Anil's Ghost Read Online Free

heard one of his talks on her second night in Colombo and had been surprised that there were people with his opinions in positions of authority. But now, in the hospital, where she had come to use some equipment, she met the roving snapping dog that was the other side of his nature. She stood there openmouthed while exhausted staff, personnel and workmen and ambling patients veered away from Perera, creating a zone between themselves and this Cerberus.
    A young man came up to her.
    ‘You are Anil Tissera, no?’
    ‘That’s right.’
    ‘You won the scholarship to America.’
    She didn’t say anything. The foreign celebrity was being pursued.
    ‘Can you give a small talk, thirty minutes, on poisoning and snakebite?’
    They probably knew just as much about snakebite as she did, and she was sure that this choice of subject was intentional—to level the playing field between the foreign-trained and the locally trained.
    ‘Yes, all right. When?’
    ‘Tonight?’ the young man said.
    She nodded. ‘You contact me at lunch and tell me where.’ She was saying this as she swerved past Dr. Perera.
    ‘You!’
    She turned to face the infamous senior medical officer.
    ‘You’re the new one, no? Tissera?’
    ‘Yes, sir. I heard your speech two nights ago. I’m sorry I—’
    ‘Your father was
. . . this thing . . .
right?’
    ‘What . . .’
    ‘Your father was Nelson K. Tissera?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘I worked with him at Spittel’s Hospital.’
    ‘Yes . . .’
    ‘Look at those
padaya
s. Look—the rubbish here in the halls. This is a hospital, no? Bloody bastards, like a latrine. You are busy now?’
    She was busy though she could have changed her plans. She was eager to speak to Dr. Perera and reminisce about her father, but she wanted to do so when he was decaffeinated, calm and alone, not in the midst of a fury. ‘I’ve got a government appointment, I’m afraid, sir. But I’m in Colombo for a while. I hope we can meet.’
    ‘Your dress is Western, I see.’
    ‘It’s a habit.’
    ‘You’re the swimmer, no?’
    She walked away, nodding exaggeratedly.
     
     
    S arath was reading her postcard upside down as he sat across the desk from her. An unconscious curiosity on his part. He was a man used to cuneiform, faded texts in stone. Even in the shadowed light of the Archaeological Offices this was an easy translation for him.
    The sound in the offices was mostly that of the careful pecking of typewriters. Anil had been given the desk by the copy machine, around which there was a permanent tone of complaint, for it never worked properly.
    ‘Gopal,’ Sarath said, slightly louder than usual, and one of his assistants came to his desk.
    ‘Two teas. Bullmilk.’
    ‘Yessir.’
    Anil laughed.
    ‘It’s a Wednesday. Your malaria pill.’
    ‘Took it.’ She was surprised by Sarath’s concern.
    The tea arrived with the condensed milk already in it. Anil picked up her cup and decided to push it.
    ‘To the comfort of servants. A vainglorious government. Every political opinion supported by its own army.’
    ‘You talk like a visiting journalist.’
    ‘I can’t ignore those facts.’
    He put his cup down. ‘Look, I don’t join one side or the other. If that’s what you mean. As you said, everyone has an army.’
    She picked up the postcard and spun it between her thumbs. ‘Sorry. I feel tired. I’ve spent all morning going through reports at the Civil Rights Movement office. There’s nothing hopeful there. Do you want to have dinner later?’
    ‘I cannot.’
    She waited for some explanation but nothing more came from him. Just his eyes darting to a map on the wall, to the picture of the bird on her postcard. While he continued to tap his pencil against the desk.
    ‘Where’s that bird from?’
    ‘Oh . . . nowhere.’ She could close down too.
     
    An hour later they were running through rain and were fully wet by the time they climbed into the car. He drove her to Ward Place and kept the car idling under the