A Candid Obituary

 

 

 

 

 

 

A   C A N D I D   O B I T U A R Y

 

 

 I.:  A DILEMMA

            My secretary had arranged the incoming mail in a neat pile.  As I leafed through it, my glance fell on an envelope posted in Colombo. Was it a request for a reference from one of my recent Sri Lankan students? I was about to slice the cover open when Shamsiah’s call reminded me that my Banking Law class was to commence in five minutes. Reluctantly, I dropped the letter back on my desk, picked up my notes and hurried to my seminar room.

            When I came back after some two hours, the envelope had slipped my mind. I recalled it only when it dropped off the table when I tried to put my notes in order. Shrugging my shoulders, I tore it open, only to realise that the writer was the widow of my late friend, Ranjan Jeyaratne. Her message was plain. Would I kindly write a short note to be included in a volume planned to commemorate her late husband?

            Deeply perturbed, I stared into the void surrounding me. Ranjan Jeyaratne had been shot dead by a gunman in what had turned out to be my friend’s last rally. His assassination had been reported on the BBC.  I got the news on my car radio when I drove home from downtown Singapore. The information shook me, but my feelings were mixed. Ranjan had quitted Sri Lanka’s ruling party. He had not crossed the floor by joining the opposition; he ran as an independent presidential candidate. His former party feared he would split the vote.

            Ranjan was too shrewd a man to overlook the risks involved.  He knew it would be best to wait; but his ambition spurred him on. In the end, he had paid dearly for his courage and resolve. 

            Most of Ranjan’s contemporaries grieved when they got the news. He had been a charming fellow and a loyal friend. I had good reasons to be grateful to him for my appointment to an assistant lectureship at Singapore’s Law School and for his many acts of kindness during the years we knew one another. The blood on his hands – the atrocities perpetrated by his troops in the Tamil region of Jaffna  – would not have quenched my affection and gratitude.  Politics, I knew, was a dirty game.

What had disturbed me was Ranjan’s extreme self-centredness. It had driven him to some personal vendettas which militated against my belief in ‘live and let live’. All the same, and notwithstanding his questionable odyssey, I continued to see him as he had been in our Oxford days.

For a long time, I remained seated with the letter of Ranjan’s widow in my hand. Should I accede to her request? My heart whispered that a refusal would be both shameful and ungracious. My mind steered me in the opposite direction. Would it be proper to compose a eulogy endorsing Ranjan’s acts? How could I possibly close my eyes to his evil side?

Torn between these diametrically opposed sentiments, I placed the letter and my notes in my briefcase and got ready to leave. My late friend Tay Fung-Shou – encapsulated in a porcelain figurine affectionately called Alfie and placed in  my choice trophies cabinet – was bound to find a way out of the dilemma.

 

            As always, Pat’s barrage of complaints commenced soon after I stepped through our door. She had quarrelled with her sister, had scolded the grocer for being late with his deliveries, and one light in the sitting room was out of order. Reasoning with her was pointless: she would have the last word. When, at long last, she went to watch a Cantonese soap on her favourite television channel, I slipped into my antiques room. My face brightened when I viewed my treasures.

“You always bow like Angmoh, Mr. Mid-Yeast Tourist,” Alfie grinned gleefully from his shelf in my porcelain cabinet.  “Like they say: Angmoh is Angmoh, my friend. Seng Seng [Chimpanzee], he also kowtow; but always he ape!”

“Thanks for the compliment,” I retorted, getting ready to give verbal battle.

“Now, now,” observed Alfie victoriously. “Show temper is bad manners. But Angmoh not know better!”

He had embarked on the banter we used to enjoy when he had been alive and kicking. I recalled vividly our endless repartee, and the amused glances bestowed on us by his young daughter, Yuan-Ming, who, even as a grown up, continued to address me as “Uncle”.

 

My friendship with Tay and Yuan-Ming was a gift of Fortuna. She had guided me to Tay Antiques during my early days in Singapore. The proprietor, Tay Fung-Shuo, had opened his shop in the heart of Chinatown after turning his back on a promising career in one of London’s leading museums. Purporting to be a run-of-the-mill antiques dealer, Tay used to wear a Chinese silk suit with a jacket buttoned up to the chin; and he addressed his customers in an awkward, heavily accented, pidgin. It took me a long time to discover that Mr. Tay was a graduate of Cambridge and London universities and that, under the guise of his United Kingdom alias of ‘Dr Alfred Cheng’, he had published a series of books on Chinese art.

 In due course, I started to visit his shop regularly in order to pursue my interest in Chinese ceramics. Tay obliged and, in the course of our friendship, enlightened me.  Our lengthy – often exhausting – tours of the world of Eastern art had fine-tuned my perception of my beloved European  porcelain. Tay’s brilliant insights sharpened my ability to evaluate art.

 At the end of our last tutorial session, when both of us knew a malignant disease would pluck him off before we had the chance to meet again, he gave me a royal gift: the Bowing Harlequin modelled in Meissen in 1741. It appeared only right to dub the figurine ‘Alfie’. Before long I started to chat with it. After a while, the real Alfie and his porcelain alter ego merged in my mind. It was, therefore, befitting that our conversations were held in the special variant of pidgin we had developed during his lifetime. Occasionally, though, Alfie reverted to plain English. In a subtle manner the switch involved a rebuke, as if the speaker had said: “Stop making much ado about nothing”.

“So today you have problem,” Alfie spoke in a kinder tone.

“How you know?”

“Your face open book, my friend; and I good reader!”

 

            Alfie listened attentively. He was, of course, aware of my friendship with Ranjan Jeyaratne. Both he and his charming little daughter had taken a dislike to Ranjan, tolerating him only for my sake.  When I mentioned Ranjan’s sad end to Yuan-Ming – by then relishing an artistic Avante Garde existence in California – her response was direct and abrupt: “He got what he deserved; so don’t you fret, Uncle”. Alfie would have been less outspoken.

            Today Alfie’s porcelain alter ego was, once again, prepared to humour me by disguising his dislike for the deceased politician. But, even so, he let his displeasure show as soon as I finished my tale.

“But you, Mr. Mid-Yeast Tourist, why you make mountain out of molehill?”

“Why you say so?”

“Your friend’s widow she ask for help: so why problem?”

“You don’t  think have  three options, three bad options, Mr. Tay?”

“Tell me.”

“Option one: not answer. But this is escape; too ugly.”

“So not option,” retorted Alfie.

“Second option: write nice letter –  say Ranjan he great man – but is pack of lies.”

“And you not  liar; you  honest,” smirked Alfie. “And last  option?”

“Tell her truth?”

“Oh yes,” Alfie retorted with gusto. “You say: ‘Dear Mrs So and So, your husband  not bad politician and is good friend but also is rake, rogue and womaniser’. Splendid: you think can write?”

“No, Alfie,” I conceded. “Too gross. So perhaps not best answer?”

 “The difficulty lies in your  classification of the options,” said Alfie, reverting to his scholarly ego. “In reality you have only two choices: to reply or to keep mum; and we have ruled the latter out!”

 “The only question is what to say when I reply. Unfortunately, the real story and the myth are incompatible!”

“If you paint them on one canvas, they are,” agreed Dr Cheng. “But why don’t you compose two letters – one telling the truth and another best described as  ‘the great leader myth’?”

“Sending them under separate cover?” I asked, still perplexed.

“A poor way out if you send both to the widow. But you better compose them for different audiences. Of course, the two must be reconcilable. But their tones may differ; and you can leave out of each canvas that part of the tale not meant for the respective readers.”

“Isn’t that subterfuge?”

“Perhaps is. But also trick of great historians,” chuckled Alfie, slipping back into our jargon.

“Very well,” I conceded, sticking to plain English for the moment. “So, the great leader myth is to be addressed to the widow. To whom should I address the true tale?”

“To yourself or  me,” said Alfie, soberly. “You see, object is get out of your system.”

 “And myth must write first,” I reflected. “Must answer widow soon; and true story I take perhaps two years!”

“Correct; and is good order – when you write myth you think of Ranjan good side. So perhaps not so much poison in true tale; your glasses kindlier tinted.”

 

            I spent ten days on my reply to Ranjan’s widow.  The final three-page obituary was fit for inclusion in a commemorative tome. It covered Ranjan’s years at Oxford, his performance as a lecturer in Singapore and, to a point, the tale of his rise in the politics of his home country. Superlatives were scarce. The sketch I drew described Ranjan as a good scholar, an accomplished lecturer and an aspiring politician.

            I gave my late friend credit for having been a loyal comrade and a realistic and thoughtful individual. It appeared best not to refer to his appeal to women, to his numerous flirtations and to his first, unhappy and sterile, marriage. The reference to his publications – described as small in volume but sound and meticulously researched – and a mention of his neatly organised and well-presented teaching courses helped me to sidestep his questionable commercial and financial exploits. The only side of his character which I lauded in flowery language was his  devotion to his Sinhalese race. Ranjan had often put its cause above his personal interests.

            I concluded my obituary with a banal sentiment: it was a tragedy that Ranjan’s contributions to the cause of his people had been terminated by a bullet fired by a cowardly hooligan. The sentiment was genuine; my affection for Ranjan had remained intact. Still, the myth did not reflect my reservations. But, then, a myth is supposed to draw the hero’s portrait in bright colours.

 

            Having re-read the brief myth, I concluded that Ranjan’s widow would find some solace in it and that, in any event, my letter to her would serve the purpose for which I had composed it. A chat with Alfie convinced me further that, although my punches had been pulled as required, I had not compromised the truth. A candid obituary – read side by side with the myth – would shed further light on Ranjan’s life. At the same time, neither tale would give the lie to the other. I hoped that an objective reader, an unbiased stranger, would reach the same conclusion.

 

II: A GIFTED YOUTH

 

            My knowledge of Ranjan’s youth is based on what he thought fit to tell me and on occasional remarks of  his contemporaries. A model primary school pupil, a boy scouts leader and a fine cricket player were on the credit side. A tricky fellow, one ready to snitch when it suited him, and a  mercenary to boot, were remarks made by those who disliked him. One of them told me that Ranjan would display enthusiasm when he was the key figure in some sporting event, but often lost interest when it was the turn of others.

            The most telling observation came from one of his Tamil classmates. Ranjan had sought to gain popularity by being good. But the mask was thin. Right from primary school Ranjan exhibited vanity and, alas, a dislike for  members of Sri Lanka’s substantial minority groups. The only exception – to manifest itself in secondary school – was Ranjan’s penchant for girls of the Burgher community, the descendants of mixed marriages of Dutch men with Sinhalese or Tamil women.  Ranjan found these girls appealing and enjoyed their liberal outlook.

I concluded that, in his early years, Ranjan had been neither  a saint nor a villain. He had been human; yet an extremely self-centred fellow right from the start. He had also displayed an uncanny ability to get his way at all cost. Crossing him was unwise.

 

I met  Ranjan for the first time at a party in my college in Oxford. By then, he had completed his BA with second class honours. His hope was to improve this sound but inglorious result with a spectacular  performance in Oxford’s Bachelor of Civil Law (usually referred to as the BCL).

Noticing my patent awkwardness, Ranjan had aided me to fit into the party. In no time the discussion turned to Israeli folklore and aspirations. This enabled me to take part. Ranjan too talked. He had familiarised himself with the controversial subject and was aware of the manifestoes of both sides.  That evening he took the Israeli line; but I wondered what views he would express in a gathering dominated by Arabs. A casual observation by a Rhodes scholar suggested that Ranjan’s enthusiastic references to Israel came to some listeners as a surprise.

  

 For the next few weeks, I kept running into Ranjan in the restaurants and coffee houses near the Bodleian library. Occasionally, we had tea together in Broad Street. Ranjan kept talking about political affairs. After a while it dawned on me that, notwithstanding his legal background, Ranjan aspired for a role in politics.  He was active in the Oxford Union, the cradle of many political careers, and, in due course, was elected president for a term. His focus was –  I gleaned – the politics of his home country – Sri Lanka, still known as Ceylon in those days. 

 

During his last year at Oxford, the two of us saw a great deal of one another.  Ranjan was always ready to help when the need arose. I was at that time fretting over the direction of my project. Ranjan smoothed matters out for me by discussing my problems with some  academics of his acquaintance. The frosty atmosphere I had encountered till that time gave way to friendly guidance and assistance. Even the librarians started to smile when I asked for advice.

 

Ranjan had managed to pull the right strings; and he knew how to detect them when needed. It did not take me long to discover that he had performed comparable acts of kindness for other acquaintances. Some benefited from his patronage in Oxford Union affairs; others appreciated his guiding hand in problems related to the circle of Ceylonese students, and others still had sought his advice in collegiate politics. Ranjan’s reward was the general esteem shown to him by the academic community surrounding him; and his ego kept being bolstered. Effectively, Ranjan’s charisma conferred on him a mantle of distinction.

 

            In the normal course of events, Ranjan and I would have remained mere acquaintances with benevolent feelings for one another. I preferred the backstage to the limelight; and I was a loner. Ranjan’s orientation differed. Our hobbies, too, belonged to separate worlds. His centred on people and on current affairs. He was always up to date. Mine were porcelain and plastic art.

            I recall a commercial case which took both of us down to London. In the spare time left, Ranjan  went to  political rallies and attended meetings of some Ceylonese organisations. I spent my time visiting art galleries. Ranjan, who knew I was too poor to buy good pieces, could not comprehend the pleasure I derived from window shopping and from trotting through museums. I, in turn, felt no empathy with his activities. London was a fascinating city. Why  would anyone prefer spending his time on rallies and current events – bound to be forgotten within a short while –  to relishing the rich cultural scene?

 

What drew us together – cementing a friendship which lasted for years – was a mutual ability to see each other’s point of view and to act discreetly when needed.  One typical event of this sort took place shortly after that spell in London. We were sitting in our accustomed coffee house in Oxford’s Broad Street, engaged in a  discussion of the  litigation that had drawn us to the High Court. Other students dropped in, greeted Ranjan warmly but – as was to be expected – bypassed me. Ranjan enjoyed his popularity and relished the attention showered on him. Then, unexpectedly, his smile changed into a frown. He was staring at a group of young men and women, who had just stepped through the door. One of the newcomers – an attractive girl – beamed as soon as she spotted him.

“I didn’t expect to find you here,” she said, as she left her group with a nod and, following the usual introductions, joined our table. Her warm, alluring, voice camouflaged her  mid-European accent.

“I didn’t intend to go for tea, Lillo; but Peter needed a rest after his spell in the library.” The smile had now returned to Ranjan’s face; but his eyes remained watchful.

“So this is your new friend,” she retorted readily and, turning to me, added: “Ranjan speaks a lot about you; it’s nice meeting you.”

“Thanks,” I said, dumbfounded.

“So he did not tell you about me?” she grinned.

“Why didn’t you tell me you had such an attractive girl friend?” I asked Ranjan.

“Fear of competition!”

“That would be the day,” I could not help responding, thinking to myself that a vivacious, elegantly dressed and well-groomed girl like Lillo was  altogether out of my reach.

“Why are you so unsure of yourself?” Lillo spoke kindly. “Some girls are keen on nice, dependable, men! Ranjan says that’s precisely what you are!”

“Maybe,” I said awkwardly, adding – determined to change the subject: “And how long have you known Ranjan?”

“A few months,” she responded willingly. “But we got engaged only four or five weeks ago. Soon I’ll get my ring.”

            Ranjan’s expression tightened as she spoke. I sensed that these two had a lot to say to one another. Ranjan had been startled by her arrival in the company of other men. She was, however, too smart, too worldly, to seek to justify herself.

“I better return to the library,” I told them. “I have to read two new American cases.”

“See you later then,” responded Lillo. Ranjan just nodded.

 

            Ranjan must have appreciated my tact. During the next few days, I met him in the ante-hall of the Bodleian – our regular reading room – and on two occasions we went together for morning coffee. He told me about his home in Colombo, about a term he had spent in Freiburg University in Southern Germany, and about the activities of the Oxford Union. Lillo’s name was not mentioned by either of us.

            Then, unexpectedly, I ran into her in the coffee house in Broad Street. She had arrived together with another girl but, as soon as her companion departed, joined my lonely table.

“Do you come here regularly?” she wanted to know.

“Well, yes,” I replied. “The coffee is quite good and I like the food.”

“Good value,” she agreed; then added awkwardly: “have you seen Ranjan today?”

“He’s in the reading room alright; but – you know – when they write a paper, they  skip meals.”

“How about yourself?”

“I read for a D.Phil.”

“I know. So you don’t have to present a paper?”

“Only my thesis; when I’m ready to submit. It’ll take some time.”

            She digested the information, but her mind was still on Ranjan. She wanted to tell me something but, for some reason, was tongue-tied. I thought it best to let her take her time.

“Don’t you find it difficult to write in English,” she asked at long last. “It’s not your mother tongue, surely?”

“Of course it isn’t,” I told her, startled by the unexpected turn of the conversation. “But, you know, the art of composition – the art of good writing – is one and the same in most languages. The difficulty is more in the use of foreign idioms and in  structuring sentences. It takes some time to adjust – but it can be done.”

“I wish I was as confident as you,” she told me. “I am learning Sinhala; and it’s terribly hard.”

“Sinhala?” I asked, appreciating where we were heading but playing for time.

“Well, Sinhalese; Ranjan’s mother tongue,” she explained. “I’ll need to be conversant when he takes me to Colombo.”

“But do you really want to live in Asia, Lillo?” I asked tactlessly. “You are very European.”

“I’ll go to any place Ranjan chooses,” she replied. “And I must be an asset to him when he becomes a judge at home. So I am training myself to wear a sari and to act – you know, to behave – like Ceylonese girls.”

“You think Ranjan wants to be a judge?” I let my surprise show.

“Don’t you think he’s  just right for such a job?”

“He may be,” I dodged the question. “But doesn’t he want to enter politics?”

“No, that’s not what he wants. And, you know, a politician in Ceylon ought to have a local wife.”

“It helps in other countries too,” I pointed out, “except that in Israel an American wife is an asset!”

She giggled and was about to say something, but then her eye caught a group of young Europeans of her acquaintance. One of them stepped over and greeted her. Before long she departed in their midst.

“Give my regards to Ranjan,” she said before she left.

 

            When I returned to the library, Ranjan had left the reading room. For a while, I tried to concentrate on some American authorities I had discovered. But it was no good. My mind kept straying back to Ranjan and Lillo. Had he really promised to take her with him  to Ceylon? Was I wrong in thinking that his aim was a career in politics? My instincts told me Ranjan was not coveting an appointment to the Bench. The slow pace, severe atmosphere and the secluded life of a judge were incompatible with his energetic, liquid and gregarious personality. But, then, how could his fiancée  be so confident that Ranjan had set his heart on a legal career? Did she jump to conclusions just because he was reading for a degree in law?

            Something, I sensed, did not add up. If Lillo was as close to Ranjan as she indicated, he would have discussed his future with her. He had dropped hints of his plans for a future in politics to a recent acquaintance like myself. True, his hints fell short of a heart-to-heart discussion of the subject. But why had he kept his guard in his dealings with her?

 

            I raised the subject of Ranjan’s future a few days later, when the two of us went for a curry. To Ranjan’s Sinhalese palate the dishes were too mild – spicy stews without a sting. I kept drinking one glass of water after  another, trying hard to stop sweating. I made my move as we dug into a sugary dessert.

“Why did you enrol in the BCL, Ranjan?” I asked after a pause. “Do you want to be a judge?”

            Ranjan thought the question over carefully. It was, actually, a reasonable enquiry. The prestigious  Bachelor of Civil Law – an Oxford postgraduate degree – was open only to the top graduates of established English and foreign universities. A good result secured a ready entry into any leading law firm or barristers’ chambers in London. A ‘first’ earmarked the bearer for a role at the top of the Bar, with a sound chance of elevation. Needless to say, a sound BCL was just as highly appreciated in Britain’s former colonies. Ceylon was no exception in this regard.

 

“Do you think it is the right career for me?” asked Ranjan.

“I am not sure,” I prevaricated. “It may be too stultifying, too isolated for you.”

“It might very well be,” confided Ranjan. “My real dream is …”

“ … the government?” I interjected as he hesitated.

“Precisely,” agreed Ranjan. “Do you think I’ll make it?”

“I can’t tell,” I conceded candidly. “I don’t know enough about Ceylonese politics. Don’t you need certain contacts?”

“I have them,” confided Ranjan. “And I know how to make doors open themselves.”

“You don’t mind the … concessions every politician has to make?”

“You can’t make an omelette without breaking  eggs,” he summed up.

 

Ranjan had taken off his mask. I knew my reading of his character had been right from the start. At the same time, I felt sympathy for Lillo. Had her passion for the attractive Ceylonese prince hoodwinked her altogether? Didn’t she realise that the intensity of feelings she had alluded to was probably one-sided?

Having opened up to me once, Ranjan soon dropped his guard altogether. He had, undoubtedly, set his target high. His goal was the Presidency. His resolve to get there was not affected by the obstacles he was bound to face. They firmed his resolve.

He was aware that the ride would not be smooth. His father’s early death, coupled with the patriarch’s inaptitude for business, posed financial obstacles  in Ranjan’s path. These, though, could be sidelined by his own skill. The family’s background constituted a graver hurdle. The Jeyaratnes were old stock, dating their prominence to days long past. The plebians, who had jumped over their shoulders in recent years –  moving into the top notches in the tight-laced community –  had little regard and affection for their former peers. To climb high, Ranjan had to overcome the dislike and suspicions of the populist front.

 

Ranjan was  not oblivious of  the difficulties bound to confront him. But he trusted his ability. He knew also that he would have to bide his time. This, too, posed a problem. Notwithstanding his sagacity, Ranjan had remained an impatient – perhaps even hungry – youth. His main hope was that Fortuna  would come to his aid at the right moment. He trusted his capacity to see a chance and grab it.

“But, Ranjan, wouldn’t a foreign wife add yet another obstacle?”

“She would,” he responded readily.

“Well?”

“Sometime girls read too much into what a man tells them,” he said after a pause. He then added: “And who is the girl waiting for you back home?”

“I had one. We lived together and worked together, but she sent me packing,” I stuttered.

“Is that why you are here?”

“That and the difficulty of climbing up the ladder without her beside me. I don’t have the instincts and the speed of a good courtroom advocate. I didn’t want to remain a backbencher in our legal world.”

“No scope for teaching?”

“Not really.”

“I see,” he observed sympathetically.

 

            This conversation drew us further together. For a few months we kept running into one another. Occasionally, Ranjan invited me to join Lillo and himself when they went to concerts or travelled to London for choice performances at the West End. Such trips gave me an insight into their lives. Lillo was the one deeper in love. Ranjan was smart enough to let her call the shots; but the reins remained in his hand.

            When the summer term drew to its end, Ranjan worked like a beaver. All the same, he ended up with but a Class II. Sensing that such a degree provided insufficient ammunition for an immediate move to a promising career at home, he accepted an Assistant Lectureship at the University of  Malaya in Singapore. The newly established Law School provided a good springboard and the salary was attractive.

            Lillo welcomed the forthcoming move to the  westernised Eastern metropolis. She put her studies of Sinhala on hold, discarded her saris and went for a shopping spree for clothes befitting a young academic’s wife.  Ranjan was tight-lipped. I suspected that he regarded the move a detour; an unavoidable side trip on the way to Eldorado. All the same, he was determined to do a good job.  A prodigal returning to Colombo following a spell  overseas  would find openings as long as his record was unblemished and projected reliability.

            Ranjan’s farewell party was attended by many of his friends and teachers. It was a gala affair, with Lillo hovering all over as befitted a gracious hostess. Her beautiful figure, sparkling attire and perfect make-up gained many an admiring look from both Ranjan’s contemporaries and peers. I was convinced Fortuna was being kind to him. His accomplished wife would now have ample time to prepare herself ‘to go native’ when the time came for his next move. With her by his side, he was bound to reach the top.

 

            Ranjan’s departure left a void in my life. I had got used to talking to him about my problems, to sharing his and, above all, to watching his interplay with others. The coffee house in Broad Street lost its lustre. During tea breaks, I went to a joint at the covered market, where the steaming mugs of cheaply brewed coffee or tea were accompanied by a generous slice of buttered toast. An Austrian delicatessen stall, also within the precinct of the market, turned out to be a source of excellent continental sandwiches and snacks. I preferred them to the meals in the restaurants I used to frequent with Ranjan and Lillo.

            Towards the end of term, field research  induced me to move for a few weeks to London.  The need to economise induced me to stay in a ramshackle old club. One evening, I spotted  Ranjan and Lilo as I proceeded to Strand Underground station on my way home after a day at  the Middle Temple library. They, I suspected, were on their way to a theatre in Aldwych. Ranjan appeared not to see me.  Lillo was too immersed in him to notice anyone else.

 

            Back in Oxford, I had to knock my  thesis into shape. At the very same time I started to face financial problems. Notwithstanding my frugal existence, I was running out of money. My father – a generous man – encouraged me to persevere. He was prepared to go on supporting me. But, as he was ageing, I had my qualms.  In addition, the wet climate of Oxford was undermining my fragile health.

            Eventually, I wrote to seek Ranjan’s counsel. His advice revealed a hitherto unchartered way out. A new position had been established in his university. Notwithstanding the incompletion of my research, Ranjan encouraged me to apply. He knew the pure common law system applicable in Singapore was, as yet, alien to me. Nonetheless, he thought I should be able to master it in my stride and opined that the post would leave me adequate time to complete the thesis. Thus encouraged, I put in my application and, to my surprise, got the job.

 

            On my way to Singapore,  I made a stopover in Ceylon. Ranjan had returned home for a short visit in order to take part in some local celebrations. He thought it advisable to brief me before I put in my appearance at the Law School in Singapore.

            Ranjan met me in the airport. After the basic exchange of civilities, he lead the conversation directly to the Law School. He seemed content, told me about his successful ventures into Singapore’s emerging  stock exchange and had a great deal to say about the local legal world. He had befriended  some of the young courtroom stars but spoke with some disdain of their extravagant lifestyles and insular outlooks.  To my surprise, Lillo’s name was not mentioned.

            She remained out of bounds during my entire stay. Had Ranjan left her back in Singapore for fear of his mother’s reaction to a European wife? Ranjan respected his matronly mother and, I sensed, would go to a considerable length to protect her sensitivities.

            To my growing discomfort, Ranjan did not allude to Lillo as we visited Kandy and Nuwara Eliyah –  the well-known resorts adjacent to Colombo –  and the houses of some of our former associates in Oxford. One such visit made me reflect afresh on the Lillo issue. Shortly after the formal introductions, the middle aged, sari wearing, mistress of the house addressed me in Yiddish.

It turned out she had been ‘Sara Stiglitz’, a typical East European name. She had met her Sinhalese husband in a conference in Spain, fell in love with him and returned with him to his native Ceylon. It took her some two years to master Sinhala and to adapt to her new environment. By the time we met, she had been happily married for over  ten years, had given birth to two sons and was considered by all her friends a naturalised native.

“So my Yiddish gave you a turn,” she giggled.

“Well, you even look Sinhalese.”

“My mother’s maiden name was Nissim,” she confided. “So, you see, I  look like a girl from Yemen. This made things easier for me. The main problem was to learn to walk properly in a sari. But I was determined.”

“Do they treat you well?” I ventured, adhering to Yiddish.

“Like any other member of the family,” she answered proudly.

            It dawned on me that if Lillo coloured her beautiful blonde hair black, she could have the same success. Despite her Swiss background, she had readily fitted into the British milieu. Why then should she find it difficult to adjust to the Ceylonese world?

I kept reflecting on the issue during the remaining days of my short visit. It irked me that despite a number of opportunities, Ranjan refrained from mentioning her name. Still, to save embarrassment, I toed the line.

            In the end, Lillo’s name cropped up just before my flight onwards to Singapore. Following a pleasant meal in a Chinese restaurant – with a menu including mildly spiced dishes suitable for a Western palate – Ranjan drove me to the airport.  As we left Colombo, Ranjan handed me a parcel and asked me to deliver it to Agnes.

“Agnes?” I let my surprise show.

“She works in the Registrar’s department. Her surname is Lim.”

“But, Ranjan, don’t you want me to take something back for Lillo?”

“Lillo is not in Singapore!”

“Where is she?”

“I’ve no idea! You see, we  split –  just before I left London.” He said no more; neither did I. For the remaining 40 minutes of our drive to the airport, an awkward silence descended on  the car.

“Agnes is a live wire,” confided Ranjan when we entered the departure hall. “She might introduce you to some pleasant girls.”

“That would be nice,” I said.

 

 

III. THE CITY OF THE LION

 

Agnes turned out to be a vivacious English-educated Chinese, some five or six years older than Ranjan. A telephone call she received when I delivered Ranjan’s parcel convinced me that my friend was not the only man in her life. Out of curiosity, I accepted her invitation to a party in her flat but, in the event, left early as I found it difficult to fit with her guests. Still, before long I met colleagues, mainly from the English literature department, with whom I was able to mix.

            By the time Ranjan returned to our base, I had a circle of friends. Ranjan did not mingle with them. This, however, did not lead to an estrangement. Ranjan and I lunched together regularly and occasionally went to the cinema or a theatre – usually in the company of Ranjan’s then girlfriend. But I did not become a party to Ranjan’s dabbling in the local stock exchange or to his semi-professional socialising with the local Bar. Ranjan, in turn, did not accompany me on my excursions to the antiques shops and to the emerging Singaporean art galleries.

The well-defined Oxford-bond kept us together. Each stood up for the other when needed. On one occasion, for instance, an Indian colleague, who had committed an insurance fraud, tried to defend himself by asserting that Ranjan had advised him on the ploy and had encouraged him to go ahead. When the fraud was discovered, Ranjan was away, pursuing a higher degree at Harvard. Seeking to get to the bottom of the matter, our Dean, who had to attend to a few University matters in the United States,  decided to confront him. My telephone call, apprising Ranjan of what had taken place and aided him to clear his name. Ranjan, in turn, helped me out of difficult wrangling in Faculty matters and forewarned me whenever he sensed I might be making a wrong turn.

 

Our friendship stood the test despite Ranjan’s frowning at my friendship with Tay Fung-Shuo and Yuan-Ming. Resenting my ever-growing affinity with my art haven and my increasing spells away from the University, Ranjan used to tease me about my mysterious links with the East. With a sarcastic smile, he ‘wondered’ whether I would eventually appear in the Law School in a Sen Fu – the old fashioned local Chinese silk suit.

 

One episode that took place during that period gave me an insight into a side of Ranjan I had, until then, been unaware of. One afternoon, Tay Fung-Shou – accompanied by Yuan-Ming –  drove over to the University in order to call on our museum’s curator.  When they arrived, Yuan-Ming decided to come over to my office. Being unfamiliar with our widely spread campus, she lost her way but, fortunately, was helped by one of my students, who had seen me with her in a coffee shop in Pagoda Street.

Yuan-Ming, who was then in the golden age in which little girls emulate their mothers, made tea for us and told me  that my shabby office would look better if I put up a curtain. She was still considering what sort of curtain to make, when the door burst open.

“Have you forgotten our 4 o’clock departmental meeting, Peter?” Ranjan let his displeasure show. “You know I count on you for this Vice Deanship business.”

“You better go to your meeting, Uncle,” volunteered Yuan-Ming, who saw I was taken aback.  “I’ll find my way to the museum.”

“No way,” I told her. “I’ll take you back; and Ranjan, you better tell our colleagues I’ll be a few minutes late.”

“I suppose they’ll have to wait,” Ranjan broke into a smile. “And so this is your friend. Peter told me a lot about you, young Lady.”

“Only good things I hope,” she countered readily.

“You better check with him,” grinned Ranjan. “Well, Peter, we’ll see you soon.”

 

            Yuan-Ming kept mum  as we walked together to the museum. I sensed she wanted to tell me something but was uncertain whether to go ahead. She came out with it as soon as I prompted.

“I don’t like your friend, Uncle,” she said frankly.

“But why? You saw him for just a few minutes; and he was agitated.”

“Oh, I know that, Uncle; and of course he’s an Indian or Ceylonese. So you can’t expect him to have good manners!”

“Oh,” I muttered, nonplussed. I was, of course, aware of the prevailing anti-Indian prejudices of the local Chinese population but – somehow – had not expected to detect their impact on my young friend. “But then,” I asked, “why do you dislike him; he’s just a Hay!”

“It’s not that” she said, giggling at my use of the derogatory word – meaning black – applied by Singapore’s Chinese to members of the Ceylonese and Indian communities. “It’s not that, Uncle. It’s his smile!”

“But wasn’t he friendly before he left?”

“He was, Uncle; but you know, his eyes didn’t smile. They remained hard!”

 

            The unimportant Faculty business, that had led to Ranjan’s outburst, was settled readily in the way he wanted. To my relief, he did not refer again to my having been late for the meeting. Having sensed the way the land lay, he ceased to tease me about my Chinatown link. He even went over to Tay’s store before his next visit to Colombo and purchased a costly jadeite bracelet for his mother. Both Tay and Yuan-Ming  were civil to him. All the same, I sensed that Tay’s assessment of Ranjan coincided with his charming daughter’s. 

  

 

IV. A TRIP TO OXFORD

 

A few weeks later, I had proof of the validity of their assessment. Notwithstanding my heavy teaching load and other commitments in Singapore, I had been working steadily on my doctoral thesis. Our library’s holding were adequate for my research of the English and Commonwealth law in point but, as was to be expected, had few materials from other jurisdictions. To get them, I had to spend some time in Oxford.

 

As soon as my teaching courses ended when the academic session was over  – about one year after my arrival in Singapore – I obtained two months  study leave. Having spent two weeks in Vienna with my father, I proceeded to London. After a series of visits to banks and to libraries in the City, I went up to Oxford. The two main law libraries – the law reading rooms in the Bodleian and the Codrington – became, once again, my Mecca.  The only drawback was the working environment. The French and German law collections had to be read in the dark and poorly heated reading room of the Codrington. Any attempt to close one of the windows with the hope of curbing the drafts was frowned upon by the icy librarian. The Bodleian, in contrast, had warm and well-lit rooms but, alas, American cases were stored in freezing  underground stacks, where you had to read to the light of a table lamp placed on one of the ramshackle desks in the vast hall.

 

One day, after a chilling spell of three hours in these stacks, I limped over to the old coffee house in Broad Street, ordering a steaming soup and a cup of hot tea. I was beginning to feel better when a voice said:

“I heard you were back in Oxford, Peter.”

“Lillo!” I exclaimed, shocked. It had taken me a few moments to recognise her. The shabbily dressed and poorly groomed woman facing me bore little resemblance to the elegant girl I used to see in Ranjan’s company.   

“Do I look so different?” she asked, sitting down opposite me.

“Have you been unwell?” I could not help asking.

“You could say that,” she retorted.

“What went wrong?”

“Don’t you know? I thought you joined Ranjan’s University.”

“I have indeed,” I confirmed.

“Didn’t you ask about me?”

“I did,” I told her with foreboding. “He said you split. The way he put it, I thought you left him. So, I didn’t ask any more questions.”

“He always knew how to handle people, Peter,” she replied with a strained smile. “No, Peter, I didn’t leave him. He jilted me!”

 

            I looked at her in sheer disbelief. Why should Ranjan have taken such a step? He knew only too well that given time, Lillo would be an asset in his political career. Mrs. de Silva – neé Stiglitz – illustrated the point. Further, there could be no doubt about Lillo’s loyalty and love for him.

“I don’t understand,” I said lamely. “What did he tell you?”

“He didn’t tell me a thing; he just left!”

 “Just like that?” I asked.

“Just like that,” she confirmed.

 

            After the farewell party in Oxford,  Ranjan moved from his rooms in college to her apartment. Everything seemed right. All plans had been set. A few weeks before the proposed date of departure, they went down to London and rented a serviced apartment. On the day before the flight, they had a sumptuous dinner and, Lillo admitted shamefacedly, too much wine. When she woke up next morning, Ranjan was not in the apartment. On the dining table was an envelope with a letter announcing his decision to leave.

“But didn’t he give any reason?” I asked, dismayed.

“He said he couldn’t live up to my expectations.”

“Good God,” I exclaimed. Then, in an attempt to regain my composure, I asked: “So what did you do?”

            Lillo stayed put in the serviced apartment for one week, hoping against hope that Ranjan would come back. She then went up to Oxford, hoping to get more information from myself but was told by my landlady I would be away for about two months. The landlady had told her she did not have a forwarding address.

Feeling lonely and out of her depth, Lillo went back to her parents’ home in Zürich. She sent two letters to Ranjan but received no reply. Initially, she intended to remain in Switzerland but her longings for Ranjan and her inability to find her feet in her native town drove her back to Oxford. By sheer chance, her old room had just been vacated by its Nigerian tenant and her former landlady was pleased to let it to Lillo.

 

Once again, Lillo tried to contact me but soon discovered I had left.  After a while she started to date a Sinhalese, called Joseph X who, like Ranjan before him, had come to read for the BCL.  Joseph, though good looking, was nothing like Ranjan. Lillo did not fall in love with him.

“Do you think Ranjan would come back to me?” she asked, gazing at me anxiously.

“I have no idea,” I tried to dodge the issue and, then, prodded by my conscience, added: “Ranjan is not inclined to retrace his steps.”

“But does he have some other woman out there?”

“He’s not going steady with any girl,” I answered with relief.

“But he’s not just on his own, is he?”

“Well, no; he goes out with girls he meets in the University. But I don’t know of any attachment …  you know what I mean.” 

“I did everything he wanted,” wailed Lillo. “Honestly, Peter, he won’t find a more supportive or loyal girl. I love him; and I can’t make myself forget him.”

            For a while both of us remained silent. I had nothing to say. Lillo was fidgeting, uncertain whether to unburden herself any further. She resumed her story when both us felt that the silence was getting oppressive. She told me they had planned to renovate Ranjan’s family home in Colombo, had intended to purchase a second house and had made plans for raising a family.

“But how were you going to get enough money? Ranjan’s father lost their wealth.”

“I gave him all I had,” she told me. “My grandmother left me a lot of money in her will.”

“How much did he take?” I asked, once again shocked.

“About five thousand pounds.”

            I looked at her closely. In those days, five thousand pounds was a fortune. You could easily purchase a house in Summertown – one of Oxford’s best suburbs – for less than that. Had Ranjan asked her to give him the money or had she offered it to him in an attempt to bind him as closely as possible?

            My recollection of a conversation I had with Ranjan supported Lillo’s assertion. He had asked me to recommend a Swiss bank with a sound record in international investments. I pointed out that any such bank would accept a customer only if he was in a position to invest a few thousand pounds.

“That’s fine,”  Ranjan had countered.

            Lillo’s narrative threw light on the source of his funds. My assumption that he had made a killing on the Singapore Stock Exchange – natural as it had been – had been misguided.

“But didn’t he offer to pay it back to you?” I asked Lillo.

“Well, he didn’t; and I did not ask. You see, I wanted – still want –  him. I have enough money, Peter; and it can’t make me happy.”

  At this point our conversation was interrupted. Joseph X., Lillo’s current boyfriend, looked at me suspiciously when he made a beeline for our table. He was out of breath and flustered.

“You must have met Peter,” Lillo regained her composure as she addressed him.

“We met in a seminar,” I volunteered. “Please join us.”

“Lillo, did you forget we have tickets for the concert?” blurted Joseph.

            “I did rather,” admitted Lillo as she rose in a hurry. “I’ll have to go now, Peter; but look me up when you have a free moment. Here is my address.”

 

            As they departed in haste, I felt sympathy for Joseph. Like Ranjan, he was a tall, broad shouldered and good looking fellow. But he lacked Ranjan’s self-assurance and patrician airs. Lillo was not deceived by his veneer. She had captivated him; but the bond was one sided.

 

            I left the library that evening with the intention of looking Lillo up during my weekend. True, she had completed her tale or, at the very least, the gist of it. I knew I could not comfort her. Yet, I felt the need of lending a supporting shoulder. Somebody had to tell this attractive girl that her relationship with Ranjan was over. She had to turn her head from the past to the future.

            Unfortunately, I came down with a severe cold, which soon turned into bronchitis. When I was back on my feet – after some ten days – I had to catch up on my work. Lillo and her lot appeared remote.

            Some two weeks prior to my return flight to Singapore, as I was having a hot soup and a sandwich in the Broad Street coffee house, the cashier’s glance directed a plainly dressed man to my table.

“I am Inspector Jack Oliver,” he told me. “I wonder if I could take a few minutes of your time?”

“Of course,” I replied, startled.

“Do you know this girl?” he asked as I looked at a  photograph produced by him.

 

            Lillo’s countenance looked stiff and, I thought, still. Yet her mouth was agape and her eyes closed.

“She looks like a girl I know. Her name is Lillo … Sorry, I can’t recall her surname.”

“Are you certain it’s her?”

“Well, yes,” I confirmed and added: “Is something wrong with her?”

“Her body was fished out of the Cherwell.”

“How ghastly. How did it happen?”

“That’s what we investigate. What can you tell me about her?”

 

            Inspector Oliver went on to explain that Lillo’s body had not been identified. They found no documents or other identification on her. Judging by her clothes and age, he assumed she had been a student. When nobody in the women’s colleges recognised her, he showed the photograph to staff in the haunts frequented by the younger generation. The cashier in the Broad Street coffee house told him she had seen her conversing with one of their patrons. He came over in the hope of spotting that acquaintance.

Inspector Oliver asked me to tell him what  I knew about her. When I finished my account, he asked if I knew where she lived. Having noted the address, he observed that the landlady had put in a missing person report, but the police had failed to connect it with the body found in the river. He was going to call on the landlady but, before he did, wanted me to identify the body. On the way to the mortuary, he told me that a dead body was an unpleasant sight.

“I thought the dead look serene and calm,” I muttered.

“Not when they have drowned,” he cautioned and, after a short break, added: “This girl passed the point of no return before she jumped or was pushed. A block of concrete was tied to her neck. She struggled.”

“How was she found?” I wanted to know.

“Her body floated when the rope came loose.”

 

            When we left the mortuary Inspector Oliver offered me a cup of coffee. He could see I had been shaken by the sight of poor Lillo’s listless body. Sounding apologetic, he asked me to attend the inquest, in case my evidence was needed. He undertook to do his best to keep Ranjan’s name out of the proceedings.

 

            In the event, my evidence was not required. Joseph X testified that Lillo had agreed to marry him. He could not understand what had happened. His family was ready to accept her with open arms; and he felt confident she had a bright future in front of her as his wife in Ceylon. Appearing ill at ease and bewildered, Joseph did not try to hide his grief and disappointment. Everyone in court felt sorry for him.

            Following a brief account by Lillo’s landlady – who described her late tenant as a respectable and considerate girl – the stand was taken by Lillo’s father, an ageing man,  wearing a dark grey suit and a discreet old-fashioned tie. Maintaining his composure and intoning his words, Frank Beer described his daughter’s background and home life. He left no doubt as to the family’s affection for his late daughter. One detail mentioned by him threw light on Lillo’s disposition and motivation. She had apparently gone into a severe depression after having failed some examinations in high school.

“We were afraid she could do something silly then,” he volunteered. “But my wife and her sister talked to her and made her calm down; and I told her it was not the end of the world. So, we persuaded her to try again; and she listened. Next time she passed with good grades.”

 

            As expected, the coroner’s verdict was of death by the deceased’s own hand whilst in a state of temporary insanity. As we milled out of the courtroom, Frank Beer asked whether I was Ranjan’s colleague in Singapore. To my surprise, he invited me for afternoon tea at the Randolph.

“Inspector Oliver,” he went straight to the point after placing our orders, “told me you knew my daughter and her fiancé before he went to Singapore.”

“I did,” I confirmed; “and look – I am from Vienna; so we can speak German if you prefer.”

“How well did you know them?” asked Frank Beer, declining to switch to German.

“We went to concerts together and we had a few dinners in Oxford.”

“Was he in love with her?”

“I thought so; I was sure they were going to get married.”

“But what did Ranjan tell you in Singapore? You were not surprised she was not there?”

“He told me they had split; so I didn’t ask any further questions. Then – here in Oxford – Lillo told me he had sort of left her – I mean left without telling her.”

“You didn’t expect anything like this – I mean when you went out with them here?”

“I certainly didn’t; I still can’t understand it.”

            For a while, we conversed about Lillo’s childhood and youth in Zürich. She had been  highly strung  and difficult to handle during her adolescence. Ranjan was not her first boyfriend. She had been going steady with a young banker in Zürich but – for no apparent reason – broke off the engagement.

“My son and other daughter are more steady. They take after me,” confided Frank Beer. “They married young and so now we are grandparents.”

 

            His wife had taken the blow hard. She blamed herself for what had happened. All along, she had been wary of her daughter marrying a non-European. But she was reluctant to voice her doubts. Now she was worn out by her grief and feelings of guilt. Frank Beer thought it best to come to Oxford on his own.

“Perhaps Lillo tried too hard,” he mused.

“She might have,” I agreed, adding as an after-thought: “She told me she gave him some money.”

“She did,” confirmed Frank Beer. “I’ve seen her bank statements.”

“Should I tell him to pay it back?” I asked.

“Please don’t! We don’t need the money; and she gave it to him. So let him keep it.”

            Shortly after my return to Singapore I ran into Ranjan in the Law School. He looked well, and displayed his usual business-like airs. Pleased to see me, he was keen to hear the news about Oxford. It was obvious that the sad tale of Lillo’s end had not reached his ears.

            Ranjan’s reaction to the news  was subdued. When I finished my narration of the facts, he  asked – in his direct manner – whether his name had been mentioned at the inquest.

“I managed to keep your name out, Ranjan,” I assured him. “The detective in charge was most helpful. And Lillo’s father did not want to have his daughter’s personal life further exposed. And, Ranjan,  did you know she was engaged to marry Joseph X?”

“I didn’t;  but I should have expected something like it,” he told me.

“She was still in love with you, Ranjan. When I spoke to her she hoped you’d come back.”

“That was not on, Peter,” he told me firmly.

“Why did you ditch her, Ranjan?”

            His eyes strayed away from mine. When the silence had become oppressive, he asked: “Didn’t you realise things were not that simple, Peter? You went out with us quite a few times. Don’t tell me you didn’t form your own conclusions!”

“Perhaps I closed my eyes,” I admitted. “But one thing was clear: the girl was in love with you – to the hilt!”

“I know,” he affirmed.

“And she shone at your farewell party! She was looking forward to the future!”

“Don’t rub it in,” he replied, dejected.

“But why, Ranjan – why?”

“There are things an outsider cannot see, Peter. I’d rather not say any more. We can’t bring her back – you know that!”

            It was my turn to avert my eyes. All in all, it was pointless to dwell on poor Lillo’s fate. The curtain had fallen. Why should I fret whether Ranjan had reason to feel guilty or had merely asserted his right to freedom.  It was not my business. In any event, Lillo had been a mere acquaintance. Ranjan, in contrast, had become a close friend. My loyalty was due to him, not to her memory. All the same, I had to have an answer to one question. Trying hard to keep my composure, I told Ranjan what Lillo had said about the money.

“I suppose it’s true – I mean, not a fairy tale?”

“It is,” he conceded. “Do you think her family wants it back?”

“I had tea with her father. He saw her bank statements; but they don’t want it back.”

“Well, I can put it to good use,” said Ranjan.

“But do you need it?” I asked indiscreetly.

“I do, rather” he told me.

 

V. END OF ERA

On the surface, my friendship with Ranjan remained intact. Inwardly, though, I had misgivings.  Jilting a girl was one thing; holding onto money given by the girl in anticipation of a union, put a different connotation on the episode. I knew for certain that, in similar circumstances, I should have restored the money to her family. Keeping it was both inappropriate and  improper.

            On this score, Ranjan showed no remorse. Risking both his own savings as well as Lillo’s bequest, he continued to dabble in the local stock exchange.  Bank statements he showed me in confidence indicated that he was making  steady gains.

Lillo’s tragedy had a subtle effect on Ranjan’s relations with local girls. In each of his affairs, he made it clear from the start that the liaison was fleeting. If a girl still went ahead in the hope of hooking him, she had only herself to blame.

 

Tay Fung-Shuo, to whom I told the story when  I went to visit him, displayed no emotion. After I finished, he reminded me that all was fair in love and war.

“But how about money, Mr. Tay?”

“But – Mr. Mid-Yeast Tourist,” he retorted,  resorting to our dialect, “man come from grand but now poor family. What you expect?”

“But man is from Oxford; man he reads a lot,” I told him.

“Perhaps his need stronger than morals,” he pointed out. “I think is best you say this not your affair. You see – my friend – to you money is tool for get what you want; you want safety and art. Is easy. But your friend Ranjan he want  more; much more. Has great design. So, you not judge him; your – as you say – perspective not same.”

“I thought you didn’t like him?” I let my surprise show.

“I don’t,” he followed my lead into plain English. “But I won’t allow an antipathy to  cloud my judgment!”     

“But Mr Tay,” I insisted, reverting to our vernacular, “you yourself – you never keep such money. I know:  have no doubt!”

“Is correct,” he conceded. “But if is me, I never take money from her!”

“Even if you had intended to go ahead and marry her,” I asked, unable to express the sentiment in our jargon.

“Especially not if is so. Love: you cannot buy and never – never –  sell!”

 

            Ranjan did not revert to the subject . True, we lunched together less frequently than before. But in all Faculty and University matters we continued to back one another consistently. In the outside world, though, we became increasingly polarised: each had his own circle of friends and interests.

 

 Then, one day, Ranjan asked for my support in a personal matter. For quite a while he had been dating an attractive Sinhalese woman, whom I knew well from my involvement in Chinese ceramics. Lydia Fernando was second in rank to our museum’s curator – an eccentric fellow –  and went out with him regularly. She turned to other, less unconventional, men when she needed a refuge. Ranjan was one of them.

 

            For a while, the conventional gossip was that Ranjan had become the principal man in Lydia’s life. Many thought they were going to tie the knot.  Ranjan made no attempt to diffuse the rumours. Lydia, whom I used to accompany on her purchasing sprees of ceramics for our museum, did not drop any hint. As she had often complained to me about our curator’s  carryings on, I was perplexed by her rigid silence on her friendship with Ranjan. On the few occasions I referred to him, she changed the subject abruptly, usually by turning to my  haven in Chinatown. She was well aware that I loved to talk about my visits to Tay Antiques.

            The full picture emerged during one lunch with Ranjan. When both of us were enjoying the dessert,  Ranjan asked whether I was aware he had reached an impasse in his friendship with Lydia.

“But Lydia and I talk mainly about ceramics; she told me nothing about the two of you!”

“Not a word or hint?”

“Not really, except that she mentioned she was seeing you quite often.”

“Well,” Ranjan fidgeted as he spoke, “I asked her to marry me; and she turned me down!”

“Why?” I let my surprise show.

“She said she wasn’t ready to get married.”

“Well; she is a career woman,” I sought to get things clear. “Financially she is secure – as secure as most of us!”

“Come off it, Peter,” growled Ranjan. “Many nurses,  dentists and businesswomen do marry!”

“But most of them want to have a family, Ranjan. Lydia told me – some time ago – she had decided not to have children. I was surprised: the first Asian woman to say such a thing openly.”

“But how many girls talk to you about such matters?” jibed Ranjan. “And surely men and women get married because they fall in love; or need a companion or just don’t want to be left out.”

“True,” I conceded; “but – you know – if a woman says ‘no’;  that’s that.”

            Ranjan’s expression manifested his disagreement. I knew that he had a way of  seducing women. He knew how to cajole, overcome resistance based on scruples and, where needed, to capitalise on his charm. He had, I suspected, not reflected on the difference between casual affairs and lasting unions. In his eyes, the male had to lead the way. The woman was supposed to follow in his steps.

In many situations, his cynicism was more realistic and worldly than my ultra conservative and indecisive approach to human relationships in general. My need to withdraw the moment I sensed the risk of a snub was alien to his dominant outlook, which militated against conceding defeat. His decision to turn to me in what must have appeared to him a crisis was, thus, puzzling. What had induced him to reveal his setback and how did he expect me to help him?  As often before, Ranjan read my thoughts accurately.

“You are a real friend; I trust you,” he explained.

“But what can I do?” I asked, still mystified.

“I want you to talk to Lydia!”

“But, Ranjan, this is a strictly personal matter. Don’t you think she’ll tell me to mind my own business? My friendship with her is restricted to our interest in porcelain. She is bound to resent my stepping out of line.”

“She has a great deal of respect for you. She admires your understanding of ceramics and the progress you have been making.”

“But what can I say to her?”

“Find out why she doesn’t want to marry me; and try to persuade her to change her mind.”

 

            I was at that time living as a fellow in a residential hall –  King Edward VII Hall –  near the General Hospital. Lydia arrived sharp on time for our lunch and, as always, looked neat and well-groomed. I looked at her with admiration. She had turned me down when I tried to date her shortly after my arrival in Singapore. But she had done so gracefully and, ever since, ensured that we remained on friendly terms. My having asked her to have lunch was, thus, not unexpected.

            “So Ranjan asked you to talk to me!” she let her displeasure show when I referred to Ranjan’s quest. “And what did he expect you to do?”

“He wants me to find out why you turned him down.”

“That’s simple, Peter: I’m not in love with him!”

“I thought you went out with him regularly?”

“I did; but dating and marriage are worlds apart!”

“I’m not sure I understand,” I stammered.

“Look here, Peter. Men think it’s alright  to go out with a girl, or with a few girls, just for fun. Well, I am a modern woman; if I like a chap I go out with him. But that doesn’t mean I’m after a lifelong relationship! A chap can be fun but poor husband material!”

“What’s wrong with Ranjan?” I steered us back to the point.

“He is a self-centred man and takes things for granted.”

“He won’t expect his wife to stay in the kitchen and raise a family!”

“True; but her career will always be subordinate to his. And he’d expect her to be a good hostess and help him build up his political career. His role is to keep his devoted wife ‘happy’. I don’t blame him for his outlook. But I have my own interests!”  

 

            Lydia’s financial independence backed her declaration of rights. I found her manifesto unobjectionable. She was also right about Ranjan. His patrician lineage ordained that his dictates were paramount. A wife – and later on his children – would do well to take his agenda into account.

 

            Ranjan took the news with apparent calm. A few weeks later, though, he announced his acceptance of a scholarship extended by the American university at which he had spent part of his previous sabbatical. Our Dean shrugged his shoulders and granted him six months of no-pay leave.

 

            Those months, during which we corresponded sporadically, witnessed a  change in my life: I met a pleasant Chinese girl of an Indonesian background. Notwithstanding Ranjan’s  letter, in which he pointed out that I was far more Jewish than I realised and advised me strongly against marrying a woman from an alien culture, I continued to go steady with her. Shortly after Ranjan’s return, we celebrated our wedding.

            Ranjan remained in Singapore for some six months following his second period of advanced studies. Shortly after his return, Lydia migrated to England. Three months later, Ranjan returned to Ceylon, by then known as Sri Lanka. His idea was to practise at the Bar and step into politics as soon as Fortuna smiled. He feared that if he were to stay put in Singapore for too long, he might miss his chance.

 

            Despite my firm roots in Singapore, I too planned to leave. The local staff’s ever increasing animosity towards expatriates made my existence awkward. A further factor dictating the move concerned my wife. She had remained closer to her family than to me. I  hoped that our ruffled edges would be smoothed out by a change of scenery. The offer of a newly created Chair of Law in Wellington provided a suitable opening.

           

           

VI. RANJAN’S  PERSPECTIVE

            During my years in Wellington, I often soliloquised about Ranjan’s life. Years later, when we had returned to Singapore, I felt the need to clear my mind. My occasional talks with Tay Fung-Shuo, which I had  during my first period  in Singapore, threw no light on the episodes respecting Ranjan. Tay had remained tight lipped and, as soon as decorum permitted, changed the subject, usually by leading the way to some newly discovered antique porcelain.

            On those occasion, when I had been a guest in his shop, he was entitled to remain taciturn. But ever since his Harlequin Doppelgänger – Alfie – had urged me to write a candid account of Ranjan’s life, I had the right to have his comments on any issue respecting Ranjan’s life. One evening, when Pat was glued to a lengthy Chinese programme, I had the opportunity to discuss the issues with him.

 

            Alfie welcomed me with his usual grin. It spread over his face as soon as the elegant porcelain figurine metamorphosed into my old friend, wearing his traditional silk suit.

“You not laugh my no hair, Mr. Mid-Yeast Tourist,” he teased. “Yours also gone long time ago!”

“Don’t rub it in, Mr. Tay,” I protested.

“Today me Alfie! Yes. Also in our language. Today you come  ask about Ranjan, Lillo and Lydia. Is all your friends; and also me your friend. So today be formal  silly!”

 

            I was, of course, aware that the image displayed in front of my eyes was illusory. The real Alfie had been dead for years. I was conversing with some hidden corner in my own sub-conscious mind – a corner now imbued with Tay Fung-Shuo’s intellect. To me, though, the porcelain Doppelgänger was real.

“So why not clear my vision, Mr. Know All Alfie?”

“You ask question. When clear, I think answer.”

            Step by step I raised my queries about Ranjan’s two romances. Lillo had been beautiful, presentable and madly in love with him. She would have been a good wife, an excellent hostess and a show piece. His society at home would have accepted her with open arms; and his career was paramount in her eyes.  And all her money would have been at his disposal.  Lydia, too, was beautiful and presentable; but she was not wealthy. In addition, her independent nature and gift of repartee could have put obstacles when he was winding his way through the corridors of power.

I had no doubt that Lillo would have been the more suitable spouse. Yet he had jilted her and, later on, wanted to tie the knot with Lydia. What had induced him to reach his two decisions?

 

“You ask before – in my shop. I not want to discuss because you and I, we talk art, porcelain, sometime history also literature. This, I think, is different problem. Is real life.”

“Is so; but, Alfie, art, history, literature is life.”

“Of people you not know. Ranjan,  is friend. But, never mind, today we investigate. But first you tell me: you yourself, what you think is Lillo.”

“Beautiful and smart girl; princess!”

“You think you want her?”

“I think every man want … take out?”

“But marry – you think you want?”

“I not even dare ask! I not her class!”

“But if she ask?”

“Perhaps not, Alfie,” I admitted; “and – of course – she my friend’s girl.”

“But if not so; and if you know her well?”

 

            At that point I saw light. Lillo was tantalising. Any normal man would dream about an affair with her. She was bound to keep his interest going. Apart from her good looks, she had personality. Men loved to watch her holding court. But would many of them take the next step and propose?

“Good marriage, what means” asked Alfie, who had been following my trend of thought.

“Companionship; understanding, same interests;   and, of course, what we call chemistry?”

“But you think Lillo can give all to Ranjan?”

“Why not?” I prevaricated.

“But you yourself not sure if you want be lucky man? So why?”

“When I first see I admire; but then I see Lillo so dependent; want be part of everything  –  so is demanding perhaps is possessive, very possessive.”

“And Ranjan – is he independent man?”

“Is.”

“So perhaps he also afraid; and, you tell me, he make Lillo think one day he judge – aloof member of clan; not member of crowd.”

“And a politician must be – or pretend is –  one of public.”

“So perhaps here problem. When Ranjan court Lillo, he give her wrong impression; and then is afraid tell truth. Also perhaps is afraid he lose independence; lose free choice.”

“So why not talk girl?”

“This cannot know. Perhaps he get ‘cold feet’; not want show own weakness or admit lie: who know? And is also possible Lillo demand too much attention; and Ranjan want freedom.”

“But why did he run away like that?” I reverted to plain English.

“Big boy great coward,” retorted Alfie. “Some great leaders  fear wife and wife’s tongue; or fear  tears?”

“And the money?”

“Greed,” summed up Alfie. “Not nice!”

“Why then did he propose to Lydia; she was far more independent than Lillo?”

“He was older and wiser by then.” Tay followed my lead into plain language. “And perhaps he sensed he could handle Lydia because she, too, was a Sinhalese.”

             

            Alfie’s analysis provided a possible answer. One puzzle, though, remained. More than a year had passed between Ranjan’s desertion and my unexpected meeting with his discarded fiancée. Time was a great healer and Lillo was a beautiful, highly spirited girl. Initially, she had survived Ranjan’s defection. What had induced her to commit an act of folly months later?

“Perhaps was chance of see you?” ventured Alfie. “And then you not go visit her!”

“Surely not reason,” I protested. “You not think Lillo dream about Yokel like your good friend, Mr. Mid-Yeast Tourist!”

“Now, now, my friend,” Alfie chided. “You not Yokel; some girls, they like you;  even if Lillo thinks you like brother!”

“So why she see me  important?”

“You bring back loss of her hero; also perhaps you say something? And she think you want avoid more on issue.”

 

            His words jolted my memory. Just before her new boyfriend – Joseph X – had burst in on us, Lillo had asked whether I thought Ranjan might eventually return to her. Unthinkingly, I had told her – plainly – that Ranjan was not one to retrace his steps. She must have concluded that I implied that hers was  a case of spilt milk. My failure to call on her must have driven the message home. She gathered I wanted to avoid any further reference to the matter. My reaction to Joseph, too, was plain. Lillo must have gathered that I regarded him a nonentity. I made her focus on her loss and, unthinkingly, told her it was irrecoverable. Did she lose her remaining hope for a bright future? Was my encounter with her the unfortunate last straw?

“So now you understand, my friend” said Alfie.

“I am afraid I do; and you right!”

“Must be; if so you say,” he smirked.

 

 

 

 

VII: AN ASPIRING POLITICIAN

 

            It is time to turn back to my years in Wellington. The geographic remoteness did not distance Ranjan and me  from one another. We corresponded periodically but, of course, had less occasion for exchanges of views and of impressions than during our days in Oxford and in Singapore. Each was preoccupied with his own career. I tried hard to settle in the windy capital of New Zealand. My problems were related mainly to my family life and to the occasional hiccups of academia. Ranjan sought to rise in his home country. His new milieu  and environment were alien to me.

 

            Our next meeting took place when Pat and I broke our journey in Colombo on our way to London. By then three years had passed since my move to Wellington. I felt the need to cement my contacts in the English banking world and to revisit Oxford. The stopover in Sri Lanka was built in principally to ensure that Ranjan and I did not fall apart. Pat, who had taken a strong dislike to Ranjan right from the start, succumbed ungracefully. The price I had to pay was a  stopover in her hometown: Medan (in Sumatra). This involved  the spending of time with my in-laws, for whom I had little affection. I breathed with relief when the plane left for Singapore’s Paya Lebar Airport, then still known as ‘the new airport’. From there, we flew onwards to Sri Lanka.

 

            Ranjan did not meet us in Colombo’s modest airport. He was in court but  asked one of his pupils to escort us to the hotel he had booked for us. Next morning the same junior gave us a guided tour of ever changing Colombo and then drove us to the seat of justice to watch the proceedings in the crowded, poorly ventilated, courtroom.

When we arrived, Ranjan was attending to the  settlement of his case. The leader in the proceedings – a portly and ageing local Queen’s Counsel – nodded his approval when the deal was presented to him and went back to his chambers to prepare his fee note. We  proceeded to a sumptuous lunch in one of the restaurants adjacent to our hotel.

“Why haven’t you taken silk, Ranjan? Being a Q.C. manifests success, doesn’t it?” I asked as soon as Pat returned to our hotel for a rest.

“I make good money as a Junior, appearing on my own,” grinned Ranjan. “If I were to take silk, I would get less work because I would have to take juniors when I got a case. Clients may shrink when being made aware of the extra cost. There’s no point in losing money for the sake of a title!”

“But are you making enough?” I wanted to know.

“I do, and I see no need to take silk. I’ll get into politics before long.”

 

            Ranjan’s reply dd not surprise me. I knew he wanted to get into local politics in a big way. His aim was not the back bench or even a junior post in cabinet. Right from the start he had set his target high. His eye was – I felt certain – on the top job.

“But then why not take silk, get elevated  to the Bench and proceed from there? Isn’t it a safe route?”

“If one planned a move into a minor seat on cabinet, it might be a good route. But that’s not what I want. A minor position does not confer  real influence on the future of the country.”

“I understand,” I told him.

  

            Ranjan had declared himself. A successful career as a junior barrister provided the best route; and  it enabled him to retain his freedom of action. Once he took silk – accepted an elevation to the rank of Queen’s Counsel – his freedom of action would be subject to local conventions. He had no wish to chain his muse.

 

“But, then, why do you need so much money? I’m sure you don’t squander it or even spend  much of it.”

“Of course not; I keep it. I’ll need it to reform our failing systems when I am right at the top!”

“But suppose your currency is devalued, the joke would be on you!”

“If I kept the money here,” he agreed. “But don’t you remember? Years ago you introduced me to those nice Swiss bankers. The money is with them – invested in  diverse currencies.”

“How do you get the dough out of the country?” I asked naively.

“There are ways and means: you ought to know. And, actually, I may ask our good Bank  to send me an evaluation of the portfolio care of  your address. I’ll get it when I come over and visit you. Having it sent to Sri Lanka isn’t safe!”

 

            I looked at him with respect. He was laying the foundation for the big leap forward. Sooner or later an opening would present itself. Like myself, he had faith in Fortuna. Until she smiled, he would bide his time. One question, though, remained unanswered. Ranjan was no longer a youngster just out of Oxford. Middle age was just around the corner. Why, then, did he remain on his own? When would he get married and start a family? Quite apart from general trends – especially in Asian societies – he had sound policy reasons for getting settled. An ageing bachelor was looked upon with suspicion in political circles.

“You wonder why I’m still single,” observed Ranjan.

“Well yes; I do –  rather. And you, Ranjan,  have always been a ladies’ man!”

“You mean ‘a womaniser,’” he grinned. “Why not call a spade a spade.”

“Well?”

“I am in a quandary. Each of the influential clans in Sri Lanka wants me to marry one of their eligible girls. How am I to know which clan will win?”

“But you can’t just stay on your own; you love female company!”

“There are plenty of willing Burgher girls around; emancipated girls.”

 

            Ranjan was having the best of the existing Sri Lankan worlds. The Sinhalese influential clans would continue to send out signals. Fooling with one of their girls would, however, be unwise. Before long he would have to tie the knot and, in the process, get committed to the interests of her family. Tamil girls were best left alone. I recalled that in his Singapore days, Ranjan had been seen with a singularly attractive Tamil air hostess. In Sri Lanka, Tamil girls  were out of bounds. The race  had its  own political agenda and  was hated by the Sinhalese majority. Getting attached to one of their women would be tantamount to  political suicide. In contrast, the Burgher community – the descendants of mixed marriages of Dutchmen and local girls – did not constitute a factor in politics. Dating their girls had no  political significance.

“But how is all this going to affect your respectability,” I persisted. “And how about children – don’t you want to have any?”

“Of course I do; but I am still biding my time. I have a few years to play with.”

“Does your family agree?”

“Grudgingly,” he grinned. “But I have learned to dodge their manoeuvres.”

 

            Ranjan’ eyes reflected his amusement. For a while both of us kept our silence. Ranjan’s thoughts, I sensed, had moved in a different direction. When he formed his words, he said with the directness, acceptable in a friendship: “So that’s my story. What about you, Peter?”

“Professionally, I’ve no complaints. I’m getting there.”

“I understand. The articles you keep sending me are excellent; and published in the right periodicals. But how about your private life?”

 

            His question did not take me by surprise. During lunch, his perceptive eyes had kept shifting from Pat to me and back. I knew he had noticed the lack of warmth  between us. Had he worked out that, notwithstanding appearances, both of us were unhappy?

Knowing that he was far more down to earth than I, it seemed best to confide in him. After a while he asked, in plain language, whether I had considered a separation. Would it not be the best solution?

“It might be; but there is the risk of jumping from the frying pan into the fire!”

“But the frying pan, Peter, produces enough heat to suffocate you in due course.”

            We said no more about this subject. The discussion had its effect. It convinced me that Ranjan had remained a reliable and caring friend.  

We spent the rest of the afternoon talking about Ranjan’s current cases, about my forthcoming book and about world affairs. Ranjan looked at me with surprise when I expressed my misgivings about the future of my home country. I was not certain whether he was taken aback by my reasoning or by my candour. Ranjan, I knew, was used to keeping radical ideas to himself. 

            At dusk, Pat rejoined us. We had a splendid dinner in a Chinese restaurant but returned to our hotel early. Ranjan had to fine tune his argument for an appearance in court and we had to get ready for our early morning flight.

 

            During my next few years in Wellington, Ranjan and I continued our sporadic correspondence. He remained a junior barrister, commanding high fees. I continued to publish articles and chapters in books on commercial law. What kept our friendship going were our frank exchanges about people and world affairs. I cried on his shoulder when things turned sour at work. He referred, with irony but a touch of bitterness, to the ruling party’s attempts to keep him “in place”.

His bickering  came to an end when he was invited by the then President of Sri Lanka, to stand as the party’s candidate in a by-election occasioned by the death of the incumbent. Although the seat had been held by the opposition, Ranjan managed to swing the voters.

“I have opened sesame,” he wrote with gusto.

“Beware of the robbers,” I wrote back. “You never know when they lurk around the corner.”  

           

            The next communication was an invitation to Ranjan’s wedding. The bride’s name puzzled me. It was not a Sinhalese surname. For a moment, I wondered whether it could be a Burgher name. A colleague in our Asian Studies department gave me the answer.

“It’s a Parsee name, Peter.”

“I didn’t know Sri Lanka had a Parsee community?”

“It’s a small clan; but wealthy!”

“Where do they stand politically?” I enquired.

“They keep out of  politics!”

            So Ranjan had married money and, at the same time, avoided a political liaison. With a Parsee wife by his side, he could support either group. The opposition as well as the ruling party would continue to court him. True, he was a Tory MP. But, at this stage, he could still switch sides without being condemned as a turncoat.

 

            Airfares were still expensive in those days. Pat and I did not attend his wedding; but we sent a valuable gift. In reality, both of us were pleased to give the ceremony a miss. Pat had no wish to see Ranjan again; and I feared awkward moments. My tactless tongue, in particular, was a cause for concern.

            Ranjan and I continued to exchange letters  two or three times a year. To my growing concern there was no news about a family. Had they decided to wait for a while? Ranjan was now  middle-aged and his wife was not a lass just out of school. But my discreet questions on the subject of children remained unanswered.

 

            Ranjan shed light on the subject when he came over to Wellington, some four years after our stopover in Colombo. He had remained a good-looking, vibrant man but his temples were now interlaced with grey  hair. He looked tired after his long night flight and shivered when engulfed by the cold breeze in the lofty airport. Still, he settled after a cup of hot coffee and a hearty breakfast in our home. Having gone meticulously through the papers sent to him at my address by our Swiss bank, he relaxed.

 

For a while we talked shop. It pleased me to hear that the corridors of power had opened up. Having turned down a minor sinecure, he had been promised a major place in the cabinet if his party won the next election. Biding his time, he continued to make good money at the Bar. After securing his Ministry, he intended to take silk. It would then be in the nature of an honorary elevation because – in Sri Lanka as in England – a Minister was barred from practice.

            “On the professional side, you’ve brought your ship home,” I told him when Pat went out to attend to an errand.

“Well,” he replied with becoming modesty, “I am on the way up, as they say.”

“And how about your ….” I started.

“My family life?” he  grinned.

“Well, you haven’t said anything about children.”

“You did ask – not too indirectly – in your last two letters!”

 

            So he had evaded the issue. For just a moment I tried to find a way to change the subject. Ranjan had the right to keep any friend – remote or close – out of his private affairs. Ranjan’s expression, though, told me he wanted to unburden himself. With some hesitation, I persevered: 

“Well, don’t you want a family?”

“I do; although I’m not so sure about Puss.”

“Is that the problem?” I ventured.

“In a way, perhaps. But – you see – my marriage has not been consummated!” He did not flinch as he spoke. I, in contrast, averted my eyes.

“That,” I said feebly when I recovered, “that has never occurred to me. What on earth is the matter? Aren’t you … getting on?”

“We get on fine,” he replied with a touch of pomp. “Our petting is beautiful; and she responds; but when I want to get on with it, she won’t let me!”

“How long has this been going on for?”

“Well – as you know – we have been married for about two years.”

 

            I looked at him in amazement. Ranjan was an old campaigner. Quite apart from Lillo and Lydia, he had enjoyed the embraces of many Western and Asian women. What had led to his failure with his own wife? True, Asian girls from good backgrounds valued their ‘purity’. But once they tied the knot, they often worked their husbands hard.

“I can’t understand,” I said after a pause. “Is something wrong with one of you?”

“Oh, I haven’t become impotent,” Ranjan smiled tightly. “And she has no pathological problems. It is something psychological on her part.”

“How does she put it?”

“She doesn’t say ‘no’; she says she has a headache or is tired – and would I mind waiting.”

“Have you discussed this with a doctor?”

“The nerve specialists say there’s nothing they can do; they’ve asked me to be patient. An old school mate – now a gynaecologist – gave me a good old common sense piece of advice.”

“Eh?”

“He said: force her!”

 

            Ranjan was unable to adopt this basic approach. He was, of course, aware that some pressure may have to be used in certain situations. But the use of brute force in an intimate relationship was beyond him. In the event, he adopted the course suggested by the nerve specialists. Still, the wear and tear of the awkward relationship left it marks. Some of his self-assurance and exuberance – his patent lust for life – had peeled off.

“Don’t tell me you lead the life of  a celibate,” I muttered.

“Of course not; there are plenty of willing women around – girls who lost their virginity a long time ago. So I’m not … lonely. But I have to be discreet; and I hate this bloody predicament. I’d rather stick to Puss and have children with her. I’m fed up with these stupid affairs; and I’ve come to hate peccadilloes.”   

“What are you going to do?” I asked, suspecting he faced an impasse.

“I’ve no idea, Peter. At the moment, politics take up all my time. So I’m trying not to think about this business.”

 

            We spent ten days driving through the South Island. Notwithstanding her general dislike for New Zealand, even Pat enjoyed the scenery.  Ranjan and I shared the challenging drive along the magnificent, under populated, West Coast. I was relieved when he offered to take the driver’s seat when the car climbed through the Haast Pass into Central Otago, where we admired Queenstown, the lakes and the untamed mountains. I found the drive up the steep road leading to the Mount Cook resort  breathtaking yet not dangerous; but I was overcome by airsickness when we took a helicopter  to the proud and desolate Tasman glacier. After three days in the resort, we proceeded  to Dunedin, from there onto Christchurch, and then back to Wellington.

 

Throughout the ten exciting days of the trip, Ranjan did not refer to my personal life. But as I drove him to the airport for his flight back to Colombo, he observed with the usual directness we had maintained over the years: “So you have decided to stay put?”

“Well  yes, it isn’t easy. But I’ve got used to it.”

“Why don’t you return to Singapore; the Faculty would love to have you back. And Pat will never settle in New Zealand.”

“Her main grumble is the isolation of the place – she says it’s too cut off. She wants us to move to a big city in Australia!”

            “Then perhaps it would be best to give it a try.”

 

VIII. A SPITEFUL REACTION

            Ranjan was rising in politics, continued to make a fortune at the Bar and laid the foundation for the great leap forward. He refrained from referring to his marriage but once mentioned in passing that there was no sign of a ‘family’. I drew my conclusions.

 

            My own life, too, continued uneventfully. Then, one day, Pat spotted an advertisement for a new Chair of Law at Monash University in Melbourne. She nagged me into applying and – with the help of Fortuna – I got the job.

 

            Life in Monash was tough. My lose, informal, existence in Wellington, which gave me adequate time for my hobbies and research, was replaced by a strenuous role as a teacher cum administrator. My ability to handle people had always been poor. The Chair at Monash was the promotion to my level of incompetence.

            Pat, too, had a hard time. In Wellington she had enjoyed the social life of the diplomatic community. She had also been active in pottery – her realm of creativity. Life in Melbourne’s suburbia was dull in comparison. True, Melbourne was a metropolis. But it was not a capital city; the diplomatic core resided in Canberra. In Melbourne, we faced an alien milieu. Slowly but steadily we became isolated – cut off in our elegant but lonely four-bedroom home.

 

            Monash had a number of foreign staff members. One of them  was a Sinhalese from a background similar to Ranjan’s. Whenever Marcus went home to visit his family, he brought me a message of love and friendship from my climbing friend. I gathered from Marcus’ news that Ranjan had taken over the Home Ministry, later on switched to the Ministry of Trade and Industry, and was being tipped for a senior seat in cabinet if his party were to win yet a further election.

“Any news of a child?” I asked on one occasion.

“I am afraid not,” said Marcus in a tone that conveyed his being in the know.

 

            After three years of an administrative quagmire at Monash, I felt the need for a break. The Dean, an understanding soul, agreed to grant me a year of no-pay leave to be spent as a Visiting Professor in Singapore.

            During the years that had passed, Singapore had metamorphosed from a sleepy port town into a successful business centre. Life had become hectic. The outlook was optimistic, with everybody believing in a rosy future. Ugly but functional skyscrapers had replaced the old gracious colonial architecture of the City. Orchard Road had been turned into a one-way crowded traffic vein; and even Chinatown was getting a facelift. The University, too, had changed. It was in the process of moving into a new campus, had added the word “National” to its name and boasted multidisciplinary courses.

            One of my new colleagues in Singapore, Allen, was a Sri Lankan Tamil, who had left his home country and settled in Tasmania. From there, he migrated to Singapore. Having remained a staunch supporter of the cause of his Tamil community, he had no liking for the Sinhalese leaders of  Sri Lanka. Ranjan, in particular, was an object of his dislike. Allen, who was a few years younger than Ranjan, had attended Ranjan’s old school in Colombo. Ranjan, who used to be postulated as a model to freshmen, had gained Allen’s ire. Right from the beginning, he had seen through Ranjan’s veneer.

“That fellow is a racist and a bloody hypocrite,” Allen told me one day.

“Come, come,” I stepped to the defence. “What harm has he done since he entered politics?”

“You just wait and see,” predicted Allen.

 

            A few months thereafter, Sri Lanka had a general election. Ranjan’s showing was excellent. He now became a senior member of cabinet. According to conventional wisdom he had emerged as a prospective successor of the ageing President. Not only the Sinhalese but even the Tamil community saw in him the progenitor of a better and more harmonious future. Just for once, he was the darling of all factions.

            I was accordingly taken aback when Allen  told me, in unequivocal terms, that Ranjan had been lucky to come up with such a convincing performance. A poorer outcome could have resulted in his having to face a sordid prosecution.

“Anything to do with money?” I asked.

“Much worse than that: bodily assault!”

 

            Shortly before the elections, Ranjan’s wife started to go out with a young man of her own community. As Ranjan was busy with his campaign, he probably welcomed the extra time he gained. Everybody believed the relationship was platonic – a simple case of a bored wife going out in a purely friendly manner with somebody she knew. Then, unexpectedly, someone threw acid in that man’s face. He survived the attack but was badly deformed.

“What has this got to do with Ranjan” I asked.

“He ambushed the fellow and threw the acid!”

“I don’t believe it,” I said with fervour. “I don’t believe such a filthy trick would ever cross his mind; and even if it did, he’d never do it himself. And why should he have done it? He must have known she was seen with this fellow?”

“He found out it wasn’t ‘innocent’!”

“Bullshit!” I exclaimed.

“I’m afraid it isn’t,” Allen persisted. “You, Peter, don’t understand Asian people. And, coming to think of it, what would you do if you found out your wife was cheating on you?”

“Divorce her, unless I decided to close my eyes. And, well, I might have slapped her in the heat of the moment. But throwing acid? Never! Neither would Ranjan!”

 

            Even as I spoke, I realised that my surmise was the superficial. Ranjan came from a background miles apart from mine. In his milieu men had some licence; wives were supposed to be ‘pure’. In Ranjan’s own case, the situation was exacerbated by his having been denied access. He must have been in turmoil when he realised the truth. He had been tricked and cuckolded. I had known all along that Ranjan’s Hyde was far removed from his Henry Jekyll act; when Edward took over, all hell could break loose.  Obviously, it did on this occasion. 

“How do you know it was him?” I asked Allen.

“The eyewitness got one of our relatives to ask for my advice. I said he should clam up; if he  told the police what he had seen, he might be eliminated! The clan would see to it!”

“Pfui,” I said.

“Pfui to them,” retorted Allen. “But now you know what lurks beneath the benevolent façade!”

 

            So that was that! I could visualise Ranjan’s contorted face and blazing eyes when the acid landed on his victim’s face. Did he smile when the man wriggled in agony? Did he feel that strange release – that revolting satisfaction brought out by a senseless act of revenge – when he transformed a good-looking man  into a monstrosity?

“Did that poor fellow lose his sight?” I wanted to know.

“One eye is gone; and his face is a mess; and I’m told he lost his reason! Your good friend Ranjan can smirk with satisfaction!”

“But what did Ranjan’s family and wife do?”

“They feigned ignorance – pretended not to know. I wonder what they said behind closed doors.”

 

            A few months later Ranjan went on a state visit throughout South East Asia. I saw him briefly during his two days in Singapore at an official function. We had no chance for a heart-to-heart talk.  All he mentioned was that his wife had filed  for a divorce.

“It’s the best way out,” he said evenly. “This way both of us are out of bondage; and we’ve agreed to ‘remain friends’.”

“Will you remarry?” I ventured.

“Time will tell; but I do want an heir.”

            He was about to revert to my problems but his host – a local cabinet member – nudged him back into the hub of the party’s small talk; and I was relieved.

 

IX. JAFFNA

 

            At the end of my year of leave, we returned to Melbourne.  I had to complete a few additional years of service so as to secure an adequate retirement benefit. I assured Pat that, in due course, we would move back to Singapore.

            During this second spell at Monash, Marcus kept me informed about Ranjan. Politically, Ranjan moved from strength to strength. Within a few years, he became the President’s right-hand man. He was now tipped ‘the successor’ and, in his own way, wielded power and influence. But – all in all – he had remained a subordinate. The reigns were still in his superior’s hands. Occasionally, Australian television showed him in the company of other members of the Sri Lankan cabinet, assembled around their leader and ready to run his errands.

            Then came the Tamil rebellion. The large minority, with its headquarters in Jaffna – on the Northern tip of the island – stood up for its rights. The Tamils were ill-equipped, poorly led but resolute. Their demands could be summarised in one word: independence.

            A farsighted leader might have agreed and proceeded with partition. The incumbent was not a man of compromise. Following some vain attempts to avert massacres, he sent his army to quell the rebellion. One of the Government Ministers had to be put in charge. He was not supposed to lead the operations; that task was left to army men. They, however, were to report to him. Politically, the Minster was to be a buffer between the sordid ground operations and their originator. In essence, the President felt the need to keep aloof; but, to ensure that his strategy of methodical destruction would be observed, he needed a reliable man.

His choice fell on Ranjan. I am confident that Ranjan did not volunteer. He had no wish to soil his hands in an act of genocide. But he had no choice. The fear of prosecution for his personal act of vengeance was still hanging over his head; and he knew that his party had a comprehensive dossier respecting the episode. 

Ranjan looked impressive in his neatly tailored Khaki uniform, described by the television broadcaster as the symbolic attire of a Minster at War.  All in all, he appeared the epitome of John Bull cast in dark brown.

 

Ranjan was effective. The less told about the episode the better. Still, despite the meticulous planning complemented by the army’s ruthlessness and savagery, the outcome was indecisive. The victims were innocent civilians and their families, including old men, women and children. Entire villages were laid bare. But the Tamil Tigers – the fighting terror force – withdrew to the Indian mainland. The Sinhalese could not pursue them there. When Ranjan’s army left the North, the acts of terror were resumed. The Tamil Tigers had crept back to their war-torn homeland. Sinhalese cabinet members and their families became a prime target.

 

            Ranjan, though, escaped the Tamil Tigers’ wrath. In a speech, broadcast when his army let go of the land it had rampaged, he lamented the sufferings his troops had inflicted. Shedding tears, he  exclaimed: “Your sufferings are my sufferings.” Were the Tamil freedom fighters moved or did they realise that Ranjan had been nothing but a tool? Did they know that Ranjan had no choice but to take orders?

 

            About two months after the end of the bloody campaign, Marcus delivered an unexpected message from our mutual friend. Ranjan had remarried and his second wife was expecting a child.

“He didn’t send me an invitation; not even a note,” I couldn’t help complaining.

“It was a very small and informal occasion,” soothed Marcus. “Just family and a few close local friends. Actually, even I didn’t qualify!”

“A shotgun marriage, then?”

“No such thing in our country,” protested Marcus.

“Oh, well,” I retorted. “And is it going to be a boy or a girl?”

“A girl.”

“He must be disappointed,” I observed.

“They’ll have to try again,” affirmed Marcus, himself a father of three sons and four daughters.

“How old is his wife?”

“About thirty, I think: young!”

 

            My conversation with Marcus reminded me that both Ranjan and I were into our fifties. Professionally each of us was at his peak. On the personal side  we were also settled. There was, at the same time, a marked difference between our respective home fronts. After numerous tribulations, Ranjan found a suitable spouse. He had displayed the courage and the determination to get out of unhappy liaisons.  True, he started a family late in life; but, in the very least, he was on his way home. In contrast, I lacked the gumption to start again, I remained in the frying pan.

 

            To avoid suffocation, I heeded my wife’s demands and moved back to Singapore. My main hope was that the move would salvage what was left of my home life. I was aware that the prognosis was negative. Life had taught me that time was a great healer of wounds: it helped the scar tissue to grow. But it was not a tool for solving existing problems. In that realm the scalpel was more effective.

           

X. ALFIE’S VERDICT

           

            Many years have passed since that fateful turn of events, covering Ranjan’s act of revenge and the atrocities committed in Jaffna. But even after Ranjan’s untimely death at the hand of a hired assassin, my mind kept mulling through the episode. One evening I slid to my antiques room in Singapore so as to discuss the matter with Tay Fung-Shuo – now replaced by his porcelain Doppelgänger, dubbed Alfie.

“So you do old antiques dealer honour of unexpected visit,” Alfie chided me.

“Honour, yes; unexpected, no!”

“So what can old antiques dealer do for you?”

“Ranjan problem,” I explained.

“But, my friend, why is problem?”

           

            He listened patiently to my account. He then felt the need of probing. Pointing out I had appreciated the differences between Ranjan’s background and mine, why was I still puzzled by his act of revenge and by his being a party to the brutalities inflicted on hapless people in Jaffna? Why was I unable to accept that the cultural demarcation went deeper than I had anticipated? 

“You also Asian, Mr. Tay. You think you can do?”

“No, my friend; and you know!”

“So why Ranjan?”

“I think veneer – façade like you say – not so deep?”

“European liberal façade?” I asked.

“Not so simple,” countered Tay. “European can also torture; also throw acid; and Chinese can.”

“But what you mean, Mr. Tay. You speak riddle this time!”

“No, Peter,” countered Tay in plain English. “I mean the façade of civil behaviour. Ranjan knew he was being unjust and uncivilised on both occasions. But his ego got the better of him.”

 

            Alfie’s had hit the nail on its head. Throughout their school days and their succeeding years of social and cultural adjustments people get over the egotistic (self-centred)  ‘I,’  ingrained in everybody by the  survival instinct. Unfortunately, in extreme moments of sufferings – leading to fits of poorly camouflaged rage – suppressed feelings break lose and temper takes control driving a person to an irrational act of aggression or violence; and there is no way back. 

 

Ranjan’s course was dictated when he carried out his senseless act of vengeance. From that moment on, hoods like the incumbent President gained a stranglehold over him. Ranjan’s survival instinct left him no option but to take orders. The acid thrower – who had obeyed a base instinctive call of his ego – had to toe the line prescribed by the President, who could destroy Ranjan by withdrawing the political protection conferred on my erring friend. 

“Karma?” I asked Alfie.

“Not so,” he reverted to our slang. “Is what you call cause and effect!”

“So, the sufferings of the Jaffna Tamils were – in a way – his sufferings?”

“Maybe,” nodded Alfie. “But ‘conscience’ – feelings for other people –  not your friend Ranjan’s strong point.”

           

            It was the civilised man’s verdict of a barbarian. In a way, Alfie’s kaleidoscope moved the coloured glass pieces – the pieces of a jigsaw – more adroitly than mine. All in all, our conclusions were similar. Ranjan had laid the foundation for his own human downfall when he stepped off the trodden path.

“Thank you, Mr. Tay,” I told my porcelain friend. “You make me see things clear.”

“Not so,” he summed up. “Perhaps I help you focus. But you not blind; and you know!”

 

 

XII: CURTAINS

 

            During my twenty years in Australasia, I had visited Singapore regularly. Adjusting to my new teaching environment was therefore an easy task. News about Ranjan trickled in mainly through Allen, who – unlike Marcus in Melbourne – was an avowed enemy. Marcus had, invariably, viewed Ranjan’s activities supportively. Allen underscored the seedy aspect of what he chose to tell me. He remained unabashed when, on one occasion, I gave vent to my resentment of his bias.

“But surely,” I exclaimed when he mentioned some unbecoming political speeches Ranjan had delivered in a by-election “every politician has to play to the gallery!”

“I suppose so,” Allen admitted reluctantly.

“Why do you hate him so badly?” I asked. “All in all, he is just one of his party’s tools!”

“He is the idol with feet of clay!” explained Allen after a short reflection.

“An idol in politics – pfui!”

“He was one of the very few – perhaps the only fellow – who could have injected justice into our politics. He lacked the vision, Peter; the vision and the conviction!”

“Would anyone else have done better?”

“Probably not; but that’s no excuse; he had the ability – and the background – but not the will!”

 

            I had to concede that Ranjan’s manoeuvrings left much to be desired. Even in his Oxford days, he had been glib and not easily abashed. Now, when he had turned into an ageing politician, he donned a suit of armour. Like medieval knights, he was invariably ready to hit back – even where a smile or a shrug would have done as well. Frequently, I felt sympathy for younger political aspirants, who chose to tackle him. Ranjan savaged them and, in addition, ensured they would not have a chance to enter the ring again. 

           

            His party, I knew, was losing its popularity. The savage treatment meted out to the Tamil minority was unpopular with many of the more enlightened Sinhalese. They realised the two communities had to live together. Controlling the minority was necessary and unavoidable. Humiliating these people persistently was unwise and counterproductive.

 

            In the event, the growing hostility to the ruling party was expressed in a manner as savage as that party’s own acts. One morning, a trusted guard of the parliament house  –  where the cabinet held its policy meetings – threw a hand grenade when deliberations were in progress. Most cabinet members managed to duck but two were killed and some others – who were close to the site – were seriously injured. Ranjan was one of them. Fortunately, a nearby hospital saved his life by performing emergency surgery. But Ranjan’s spleen was in tatters and some of his entrails in shreds. 

 

            About three months after the episode, Ranjan came to Singapore to get a second opinion on his state of health from one of Singapore’s leading medical lights. He talked about his ordeal over dinner. He had remained in ‘intensive care’ for more than ten days. He was lucky to have pulled through but, even at this stage, felt acute pain from time to time.

“They wanted to keep my entrails outside my body – in a sort of glass box – for six weeks so as to see my progress. But I insisted they put them back and sew me up after four weeks!”

“Why on earth did you take such a stupid risk? Suppose any organ had got septic?”

“I had to take the risk, Peter. I was due for a rally. What would be the audience’s reaction if they saw me with my entrails in a container?”

“Plain human sympathy,” I told him.

“Don’t you kid yourself. They would have been appalled; and they would not have wanted an invalid as leader. They are plain folks, Peter:  not starry eyed mid-European liberals!”

 

            For a short while each of us was immersed in his thoughts. I was both impressed and flabbergasted by Ranjan’s determination and doggedness. He, in turn, was thinking of his ordeals and of the struggle ahead of him. I realised he had no illusions.

“For God’s sake, Ranjan” I blurted out when the silence became awkward. “Why don’t you pull out now – before it’s too late. What is there in it for you? And remember – next time you may not be so lucky.  Don’t you realise there could be a next time?”

“There could very well be. Ours is a violent society. But it’s too late to change direction,” he said in a measured voice. “I have set my course and my targets; I won’t give up now. And, in any event,  I face other risks if I quit.”

 

            This was Ranjan’s first – quite direct – reference to the stranglehold exercised over him by his party. He had not discussed with me the acid throwing event. Ranjan, though, knew I was aware of it. He had always been able to read my face; and he realised I found the act unforgivable.

            When we walked out of the restaurant, Ranjan pressed his right hand firmly against his abdomen. I suspected he was in pain but would not talk about it. Next morning, he flew back to Sri Lanka.

 

In the ensuing months, Ranjan stayed put in Colombo. His postcard and short messages did not refer to his state of health. All in all, I suspected he was not as well as he had sought to pretend.

            Ranjan did not advise me that he was coming over again. Then, one morning, my secretary left on my desk an envelope sent from Switzerland. I was, at that time expecting the half yearly statement  of my own portfolio and so I tore it open. The first page of the lengthy document made me gasp. The total value of the assets was enormous. It was approximately one hundred times above the value of my own,  quite substantial, holdings at the bank.

            A further glance at the discarded envelope revealed the source of my error. It was addressed to Ranjan Jeyaratne care of myself. As he had done from time to time in the past, Ranjan had arranged that the valuation be dispatched to him at my address. Sending it to Sri Lanka was  too dangerous.  He knew, of course, that both of us used the same Swiss bank – the very bank I had recommended in  days gone by. Had I not expected my own statement, the envelope would have remained intact.

            Common courtesy dictated discretion. I should have put the documents back in the envelope without going through them and handed the dispatch to the addressee. Curiosity, though, got the better of me; and the more I saw, the more interested I became.

            Most of the information set out details about securities. Ranjan had remained an active investor in shares and bonds and did well in his trading activities. There were, in addition, numerous credit entries, resulting from payments which – I felt certain – had been remitted by companies awarded lucrative contracts by Ranjan’s government. Such bonuses, though, were to be expected. What I had not anticipated were regular payments out of the account to bodies which were related to the Tamil Tigers. It confirmed that, like many other politicians, Ranjan paid protection money.

 

Some credits too caught my eye. A neatly typed list attached to the portfolio revealed that most were made by Tamil individuals and firms. My first impression was that Ranjan was in the business of selling protection. I then noticed that these payments, each of which was of a relatively small amount, were made regularly; and most of them were remitted by banks in England, Australia and the United States. The bare facts were now staring in my face!

 

            Ranjan’s state visit commenced a few days later. When the formal events were over, he came to  my office.   We spent some time on gossip. The subjects, though, differed from what they used  to be in the old days. Births, marriages, divorces and  developments in the personal careers of friends were no longer on the agenda. Retirements, old age sicknesses of friends and, alas, the demise of common acquaintances dominated our exchange of news. Eventually, though, Ranjan turned to the main topic. Had I received any correspondence meant for him?

“Actually, I got your bank statement,” I told him. “But, by sheer chance, I expected my own one. So I opened the envelope.”

“Did you go through the valuation?” he asked, as he took the documents.

“I am afraid I did,” I admitted. “Curiosity got the better of me!”

“You must have been surprised,” he observed, his eyes narrowing.

“I was. And honestly, Ranjan, I hated the sight of that list – the supplementary one.”

“You know what these payments are all about.”

“The facts speak for themselves,” I told him, holding his eyes with mine. “Payments by Tamils who had escaped (probably with your help) but whose relatives still lived in Sri Lanka.  Honestly, Ranjan, how could you? I can understand the commissions …”

“You’ll find such skeletons in the cupboard of every politician,” he observed in a  tight voice.

“But those payments by these poor Tamils. No, Ranjan, I did not expect anything like that!”

“What do you think  motivated me?” he asked, trying hard to control his rising temper.

“That’s what I can’t understand, Ranjan. You have always been frugal; and I’m sure you still are. You still live in the same plain family house. I’ll take a bet that that you still go to the same inexpensive eating places when you don’t entertain State guests. And that wristwatch of yours is as cheap as mine!”

“60 dollars,” he grinned suddenly.

“Mine was 75; you win by 15 bucks. But then why, Ranjan – why?!”

“Don’t you know – you of all my friends?”

“Tell me, please.”

 

            Ranjan’s tirade covered old topics. His dream was to rebuild and upgrade Sri Lanka. The old tea-producing island was to be converted into a business hub, with industry, up-to-date tourist resorts, modern hotels, booming department stores and an active financial services sector, housing merchant- banks and private-banks. He wanted to give Colombo a face-lift, to develop Kandy and Nuwara Eliya and to make use of the sparsely populated regions in the south. It was an ideal place for safaris and for nature resorts populated by elephants. His dream was to turn Sri Lanka into a new paradise on earth.

“What has all this got to do with the money?” I asked.

“It will make my dreams come true; without the cash they are bound to remain mirages!”

“Can’t the money be raised by the State?”

“As I told you long ago: our people expect their politicians to be men of means; and to use their own resources to build up the country.”

“And if you don’t make it to the top? You told me there were no certainties in politics!” I ventured.

“There aren’t; but I’ve set my heart on getting there. And where there’s a will, there’s a way!”

“I see,” I muttered, unable to hide my doubts.

“Don’t you believe me?” he asked, perplexed.

“I’m your friend, Ranjan,” I replied readily. “I do believe you’ve made your plans. But surely, what I believe or think is immaterial!”

“So,what is relevant?” he let his irritation show. “You know very well that nobody can predict the future. But this ought not to stop us from making our plans; and you accept I have made mine!”

“I do,” I nodded. “But then, Ranjan, how could you – you of all people – perpetrate these wrongs on the basis of plans which, as you have just conceded, may never come true? You asked me what was material. Very well: the answer is simple. Do you really believe in your own words and plan?”

 

            Ranjan’s reaction showed that the barb – which had not been intended  –  found its mark. Gone was the smooth politician, the one-time President of the Oxford Union and the suave university don, with his endless array of jokes and gift of quick repartee when cornered. The blazing eyes and contorted face confronting me were those of the furious man, who had ambushed his wife’s lover and poured a can of vitriol in his face.

 

            I was too shocked to be frightened. I had, of course, known that the smooth exterior was Ranjan’s Jekyll: the benign Henry, who would not wilfully harm anybody. But I had not suspected that Ranjan’s Hyde was as ugly, as twisted and convoluted, as the vindictive mask of horror glaring at me. 

“That was a nasty thing to say, Peter” he exclaimed, when he found his voice.

“No, Ranjan, it wasn’t; and it wasn’t personal either. It is my credo, my view about the façade put up by every one of us!”

“What on earth are you talking about, Peter? You were always an obscurantist; a complex thinker without a sense of measure and reality. But this is too much – too much even for you!”

“I disagree, Ranjan: care to hear me out?”

“Go ahead” he muttered. He was not appeased, but his voice was no longer hoarse.

“Everybody wears a mask, hiding his real face behind it, even from himself. The great philanthropist, the glorious social reformer, the ‘faith healer’ – don’t they all have a hidden side, often unknown to themselves?”

“How about you then?” he sneered. He had, however, calmed down. Once again, I was in the company of Henry.  Ranjan’s Hyde had move off stage.

“Towards the end of my days in Monash,” I told him truthfully, “when I prepared my resume for the Singapore appointment, I realised I had been treading – noisily and persistently – on one and the same spot. It didn’t take me long to conclude I was a compliant traveller in a ship of fools. A work of Otto Dix drove the point home.”

“Otto Dix – I never heard of him. Not one of your obscure artists?” he jeered, back to his friendly ambience.

“Here it is: have a look!” I told him.

 

            Ranjan looked with interest mingled with distaste at the drawing of the Crass Bertha, a woman nude but for a pair of silk stockings and a fashionable hat she was trying on while facing the mirror. Her sagging breasts and some wrinkles on her face told their tale.

“An ageing prostitute doing her utmost to look desirable,” Ranjan spoke tightly. “She tries to convince herself that with this stupid hat she’ll solicit just as effectively as in the old days.”

“That’s one way to put it,” I nodded. “What I see is a middle-aged woman, who knows her glorious youth is gone, yet tries to maintain her good-looks and dignity by putting on this ridiculous hat. What a tragic façade.”

“I see. But, Peter, what has all of this got to do with the money I … amassed?”

 

            He had raised the principal question: the central paradox. Carefully, seeking to avoid another avalanche, I told him that everybody I knew was seeking to bolster his image by wearing a hat. His own hoarding of a treasure was typical. A smart man like him was, of course, aware that his chances of putting the treasure to good use depended on the success of his political aspirations. Did he not know that their realisation was uncertain? How could he overlook that politics was  a game of chance? Wasn’t he, too, hiding his head in the sand or under a hat?

“Yes, I know the hazard of politics,” he responded readily, in a voice devoid of any trace of annoyance. “I am a realist, Peter: you know this.”

“Did you then amass the fortune on a chance – perhaps an off-chance – of your dreams coming true?”

“What else could have motivated me? You know perfectly well I’d never use the money for myself or even for my family. The provision for my loved ones comes from regular sources.”

“I know that. But Ranjan, there could be another reason for the hoarding; but I’m not sure I ought to mention it.”

“Go ahead,” he grinned. “I won’t lose my temper again; don’t you worry.”

“Is it possible that you hoarded the money instinctively – because you couldn’t help yourself; because something inside spurred you on?” I asked.

“Could be, Peter,” he retorted with unexpected calm. “You know something: it is the very question I keep asking myself; and I’ve pondered over it for years!”

“And if something were to go wrong, the money would remain on the books of the bank,  helping their Nibs to boost the funds of ‘investors’ shown in the bank’s books.”

“Precisely,” he agreed with a shrug.

 

            There was nothing more to be said. Our exchange of volleys had lifted the fog; and it had cleared the air. Ranjan’s money hoarding was compulsive, driving him the way it spurred others onto gambling. I too had been the victim of compulsion: it had driven  me  to acquire an endless array of mid-Europeans pieces of 18^th century porcelain although my display cabinets were full to the brim. Like most people, both Ranjan and I were the slaves of impulses. Our acts were not explainable on a purely rational basis.

 

            Eventually, Ranjan broke the silence by rising from his chair and indicating he was about to take his leave.

“Here” he said, handing me the portfolio valuation that had caused the storm. “Please shred these pages; I don’t want to take them with me.”

            It was, I knew, a gesture manifesting that – notwithstanding our short-lived quarrel –  he continued to trust me. He was not parting as an enemy. As far as he was concerned, we were still friends.

“And when shall I pick you up for our dinner?” I asked as we approached the door.

“Actually, Peter, I am tired; and the old wounds still hurt. I’ll take a rain check, if you don’t mind. I do need a rest and a simple snack from ‘room service’.”

“I understand,” I assured him, saddened and at the same time relieved. “But let me then see you to your car.”

 

            I could not help winking as the driver – an employee of one of the ministries – bowed respectfully as he held the door of the posh Mercedes open for his passenger. Ranjan slipped in, pressing his left hand against his abdomen.  It was only then that I realised that his excuse was not a mere sham. Still, as the car was about to take the corner, Ranjan turned back, smiled  and waved. For him, it was an unusual gesture. Usually, he did not look back once he had taken his leave. It dawned on me that, although we were still parting as friends, Ranjan had said ‘good bye’; not ‘au revoir’.

 

            Later that evening, after listening patiently to Pat’s complaints about  having to prepare a meal at such a short notice, I slipped into my antiques room.

“I am exhausted” I told Alfie, who looked at me sympathetically.

“Your wife’s complaints?” he asked.

“That too,” I told him. “But am used to this; have been for years!”

“So why you so sad?”

“Ranjan; I messed it up.”

“Because you tell him truth?”

“Perhaps did,” I fell in line with his use of our shorthand. “But was really truth? And why I tell him? What is point?”

“You think better keep quiet?” asked Alfie.

 

            I knew what was on his mind. Throughout his life Alfie, my friend Tay Fung-Shuo, made a habit of keeping his own counsel. In his traditional, Chinese scholar’s outlook, the telling of home truths constituted bad manners. The only time to speak your mind is when a friend, who relies on your judgment, asks for your advice and guidance. I knew that in my position, he would have handed over a resealed envelope containing the statement, adding profuse apologies for having opened it by error. The storm would have been forestalled. All the same, Alfie’s demeanour did not manifest dissatisfaction with my handling of the situation. To the extent that I could read his expression, it denoted support.

 

“Why you ask?” I countered. “You know you never open up like your friend Peter did!”

“True; but perhaps you do right thing?”

“Why you think so?” I asked, bewildered.

“Men like us, Peter,” said Alfie, switching to plain English, “make a conscious effort to suppress their instincts in everyday situations. We consider it wrong to display anger, we avoid confrontation whenever possible and we do all we can to maintain our ‘dignity’. We look down on a fellow who has a ‘short fuse’; and we consider him uncivilised.”

“Precisely,” I fell in line with his mode of speech. “But isn’t that as it ought to be? If everybody flew off the handle whenever provoked, life would become unbearable!”

“Undoubtedly. But does this mean that instincts ought to be ignored or suppressed altogether? Have they no role to play?”

 

            He had made his point. In situations of extremity – be they at work, at home or in our social contacts – our instincts provided good alarm bells. Our ultimate  assessment of our fellows had to be undertaken by our own instincts; and by them alone. In extreme situation you had to follow the course prescribed by them.

“I understand,” I told Alfie. “But why is all this relevant in this instance? Would it not have been better to keep my counsel and – plainly speaking – close my eyes. After all, none of it is my business?”

“No, Mr. Mid-Yeast Tourist. I think you wrong,” he reverted shyly to our slang. “Ranjan, he your friend; close friend. You even talk about family, wives – everything. So I think his business      also yours.”

“And so close eyes; suppress instinct to tell; is not right …” I mumbled.

“Not in such case!”

“But he also know, Mr. Tay. I don’t think I tell him new thing. Like Englishmen say: I bring coals to Newcastle!”

“No, my friend. You tell Ranjan you also know. You say, better not be so clever: other people not blind.”

“This, I think, I tell him!”

“Perhaps if you not do – you not good friend!”

 

            As often before, he had hit the nail on its head. Like many smart humans, Ranjan had a low opinion of other people’s intelligence. He considered himself the one-eyed man – perhaps the seer – in the country of the blind. Our altercation alerted him to the fact that he was deceiving himself. His inner self – his egotistic, instinct controlled, alter ego – was not as elusive as he had led himself to believe.  

“Thank you, Mr Tay,” I said. “And you think you always tell truth to me. And I your friend; your very close friend.”

“Only one time I do not; and I regret many years,” he replied sadly.

“You mean, when I said I intended to marry Pat?” I reverted, instinctively, to plain English. “But on that occasion, common human civility prescribed silence.”

“It did; and it was my easy way out. But your friend Ranjan spoke his mind, didn’t he? As you well know, I never liked him. But he is – has always been – your loyal and devoted friend; and you, in turn, had to be frank with him.”

On the surface, my relationship with Ranjan remained solid. Shortly after his visit, he sent me a Jewish New Year greetings card. I in turn sent him a humorous Christmas card. From time to time, we exchanged letters. But I did not see him again. Although he came to Singapore every few months on a business or state trip, he did not call on me. On two occasions he sent subordinates to pick up Swiss mail sent to him care of my address.

 

All in all, our friendship had not gone sour; but it had cooled off. On the one hand, this development grieved me. All my life, I had been a loner. My friends could be counted on the fingers of one hand; and Ranjan had been of them. On the other hand, I did not regret my having spoken my mind. If Ranjan could not take the truth, the fault lay at his door. If a friendship depended on camouflage, it fell short of a fellowship.

 

Ranjan’s career proceeded smoothly. He was appointed Vice-President, was generally regarded the heir and successor, and the polls indicated that his popularity remained on the up and up. I was, therefore, startled when unexpectedly Allen burst into my office and told me Ranjan had quit his party.

“But why on earth would he do such a thing?”

“He is getting impatient; and there are rumours of a rift with the President.”

“Don’t tell me he crossed the floor?” 

“Of course not. In Sri Lankan politics that would be the end of his career; and the opposition would not want him!”

“What did he do, then?”

“Formed his own party. He intends to stand for the Presidency as an independent candidate!”

“But wouldn’t this split the votes of the followers of the party in power?” I asked naively.

“That’s his very idea,” said Allen in a tone used when one seeks to enlighten a dumb child.

 

            His words made me see light. Ranjan’s design was simple. If he won, he would have stolen a march. If the incumbent came back – albeit with a diminished majority – Ranjan would have the time to lay plans for the next round. The opposition’s victory too would be helpful. Their incompetent leaders were bound to make a mess of everything. Ranjan would then be asked to rejoin his old party and would lead it to a landslide victory. In fact, Ranjan had opted for a “no lose” plan.

 

“I can’t stand the fellow,” observed Allen. “But I raise my hat to him. He is an excellent campaigner.”

“How about his party’s stranglehold? Won’t he be prosecuted for that old acid throwing incident? Surely, there is no period of limitation in the case of a major crime: a felony!”

“Of course there isn’t. But all the eyewitnesses are dead or have left the country. How can he be convicted without evidence?”

“How about the victim’s testimony?”

“The poor chap is off his rocker.”

“So Ranjan is practically immune,” I concluded.

“He is; and he knows it!”

           

            For the next few weeks I kept watching such of Ranjan’s rallies as were shown on  international television stations. Although I could not follow his addresses – delivered  in Sinhala – I was impressed  by the enthusiastic reaction of the ever swelling crowd. It dawned on me that Ranjan was no longer the odd man out. His victory was now on the cards.

 

            I would have kept watching his progress but, by sheer chance, was appointed sole arbitrator in a complex dispute. The ensuing proceedings required my full attention. In consequence, I was restricted to the occasional news about Ranjan’s campaign displayed on the local media and to what Allen chose to tell me.

 

            Then, one afternoon when I was driving back to my home exhausted after a full day hearing, I switched on the radio so as to get the BBC news. The first few items – about unrests in African countries – were of no interest. So was the report about a serial killer apprehended in the United States. The next item gave me a start. Using his punctilious diction and polished accent, the announcer reported that one of Sri Lanka’s leading politicians and contenders for the Presidency, the Honourable Ranjan Jeyaratne, had been shot dead by a hired assassin. The gunman had made his escape but, apparently, was shot in the foot by one of the policemen in attendance at the rally.

 

            The driver of an elegant BMW that overtook me gave me an angry look. I realised that my car must have swerved. To my relief, my apologetic gesture and smile appeased the driver. Nonchalantly, he shrugged his shoulders and waved his hand to indicate the incident was closed. For the rest of the way I drove gingerly, trying hard to concentrate on the road in front of me. When, eventually, I entered our front door, my wife’s expression told me that she too had listened to the news. Still, both of us thought it best not to refer to the subject during dinner.

 

            Later in the evening, I stole into my antiques room. For once, though, Alfie was irresponsive.

“No, Mr. Mid-Yeast Tourist. This we not talk. Your great playwright, Ibsen, he make character in Peer Gynt say: ‘Hero not die before end of play’. So, my friend, if hero dead, it is the time for what you call curtains.”

“And post mortem?” I queried.

“Is no point: dead man is dead!” Noticing my brooding face, he added benignly: “I think we better talk about new Meissen piece you want buy; life, my friend, or what you call  ‘the show’, it must go on.”

 

E P I L O G U E

 

 

A few years later, Ranjan’s sad end  was vividly drawn back to my attention. One day I received an email in which the sender, who signed himself as Chula Jeyaratne, asked me for lunch. Initially, I was unable to identify him. I then recalled that I had met Ranjan’s younger brother, whose name was Chula, during my first visit to Colombo.

The man in his late middle age, who had arrived at the agreed venue before me, bore no resemblance to that unformed boy I had met years earlier. His black hair was laced with silver and his face was wrinkled.

 

            During the first course, we stuck to small talk. He told me that he had a son and two daughters, all pursuing their studies in England. His son, I was amused to learn, read for Law in Ranjan’s old college at Oxford. Chula himself was a graduate of King’s College of London University. After years as a computer expert in Colombo, he had moved to Singapore. He had no intention of returning to Sri Lanka. It had become a violent and unstable country. Singapore, in contrast, was a place of peace even if rather hectic. Chula had secured a post as the Head of the IT team in a leading industrial enterprise.

 

“Ranjan’s assassination took place years ago,” he observed after the waiter had placed our main courses in front of us, “its tenth anniversary was three days ago,

“How far is the episode still remembered in Sri Lanka?” I asked.

 

             According to Chula, Ranjan’s assassination remained fresh in the memory of members of his own the clan. Other people were too engrossed in their own lives to recall a political murder that had taken place in a previous era. All in all, Ranjan Jayaratne’s name was largely forgotten.

“ Who had taken over?” I wanted to know. “As far as I recall, the then President was himself  killed by a suicide bomber some ten days after he had arranged to eliminate your brother. A Tamil Tiger attack, I gather!”

“Yes, it had been a Tamil Tiger plot,” nodded Chula. “But what makes you think that Ranjan’s killer was hired by the President?”

“Wasn’t he the chap behind the killing? Everybody assumed he had initiated the assassination  contract!”

“It was conventional truth,” conceded Chula, “but actually it wasn’t the President’s long hand. He was horrified when the news was out and asserted that he had had nothing to do with the killing. And, you know, he told the truth. That fellow was a corrupt and ruthless politician. But he wasn’t stupid. He knew only too well that any attempt on Ranjan’s life would be attributed to him. Also,  I think he wanted to win by a fair vote; not by a filthy plot!”

“So who was behind it?” I asked, bewildered. “The Tamil Tigers?”

            Chula’s advised me that that supposition was also unfounded. He then told me  what had really happened. Ranjan’s decision to quit the party was partly motivated by his realisation that a somewhat younger rival intended to jump over his back; and the fellow was warming his way into the incumbent’s favour. Ranjan had sensed that, before long, he would cease to be the heir elect.

“And did that fellow get there?” I wanted to know.

“No, he didn’t. When the President  was assassinated another politician stole a march over him.”

“And what has happened to him since?”

“He lives as a recluse in  Kandy; and he is bitter. He feels he had spent a lot of money to organise the killing, only to bring someone else into power.”

“What happened to the assassin?”

“Some three months after the shooting, two men burst into his house and liquidated him and his entire family! This too was organised by that fellow”

“I see.  But can you tell me who was – or is – that organising fellow? Is he somebody I would have heard of?”

“Actually, I think you met him. He, too, was at Oxford. And for a while he went out with a girl who knew Ranjan. Her name was Lillo.”

“Don’t tell me that chap’s name is Joseph X!”

“That’s him,”  answered Chula dryly.

 

            Once again, my mind was in turmoil. Joseph had good reason to hate Ranjan. The very girl he had hoped to marry, took her life when she had comprehended Ranjan was not going to come back to her. In a subtle, singularly indirect manner, my own indiscretion of making that clear to Lillo, had – years later – been one of the links in the chain ending with Ranjan’s assassination. So Fortuna, too, paid attention to cause and effect. She, too, had a sense of justice even if, to an occasional onlooker, it appeared twisted.

 

“But didn’t Ranjan appreciate the dangers facing him?” I wanted to know.

“He did, rather. And you know, I had my contacts in the underworld. For two million dollars I could have arranged to have both the President and Joseph eliminated!”

“Did you tell this to Ranjan?”

“Of course I did; I wanted him to raise the money; but he wouldn’t hear of it! He was furious.”

“What did he say?” I prompted.

“He said he didn’t have two million dollars and then yelled: ‘How can the two of us be the sons of the same father? And you know Father would never dirty his hands in such a  ploy. If I win, it must be by a fair vote, and not by tricks.’ I was dumbfounded.”

 

            So Ranjan had sealed the warrant for his own death. Two million dollars were – especially at that time – a great deal of money. But Ranjan’s bank statement gave his financial excuse the lie. To him, the sum was peanuts! The real reason for his angry reaction was plain. All in all, he too had a conscience. It might have been rather flexible – not as well defined as the common man’s – but, at the very least, it was not altogether left out of Ranjan’s make up. He was neither a saint nor a scoundrel through and through. Like most humans, he was somewhere in between.

 

            Had his life, his career and his aspirations been just a flash in the pan? He had left a widow and a daughter. After a pause, I asked what had become of them.

“Ranjan’s widow won a seat in Parliament,” Chula told me.  “Elected out of sympathy, I think.”

“I thought she had at one time been made a cabinet member?”

“Quite so,” affirmed Chula. “They put her in charge of a not too important ministry.”

            “And what became of Ranjan’s daughter? Did she go to one of the women’s colleges in Oxford.”

“She was offered a place in Lady Margaret Hall but declined,” Chula let his displeasure show; then  added reluctantly: “She is a beautiful woman; and so she became a photographic model. She is doing rather well out of it. You might have seen her on the cover of international magazines.”

“It’s not a bad career,” I pointed out.

“Her choice would have broken Ranjan’s heart. He wanted his daughter to be a scholar!”

“Did he leave them enough money for a comfortable life?” I asked with hesitation.

“He did: just the right amount. There are some ugly rumours in Colombo about a vast fortune kept with some posh Swiss bank. But I don’t believe a word of it; and the widow’s modest lifestyle gives the lie to this malicious gossip!”

 

            Before we parted, I promised to arrange another lunch. However, before I did so Chula’s employers sent him to a branch in another country.   

 

 

                                                                                                

*******