Noontide Toll

by Romesh Gunesekera

  Then a door opened and a powerfully built man slipped in. His face was proud and full, his smile glittery. ‘Good evening, gentlemen. Welcome.’

  We all rose to our feet. ‘Good evening, Major.’ Father Perera’s voice shifted up as though he were acting a part.

  ‘Sit down, please, sit down. You have a drink? Good.’ The major strode over to the solitary presiding chair under the TV. ‘Please sit. Dinner will be served at eight. Is that all right?’

  ‘Very kind of you, Major.’ Father Perera sank down first. I followed, falling in line. Mr Patrick stared at our host and fumbled with his chair.

  The major’s hands, I noticed, were immaculate. Another officer appeared—younger, taller, slower—whose face was round and beautiful, like a woman’s, and whose petal-like lips were large and sensitive. ‘Captain Vijay, come and sit down.’ The major then looked at me.

  ‘Vasantha,’ I managed to say. ‘My van.’ I looked at Father Perera for corroboration but he was too busy exchanging glances with Mr Patrick.

  ‘Good. Welcome, Vasantha. Welcome to the army.’ The major turned back to the other two. ‘So, you are touring and wanted to see our operation.’

  Father Perera took a quick sip of juice. ‘Yes, Patrick is in training in the UK. Church, you know, not army, but he was keen to see a real camp. Our mutual friend, Peeky, yours and mine I mean, said you were the man to arrange it.’

  ‘Old Peeky? You went to London with that fellow for one of his Christian conventions, I hear.’

  ‘Actually, a conference on conflict resolution in Berne. Switzerland. He is in tourism, no?’

  ‘Funny bloody business.’ The major laughed. ‘We were in college together, you know. Then he took the high road and I took the low. Look what happened.’

  ‘You can never tell,’ Father Perera assured him.

  ‘I know. The ways of God and all that.’ The major put his hands together in a small prayer. ‘You should have come for lunch, Father. We could have shown you everything then. But in the dark, what can you see?’

  ‘Yes, quite,’ Mr Patrick nodded. His shiny face reddened. He lowered his head as if he had shaved his horns. ‘We were hoping to visit one of the IDP camps.’

  ‘That, I am afraid, is not my department. This is only a military camp.’ The major cracked his knuckles deliberately, one after another, and made a small fort with his fingers. He was never a man afraid.

  No one had mentioned IDP camps while we were in the van. Those pockets in the jungle where hundreds of thousands of Tamil refugees—Internally Displaced Persons—were kept at the end of the war until the government worked out what to do. Or so they say. I had a suspicion that Mr Patrick just wanted to unsettle the major. Perhaps that is how one proselytizes. Internally displace first, then reprieve. The pastor must find a way to go where angels fear to tread, no?

  ‘We have many parishioners back in England who are very concerned about Sri Lanka,’ Mr Patrick added, a little nervously. ‘I want to tell them what it is really like. We hear such confusing things.’

  ‘That’s media, no? It is important for you to see us as we are. After the war, we are now pure administrators, one and all.’ The major smiled charmingly and turned to Father Perera. ‘Tell me, Padre, you must have been to Jaffna before?’

  ‘I have indeed, but not for a few years.’

  ‘It is certainly time for you to return then. Your flock must be anxious.’

  Father Perera bowed. ‘Some, but we do have brothers who have been in the area all along.’

  ‘Oh, I know, I know. I wish your brothers had taken your flock out of the war zone and left us a clear field to operate in.’ The major demolished the small structure he had made and rubbed his hands together as though he was oiling the joints of a machine. ‘So, what do you think? You like our little mess?’

  I was taken aback for a moment, until I realized what he meant. Father Perera knew straightaway. ‘Very nicely appointed.’

  ‘We’ve been here for more than ten years. One must do one’s best.’

  ‘That is a long time for a camp,’ Mr Patrick butted in.

  ‘For us it is home, Patrick. I myself planted the orchard on my first posting.’ He laughed like a man used to laughing alone. ‘Between battles, you know.’

  ‘The mango trees outside?’ Father Perera asked.

  ‘Not those. No, those were here. Pukka trees. You know, the Jaffna mango cannot be beaten. And we have the fruit straight from the tree. When it is ripe, it just falls into our hands. You cannot get a decent mango in Colombo these days, you know. They are all forced to ripen. All sorts of cheap market tricks. None of that here. The real thing you get here. We will have some tonight. You will see.’ He spread out his arms. ‘I love this country.’

  ‘Sounds like you will not be shifting camp for a while then, after so many years here. You will remain in occupation?’ Mr Patrick’s face showed thin, craven lines of daily strain more easily than smiles. His was not the face of a regular believer; there was much too much zeal in it.

  ‘Let us not go there, my friend. Politics is not my expertise. I do not try to predict the future. I am a soldier. I do what I am commanded to do.’ He flexed his arm and glanced at the captain. ‘My job is to keep my men fit, and to keep the peace.’

  ‘I understand. My grandfather was in the army.’ Mr Patrick nodded.

  ‘British Army?’ the captain asked in surprise, speaking to us for the first time.

  ‘He was at Dunkirk. He stayed on the beach until all his men were rescued. They all were.’ Mr Patrick faltered. ‘Along with 350,000 other men. All rescued from the beach.’

  ‘350,000?’ The major’s dark fingers closed in a tight prayer. ‘That’s a helluva big operation.’

  ‘Boats came from all over Britain. Hundreds of them, from dinghies to battleships. People still talk about it, seventy years on.’ The words rushed, crowding out of Mr Patrick’s shallow breath. ‘It was a big thing. It will never be forgotten.’

  A shield seemed to slide over the major’s face. ‘I know,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘We had 350,000 to contend with too, in the humanitarian operation after the final fight.’

  *

  It was a big job, I know, ending the war, shepherding people. We saw the magnitude of the problem on TV. Mr Patrick in England wouldn’t know anything about it, but Father Perera would have seen the pictures of people streaming across the lagoon. The victory march. The housing problem. At first, it was difficult to believe. I thought it was all propaganda. My father used to say, even in the old days, the media is an instrument of the capitalist state. He didn’t always know what he was talking about, and was blind to the faults of a socialist state, but as a result he has given me a crippling dose of scepticism. So now, I find it hard to believe anything and end up knowing nothing. Never mind the media, I don’t even know whether we are living in a capitalist state or a socialist one, a non-aligned one or a crooked one. And when I try to compensate against my prejudices, I end up believing everything and nothing, as if we are living in a country of no consequences.

  I am probably exactly the sort of person Father Perera would love to have in his sights. Just ripe and ready to fall, like the major’s mangoes, into someone’s comforting hands. Clean hands.

  *

  At eight o’clock exactly the man in white livery struck a small brass gong.

  ‘Come, let us eat.’ The major cuffed his subordinate playfully. ‘Captain, lead our guests.’

  Captain Vijay stood up. ‘Please.’ He made a soft, gentle gesture with his hand.

  Along one side of the room there was a long table with half a dozen clay pots of curries: chicken, brinjal, okra, prawn.

  ‘Where is the stringhopper pilau, then?’ The major asked the attendant.

  ‘End dish, sir.’

  ‘You do very well here, Major,’ Mr Patrick said, inspecting the table.

  ‘You have to understand what your men need. They need to feel on top. You see, if morale goes, everything goe
s. Napoleon’s secret. That is why he had vinaigrette and champagne, no?’ The major’s laugh had turned sharper. ‘My CO’s big joke.’

  ‘Champagne?’ Mr Patrick looked around.

  ‘Actually our chief only likes Black Label, but we have first-class supplies. And now, of course, it all comes by road. Before the A9 opened, we had to airfreight everything: chicken, seer fish, tea, everything. Helluva business that was.’

  ‘Between the fighting?’

  ‘That also was a helluva business. People don’t like to admit it, but the enemy was no pushover. Very efficiently trained, very passionate and very disciplined. The thing is they were doing it for a very clear purpose. More difficult for our fellows. You can instil discipline and even motivation in a professional army, but that emotional element is a very difficult thing to fire up. You have to go on the offensive until you smell victory. Then you have the aphrodisiac and can go full tilt.’

  ‘I thought they, the other side I mean, were forced to fight.’ Mr Patrick took a plate from the stack at the end. ‘Families had to give up a child to the Tigers, didn’t they?’

  ‘Yes, definitely. But even so, the brainwashing they do very efficiently. We cannot do that, you see. We have to go by the rules.’ He pointed at the prawn curry. ‘That is a Jaffna special. Very hot. But you must try it. Baptism of fire. That is the way, no, Father?’

  ‘For the soldier, yes, Major. But I prefer to use water myself.’

  ‘But this is Jaffna, Father. Water is in short supply. What we have is firepower.’ He laughed again in small, sharp bursts and then cocked an eye at me. ‘Come, Vasantha. Eat, eat.’

  I helped myself. This was a banquet as good as you’d get at a five-star hotel. We carried our heaped plates dutifully to the table that had been set for us. The two officers took the two ends. I sat next to Father Perera. He shook open a napkin like a white flag. I was not sure what was going on but I guess that’s where religion comes in. If you know the rituals, you have no problem.

  ‘This is delicious,’ he said. ‘You have a talented chef.’

  The major beamed. ‘An army marches on its stomach.’ He patted his own. ‘We eat well and take proper exercise. Thirty-six push-ups a minute and a two-point-four-K run every day.’

  ‘I like to run.’ Mr Patrick brightened. ‘It really frees you up.’ The thought seemed to help him get over some of his earlier speech impediments.

  The major sized him up. ‘Two-point-four K?’

  ‘I like to do about twenty minutes every day. Today, alas, I couldn’t, even though I did bring my running shoes.’

  ‘Twenty minutes? That’s good. Our run, two-point-four K, we have to do in twelve minutes max. I say, try for ten. You must always have a target, no?’ He cocked his hand this time, like a gun, and aimed a finger straight at my head.

  I shivered. This was a man who had done it for real, and I don’t mean running.

  ‘But you know my real secret for keeping fit?’

  Unlikely to be yoga, I thought, but did not utter a word.

  ‘I can’t imagine,’ Father Perera said. It sounded like the sort of phrase he would use to draw needles out of his flock.

  ‘Badminton. I play badminton every day. War or peace, the shuttlecock is king.’

  ‘Really?’ This time even Father Perera did a double take. I guess all three of us saw rocket-propelled grenades studded with feathers shooting through the air.

  ‘My plan is to start a proper tournament here. Not only for my soldiers, but for the civilians as well. Now, wouldn’t that be something?’ His eyes darted mischievously.

  ‘What do they think of the army?’ Mr Patrick asked in a low voice. ‘The people here, I mean.’

  The major’s eyes fastened on him. ‘The people are with us now, you know. We have done a lot for them. I don’t mean the fighting. In these last few months, my boys have built a dozen houses for the people around here. This is not army policy, you know. They did it in their own time. We used our own money. Hundred thousand rupees per unit. You see, we are on their side. This is our home now. I have lived in the north for fifteen years. Some of my men have lived in Jaffna longer than anywhere else in their lives. They have no other home.’ He cracked his fortified knuckles again and I wanted to duck. ‘Some even have sweethearts here. Isn’t that right, Captain?’

  Our dinner was bizarre. My pair of pastors were not doing much converting. I couldn’t tell what they were after. Plain curiosity was not Father Perera’s thing, even of army courtship practices. And the major seemed like a man who hosted dinner parties in the mess every week instead of polishing off enemies of the state. Perhaps that was what he did as a proper gentleman and an officer. I wanted to ask him, so I did.

  I waited for a pause in the conversation and then, while the major was picking his teeth, I went for it. ‘Sir, do you get many visitors dining here like this?’

  He looked at me in surprise. ‘For dinner, hardly ever. People are frightened, Vasantha, to come here in the dark. You have to be a man of true faith, like the good Padre here, to do it.’ He dropped the toothpick on the edge of his plate. His teeth gleamed. ‘But I believe it is very good for us to interact. It is good for our cook to prepare a meal for visitors. It is good for Captain Vijay here to meet people. Otherwise, he never wants to go outside, no? I feel very strongly we must prepare our boys for civilian life, to mingle with ordinary people, with tourists. It is not easy, as I’m sure Father Perera can tell you, to break the habits of war. It is a very rough and bloody business. But, you see, they can’t be heroes for ever. We have to do the TLC, no? Tender loving care.’

  The captain placed his knife and fork together, looking forlorn.

  ‘And you, Major? Are you here always as well?’ Father Perera asked. ‘No gallivanting?’

  ‘We all stay cooped in too much, Padre. That is our trouble. You see, in the army we all know what to do. Discipline, routine, keeps us on the straight and narrow. Whoever the enemy, we do not fear. A command line is a great source of comfort, no? But when I visit my family, I am in a jungle. Last month I had to go to my daughter’s new school in Negombo to see the headmistress. A small matter about music examinations. But, I tell you, after ten minutes waiting for the madam outside her office, I was shaking. You could hear her in the next room. A formidable voice. Used to be at a convent in Panadura, they say. I have never been so frightened in any battleground. With a woman like that, what can you do?’ He waved his whole arm in the air. ‘She’d drive a fellow bonkers.’

  For a moment, I saw him spraying the school office with a machine gun. Lobbing a shuttlecock on to her lap. Going bonkers!

  The man in white shuffled around, clearing the table.

  ‘Mangoes,’ the major said. ‘Now you will taste the best mango in the country. No longer the forbidden fruit, eh?’

  Father Perera smiled.

  The fruit came cut in segments with the seed separated from the cheeks. The major was right. It tasted like honey on a spoon. I slowly savoured it while Mr Patrick prattled on about harriers and barriers. Their conversation was like a low-key gun battle: each taking potshots in turn, hitting nothing but exchanging fire. Father Perera retreated and, like me, concentrated on his mango. He was quite an expert at scooping every shred of flesh off each slice. Would he suck the seed? He did. I followed suit.

  When we were done, coffee was served. Our Major TLC leant forward with his elbows on the table. ‘So, Padre, you see, we are not such beasts, are we? We just do the best we can in difficult circumstances, like everybody else.’

  *

  Our goodbyes were brief. But before I went for the van, Mr Patrick said he would like a photo with the major and Father Perera. He asked me to take it and handed me his phone. Smart Japanese job with face detection built in, but I had to ask them to cosy up to get all three in the frame. The major was in the middle but the other two seemed to veer away however much I asked them to lean in. Mr Patrick had a funny look but I took a couple of OK shots. While he checked th
e photos, the major said to Captain Vijay, ‘Now you take one with Vasantha and me.’ He handed him a squatter, meaner bit of kit. I went and stood next to the major. He put his arm around me and squeezed my shoulder. His fingers were strong enough to crush my bones. I could hardly breathe. I thought my chest would burst.

  Afterwards, the major called for a bag of mangoes. ‘Vasantha, you take those. Best mangoes in the country. Give them to your family as a souvenir from Jaffna.’

  Safely back in the van, I turned off the interior light and started heading back towards the gate. The soldier with the flashlight waved us off. It didn’t seem right to say I had no family to the major. I have a van, nothing else. For some reason, I was too frightened to tell him the truth. It is a problem a lot of us seem to have these days.

  On the road, I kept to a steady thirty miles per hour. It was a straight road and there was nothing to worry about, but I didn’t want to go fast. We all needed to catch up with ourselves.

  Father Perera was the first to break the silence. ‘You changed your mind?’

  In my mirror, I saw Mr Patrick tap his phone. ‘No, I think he is the man. Look, this was the picture we had. The one she took.’

  Father Perera squinted. ‘Everything is blurry. You can’t really be sure of the face.’

  ‘I am sure. He admitted he does go to Negombo.’

  ‘That’s his home town. He is a college man. Educated, no? I even know his alma mater there.’

  ‘So? Education is not inoculation. Pol Pot studied in Paris. I can assure you, Marion has been very thorough. She zeroed in on just two possibilities and we know the other guy is dead.’

  ‘But all she had to go on was the girl once saying that she was seeing a senior officer from the north. What if she meant a Tiger commander?’

  ‘That’s impossible, Father. You know that.’

  I stepped on the accelerator and moved up to forty. A wild cat, or something, bounded off the road ahead.

  These trips I do up north are never the same. Each time I find something new about what has happened to our country, and to us. I had never met an army commander before although there are hundreds now, all over the place. The ones on TV are always solemn, with thick moustaches, or barking mad. This major had no facial hair. He spoke like a company man on an executive escalator. Full of himself, true, but that, I have noticed, is one of the characteristics of a confident achiever. I used to see a lot of them in my last job. City folk on a fast track. Now I tend to see only people who are on holiday or on their trip-of-a-lifetime or, like Father Perera, on soul-rectifying missions. Business that requires a much slower pace. Forty miles per hour is ample. But a fighting man, I can see now, has to be one step ahead always and learn to cover his tracks, if he is to survive.