Michael Ondaatje - Anil's Ghost

Anil bolted the door and went looking for the owner of the rest house. She requested a light dinner, then ordered a shandy and walked out onto the front verandah. There were no other guests, and the rest-house owner followed her.

‘Mr. Sarath-he always comes here?’ she asked.

‘Sometimes, madame, when he comes to Bandarawela. You live in Colombo?’

‘In North America, mostly. I used to live here.’

‘I have a son in Europe -he wishes to be an actor.’

‘I see. That’s good.’

She stepped off the polished floor of the porch into the garden. It was the politest departure from her host she could make. She didn’t feel like hesitant small-talk this evening. But once she reached the red darkness of the flamboyant tree she turned.

‘Did Mr. Sarath ever come here with his wife?’

‘Yes, madame.’

‘What was she like?’

‘She’s very nice, madame.’

A nod for proof, then a slight tilt of his head, a J stroke, to suggest possible hesitance in his own judgement.

‘Is?’

‘Yes. Madame?’

‘Even though she is dead.’

‘No, madame. I asked Mr. Sarath this afternoon and he said she is well. Not dead. He said she said to give me her wishes.’

‘I must have been mistaken.’

‘Yes, madame.’

‘She comes with him on his trips?’

‘Sometimes she comes. She does radio programmes. Sometimes his cousin comes. He’s a minister in the government.’

‘Do you know his name?’

‘No, madame. I think he came only once. Is prawn curry all right?’

‘Yes. Thank you.’

To avoid further conversation, during her meal she pretended to be looking over her notes. She thought about Sarath’s marriage. It was difficult to imagine him as a married man. She was already used to him in the role of a widower, with a silent presence around him. Well, she thought, night falls and you need company. A person will walk through a hundred doors to carry out the whims of the dead, not realizing he is burying himself away from the others.

After dinner she returned to the room where the skeletons were. She didn’t want to sleep yet. She didn’t want to think about the minister who had come with Sarath to Bandarawela. The dim lights didn’t give her enough voltage to read by so she found an oil lamp and lit it. Earlier, she had come across the rest house’s one-shelf library. Agatha Christie. P. G. Wodehouse. Enid Blyton. John Masters. The usual suspects in any Asian library. She had read most of them as a child or as a teenager. Instead she leafed through her own copy of Bridges’s World Soils. Anil knew Bridges like the back of her hand, but she was processing the text now towards her present situation, and as she read she sensed she was leaving the others, the four skeletons, in the darkness.

She was in the chair, her head down towards her thighs, fast asleep, when Sarath woke her.

…

He touched her shoulder, then pulled the earphones off her hair and put them on his head, pressing the start button to hear cello suites that sewed everything together as he walked around the room.

A swallow, as if she were coming up for air.

‘You didn’t lock the door.’

‘No. Is everything okay?’

‘Everything’s here. I arranged for a breakfast. It’s already late.’

‘I’m up.’

‘There’s a shower out back.’

‘I don’t feel good. I’m coming down with something.’

‘If we have to we can break the journey back to Colombo.’

She went out carrying her Dr. Bronner’s, with which she travelled all over the world. The anthropologist’s soap! She was still half asleep in the shower. Her toes nestled against a piece of rough granite, cold water gushing down onto her hair.

She washed her face, rubbing the peppermint soap on her closed eyelids, then rinsing it off. When she looked over the plantain leaves at shoulder level into the distance she could see the blue mountains beyond, the out-of-focus world, beautiful.

But by noon she was encased in a terrible headache.

She was feverish in the back seat of the van, and Sarath decided to stop halfway back to Colombo. Whatever sickness she had was like an animal in her, leading her from sudden shivers to sweat.

Then, sometime past midnight, she was in a room that was on the edge of the sea. She had never liked the south coast around Yala, not as a child, not now. The trees appeared to have been grown only for the purpose of shade. Even the moon seemed like a compound light.

At dinner she had been delirious, almost in tears. Sarath appeared to be a hundred miles away across the table. One of them was shouting unnecessarily. She was hungry but couldn’t chew, not even her favourite prawn curry. She just kept spooning the soft lukewarm dhal into her mouth, then drinking lime juice. In the afternoon she had woken to a thumping noise. She managed to climb out of bed and looked down the open-air passageway and saw monkeys disappearing around the far corner of the hall. She believed what she saw. She took capsules every four hours to keep away headaches. This was sunstroke or dengue fever or malaria. When they got back to Colombo she would have tests done. ‘It’s the sun,’ Sarath murmured. ‘I’ll buy you a bigger hat. I’ll buy you a bigger hat. I’ll buy you a bigger hat.’ He was always whispering. She kept saying, What? What? Could hardly bother to say it. Were there monkeys? Monkeys were stealing towels and swimming trunks off the laundry lines during the afternoons while everyone slept. She prayed the hotel wouldn’t turn off the generator. She couldn’t face the thought of no fan or shower to cool her down. All that worked was the telephone. She was expecting a call in the night.

When dinner was over she took the carafe of lime juice and ice to her room and fell asleep immediately. She woke at eleven and took more pills to blanket the headache she knew would return soon. Clothes wet from perspiration. To perspire. To aspire. Discuss. The fan was hardly moving, air didn’t even reach her arms. Where was Sailor? She hadn’t thought about him. She rolled over in the dark and dialed Sarath’s room number. ‘Where is he?’

‘Who?’

‘Sailor.’

‘He’s safe. In the van. Remember?’

‘No, I-Is that safe?’

‘It was your idea.’

She hung up, making certain the phone was cradled properly, and lay there in the dark. Wanting air. When she opened the curtains she saw light spraying off the compound pole. There were people on the dark sand preparing boats. If she turned on the lamp she would look like a fish in an aquarium to them.

She left her room. She needed a book to keep her awake till the phone call came. In the alcove she stared at the shelves for a while, grabbed two books and scurried back to her room. In Search of Gandhi, by Richard Attenborough, and a life of Frank Sinatra. She drew the curtains, turned on the light and peeled off her damp clothes. In the shower she put her hair under the cold water and leaned against a corner of the stall, just letting the coolness lull her. She needed someone, Leaf perhaps, to sing along with her. One of those dialogue songs they were always singing together in Arizona…

She dragged herself out and sat at the foot of the bed, wet. She was hot but couldn’t open the curtains. It would have meant putting on clothes. She began reading. When she got bored she switched to the other book, and was soon carrying a larger and larger cast of characters in her head. The light was bad. She remembered Sarath had told her the one essential thing he always took on any trip out of Colombo was a sixty-watt bulb. She crawled across the bed and called him. ‘Can I use your lightbulb? It’s a rotten light here.’

‘I’ll bring it.’