Funny Boy (27 page)

“I have reason to believe our principal is losing the battle, and if he
is
overruled, Tamils like us will suffer. Our loyalties must therefore be with him.”

He paused for emphasis, then continued.

It seemed that the chief guest at the prize-giving in a little over a week’s time would be a minister of the cabinet, who, it was rumoured, was next in line for the presidency. This minister was an old boy of the Victoria Academy and was the principal’s last hope. “Vitae Lampada” and “The Best School of All” were two poems that the minister liked and knew very well because he had won the All Island Poetry Recital Contest with them. Black Tie would be creating his speech around those poems and he would appeal to the minister and the other old boys to prevent the school from altering. It was hoped that the poems would remind the minister of his schooldays and he would take some action.

“So you see, Chelvaratnam,” Mr. Sunderalingam concluded, “the student who recites those poems will have the honour of helping our beloved principal save the school.”

I stared at him not knowing what to say. I had come to ask Mr. Sunderalingam to get Shehan and me out of our current situation, only to be given further reason why I should be trapped in it. I realized that I’d been away too long and Black Tie would soon wonder what had happened to me.

“Sir,” I said, “can you help me?”

He nodded. “I’ll come by the office after school and tell him about your visit.” He saw the fear in my eyes and smiled. “Don’t worry, Chelvaratnam. Our principal is a strict man but he is not cruel.”

He nodded, indicating that our meeting was over.

I thanked him and went back towards Black Tie’s office, working over in my mind what he had said. He had told me all this about Black Tie as a way of justifying what had been done to me. Yet he had not succeeded in winning my sympathy. Mr. Sunderalingam had said Black Tie was strict but not cruel, but he was wrong. Black Tie was cruel. If not, how could he have made us kneel on that balcony for all those hours, how could he have slapped Shehan for having long hair and then cut off his hair in such a terrible way? I was not sure that, as a Tamil, my loyalties lay with Black Tie. I thought of Mr. Lokubandara and the way Salgado and his friends had assaulted that Tamil boy. I thought of the way Black Tie had beaten both Shehan and me. Was one better than the other? I didn’t think so. Although I did not like what Mr. Lokubandara stood for, at the same time I felt that Black Tie was no better.

The principal looked up from his work when I came into his office.

“What took you so long?” he asked.

“There was a long line, sir,” I replied.

He pointed for me to take my place on the balcony with Shehan. As I went past his desk, I glanced at him and was aware that I now saw him differently.

Mr. Sunderalingam came to Black Tie’s office when school was over. He walked in and approached Black Tie’s desk. Shehan noticed where I was looking and he altered his position so that he could see inside as well. Mr. Sunderalingam was gesturing towards the balcony and talking to Black Tie. Shehan looked at me, his eyes widening with the realization of what I had done during the interval. I smiled, trying to assure myself as well that the outcome would be good.

After a while Mr. Sunderalingam left. Black Tie continued to sit at his desk.

“What do you think will happen?” Shehan asked in a whisper.

Before I could reply, Black Tie pushed his chair back and stood up. He came to the balcony door and opened it.

“Chelvaratnam, Soyza, come in off the balcony,” he said.

He went back to his chair and we got up stiffly and went to stand in front of his desk.

“You are free to go.”

We stared at him in surprise.

“Hooligans,” he said, but there was almost an amused note in his voice. “Do you want to leave or are you too attached to my balcony?”

“To leave, sir,” we replied quickly.

“Then go,” he said, “before I change my mind.”

We turned and hurried towards the door, afraid that indeed he would change his mind.

When we got to the bottom of the stairs, we looked at each other in amazement. “It worked!” Shehan cried. “I can’t believe it!”

He laughed out loud and grabbed hold of me, spinning me around with him. Then he did a most unexpected thing. Quickly, before I was aware of what was happening, he kissed me on the lips. My mouth must have opened in surprise, because I felt his tongue against mine for a brief instant. Then it was over. “Come on,” he said and grabbed my arm. “I’ll race you.”

Without looking at me, he began to run. I stood where I was, disoriented by what had happened.

He turned to me, saying, “Come on. Don’t be such a girl.”

Still dazed, I began to trail after him.

When I reached the classroom, he had already packed most of his things. Now his mood had changed and he seemed distant, almost angry. He didn’t even glance at me when I entered. I began to pack my bag slowly. He slung his bag over his shoulder, and, without a word, he walked towards the classroom door.

“Wait,” I called out.

He turned.

Now that I had asked him to stop, I didn’t know what to say.

“What’s the hurry?” I finally said. “Do you have a train to catch or something?”

He didn’t reply, but stood and waited for me to gather my things.

We began to walk down the corridor together. I looked at Shehan, but he refused to meet my eye. I felt that somehow he was angry at me, that I’d let him down. In the meantime, I was still trying to recover from the impact of that kiss, trying to understand what it meant.

We had reached the bicycle shed by now, and he still hadn’t said a word. He bent down and began to unlock his bicycle. I watched him, feeling that something was coming undone between us, something imperceptible. I knew that I had to act now to save it from unravelling completely.

“What shall we do this evening?” I asked abruptly.

He stopped what he was doing and looked at me carefully.

“What do you want to do?” he asked.

I shrugged. “I don’t know.” I was not sure of the correct response.

He shrugged too, as if he didn’t care. He began to wheel his bicycle out of the shed.

“Shall I come to your house?” I said.

He turned to look at me. Then he nodded and got on his bicycle.

“Wait!” I cried. “I don’t know the address.”

He got off his bicycle and opened his bag. He took out a piece of paper, wrote his address on it, and handed it to me.

“About five-thirty?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said, and got on his bicycle and rode away.

It was only once I had got home that my shock over Shehan’s kiss wore off. Then all I could think about was the sensation of that kiss. I lay across my bed, trying to relive it, but it had happened so fast that I could not remember very much. I closed my eyes and tried to recreate it, lingering over the details, playing out the incident and extending it into the realm of imagination. First my mind’s eye rested on Shehan’s face, the fullness of his lower lip, the slight ridge above his upper lip, as if someone had taken a light-brown pencil and outlined it. Then I imagined him kissing me, not quickly but slowly, lingeringly, so that I could feel the full impact of the kiss. I tried to remember the instant when his tongue touched mine. It had been rough and wet, but beyond that I hadn’t had a chance to experience how it felt or tasted. As I lay there, looking up at the mosquito net above me, I realized I had not only liked that kiss but I was also eager to experience it again in all its detail and sensation.

Shehan lived in a big house in the exclusive neighbourhood of Cinnamon Gardens. The house had a high wall around it and a takaran-covered gate. I leaned my bicycle against the wall and knocked on the gate. He must have been sitting on the steps waiting, for he immediately appeared. When he opened the gate, he seemed nervous about something. He greeted me shortly and then led me into the house.

The inside of the house was in a poor state. The red floors had not been stained for so long that the grey of the cement showed through. The upholstery on the settees was faded,
and the wooden arms of the chairs were unvarnished. As I glanced around me, I somehow knew that Shehan didn’t have a mother. As if to confirm my thoughts, an old bent-over servant woman came out of a doorway behind the stairs and looked at me and then at Shehan with an inquiring air, as if she owned the house.

“A friend,” Shehan said to her, embarrassed, and then hurried up the stairs, calling to me to follow.

When we were inside his room, he slammed the door shut and locked it.

“She thinks she owns the house,” he said, seeming now to relax a little. He grinned at me and said, “Welcome to my humble dwelling.”

The furniture in the room was old and heavy and belonged to another era. The bed was very high, almost level with my waist, and the four bedposts were carved.

“It belonged to my grandmother,” Shehan said, noticing me studying the bed.

“It’s nice.”

He shook his head. “It’s too hard,” he replied, and to demonstrate he sat on the bed and bounced up and down. He indicated for me to try it as well. I did so. Now Shehan was lying back on the bed, watching me. He had suddenly become very serious and he was looking at me as if waiting for me to do something. I glanced at him and then at my hands, feeling awkward and afraid by the intensity of his expression. I felt a tightness in my stomach. He was waiting for me to act, but what was I to do? Did he want me to kiss him? I was not sure how to go about it, given that his face was too far from me. The moment
was beginning to pass, and soon I knew that it would be too late. I sought desperately for something to say and, before I could stop myself, I blurted out, “Do you have a mother?”

Shehan drew in his breath. He sat up, then he got off the bed.

“I mean, where is your mother?” I said, trying to cover up.

He went to the window and stood there, looking out. The expression on his face was sombre. “My parents are divorced,” he said, after a moment. “My mother lives in England with her new husband.” His voice was dull and heavy as he spoke, but I knew that the reason for this tone was not because of his mother but because of what had just happened between us. Shehan put his hand to his forehead as if suddenly tired. Then I knew that I had disappointed him. He had expected something from me and I had been unable to provide it.

“I better go,” I said.

He nodded and turned away from the window.

When Shehan bid me goodbye at the gate that evening, he was polite, in the same way he would have been with a stranger. As I cycled home, I felt frustrated and angry at my own inadequacy. I had failed both of us in some significant way.

My family was already in the middle of dinner when I came home.

“Where have you been?” Amma cried when she saw me.

“I went to visit a friend,” I said and slipped into my seat.

Everyone looked at me with interest because I had never had a friend before.

“That’s good,” my father said. “I’m pleased you’re making friends at the Victoria Academy.”

“Who is this friend?” Amma asked.

“Shehan Soyza,” I replied abruptly, not wanting to talk about him. I noticed that Diggy was watching me closely. I ignored him and began to help myself to some stringhoppers and curry.

“Where does he live?” my father asked.

“Cinnamon Gardens.”

Both my parents seemed pleased at this, for it meant that Shehan was from a good family.

“Why don’t you invite him to lunch on Sunday?” Amma said.

Diggy frowned at me and shook his head, telling me to decline Amma’s offer. I felt suddenly irritated with him, an irritation compounded by my feeling of failure at Shehan’s house.

“Yes,” I said to Amma, “I would like that.” I smiled mockingly at Diggy. “I’ll phone him right after dinner.”

Later, Diggy came to my room while I was writing in my new 1983 diary, a present from Neliya Aunty, who wanted me to have something to “contain all my scribblings.” From the look on his face, I knew that he had come to chastise me for inviting Shehan. I closed the diary and raised my eyebrows to show that he was disturbing me. He sat down on the corner of my bed.

“You’re going to be sorry,” he said to me.

“What?” I replied in a rude tone of voice.

“You’re going to be sorry for being friends with this Soyza or Shehan or whatever his name is.”

“And why is that?”

He was annoyed that I was pretending not to understand what he meant. After a moment he smiled and said, “I can’t wait for Appa to meet Soyza. Then he’ll definitely know that you’re …” He stopped himself, but I knew that he was talking about what my father seemed to fear was wrong with me. I straightened up in my chair and watched him carefully. I knew that if I was to get anything further out of him, I would have to push him into revealing it.

“You’re talking through your hat,” I said in a dismissive tone. “Amma and Appa will like Shehan. Everybody likes Shehan. You know I do. Very much.”

The statement had the desired effect on Diggy. He looked at me intently. “What do you mean you like Shehan very much?”

I was not sure how to answer this. “I just like him,” I said, trying to make it sound like the most obvious thing in the world.

“How?”

“What do you mean, ‘how’?”

“
How
do you like him?”

I fiddled with the lock on my diary, disconcerted.

Diggy smiled. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.

“Of course I do.”

He shook his head and stood up. “You don’t.” He crossed to the door, but before he went out he said, “You just be careful.

That Soyza could easily lead you down the wrong path.” He left, closing the door behind him.

Then the meaning of what Diggy had said hit me, and a realization began to take shape in my mind. A fact so startling that it made my head spin just to think about it. The difference within me that I sometimes felt I had, that had brought me so much confusion, whatever this difference, it was shared by Shehan. I felt amazed that a normal thing – like my friendship with Shehan – could have such powerful and hidden possibilities. I found myself thinking about that moment Shehan had kissed me and also of how he had lain on his bed, waiting for me to carry something through. I now knew that the kiss was somehow connected to what we had in common, and Shehan had known this all along.