‘Must be from before, sir. We had a lot of trouble at first but has been working fine the last two picks. Boy said suddenly it won’t start.’
‘Check the wiring, Jay, and then put it all back together.’
Twenty minutes later, it was ready for another go. Jay got Gerry to wind up the flywheel cord and pull. The engine burst into life. Gerry and I climbed into the trailer while Jay took the driving seat – a bicycle saddle fixed to the front of the box. He grasped the handlebars with both hands and revved it.
As we rattled down the hill, Elvin shouted after us to collect the ice from that kadé and save the poor fellow with the gunnies a journey.
At the main gate, Gerry leapt out and pulled back the poles expertly. Jay slowed down to take the turn but as soon as we were on the main road, he opened the throttle.
‘Wait for Gerry,’ I shouted, but Jay just laughed.
Gerry threw the poles back in place and sprinted after us. Within a hundred yards, he’d caught up and jumped on, out of breath but exhilarated by the challenge. I didn’t approve of the way Jay messed with him but then all I knew was that there was a lot I didn’t understand; the Problems of Life pamphlet, with its theories of consequences, even though written by a champion of the downtrodden, was of no help with someone like Jay.
We rode into the small one-horse town, crowing, converting the ceremonial white flags of a local funeral strung along the roofs of the shops into victory bunting. At the shop where Elvin had ordered the ice, Jay slowed down and Gerry hopped off and spoke to a small bearded man seated idly on a crate outside.
Jay chugged up to the telegraph pole and turned the vehicle round, veering right across the empty road before coming to a stop in front of the shop.
Gerry had disappeared inside with the man. They reappeared dragging a large, heavy, square jute sack, which they heaved into the trailer, immediately cooling the air around.
Wiping his face with the flap of his shirt, the shopkeeper spoke rapidly to Jay. ‘Message came for our mahaththaya. Mr Tinki coming for lunch today, as planned, but the other gentleman, Mr Percy, has been called away and can’t come. He will see sir on sir’s way back to Colombo tomorrow, for sure. Mr Tinki will fix up everything when he comes. Telephone is ready and waiting, please tell.’
The shopkeeper was not a privileged ‘bearded boyar’, nor, despite the urgency in his voice, a ‘revolutionist’, as described in the pamphlet. Nor did he seem to my eyes to be landlord, worker or peasant. Could he be what my father called a representative of the petty bourgeoisie? A trivial man. Having delivered his message, he shifted his gaze to a marigold wreath propped up precariously by the roadside as though there might be an issue of self-interest to be resolved in that too.
As we eased off – Gerry running alongside to reduce the load – I asked Jay if I could have a go at driving. The powerful desire not to be just a passenger any more was irresistible.
‘You know how?’
‘Same as a bike, no?’
‘Yeah, but it’s all in the handlebars: throttle and brake. Wristwork, no footwork.’
Jay stopped in the middle of the empty road and let me take over. I caught Gerry watching us exchange places, an expression of longing on his face.
‘You know what I really want?’ I shouted as the engine chugged up to full power.
Jay reached over and adjusted the choke. ‘Yeah?’
‘To drive a car.’
Back at the bungalow, while Gerry dealt with the ice, we rushed to give Elvin the message from his lunch guests.
‘Is that so?’ Elvin’s face sharpened. ‘Damn nuisance. I was relying on Sulaiman here to go over the bloody details once we had the plans settled.’
Towards midday, a small, blue bug Fiat putt-putted up and sighed to a stop near the bungalow; Elvin placed a hand on the bubble top and peered in. The car rocked.
‘So, Tinki, why alone?’
Mr Tinki stepped out, a furtive man, unable to see over the dome of the car. Although he had a discernible paunch, he seemed unlikely to make much impression on the pot of chicken simmering in the kitchen.
‘You got the message, Mr Elvin, I hope. Very sorry but the fellow got buggered by the minister.’
‘What?’
‘All ready to come, but then minister got wind of our plans and asked for a full briefing.’ He pulled at the awkward tie around his neck.
‘So, he’ll demand a cut as well.’ Elvin slapped aside a fly. ‘It’s intolerable.’
‘Not to worry, sir, we can do the needful with our Percy tomorrow. If you stop by Ambepussa, on your way back, we can easily sort out the lot over a lime juice or two, no?’
‘I don’t much care for this stop-start business. Once we set the route, we should stick to it. Who the hell drinks lime juice at a time like this?’
‘Definitely.’ Mr Tinki shut the door and made a clumsy gesture with his timid hand. ‘No ambush, sir. Just short call at the rest house to dot the T’s of the paper I have brought for your eminent perusal. I will arrange, for sure, a nice cool beer instead.’
‘The I’s.’
‘Sir? Not to worry. No one to spy. Very safe.’ He moistened his lips, swollen with so much talk.
Elvin fanned the air. ‘Cross the bloody T’s and dot the frigging I’s. Excuse me – that was uncalled for, I know. Anyway, at Villa Agathon we must hold no grudges. All love and the brotherhood of man, no? Come, have a drink. Hot journey?’
‘Oh, harima hot, sir. Today is so hot-hot.’
Jay had melted away. No sign of Gerry either. I was not brave enough to do the hoo signal to call either of them. The fishing stations were too far. So, I settled down to watch for them by the shed, from where I could see all the different paths that led to the house and was close enough to hear the shout when lunch was called. At home, I spent a lot of time on my own. I was not afraid of being alone; only afraid of taking a false step on the wrong ladder.
The morning’s snipe-shooting expedition confused me. The birds were life-sized, yet absurdly unreal. My shoulder, still sore from the recoil of the gun, admonished me both for trying and for missing. I could not keep my thoughts in one place. The kill-count notched on the wooden stock ran into the dozens. No doubt Jay had failed to down a bird that morning only because he had used a single-shot rifle instead of his regular buckshot bird-gun. What was he trying to tell me?
Between the slow whoosh of palm fronds, the random punctuation of birdcalls, a high, long hoot reached out followed by a shorter one. Gerry came running in its wake, heading for the house. I called out to him: ‘What’s happening? Where’s chief?’
‘Coming.’
‘Where d’you go?’
‘Jus’ running.’ Gerry pulled at his banyan, twisting and knotting the puny shoulder strap in his fingers.
Elvin called out. ‘Hey boys, ready to eat?’
We returned to the bungalow and divided up as before: Gerry to the back to help with the dishes and I right up to the front steps.
‘Where’s the captain?’ Elvin asked.
‘On his way.’
‘I hope you’ve worked up an appetite. Sulaiman has put on a feast, but the fellow with the big mouth can’t make it. There’s a heck of a lot for you two boys to polish off.’
The visitor, Mr Tinki, tapped the table and half sniggered. ‘Wanted to come very badly. But, what to do? Minister called, tcha.’ He stopped abruptly, unsure of how to proceed.
The atmosphere was not conducive to small talk and clearly there had not been much meaningful conversation since his arrival.
Sulaiman took charge and served out the food, plate by plate, starting with the diminutive guest. By the time Sulaiman had fished out a drumstick, Jay appeared.
His hair was all tousled and strands of straw and grass stuck out from it.
‘What have you been chasing?’ Elvin asked.
‘A pig.’ He grinned.
‘Where?’
‘Down by the papaws near H block.’
Sulaiman quickly said, ‘I’ll get rid of it.’
‘I had a trap. All worked out. Should’ve got him easy but fellow evaded. Slippery as hell.’
‘How were you going to catch it? I’d like to see that.’ Elvin chortled.
‘You should breed pigs, Uncle. Put a pig farm here.’
Sulaiman collapsed into a coughing fit. Uncle Elvin scraped back his chair. ‘Get your father some water,’ he instructed Gerry who was watching, appalled, from the back steps.
Jay started to expand on his vision, but Elvin stopped him. ‘Forget bacon, son. Let’s stick to chicken for Sulaiman’s sake. Now eat.’
Mr Tinki gingerly picked up his fork and spoon and hummed, bucked up by the prospect of a feed.
‘Athin kanna.’ Elvin urged him to eat with his fingers.
Mr Tinki dug in gratefully and asked, between mouthfuls, feeble questions on coconut cultivation and paddy.
Elvin, on top form, pontificated with pleasure, moving from the Green Revolution, which sounded much less risky than my father’s red one, and high-yielding rice to the competition in international agriculture. Mr Tinki truncated his questions in retreat from the efficacy of crop diversification to the price of fertiliser. Sulaiman came back, his chest narrowed and his arms tightly folded, having survived a battle for his breath outside.
‘Can you imagine being at the controls of Gemini 3 when it’s launched, Uncle?’ Jay asked.
‘Quite heavy on the hands, I imagine, but neater than the Soviet Voskhod.’ Elvin laughed, happy to enter the space race.
‘No, can’t be. Everything is weightless up there, no?’
By this point, Mr Tinki was completely lost. He sank further into his seat, head lowered and in hand-to-mouth combat with the curried cartilage on his plate.
Sulaiman took the momentary pause to gently bring Elvin back to the more pressing problem of crop irrigation on their own patch of planet earth. ‘Sir, need a decision badly on the water problem we were discussing.’
‘Certainly. But I don’t understand why you are so pessimistic, my dear fellow.’
‘The signs are not good, sir. We’ve seen beehives close to the ground. Large wasp nests. It does not bode well. Should prepare for a drought next season.’
‘But we’ve had so much rain, the wewa is full, no?’
‘Not retaining the water, sir. In a real drought it will soon go dry. Leaks, no?’
‘But the pick was good, you said. Plenty of coconuts this time. Surely a sign that the water table is high?’
‘Only for now.’ Sulaiman’s face grew graver. ‘If we see the weaverbirds nesting early, or the crows reducing their hatching, then it is inevitable. Water level will drop. I recommend a second reservoir with a full lining. We can siphon the water we have from this one if we act fast. Then line the old one also for next season.’
‘Nothing is inevitable, Sulaiman.’
‘If it is the will of God.’
I took my plate to the washbasin. Gerry, back in his houseboy role, collected it and when I had finished washing my hands with water from a pot, handed me a towel.
‘Don’t you ever eat?’
‘No need.’ He seemed crushingly shy of any direct attention, no sign of the ease with which he had stood naked on the raft. In the shadow of the house, his hand had gone limp. None of the eagerness that had earlier thickened his playtime giggles remained. I sensed another gulf – one which dismays me more than ever now.
By the time Jay had finished and left the table, Elvin was becoming exasperated with Sulaiman’s dour prognosis. ‘Anyway, if the weather is going to confound us every time, all the more reason to diversify. I’d like you to spend some time in Colombo overseeing the poultry operation. Once we get going there, we can branch out here also and supply towns like Kurunegala. You have to think ahead.’
Sulaiman assembled the unused cutlery from the different places around the table and made a small arsenal in front of him. As he sorted the forks from the knives and the spoons, occasionally tugging one of his long earlobes, Mr Tinki edged closer.
Jay, behind me, whispered, ‘Let’s go. They are after us.’
‘Who?’
‘Choose, cowboy, choose.’ He puffed out his cheeks to hide the dimples. ‘You shape the enemy in your head, but Gerry can be a mean son-of-a-gun.’
My journey from home to the estate bungalow – Villa Agathon – had been already as fantastical as a trip to Mars or Moscow. It hardly took a blink now to relocate myself to a mythical ranch of rawhide and tumbleweed and turn geckos into iguanas.
‘What are you?’ I asked, playing for time.
‘Jesse James.’
‘Why Jesse James?’
‘Because he robbed from the rich and was a friend of the poor.’
‘You a Robin Hood?’
‘I’ve got hold of a stagecoach carrying a load of gold and I’m taking it to my hideout. I’ve got to cross danger land. Gerry is going to ambush me. Somewhere down by the Lake of the Wandering Pig. He likes to do the war cries. You are the sheriff on my trail. I’ve got to kill you both.’
‘Why kill us?’ The configuration was wrong.
‘Follow my trail, you’ll find out. I’ll start from the bathing well, but I get a five-minute head start. I’ll have the air rifle and you can take the BB gun.’
‘No gun for Gerry?’
‘He has a bow and a bunch of arrows. If he wants, he can use his bata-thuwakkuwa also. Actually, a bicycle pump will spit paper pellets out harder than that hopeless bamboo pop-gun, but he’ll be all right.’
‘You and I will be shooting air guns?’
‘Don’t worry. You won’t get permanently killed. We’ll use gandapana berries for pellets. Only stings. Just don’t aim for my face. Anyway, I’ll get you first. You get hit – splat – you are out. Dead for three minutes. Okay? We play this all the time.’
Gerry would have known nothing of Apaches, or the Comanche, or any of the great peoples of America. He certainly didn’t read Westerns; no cinema in the town nearby to bring the Magnificent Seven cantering in; he had nothing to hang this misguided fantasy on. What could he make of Cowboys and so-called Indians? Was there even a Sinhala term for either that didn’t just mean local cattle kids and tea-estate workers from India?
The tiny peppercorn-shaped gandapana seed-berries that Jay wanted grew in clusters of a dozen or so in a knobbly ball the size of a fingertip. For each berry to work as a pellet, it had to be slightly wider than the calibre of the gun barrel, plump but still hard and not yet ripened from green to purple. Jay demonstrated how to use them by rolling the cluster between his fingers to separate the seed-berries and picking one to press into the barrel where the lead pellet would normally go.
‘No repeater action,’ he said. ‘You have to load one at a time. Means you have to aim fast and shoot fast.’ He began to harvest the berries and separate them.
‘Aim at what?’
‘We’ll have hats. So, hit the hat.’
‘I didn’t see his hat.’
‘Gerry has a headband. He can be hit anywhere. But he’ll be attacking me, not you. I know where to shoot him. We are enemies until one of us dies. Then we reincarnate, after the count, and continue.’ He poured a palm full of seed pellets into a small round tin in a drumroll of hard rain. ‘Also remember, we only use the guns at twenty paces or more. Otherwise even a seed could injure you. Close-up, we have to fight with our hands. Frontier judo.’ He handed the tin over. ‘Now, go back to the bungalow and give me a fiveminute lead. Follow the trail – but watch out, sheriff, or I’ll get you before you even begin.’
Elvin and Sulaiman were poring over a large chart spread out on the lunch table. Mr Tinki had left. Sulaiman drew a circle with his sharp finger. ‘Sir, this is the ideal spot for a second wewa. Can connect the two in one cut and manage for sure the water properly.’
‘Damn expensive business.’
‘But then, sir, we can beat any drought to come.’
‘What is the poi
nt if we might lose the land anyway to those jackasses in parliament hellbent on wrecking the estates?’
‘Won’t wreck this one, sir. If they want land, we have plenty of useless acres on the eastern side we can release. Give those to the land distribution commission, if it ever gets going, and we’d actually be better off.’
‘That may be,’ Elvin conceded temporarily. ‘But before their redistribution nonsense, we need to become experts at our distribution. Fresh meat distribution. That is what you and Tinki must focus on. Work out a first-class system, like the Americans. You should see how they do it.’
I wanted to hear more: America, Elvin’s plans, Sulaiman’s forebodings – learn from them both – but Jay was out on the trail and the clock was ticking. I slipped into the bedroom and collected my hat: floppier than I liked but extra brim meant extra protection. To beat an ace shot I was going to have to move fast. I knew I could – move fast and shoot fast. His girl Niromi, cowgirl or not, sure could not do that.
I counted the minutes and at five, stepped out – BB gun in hand, heart tight, raring to go and mete out true justice in the Wild West of coconut canyons.
Elvin spotted me. ‘Hunting again?’
‘Jus’ playing.’
‘When you see that boy of Sulaiman’s, tell him I have a message for him to take into town. A telegram.’
I did not explain that Gerry was incommunicado, waiting to trap Jesse James and scalp invaders.
Halfway down to the main gate, I saw that my quarry had gone off-road, ripping ground cover and pepper creepers, daring me to follow. The motor had been turned off.
Taking up position by one of the kumbuk trees, I loaded the BB gun and cocked it, safety catch off, keeping a few extra berries loose in my breast pocket. In every outlaw story there comes a point when you find you can trust nobody. You find your friend is as good as dead; you are on your own.
In the still air, the shrill alarm of a cricket spooked my horse and I made my way towards the pond on foot. At the bund, the laughter of light on the water, half in love with muddy chaparajos and sudden puffs of gun smoke, made me drop my guard. The first phut of the air rifle skimmed flat and indecisive; a few seconds later another shot plucked a leaf off a pond-sniffing guava an arm’s length away. I couldn’t work out the gunman’s position. If only we had tracer bullets like in a war comic: long white arcs trailing across the sky, thickening into clouds to feed the dreams of carefree days and make a new world out of an afternoon’s make-believe.
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