The Mask Collectors

by Ruvanee Pietersz Vilhauer

  “Mr. Hashim took you along with him, he mentioned. He managed to locate a guard who has not worked there since Ms. Costa left,” Mortensen said in his wooden voice.

  “Wait,” Grace said. “Not deliberately. It’s not like he sought out someone who had left before a certain date. He was trying to find out about whether a mask—”

  “Ah, yes, he mentioned the mask,” Mortensen said. “He is very concerned about Mr. Hyland’s comments about the mask.”

  “They do seem odd,” Grace said. What was he getting at?

  “Of course, we only have Mr. Hashim’s word that Mr. Hyland reacted in that way,” Mortensen said softly.

  Grace shook her head, trying to read his expression. “What are you saying? Mo is lying? Why on earth would he do that?”

  “I am not saying anything, Dr. McCloud,” Mortensen said. “Other than that there are many things we do not know. At the moment, we are merely investigating all possible connections.”

  He leafed through his notebook. “It has also come to our attention that Karl Muller frequently carries both Novophil and Cinasat cargo across the US and Canada. Were you aware of that?”

  “Who’s . . . You mean Marla’s husband?” Grace felt her mouth drop open. “God, no, that’s just a coincidence. He flies cargo for all kinds of companies. I doubt Marla’s even had a chance to talk to him about any of this. She’s on bed rest, because of the pregnancy. Karl’s out a lot. And he wasn’t at the reunion.”

  “We’re exploring every avenue, Dr. McCloud,” Mortensen said. “But might I suggest . . . if you have any suspicions, it might be best if you came directly to me. We have some reason to believe that there could be serious danger in this matter. It is best if you, and Mr. Hashim, do not investigate on your own.” He pulled out a business card and handed it to her. “And it is important that we get in touch with your husband. Please have him call me as soon as possible.”

  Grace held the card in her hand, flipping it around in her fingers. Should she tell him about the email from Yak Adura? But if Yak Adura, whoever he was, was in Sri Lanka, what could Mortensen do? And there was the warning. Trust no one. Did that include the police? Did it include Mo? Who could she talk to about all of this? Would Duncan be endangered if she asked someone for advice? She felt emotionally exhausted, and it was still so early in the morning.

  33

  DUNCAN

  Sunday

  Duncan wasn’t surprised to see the message appear again on his computer screen. No internet connection. He wondered if he could find a way to make a phone call, despite what Jotipala had said. There were phone jacks on the walls in the dining and sitting rooms. Had the line been disconnected by the phone company? If the phones had only been put away, all he’d have to do would be to find one. He’d not located any in the bedroom or the dining room. He tugged at the doors of the two small cupboards set in the entertainment center, but they were locked. He checked the drawers in the side tables. Inside, there were only a few tourist brochures advertising the attractions of Galle, Hikkaduwa, and the Yala wildlife sanctuary, and some run-of-the-mill office supplies. Nothing really personal, nothing to indicate anyone lived in the house for extended periods. It seemed odd, when the house was stocked with objects that appeared to reflect someone’s personal tastes: the fine china in the dining room sideboard, the collection of Agatha Christie mysteries on the bookshelves, the war documentaries among the movies, the classical music CDs.

  He was supposed to just wait for Bent to contact him? Expecting commitment to the job was one thing, but this was ridiculous. He should have been given a choice. If Bent had mentioned the lack of phone access, the locked compound, or the need for a police guard, Duncan knew he wouldn’t have agreed to coming here. He guessed that was why Bent had not told him. Duncan would have insisted on going straight to the police. Surely that would have been the smartest thing to do. He wondered if Cinasat had concerns about police corruption. Was that why Bent had resorted to having Janie and him sent here for safety rather than taking the matter to the police? Or was it because Cinasat didn’t yet have enough information to involve the police? How had Bent got the police to guard this place then? Duncan had tried to find out more from the guard at the gate, but the guard had refused to say anything more than he had already said.

  Duncan sighed. He had to look at the bright side. At least he could be sure that he and Janie were not in danger here, with the high garden walls and the guard outside. At least Karuna seemed eager to look after Janie, and the food was good. Thank God Janie wasn’t a picky eater. And she had only asked a couple of times about when her dad would arrive. No sense in worrying, he told himself. There was plenty to do. He still had videos he needed to watch.

  He went back to his computer and opened up a video file of one of the ceremonies. It seemed more appropriate to be watching the ceremony here, with the sun reflecting off the ocean outside, than it had been when he had been in his office in New Jersey. He watched the drummers in their ornate costumes start beating their drums, the rhythm mesmerizing. The drummers’ arms and chests rippled, wet with sweat. Their eyes, glazed, appeared to be fixed on the patient, who was reclining against a white pillow nearby. Flames were blazing in a brazier, smoke billowing. An adura came into view, chanting, a long stick over his shoulder. One end of the stick swelled into an arrowhead made of young coconut leaves and areca flowers, symbolizing the eye of Shiva. Still chanting, the adura pointed this object, a potent symbol of divine power, at the patient, drawing it portentously over her body and then flicking it toward the offering baskets nearby. This was intended, Duncan knew, to transfer the demons from the patient to the baskets. The adura’s chanting deepened into a hypnotic rumble, rising and falling. Even though the chanting was familiar to Duncan, it still made the hair on his arms rise.

  The sound of Janie’s recorder intruded into his consciousness. Duncan shut his laptop hurriedly. The video would frighten her. She marched in and stood before him, dressed in a frilly pink swimsuit, playing “Row, Row, Row Your Boat.” When she laid down the recorder and took a bow, Duncan applauded.

  “Where’s Karuna?” she said.

  Duncan got to his feet. “Come on, let’s go see her.”

  When they emerged onto the portico, a single large crow on the balustrade flapped its thick wings. Janie reared back, clutching Duncan’s arm. Duncan tried to shoo it away, but it only hopped a few steps back, its beady eyes piercing.

  “It won’t hurt you,” Duncan said.

  They went down the front steps and into the back garden. A few clouds had appeared, dampening the intensity of the sunlight. Karuna was standing by the door to her quarters, braiding her damp hair.

  Janie went up to the door and peered in. “Is this the shed?”

  “Where Karuna and Jotipala live,” Duncan said.

  Janie stepped inside. “Is it alright for her to go in?” Duncan said to Karuna.

  She nodded, smiling. “Never mind.”

  Duncan stood at the entrance, watching Janie. A hint of incense was in the air. The room was small, maybe twelve feet by ten, with a cracked gray cement floor. A shelf on one wall was piled with a few stacks of clothing, an open Ovaltine tin holding some half-burned white candles, and a couple of cardboard boxes, one with a piece of coir rope and a bit of faded fabric trailing from it.

  “There are no chairs,” Janie said, spinning around. “And where are their beds?”

  “They sit on the floor,” Duncan said. “And those mats rolled up there, they sleep on those.”

  Janie frowned. “Like in camp? Are they sleeping bags?”

  “Kind of,” Duncan said. He felt a little uncomfortable describing Karuna’s living situation with her standing there. “She’s asking about your sleeping mats,” he explained.

  Janie had gone over to the suitcase in the corner, on which a large object lay, covered with a red cloth. Before Duncan could stop her, she pulled the cloth off to reveal a long cylindrical drum. It was made of wood and leather, ab
out two feet long.

  “A drum! Can I play?”

  “Janie! Cover it up again, please,” Duncan said. He recognized it as a ceremonial yak beraya. He’d seen many such drums played at the thovil he’d attended. A drummer would tie the strings around his waist so that the drum rested horizontally across his midsection, and drum with his hands on both ends.

  A shadow fell across the doorway, and Jotipala appeared.

  “She was asking about the drum,” Duncan said in Sinhala.

  Jotipala stepped in and whisked the red cloth back over the drum. “Come, Janie baba,” he said to Janie firmly, gesturing to her as he stepped out of the room.

  Janie followed reluctantly. “Why can’t I play the drum?”

  “Only if he wants you to. It’s not a toy,” Duncan said. He wondered if Jotipala was a drummer who played at ceremonial events. “You are a drummer?” he said to Jotipala.

  “Yes, sir,” Jotipala said tersely. And then, turning away toward the path that led to the overlook, “The tide is going out. Baba can go to the beach now.”

  Duncan translated for Janie.

  “Yay, yay, the beach,” Janie said, dancing down the path.

  Jotipala led the way to the overlook, treading confidently on the pebbly surface of the garden path in his bare feet.

  “That drum looks like the ones people play in thovil,” Duncan said to him. “I knew a lot of people near here who played drums like that. In thovil ceremonies.”

  Jotipala said nothing.

  “In Talgasgama,” Duncan said. “That is close to here, isn’t it?”

  Jotipala glanced at him briefly. “Not very far,” he said. Then, after a pause, “When was sir there?”

  “A long time ago,” Duncan said. “More than ten years ago. I was studying . . . learning about thovil.”

  They reached the overlook where the battered temple guardian was raising his broken arm in futile warning. The screw pines were swaying on their weathered roots, their mops of spiny leaves shimmying. Jotipala took Janie’s hand. “Sir can hold baba’s other hand,” he said. “The path is risky. Good to be careful.” They climbed down in single file. Flat rocks formed shallow steps, making the descent relatively easy, although it was clear that rain or heavy spray would make the steps treacherous. The jagged boulders that loomed on either side of the path provided a few handholds.

  When they got down to the beach, Duncan saw that it was a wide tongue of fine sand edged on both sides by huge black rocks. Waves crashed rhythmically against the rocks, misting the air with a salty spray. At high tide, the beach would be completely covered, Duncan realized. At the moment, with the tide out, the waves that rolled onto the beach were gentle, loping toward their legs like playful children before collapsing into a froth of shimmering white.

  “It’s so warm!” Janie shouted, splashing wildly as the water cascaded past her ankles.

  “Not safe after the rocks there,” Jotipala said, pointing to the black rocks on either side. “Underwater current.”

  “Okay, Janie, you can paddle, but you can’t swim here, Jotipala says,” Duncan said to Janie.

  She was already in seventh heaven, Duncan saw, jumping in the waves and laughing, her hair in a tangle around her face. Jotipala had set himself down on a low boulder nearby. When Duncan sat beside him, he got up and settled cross-legged on the sand below, so that Duncan was forced to look down to speak to him.

  “Do you drum much nowadays?” Duncan said.

  “Sometimes,” Jotipala said. “When there is a need. It is what I like to do, but it doesn’t bring much money. This job.” He gestured up the path toward the house. “This is what gives us our livelihood.”

  “It must be difficult to find work,” Duncan said, choosing his words carefully. It was a sensitive topic. He knew that many Sinhalese considered people who did exorcisms—the aduras and dancers and drummers—to be polluted because of their association with demons. The objects they used in ceremonies were also considered polluted. They were objects to be feared. He knew that was why Jotipala had not wanted Janie to touch the drum.

  “It is our good fortune to have jobs here,” Jotipala said. His shiny dark forearms, below the short sleeves of his graying white shirt, were wiry. His legs were folded, and his feet were protruding from the edge of his sarong, the heels cracked and calloused.

  “Even fifteen, sixteen years ago, when I was in Talgasgama, the drummers and aduras I knew said they couldn’t make much money on exorcisms. Now it must be even less.”

  “True, now fewer people do them,” Jotipala said. After a pause during which he dug a small hole in the sand, he said, “Why was sir learning about exorcism?”

  “I was writing a book,” Duncan said. Trying to describe a doctoral research project would be fruitless. He knew that it was likely Jotipala had not completed a high school education. “I wanted to tell people in America about how people do exorcisms here. We don’t have anything like that there.”

  “This is not something you can learn to do from a book,” Jotipala said, digging another hole. “You can only understand by carefully observing and practicing with the community.”

  “Not to learn to do,” Duncan said. “The book was just to describe the customs.”

  Jotipala looked puzzled, but he shrugged. “I started to drum when I was nine. In the beginning I thought I would be a dancer like my father and my uncle. I danced for some time. I was not very good. My legs are not strong enough.” He stretched his legs out, pulling up his sarong to his knees. His legs were burned dark by the sun, but Duncan could still see the raised veins that snaked around the knotty muscles of his calves.

  Jotipala scooped out a small tunnel between the holes he had dug, connecting them. “Who does sir know in Talgasgama?”

  “I don’t know if they will still be there. Ediris, do you know him? He was the adura for many ceremonies in Talgasgama.”

  “No, I don’t know,” Jotipala said. “Some of the people have stopped this work. Some of them have gone to the Ambalangoda area, trying to find work. Some of them are working in factories, making little things for tourists. Curios. Masks, bowls, lamps.”

  Duncan nodded. Even when he had been in Talgasgama, that was the kind of work aduras, dancers, and drummers did, trying to make a living. They were artists. “I also knew Liyaneris. His wife was Muriel Nona.”

  Jotipala nodded, looking pleased. “Yes, yes, I know. Liyaneris is not drumming now. He has not been well.” He raised his hands, demonstrating a tremor. “But his son, Nimal, he is drumming. You know him?”

  “Nimal, yes. He was only a small boy when I knew him. Maybe ten years old.”

  “Now he has a family,” Jotipala said. “Two children.”

  “If you see him, please tell him I remembered him,” Duncan said, using the customary way of sending greetings.

  Jotipala was chuckling, watching Janie. She had buried herself in the sand up to her waist, waiting for the waves to wash her legs out.

  “You have children, you and Karuna?” Duncan asked.

  “They are grown now. Three of them. Two daughters are married. I have a grandson. Still a baby. My son is still waiting. He still has no proper job. He is difficult to please. The matchmaker has found good girls. But he has refused. He wants to go to Colombo. I have told him, don’t think it will be easy.”

  “Janie, not so far!” Duncan called, seeing Janie wading out. Janie turned back toward the shore.

  “Sir has only one daughter?” Jotipala said.

  “Oh, no, Janie isn’t my daughter,” Duncan said. Until then, he had not realized that had not been obvious. “My boss’s daughter. That is why I wanted to get in touch with him.”

  A shadow passed over Jotipala’s hollow-cheeked face. He rose to his feet, shaking the sand out of his sarong. “I have to get back to the house now,” he said. “To work on the garden. I will come back later. It is safe down here for sir and baba now. Not like at high tide. Then the water will come right up to the cliff. It will be d
eep enough here to drown.”

  He paused, looking up at the screw pines above. “Baba must not come of the house alone,” Jotipala said. “It is not safe.”

  Duncan thought about the garden with its neatly tended croton beds, the jasmine bushes studded between the araliya trees. “As long as she keeps away from the cliff edge, she should be alright,” he said.

  Jotipala shook his head. “There are cobras,” he said.

  Duncan felt a jolt of fear. He’d occasionally encountered snakes in Sri Lanka, and even seen a venomous viper slither into a village house once, but never a cobra.

  “Only in the past few weeks,” Jotipala said. “Several times they have come onto the portico. Two, I killed. After the second one, I keep the pestle by the front door. In case.”

  He trudged off toward the rock path, leaving Duncan with a feeling of dread.

  34

  GRACE

  Sunday

  Grace turned the coffee machine on and checked her email, hoping for a message from Duncan. Nothing. She’d listened to Angie’s voicemail message several more times. Now she was convinced Mortensen was right. Angie had been talking about something that had happened at Cinasat. But what? She reread Yak Adura’s message for the umpteenth time. Exorcist. Why use that moniker? What should she do? She couldn’t try the number again until she got to work. Your husband is in danger.

  She dialed the Taj Ocean Hotel and asked for Duncan’s room. The phone rang, but no one picked up. It was late in the evening there. Could he have gone out to dinner? She thought of calling her parents. But if Duncan had been too busy to contact her, he would not have called them yet either.

  She simply had to be patient, she told herself. Once she got to the office, she could call Yak Adura and try Duncan again. She showered and changed, trying to focus on what she needed to do to finish the grant application. She also needed to get Gigi started on the dissections. Thoughts kept pouring through her mind, about Yak Adura’s email, what was going on at Cinasat, what Mortensen had said about Mo, how she would tell Duncan about the miscarriage in Chicago. It was only by getting to work that she would be able to deal with it all.