Sri Lanka

This is a piece of short fiction by D. J. Mitchell

Epilogue

I sit on an overstuffed couch, the leather cool against my skin.  The quiet hum of the air conditioner reminds me that my present comfort is artificial: the unusual humidity outside brings back memories of the tropics.

I wear shorts and a t-shirt, my flip-flops on the carpeted floor in front of me and my legs folded in a half-lotus.  My shirt says, in a half dozen languages, “Peace.”

Behind the desk, Dr. White keeps his face impassive, but his eyes tell me I have disturbed him with my narrative.

“How did that make you feel?” he asks.

“Feel?” I repeat.  “Angry.  Terrified.  Outraged.  Powerless. I don’t know.”

“Sure you do,” he says.  “You just told me.”

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This is a piece of short fiction by D. J. Mitchell

It’s thunder, I think: a low rumble that drags me from the depths of sleep.  Then, as consciousness returns, I hear it again: boom.  It’s not thunder, but what can it be?  Silence reigns for a long moment, and I almost drift off to sleep.  Then it hits again: Boom.  Now I realize what it is: artillery.

I listen to three more, and then rouse myself from bed.  I’m not going to sleep anymore tonight.

I slip out of the mosquito net, instinctively adjust my sarong, and pad barefoot through the darkness to the common room.

In the distance I hear it again: Boom.

I realize now that the shells are falling several miles off, not close enough to shake the building, though the air seems to quiver with each explosion.

“Army,” I mutter.

“Yes,” comes a reply, startling me.  In the darkness, I spin toward the sound, and can barely make out the figure sitting in one of the chairs.  Though I can’t really see him, I realize that the voice is Richard’s.

“It’s started,” I observe.

“Yes,” he replies.  “But if the army is shelling at this hour, it means they’ve been attacked.  LTTE drew first blood.  Otherwise, they wouldn’t have a target.”

I sigh.  “Five miles off?” I guess.

I sense more than see him shrug in the darkness.  “Something like that,” he says.

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This is a piece of short fiction by D. J. Mitchell

The day stretches longer.  By late afternoon, the wind dies and the air becomes very still.  No birds cry in the trees, no children play in the street.  The rattling engine of a lone motorbike somewhere in the distance serves only to emphasize that nothing else moves.

“The calm before the storm,” I say.  “It’s been feeling like that since we left Anuradhapura.”

“There’s no fighting up here,” Richard assures me.  “The army is kicking the LTTE’s ass in the East, but there’s nothing happening here.”

“Do not be afraid of sudden panic, or of the storm that strikes the wicked; for the Lord will be your confidence and will keep your foot from being caught,” Zander quotes.

“Proverbs 3:25,” says McMurphy, not looking up from his journal.  Zander reads a worn paperback copy of a book titled Peace, Justice, and Jews.  He earlier commented that much of the world sees that as an oxymoron.  Now he says nothing.

Richard sits in meditation, breathing slowly.

I try to read Gandhi’s autobiography, a book I have wanted to read for years but never found the time for.  Now I have time, and nothing else to do—but find myself unable to concentrate.

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This is a piece of short fiction by D. J. Mitchell

As we turn a corner, two men with guns confront us.  Richard gasps audibly, and I realize belatedly that I have gasped, too.

“Ah,” says Subhuti, as he turns to us and smiles.  “These are our Home Guards.  They protect us.”  He introduces them, but speaks their names so fast I don’t understand him.  I smile and pretend I do.

The two boys appear to be in their teens.  Both wear shabby olive drab shirts, probably army surplus, over worn sarongs.  Both smile proudly as they are introduced.

“May I take their picture?” Zander asks, smiling back at them and producing a camera.

Subhuti consults the two boys in their own language.  The boys grin and nod.  They straighten their clothing and stand straight, their rifle butts resting on the ground and held by the barrel.

Zander takes several pictures, and Richard produces a little digital camera and snaps a few also.  He shows the result to the boys: a tiny photo on the small screen.  Both boys break into enormous grins, clearly amazed at what they see.  Surely they’ve seen photographs in the newspaper, and perhaps they have even seen a camera.  But it’s clear that they’ve never seen a photo of themselves before.

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This is a piece of short fiction by D. J. Mitchell

By eight-thirty, the four of us have shaved and washed up at the temple well, left an appropriate donation in the till, and reassembled our bags.  We meet at the temple gate and file down the road in order of ascending height: Zander, Richard, me, and McMurphy.  I can’t help but notice that neither of the two religious folks carries much in the way of luggage.  McMurphy carries a very small backpack, and Zander has a large fanny pack.  They apparently pack like Sri Lankans.

I glance down at my backpack and feel inexplicably like an “ugly American.”

Zander whistles “Hi ho, hi ho, it’s off to work we go.”  An old woman shredding coconut outside a small home stares at us as we pass.  We’re probably the strangest procession she’s seen in years.  A white guy parade.

At the bus stand, there are no buses.  The only bus that runs goes to and from Kebithigollewa is the bus we came in on the night before.  It has already left for its return journey, and the next bus isn’t due for hours.  But we’re not here for a bus.

Richard approaches the six tuk-tuks, perhaps the same six posted there last night.

“How much?” he asks.

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This is a piece of short fiction by D. J. Mitchell.

It’s well dark by the time we reach Padaviya.  As we enter the town, we see few lights on.  Near the bus stand there’s a hotel—or what the Sri Lankans call a hotel, which is actually an open-air restaurant.  Here and there we see lights in a window.  But the town appears nearly deserted.

We disembark the bus, shuffling in line with two dozen other tired passengers.  Unlike them, we don’t know where we’re going.

“Food?” I suggest.

“Always your first thought,” Richard replies.

“Always,” I agree.

“Let’s find out about getting to the village first,” he suggests.

“How do you plan to do that?” I ask.

“Easy,” he says.  “Follow me.”

We approach one of a half dozen tuk-tuks, and Richard hands the driver a sheet of paper.  On it is the name of the village written in English and Sinhala—helpful because neither of us can pronounce it in a way a Sinhala-speaker would understand.

“Can you take us?” Richard asks.

The driver studies the paper carefully.  Then, without responding, he leans out of the cab and hands the paper to the driver of the next tuk-tuk, and speaks rapidly to him in Sinhala.

“Ah?” says the second driver, quizzically.  He studies the paper as all four of the remaining drivers wake from their doze and gather around to see the excitement.  There is rapid and unintelligible discussion.  Then one of them nods and turns to us—probably the one with the best English.

“You cannot go tonight,” he says.  “Terrorist problem.”

Terrorist problem is their way of saying the LTTE might get us.  Which sometimes just means they don’t feel like it.

“We can pay,” I add.

“Yes, pay,” answers the driver.  “But no tonight.  Danger.”  He makes a slashing gesture across his throat to emphasize his words.

“Damn,” I mutter.

“Where can we sleep tonight?” Richard asks.

Rapid discussion ensues, and I catch only the words “suduy”—white person—and “vihara”—temple.

“I guess we’re sleeping on the floor tonight,” I murmur to Richard.

“Why’s that?” he whispers back.

The driver answers for me.  “Two people come today from Kandy,” he says.  “But no guest house.  They go to temple.  Sometime you go, too.”

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