The Legend of Pradeep Mathew Read Online Free Page A

have a high likelihood of being broken. We use the word as the Mexicanos would say mañana.
    My friend Jonny Gilhooley likes the articles and is not a man given to insincerity. He says, ‘WeeGee, me bonnie lad, you should write for Wisden.’ Renganathan calls me and says ‘Karu, those were the best articles I have ever read.’
    Of course, there are the critics. My sweet, darling Sheila in her kind, gentle way says, ‘What, Gamini? Those three were hopeless, no? Your Duleep and Arjuna ones were better.’
    Thankfully, the years have given me the maturity to deal with criticism.
    I bump into my nemesis Newton Rodrigo at a club game.
    ‘Heard you got sacked from the Observer ?’
    ‘I retired. Unlike some, I know when to quit,’ I parry.
    ‘If that was the case, you would’ve quit in the 1970s,’ he chuckles.
    ‘When I was at the top. True,’ I muse. ‘As I recall, even in those days you were feeding at the bottom, no?’
    He stops laughing. ‘I don’t have time to talk baila with you. Why are you obsessed with that Mathew? Your articles were OK. In the hands of a better writer, they could’ve been good.’
    I submit the articles to Wisden, and receive no response. So in the early months of retirement, I spend my minutes hidden in my cluttered room, trying to write more words for syndication. I end up wasting afternoons arguing with Sheila about our son, Garfield. The boy is just out of his teens and shows no interest in anything other than listening to noise in his room and pretending not to smoke.
    My favourite waste of time is daydreaming unanswerables about Mathew. Who did he get his talent from? Why did he not play regularly? Where did he disappear to?
    I haven’t yet told you about the Asgiriya test. I’m hoping there will be world enough and time.
    The phone rings. The phone is always for Garfield. Giggly girls and boys shouting swear words. I have ways of dealing with them.
    ‘Could I speak with DubLew Gee Karoonasayna, please?’
    ‘Speaking.’
    ‘You been writing for the Sportstar on Shree Lankan cricketers?’
    ‘That is correct. To whom am I…’
    ‘Great stuff. Especially that piece on the spinner Mathew. I saw him, you know, in the ’87 World Cup… um… hold on, please.’
    I hear the same voice barking in the distance. ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake… I thought we weren’t going live. OK. OK. Now piss off.’
    ‘Hello, Mr Karoonasayna…’
    ‘Call me Gamini…’
    ‘Mate, I’ve to go on air. Can you make it to the Presidential Suite at the Taj at 10?’
    ‘Of course.’
    ‘Oh, and come alone.’
    ‘Definitely.’
    And that was how I got to meet Mr Graham Snow.
Presidential Suite
    It has its own entrance and its own lift. Both are carpeted and plated in silver, shined to the point of reflection. The lift is as big as my office room, designed, presumably, to transport bodyguards and entourages to the seventeenth floor in one go.
    We aren’t the only ones heading to the Taj Renaissance Presidential Suite. We share the lift with Hashan Mahanama and career reserve Charith Silva, both a year away from being immortalised as members of the ’96 world-conquering squad. They are flanked by no less than five young lasses. All with straightened hair, knee-length skirts and varying degrees of make-up.
    The security guards body-search me and Ari, and leer at the display of thigh and cleavage that they are forbidden to touch. Silva and Mahanama, knowing that they know me from somewhere, give me the tiniest of nods before shepherding their harem from the lift.
    ‘You bugger,’ says Ari as we enter the darkened room. ‘This is a bloody opium den.’
    ‘Just go, men,’ I say, walking past supine bodies and crimson lampshades. The air is filled with smoke and desperation and the thump of something resembling music. Ari is prone to melodrama.
    ‘If I didn’t know better, Wije, I’d say we were at a party. As my daughters would say, we are crashing the gate. Are you sure this