a beer or not, Siri was usually
quite happy to talk. He'd tell Ray about
life in the village: river bathing, family 300
feuds, someone running amok. In the
middle of such a story, Siri would
sometimes stop and peer at Ray. 'Why do
you look so sad?' he'd ask, and surprise
Ray with this directness.
One evening Ray asked, 'Have you
built your own house?'
Siri's mouth wrinkled; he slowly
shook this head. 'No. Not my own. I have
no land.'
'What about the family farm?'
'It's very small. We have one field.'
His father had tried milch cows, but
couldn't compete with the local MP's
people. They had commanded everything
until the JVP moved in. By then the cows
had dried up and Siri's father died. His
brother stayed to work the one field, but
Siri left.
'Could you ever go back to live in the 320
country again? Now, after a city life.
After what you've learned.' Ray wanted
to know how genuine this own feeling of
returning to roots was. He knew it was
never possible to go back to exactly the
same things, but at the same time he felt
the old world never quite passes away.
Suddenly the frame shifts and you find
yourself back where you started.
'Go back to the country? Village life?'
Siri smiled like a little boy thinking about
the ripeness of mangoes. 'Yes. Yes, I
could go back to a life in the country.
Like my brother's. If there was a house
like this in the country.'
'Maybe you should start saving some
money?'
Siri found this suggestion amusing.
'There's never been the chance.' He
clicked his tongue and added, 'Until 340
now.'
The next day Ray went with Siri to the
National Savings Bank and got him a
savings book. He arranged for a part of
Siri's salary to go straight into savings.
But even after that Ray felt Siri was still
not thinking far enough ahead. He was
going to lose out. It troubled him at the
time, although this own concern about
Siri puzzled him more.
Months later Ray heard that some
private land was being sold close to
Siri's village. He asked him about it.
'No, Sir, I didn't know.'
Ray took a piece of paper from this
pocket and unfolded it. 'Look, this is
what it says.' He described the position
of the land. It was near the coast.
'Yes,' Siri nodded. He knew the area.
'That land is a good price, I'm told.' 360
'I don't know, Sir. But there's not much
growing there.' He delicately licked this
thumb and forefinger, 'You can taste the
salt in the air there.'
'No, it is good land. You can grow
cinnamon or cardamom. Something like
that. I know Mr Wijesena has some land
there.' .
Siri nodded. 'He has grown some
cloves I think. Are you thinking of buying
some land also?'
Ray was standing by the door. He took
5
a deep breath. Suddenly he realised he
was nervous. Sweat ran down his back.
Things were not very clear in his head.
He had started talking about the land
with the simple intention of planting a
seed in Siri's mind: land was sometimes
available. He had probably hoped, he
now thought as he stood there, that Siri 380
would connect the idea of this savings
with the possibility of a piece of land out
in the country. But as they talked he
realised that it would take Siri years to
get a living out of such land. That Siri's
life would be, at best, only a life of
subsistence. He would sink into the
earth, unless something radical could be
done.
'I was thinking about a piece of land,'
he said, looking down, away from Siri. 'I
was thinking about you.'
'Me?'
'Maybe you should take some land.'
'Impossible, Sir. Even with the savings
you arranged. Good land in our area is
expensive.'
'I know. But if you could, would you
like some land? Is it what you want?'
'You know me, Sir. I like to build. I like 400
to grow. With some land there I can do
both. And I can do as I please.'
'But when?'
'When my luck comes. When the gods
take pity.'
'I can lend you the money,' Ray said
quietly. It was not exactly what he
wanted to say. The words slipped out
like moonlight when the clouds move.
'But then I will be a debtor. I could
never pay it back.'
Ray could see that. It could be the rut
in the ground one never got out of. But
he had a plan working itself out as he
spoke.
'I'll buy the land. I'll give you a portion.
You for your part can plant the trees for
us both. Cinnamon, or cadju or
whatever.'
Siri's eyes brightened. There was a 420
slight smile playing around his lips. The
smooth boyish cheeks rippled. 'Why, Sir?
Why do you want to do this for me?'
Ray could say nothing except that he
wanted to.
'You are good, Sir, very good.'
Ray made arrangements to buy the
land. He felt better for it. He had
followed his instincts. But his instincts
had changed. They were not the fine
financial instincts that had served him in
London: land prices plummeted as the
troubles in the country spread. But this
did not worry him. Things had to
improve, he thought. Meanwhile he was
happy to be serving in his turn.
In about ten minutes he reached the top
of the hill on the side of the park. His
route had already curved so that he was 440
in fact now on his way home. A few
minutes' walk along the road would bring
him to the shop where he collected his
paper.
He noticed the sky was dark and
smudged. Crows were flapping about.
Down the road he could see the white
dome of the temple near his shop. The
flowers of the temple trees, frangipani,
were out. White blossom. Those were
the trees he would like to have on the
borders of the land he bought for Siri.
But the white of both the dome and the
flowers was grubby, as though settled
with ash.
Ray thought the sky should have
cleared by now. He walked quickly
towards the temple. By the wall he
stopped to look again at the frangipani.
Many of the white flowers had fallen. But 460
in the garden next to the temple a tree
with the blood-red variety of the flower
stood in rich bloom. Ray was sweating.
Then, around the corner, he carne to
the shop: the charred remains of the
shop. Bits were still smoking, thin wisps
6
disappearing into the grey sky. A small
crowd had gathered.
The vague thoughts in Ray's head
evaporated; every muscle in this body
was tense, but he felt extraordinarily
calm. He stepped forward. 'How did this
happen?'
Several people started talking. One
man said the police had a statement from
the JVP claiming responsibility. The
shopkeeper was dead. He had been
asleep inside. Kerosene had been used.
Ray picked this way through the
shattered glass and boiled sweets strewn 480
along the roadside. Practically the whole
of the tiny shop had been burned. One or
two big blackened timbers still remained
at the back, and buckled bits of the
corrugated tin from the roof lay like
petrified sheets of magma. The old na
tree that had shaded the shop-front was
scorched; the trunk looked as if it had
been gouged with a hot knife. Two
policemen had cordoned off the place.
Ray waited for a while absorbing the
babble around him, watching the smoke
rise in small puffs out of the heaps of
ash. The veins in his arms were swollen.
A store burns like so many others up and
down the country. Only this one's closer
to home. Nothing else has changed. But
Ray knew that proximity made a
difference. The air was pungent. He
wondered whether the dust on his shoes 500
now mixed earth with the ash of the
shopkeeper's burnt flesh.
When he got home Siri was at the gate.
'Did you see . . . ?'
Ray nodded and brushed past him.
Siri had heard about the fire from a
neighbour. 'Is it very bad?'
'The whole shop has gone. Completely
burnt out.'
'Mister Ibrahim?'
'Dead. He was inside.'
Ray went to his usual place. The tea
tray wasn't there. A fine layer of dust
covered the table.
'Water's boiling, Sir. I'll bring the tea
now.'
In a few minutes Siri carne with the
tea. 'Will you have it here on the
veranda?' 520
'Inside may be better today.'
'You know Sir, they warned him. He
was very foolish.'
Ray asked him who had warned the
shopkeeper. Why?
'Several times they told him to stop
selling those newspapers. Mister Ibrahim
didn't listen. Even two days ago he told
me that he will not stop selling
newspapers just like that. But they said
he must stop, or it will be the end for
him. I don't know why he continued.'
Who had warned him?
'I don't know, Sir. These thugs who
come around.' Ray raised his eyes. 'Why
do you think he didn't stop selling those
papers?' he asked. 'He was not a Party
member.
Siri shrugged. 'He was a mudalali - a
businessman. Making money. You make 540
money by selling what people buy.
People wanted his newspapers, so he
sold them. That is his work. Was his
work.'
Ray wondered whether Siri was right.
Was Ibrahim killed by the market? Or
was he simply caught in between? He
could see the flames leap at Ibrahim's
straw mat; within seconds he must have
been wrapped in fire. But he must have
screamed. How did they not hear it? The
shop was not far, and the night had been
so silent. The smell of kerosene? Flesh?
But then, countries have been in flames
before and the world not known.
'Sir, do you think there is any danger
here?'
'What do you mean?'
'Will they harm this house?'
'This house means nothing. It has 560
7
nothing to do with anyone.'
'I hope no harm will come. It is
becoming so beautiful.'
Ray and Siri both felt uneasy all day.
They avoided each other. Ray spent the
morning alone and then went out to a
café for lunch. He came back early in the
evening and disappeared into this room.
He had a shower and lay down on this
bed to rest. Clean and cool; naked on the
cotton sheet. He felt this body slowly
relax. The evening was warm. As day
began to turn to night the birds
screamed again. Through this window he
could see the sun set in an inflamed sky.
When he closed this eyes the grey
smudges carne back. His skin was dry.
He looked at the polished wood of this
new windows. Siri had done a fine job. 580
He had brought out the wood grain
perfectly. Ray wanted to ask Siri to build
another house. A house on their land out
in the country. He thought if he provided
the materials Siri could design and build
a house with two wings, or even two
small houses. One for each of them. If
Siri were to marry it would make for a
good start. Ray wondered how he'd feel
if that happened. He would lose
something. The intimacy that had yet to
be. But he would feel some satisfaction.
He would have made a difference.
Later, when he carne out on to the
veranda he found Siri sitting on the
steps. Siri looked up; this hard black
eyes gave nothing to Ray.
'Sir,' Siri said in low voice, 'I want to
go.'
'Where?' 600
'Away, Sir.' Siri remained sitting on the
steps. His face was in shadow.
'What's wrong? What is it?'
'This destruction. I want to go away.'
The eyes softened slightly. 'And you,
Sir, have seen the world. Tell me where.
Where is a good place?'
Ray looked down at Siri. 'What do you
mean? You know, shops have been
burned many times before. In Matara, in
Amparai, here in Colombo it has
happened before.'
Siri shook his head.
'It has happened all over the world,'
Ray said.
Siri kept shaking his head. 'But it can't
always be like this. It can't.' The night
air slowly curled around him.
'We have to learn. Somehow. We are
no better, but we are no worse.' Ray 620
turned on the wall lights, pushing at the
darkness. Then he saw one of the new
shutters was broken: several slats were
splintered; the wood was raw. Ray felt a
pain in this chest. He took a deep breath.
'Never mind. It can be fixed.' He was
determined.
Siri stared up at him, then shook this
head again as if at a fly. 'Sir . . . ' this
face slowly crumpled. 'Sir, my brother
back home. They've used a lamp-post
for him.' Siri shut his eyes.
Ray's throat felt thick, clogged. 'You
should have told me,' he said at last
tugging at this neck. The body would
have been mutilated, then strung up as a
beacon; the corpse would swing in the
wind for days. 'Why?'
Siri's bare feet dangled over the steps.
When he spoke this voice was hardly 640
audible. 'Who can tell, Sir, in this place?'
Ray looked at their shadows cupped in
a circle of yellow light on the gravel
below the veranda; the light on Siri's
arms. He tried to lean forward but
couldn't move. He couldn't clear the
space between them. Siri's skin was
mottled.
'It happened last night,' Siri said.
Ray nodded, 'Maybe you should take a
few days off. Find your people, he heard
himself say. 'The veranda can wait . . . '
His voice faltered. They were not the
words he wanted. Ray saw himself alone
8
again in his house, picking his way
through the debris at the back. There
were two rooms still to be done; pots of
yellow paint in the corner of the
bedroom would remain unopened. He
found himself thinking that without Siri 660
he would have to make his own morning
tea again. Drink alone on his incomplete
veranda; wait.
But Siri said nothing. Ray could not tell
whether he had heard him. Siri slowly
straightened out and stepped down on to
the path. He looked at Ray for a moment,
then turned and started walking towards
the back of the house, towards his room
in the servant's quarters. Ray opened his
mouth to say something about the new
house, the cinnamon garden, but Siri had
melted away in the darkness. Ray
remained standing on the veranda. He
felt he was on fire, but the palms of his
hands were wet. Out in the garden
fireflies made circles. Frogs croaked.
The sky trembled like the skin on a
drum.
680
©Romesh Gunesekera
Reprinted with kind permission of the author
First published in ‘Monkfish Moon’ by Granta Publications
|
