Funny Boy (14 page)

“What?” I said, very loud, as if I were deaf.

“Ssh,” she replied crossly and picked up her sewing again.

Now that Daryl Uncle was gone, Amma returned to her old routines, but without her earlier enthusiasm. She renewed her friendship with Chithra Aunty and started to go out every night to parties, fashion shows, and dances. A week passed, and Daryl Uncle didn’t come to visit us. Amma pretended she had not noticed, but once, when the doorbell rang, she straightened up expectantly and sent me to see who it was.

Then, one evening, while Amma was at a party, we heard on the radio that trouble had broken out in Jaffna. A policeman had been killed by the Tamil Tigers and the police had gone on a rampage. They had burned the headquarters of the opposition party, the Tamil United Liberation Front, as well as the house of a member of Parliament. As I listened to what was happening there, a frightening thought entered my mind, an idea that had not occurred to me before. Was it possible Daryl Uncle was still in Jaffna, and that was the reason he had not
come to see us? The image this possibility suggested was terrifying. I longed for Amma to come home so that I could share my fears with her and have them dispelled.

I waited for her on the unlit front verandah. Finally, I heard a car pull up outside our gate and Chithra Aunty bid Amma goodnight. When Amma saw me, she paused and then came up the verandah steps.

“Why aren’t you in bed?” she asked.

I looked at her for a moment. “There’s trouble in Jaffna. A lot of people have been killed.”

She drew in her breath and stared at me.

“Amma,” I said, “I wonder if Daryl Uncle is still in Jaffna.”

The expression on her face changed to fear.

“No,” she said, “that can’t be.” Then, as if she doubted her own words, she said, “Oh, son, do you really think so?”

I didn’t reply.

She pulled up a chair and sat down shakily, then she looked out at the garden for a long while. “I’m sure he’s back,” she finally said.

The next day, after school, Amma was waiting for me. As I got into the car, I saw the expression on her face and felt afraid. “The Jaffna library was burned by the police this morning. Ninety-five thousand books were set on fire.” She started up the car. “I want to go to his house and see if he’s there.”

We knocked on the takaran-covered gate and waited. A dog began to bark furiously from inside the house, and presently we heard the sound of footsteps coming towards us. I listened,
trying to make out if they were Daryl Uncle’s. Then a boyish voice asked, in Sinhalese, who we were. “It’s me,” Amma replied.

The servant boy seemed to recognize Amma’s voice, for he opened the gate promptly. He was about sixteen years old and he wore a sarong and a shirt.

“Where is the mahataya?” Amma asked.

“He’s not in,” he replied.

“Did he come back from Jaffna?”

The servant boy shook his head.

“Did he … did he send a message for me?” Amma asked.

The servant boy looked at the ground and shook his head again.

“Maybe … he left a note,” Amma said.

The servant boy kicked at the sand and shrugged.

Amma told me to follow her inside, and as we passed the servant boy, he looked at us quickly and I saw that he, too, was afraid.

The house was large, and all its doors and windows were closed. Rather than going to the front door, Amma hurried around the side of the house. I now saw that Daryl Uncle lived in an annex attached to the house. When we reached the door to the annex, Amma opened her bag, took out a key, and inserted it in the lock. Before she could turn the key, however, the door swung open of its own accord. We paused at the entrance, afraid to go in.

“Hello,” Amma called tentatively. “Hello.”

Nobody answered.

“Stay here,” Amma said to me. “If I cry out, run for help.”

She stepped hesitantly inside. I stood at the door, the sound of my heart thudding in my ears. I could hear Amma moving around. Then she cried out.

“Amma?” I called in a panic. “Amma?”

“Son,” she called to me, in a low, urgent voice, “come quick.”

I went inside and found her standing in the doorway to a room. It was Daryl Uncle’s bedroom and, as I looked in, I understood why she had cried out. The room was a mess. The dresser drawers lay on the bed and the floor, their contents strewn all over. A glass had been knocked over, and there was a water mark on the night table.

“What’s happened?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” she replied, and continued to look around the room. After a moment she said, “Come. Let’s go.”

As we passed the front door of the main house, she paused as if she was going to knock on the door and speak to the servant boy. Then she changed her mind and hurried down the driveway to the gate.

When we were inside the car, Amma said, “Don’t tell anyone about this, you hear?”

I nodded.

She thought about what she had said for a moment and then added, “But we should tell Neliya Aunty, I guess.”

We looked at each other. I was dreading it as much as she was.

When Amma had finished telling her, Neliya Aunty picked up her sewing and worked on it for a few moments. Her brows were furrowed in thought and her hands shook slightly. Finally, she put her sewing down and said to Amma, “Why don’t you wait a few more days and see.”

We stared at her in amazement.

“There’s no proof that anything has happened,” she said.

“But what about the state of the room?” Amma asked.

“You realize the consequences if you do go to the police,” Neliya Aunty said. “Awkward questions might be asked.”

Amma looked down at her hands.

“After all, it’s possible that he stayed in Jaffna a few extra days,” Neliya Aunty continued.

“Why wouldn’t he have contacted me, then?”

Neliya Aunty broke off the thread and tied the end. “Be careful, Nalini,” she said. “Society is not as forgiving as a sister is. You have a husband and three children to think about.”

She picked up her sewing basket and went inside. In spite of her saying that nothing had happened, I could tell that she, too, was worried. I glanced at Amma inquiringly, but she was staring at her hands as if thinking over what Neliya Aunty had said. Finally, she got up and, without looking at me, she went to her room.

That evening I found it difficult to concentrate on my homework. All I could think about was Daryl Uncle and the state in which we had found his bedroom. I recalled the conversation I had overheard the second time he visited us. I shivered slightly when I thought of the way he had described
torture, how the victims were hung upside down and made to breathe chilli fumes, how honey was spread over their bodies and red ants allowed to eat at them.

After school the next day, Amma was waiting for me as usual.

“I’ve made a decision,” she said as she started up the car. “We’re going to the police station.”

I looked at her sceptically, thinking about the behaviour of the policemen in Jaffna.

“I know,” she said. “But what choice do we have? I don’t know where else to go.”

The police station was busier than I thought it would be. After being misdirected a few times we finally arrived at a counter. The policeman behind the counter studied us for a few moments, looking at our clothes and general demeanour to decide what treatment to give us. Fortunately, Amma’s Sinhalese was good.

“I am here about a friend who’s been missing for a few days,” she said.

“Where does he live?” the policeman asked brusquely. He had decided to give us the more courteous treatment.

“Bambalapitiya.”

“Then you must go to the Bambalapitiya station,” he replied.

Amma was silent. Then she said, “Well, he doesn’t really live there. He’s a white man.”

At the words “white man” the policeman’s attitude immediately changed and he became more helpful. He took out a form and began to ask Amma questions. Amma had to re-spell
Daryl Uncle’s name several times before he got it right. While she was doing this, I noticed that another policeman, who was seated at a desk behind the counter, was listening. After a few moments, he got up, came to the counter, and asked the other policeman what was going on. The behaviour of the policeman at the counter showed that the other policeman was his superior. The superior officer picked up the paper, looked at it, and then asked Amma, in English, if he could help her. With the relief of a traveller who discovers a fellow countryman in a strange land, Amma told him rapidly how we had been to Daryl Uncle’s house and about the state in which we had found it. She told him Daryl Uncle was in Jaffna, but acted ignorant as to what he was doing there. He asked her to wait. Then he took the form and went into an office that was behind the counter. He bent down and said something in an urgent manner to the policeman in the office. The policeman looked at him sharply and then out at us. He saw that we were watching him and signalled to the other policeman to shut the door.

“What’s happening?” Amma said to me in a frightened voice. “I don’t like it at all.”

Finally, the policeman who had spoken in English came out and motioned for us to come around the counter.

The policeman in the office rose to his feet when Amma came in and introduced himself as A.S.P. Weerasinghe. The A.S.P. was impeccably dressed, his hair well-oiled, his moustache trim, and his khaki uniform well-pressed. He was slightly overweight and his uniform curved over his rounded stomach. His manner was casual and friendly. “So, so,” he said and smiled. “What’s all this?” He indicated for Amma to be seated.

Amma repeated the story she had told the other policeman. He asked her what her relationship was to Daryl Uncle. Amma said that she had known him since they were children. He then asked her for Daryl Uncle’s address. Once she had given it to him, he nodded to the other policeman, who left the room.

“I’m arranging for us to go and look at the place right now,” he said.

Amma nodded gratefully.

“Don’t worry, Mrs. Chelvaratnam. I’m sure it’s much less serious than you think.”

The A.S.P. looked the form over carefully. “I’ll call some of our chaps in Jaffna and tell them to make inquiries about your friend.

Amma thanked him profusely for this.

The A.S.P. offered us a drive in the squadron car but Amma declined, saying that she would follow in our car.

By the time we arrived at Daryl Uncle’s house, the police cars were already parked outside. The servant boy opened the gate for us. He seemed frightened, and once he had shut the gate, he hurried into the house and closed the front door.

When the A.S.P. saw us, he waved cheerfully. “Where are the occupants of the main house?” he asked.

Amma told him that they were away in England for their daughter’s confinement. Amma looked around the room. Then she turned to the A.S.P. and asked, “What do you think happened, Mr. Weerasinghe?”

“It’s simply a case of break and enter, Mrs. Chelvaratnam,” he replied.

“And what about my friend?”

“I suspect that your friend’s absence and the state of the room are unrelated events.”

Amma looked sceptical.

“What else could it be?” he asked.

“Well … you know, he is in Jaffna and everything,” she said.

“But what would that have to do with the house being robbed?”

Amma said nothing.

He looked at her keenly. “Mrs. Chelvaratnam, if you are holding something back it will only impede us in finding both your friend and the culprit of this robbery.”

Again she said nothing. Then she came to a decision. “I haven’t told you everything,” she said. “The reason he went to Jaffna was to look for evidence of torture and disappearances by … the police.” She added quickly, “He’s a journalist from Australia.”

The A.S.P. smiled and lifted his eyebrows. “And you think he was killed by the police,” he said, completing Amma’s story.

Amma didn’t answer but looked unhappy as if she realized how ridiculous her suspicions sounded.

“Mrs. Chelvaratnam,” he said, “there is admittedly some misuse of power by the police, but never to the extent of torture.”

Before Amma could reply, we heard the sound of a scuffle outside, followed by a shout. The dog began to bark hysterically inside the house. We turned quickly towards the door. I could hear voices raised excitedly. The A.S.P. held up a hand as if warning us to stay where we were.

A policeman appeared in the doorway, looking dishevelled.

“Sir,” he said. “Sir, we caught the servant boy trying to run away. He had a suitcase with him, sir.”

The A.S.P. looked nonplussed. Finally he said to the policeman, “Were there any valuables in the suitcase?”

The man shook his head.

The A.S.P. told him to bring the servant boy to him. When the policeman had gone, the A.S.P. turned to Amma and said, “I think we have the culprit.”

The policemen brought the boy inside. They had his hands pinned behind him in such a way that he was bent over. He moved from side to side, struggling to escape their grip. The A.S.P. signalled for them to release him. When the boy straightened up and saw Amma, he threw himself down at her feet. “Missie, missie,” he cried, his voice fractured by fear. “Help me, please! You know that I haven’t done anything!”

He tried to kiss Amma’s feet, but she moved back quickly. The A.S.P. signalled to the policemen and they dragged the boy away from Amma. They tried to bring him to his feet, but he refused to stand. They left him kneeling on the ground, his head bent, a lock of hair falling over his eyebrow. I glanced at Amma to see if she was all right. She was staring at the boy in distress.

“Boy,” the A.S.P. said, “did you take anything from in here?”

“No, sir,” he replied. “I did nothing.”

“Then why were you running away?”

The boy did not answer.

“I’m sure he’s innocent,” Amma said, pleading his case. “My friend always spoke highly of his honesty.”

The A.S.P. smiled and said, “Now don’t you fret yourself about him, Mrs. Chelvaratnam.” He looked ruefully at the boy. “Unfortunately, dishonesty is instinctive for this class.”

“He is different,” Amma said. “In fact my friend told me that he would often leave money and valuables lying around and the boy never touched them.”