The Mask Collectors

by Ruvanee Pietersz Vilhauer

  “I will make sure he, and you, won’t be sacked,” Duncan said, although he had no idea how he would do that. “I can explain to your Mr. Fernando. I’m not going to harm anyone.” At least he could say that with confidence, Duncan thought.

  “Nothing I can do, sir,” Jotipala said. He stood up, but Janie pulled at his arm.

  “Now a moat,” she said, pointing to the furrow she was digging out around the castle.

  Jotipala squatted down again, and began to scrape at the sand with his hands.

  Duncan looked around at the rocks and the waves lapping against them. “Maybe I don’t need to go through the gate,” he said. “Can I get past those rocks when the tide is out all the way?”

  Jotipala sucked in his breath. His eyes were wide with alarm. “No, no, sir, that way is not passable. The power of the sea . . . it will surely kill sir. It has killed before.” His voice had turned grim.

  “Someone died here?” Duncan said.

  “Not so long ago,” Jotipala mumbled, his head bowed over the pile of sand he’d dug out.

  “Who? Someone you knew?”

  “There is no use in talking about the past,” Jotipala said. “Sometimes bad things happen. It is our karma.” He reached under his shirt and pulled out a knotted yellow cord that was hung around his neck. A small metal cylinder was strung on it. “Since then . . . I have been wearing this yantra. Also Karuna has been wearing one. For the past few weeks, since . . . since the cobras started coming.”

  “The cobras? What do they have to do with . . . ? They came after the person died?” Duncan said, confused.

  Jotipala nodded, silent.

  “Who died?” Duncan said again.

  “It is in the past,” Jotipala said. He was not going to say more about it, Duncan realized. Village people were superstitious about death.

  Jotipala dug for a while in silence, following Janie’s lead. Then he said, his voice only a murmur, “At dawn tomorrow morning, the night guard will leave. He removes the padlock outside so that Karuna can go to the fish market. The morning guard gets late to come. For an hour there won’t be anyone there. Maybe when the night guard leaves, the gate might not be padlocked on the inside. Then anyone who wants to go and come back would have a little time.” He rose to his feet and flapped the sand out of his sarong.

  “Are you saying—” Duncan started to say.

  But Jotipala interrupted. “I have to go and work on the garden, Janie baba,” he said, and walked away toward the path to the overlook, leaving a trail of slender footprints.

  “Wait, Jotipala! We haven’t finished the moat!” Janie yelled after him.

  “We’ll finish it,” Duncan said. “He has to go and do his work in the garden.”

  He scooped out long streaks of sand with his fingers, considering his options. Which way would he have to go to get to the shop? Would the shop be open at that hour? Maybe he would not even need to go out, he thought. Maybe Bent would send a car for him and Janie before then. He had said they would only need to be away for a few days. But then, Duncan thought, he didn’t even know if Bent had sent them here.

  40

  GRACE

  In Transit

  “I hope I didn’t disturb you,” Ingmar said. He set down the two beer cans the steward had just handed him and opened a packet of toasted almonds with astonishing dexterity, given his hamlike hands.

  “Don’t worry, I needed to wake up,” Grace said, opening her own tomato juice can. “The flight always makes me thirsty.”

  “I mean before, when I was sleeping,” Ingmar said.

  “I was out cold,” Grace said. If Ingmar had snored, she had been oblivious.

  “Good, good,” Ingmar said. He took a deep swig of his beer. “I always worry on flights whether the twitching will wake people up.”

  When she looked at him questioningly, he said, “The legs, you know?” He jerked his legs briefly, one by one. “I do this when I’m asleep. That’s what my wife tells me. I only notice it when I’m falling asleep.”

  “Oh, that,” Grace said. “That wouldn’t wake me. My husband does that all the time. I used to notice it in the beginning, when we first shared the same bed. But now I’ve got so used to it.”

  “My wife was like that,” Ingmar said wistfully. “For twenty-three years we have been married. She never complained. I have had this all my life. But now she keeps talking about how difficult it is for her to sleep. She is convinced it is restless legs syndrome. You have seen commercials for this maybe?”

  “Who hasn’t?” Grace said.

  “Everyone sees these commercials, and then suddenly they start thinking they, their husbands, wives, have a big problem. Now she is paying attention to it, and so it keeps her awake.” He waved his hand in the air. “But what can I do? She is my wife. She needs her sleep. Get separate beds, or take something for it.” He gulped from the can, and Grace heard the liquid gurgle down his throat.

  “So you take something for it?”

  “Not yet,” Ingmar said. “My wife, she wants me to take this drug, I don’t remember the name.” He smiled briefly. “Not your husband’s company. Their competitor. Novophil? Now they know how to do marketing.” He brushed Grace’s sleeve with his hand. “Not that Cinasat is not good . . . Your husband is very good at his job, I am sure. But what I am saying is that Novophil has made my wife so worried about my twitching.” He scoffed. “My RLS.” He drained the last of his beer. “Now I even have an acronym for it. Isn’t that good marketing?”

  The second time in less than twenty-four hours someone had mentioned Novophil to her, Grace thought. Was it just coincidence? Novophil was certainly a household name.

  “Take ADHD,” Ingmar said, snapping open his second can of beer. “So many children being diagnosed. How many really have a condition? Children can’t be children now. I could never sit still when I was small. I was always getting into trouble. But no one said ADHD. Now it’s different.” He crunched a handful of almonds noisily.

  “True, ADHD is overdiagnosed,” Grace said. This was something she’d read about in the news. “But that’s a real condition. I have two colleagues with kids who have ADHD. They’re very happy the kids were diagnosed. Ritalin really helps them. And the diagnosis helps the kids get extra help in school.”

  Ingmar shook his head. He sucked another gulp from his can. “That is the thing. Nowadays, if your child is distracted, hyperactive, you have to medicate. Otherwise, you’re neglecting your parental duty.” He slapped the tray, flattening the empty almond packet.

  “I remember a friend I had,” Grace said. “A real tomboy, you know, climbing trees, playing cricket. She couldn’t sit still for a minute. Her legs were restless even when she was awake. She was always getting into trouble in school. For not paying attention, blurting things, fidgeting too much. The teachers were always angry at her, but her parents, everyone else, just brushed it off. The naughty girl, that was what my parents called her. Sometimes I wonder if she would have done better if she’d been diagnosed with ADHD.”

  “Who knows? What happened to her?” Ingmar said.

  “I went to a different school later, so I don’t know what she was like in high school. But I know she became a lawyer, so she couldn’t have done too badly.”

  Ingmar raised his can triumphantly. “See, she learned to cope with her problems. Other people learned to cope with her.” He glugged the rest of his beer, then crushed the can with one squeeze of his massive fingers. The aluminum crumpled as easily as if it were paper. “Extreme cases are different. But other cases . . . How to know if there is a real illness or whether it’s being created in people’s minds? Once people believe they have a condition, or their kids have a condition, then they have it. Then medication seems necessary. That is what marketing is all about.”

  “You’re against medication,” Grace said. She wondered if he was someone who believed in alternative treatment. Chiropractic, Rolfing, acupuncture. Would someone like that take Duncan’s drug? Or would
they miss out on something that could really help, just because they had a negative opinion of drug treatment?

  Ingmar grinned. He leaned close, and his breath, beery now, drifted over to her, making her feel a little queasy. “If I was sure I was sick, I would take medication,” he said. “The marketing would have to be very good, for me to believe that.”

  41

  DUNCAN

  Tuesday

  When the sky had lightened enough to see the outlines of the coconut trees outside, Duncan rose from his chair. He’d been sitting by the open windows of the sitting room for almost an hour, since he awoke, listening to the gossip of the sea. A brisk breeze was blowing. He hadn’t wanted to sit at the overlook, although he would have preferred it, because he didn’t want to burden Jotipala further. Duncan had tried the night before to ask Jotipala about where exactly the shop was, and whether it would be open at dawn for him to make a phone call. But Jotipala had avoided Duncan’s eyes. His only response had been, “I don’t know about any of that, sir.” Clearly he didn’t want to involve himself any further in Duncan’s actions. He just hoped Jotipala wouldn’t change his mind about leaving the gate unlocked.

  Duncan stepped carefully to the sitting room doorway, avoiding the dark shapes of the furniture. He had almost reached the screen when he heard a door bang. Feet skittered across the floor. Janie appeared, hair spilling messily from her braid, one end of her pajama shirt tucked into her shorts.

  “Hi, Duncan!” she said. “I’m up!” She threw her head back and stretched her arms wide, emitting a loud, theatrical groan.

  Duncan tried to mask his dismay. “It’s early. You should go back to bed,” he said.

  Janie shook her head vigorously. “I’m not sleepy! Let’s go to the beach,” she said.

  Duncan’s mind raced over his options. He could tell her to go change and then just slip out by himself. But she would be upset to find him gone. He could just tell her she had to stay, he thought. But she would probably insist on coming with him. What if he left her with Jotipala? But the added complication might change Jotipala’s mind about the gate. He sighed. He had no choice here.

  “We can’t go to our beach,” he said. “But I’m thinking of going for a short walk, just down to the road. Do you want to come?”

  Janie nodded, jumping up and down.

  “Go and change then. And comb your hair. You can only come if you do it quick,” Duncan said. “We have to leave in one minute.”

  She ran back to her room, and Duncan went out onto the portico. He couldn’t see the sea from there, but he could hear the whispered warnings of the waves. The sky was a pale gray now, and birds were cheeping urgently in the trees. He had no sooner thought of the crows when a trio of them swooped down onto the balustrade. They paced along it, watching him intently. He backed away, trying to see if the padlock was on the gate. What if Jotipala had changed his mind after all? What would he say to Janie then? He would have to make up some story so that she wouldn’t realize they were being held here against their will.

  Janie rushed out. She had changed into a yellow sleeveless dress. Her hair was unbraided but a little less messy. Duncan took her hand and hurried to the gate.

  He saw, with a burst of relief, that it was unlocked. Jotipala was nowhere to be seen. What if the guard was still outside? There would be a confrontation, and Janie might sense that something was wrong. Duncan put his finger over his lips and whispered in Janie’s ear, “Let’s be really quiet. Jotipala and Karuna might be sleeping. We wouldn’t want to wake them up.”

  He pulled the latch up carefully, trying to keep the metal from clanging, and inched the gate open. Tire tracks from the police vehicle were etched into the gravel outside, and the weeds at the edge of the road were trampled down. The guardhouse door was open, and no one was around. A sleeping mat, half-unrolled, covered the floor. A grubby pillow lay against the wall. The guard probably dozed sitting up, Duncan realized.

  He pulled the gate closed behind them, and they hurried down the sloping lane, which was bordered on either side by nidhikumba weeds, leathery bromeliads, and overgrown lantana bushes. Here and there, grass and weeds poked through the packed soil under their feet, suggesting that the lane was not heavily used by traffic. The lane curved after several yards and joined up with a wider, poorly paved road. A metal fence extended along one side of the road, with coconut trees towering over the top. On the other side, they passed several tall garden walls, with no house or resident names posted. The tops of araliya trees and oleander bushes spilled over into the road here and there, their blooms out of reach. They continued downhill and, after some time, came upon a right-angled section of the main road with an esala tree standing guard, its yellow flowers hanging down enticingly. The air was heavy with moisture, and Duncan was sweating a little with the exertion.

  On the land side opposite them, a series of painted garden walls blocked the view of houses. No commercial buildings could be seen nearby, but far away to the right, a white balconied hotel loomed above the coconut trees. Immediately next to the road on the beach side was a small thatch-roofed stall for selling coconut, too small and makeshift to have a phone. Farther along, to the right, was a small shop with a corrugated metal roof. Its green-painted metal doors were, to Duncan’s disappointment, padlocked.

  A narrow footpath led from the shop to a scrap of rocky, undeveloped land with a small strip of sand bordered by a screw pine grove. The sea was close to the road there, which explained why no building had sprung up. Up ahead, Duncan could see another low-slung building. Another shop. They could try there. He checked his watch. Jotipala had said the guard would be back by seven. It was 6:22. There would be time.

  Better to go along the beach, Duncan thought. They wouldn’t be visible from the road then. They took off their sandals as they hurried forward, skirting bits of fibrous debris fallen from the coconut trees. The breeze was stiffer now, and the waves were in a mutiny, roiling and crossing each other in unruly lines. The water rushed up to drench their legs. A few black crows with glinting eyes swooped down out of nowhere, cawing loudly, and Duncan shooed them away.

  “Hurry, we have to keep moving,” he said, pulling Janie by the hand. She kept crouching to pick up scallop shells and bits of coral, and he was getting worried about the time. By the time they reached the shop, the pockets of Duncan’s shorts were rattling with treasures she had given him to carry.

  The road had got busier. Occasional tuk-tuks and motorbikes putted by. At the bus stop, a gaggle of schoolgirls had gathered, the pleats of their white uniforms neatly ironed, their hair tamed into braids and ponytails. More uniformed schoolchildren were drifting out from a lane up ahead, along with a few people in office clothes.

  A crimson tuk-tuk was parked next to the shop, and a couple of young men, their dark chests bare and sarongs hitched up to their knees, were standing nearby. They looked around in surprise when Duncan and Janie stepped into the shop.

  “Must have come from the hotel,” Duncan heard one say in Sinhala.

  Burlap bags of rice were stacked near the door alongside plastic crates of bottled drinks and several stalks of king coconuts. Behind the counter were the usual items that wayside shops carried: packets of biscuits, bars of soap, tins of Ovaltine and Milo. In one corner, a small man in a well-worn polyester shirt and khaki shorts presided over two burners, making hoppers. His face glistened with sweat, and the locks of curly hair falling over his forehead were damp. As they entered, he ladled pale batter from a large pot into two small round pans set on the burners. He swirled the pans with an expert motion, cracked an egg into one, and covered both. A small pile of recently made hoppers stood on a plate nearby, their edges crisp.

  “Yes, sir?” the shopkeeper standing behind the counter said.

  Duncan turned to him. It would be better to buy something first, he thought. “Two hoppers and a Milo,” he said hurriedly in Sinhala, and then asked if he could use the phone.

  The man looked impressed. “Very
good Sinhala,” he said. “How is that?”

  “My wife is Sinhalese,” Duncan said. It was the easier explanation.

  “Ah, true?” There were times when local strangers reacted to this proclamation with disapproval, as if he had stolen away one of their own, but this man smiled. He reached behind the counter and produced a phone. “Colombo call?”

  “I will pay you,” Duncan said. “Do you have a phone directory?”

  The man lugged out a hefty directory. It was a good thing directories were still in use here, Duncan thought. He leafed hastily through to the number of the Taj Ocean Hotel. He was about to dial it when he realized he had a problem. How would he talk to Bent about why they were imprisoned at the compound without Janie overhearing? She was munching on her hopper, engrossed in watching the hopper man swirl his batter. The shop was too small for her to not overhear.

  He would call Grace’s parents, he decided. He could speak to them in Sinhala, tell them to get a message to Bent, to tell Bent that Duncan needed to get in touch. He knew Grace’s parents’ number by heart. He punched the number in with the shopkeeper watching curiously.

  “Hello, Ma,” Duncan said, when Grace’s mother, Nalini, picked up.

  There was a second’s silence, and then, “Duncan! I am so happy to hear from you. I’ve been trying to get in touch with you.”

  Duncan frowned. “Didn’t you hear that I was down south? I ended up in Galle.”

  “Galle? You were in Galle? Are you calling from the airport now? Has the plane landed?”

  “What plane, Ma? What are you talking about?”

  “Grace’s plane?” Nalini said, sounding confused. “Aren’t you picking her up?”

  “What? No, I didn’t even know she was coming,” Duncan said. “When is she coming? When did she call you?”

  “She didn’t call us,” Nalini said. “I don’t even know what flight she is on. Even what airline. Tchah.” She made an exasperated sound. “How can this be? She didn’t even tell you? How can she do this out of the blue?”