The Hungry Ghosts (16 page)

I had not written to my grandmother in six weeks and she had written me three times, always saying the same thing about tucking in the flap of the envelope.

Irritated and guilty, I ripped a sheet of paper out of one of my spiral notebooks and sat at my desk.

I put down the pen, unable to go on with the lies that always filled my letters. I went to stand at my basement window and looked through the bars at the dirty snow in the backyard. There was no way I could bring myself to write about my new part-time job in housekeeping at a motel in the suburb of Richmond Hill—the hour-long commute past used-car dealerships and long, low windowless malls like penitentiaries. Then there was the New Richmond Motel itself, with its fake wood-panelled lobby, the grubby orange-and-rust shag carpet smelling of stale cigarettes and old beer.

Later that night when the house was quiet, I took out the pamphlet from beneath my mattress and studied the whole thing over, as if I had never read
it before. When I got to the telephone number at the bottom, I glanced at the clock. It was almost eleven. No one would answer the phone, but still, I would call from the extension in my basement. The very act of calling, even if only to get an answering machine, might give me the courage to try back tomorrow.

The phone rang for a long time, and the more it rang the calmer I became. Then, just when I felt I had collected the necessary courage to call again and was about to hang up, someone picked up the receiver.

“Hello?” a man gasped. “Hold on a sec.”

He put down the receiver, then inhaled and exhaled deeply to control his breath. It took all my will to stay on the line, as if I were straining under something impossibly heavy.

Finally he came back on the phone, and with a laugh that was both merry and easy, said, “Sorry about that. I’d left the office and was halfway down the hall when the phone rang.”

“It’s … that’s quite alright.”

“Are you from India?”

“No, no.”

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have asked. You don’t have to tell me anything about yourself.”

“No, no, it’s really alright you asked.”

“It’s just that I used to visit India quite a bit, particularly Goa. Although now I go to Thailand on my holidays.”

After he told me this, I felt it was rude not to tell him I was from Sri Lanka.

“How wonderful. I’ve always longed to visit there.”

“You should go. It’s very pretty.”

He asked me about the Tamil Tigers’ chances of getting an independent country and if I thought there would be a solution soon. I was taken aback at how much he knew about the country, even the names of the president and prime minister. Most Canadians I met thought Sri Lanka was part of the Caribbean.

“Are you a refugee?” he asked, after I had answered his questions about the political situation.

“No, I came here with my family. We’re immigrants.”

“I live near this area called St. James Town, where there’s a lot of Tamil refugees. I feel so sorry for them. Actually, I used to have a friend who was
Tamil, from Jaffna. A man named Cheran Muttuswamy. His family is from the village of Point Pedro. Do you, by any chance, know him?”

“Um, no, I … I don’t, unfortunately.”

He must have read my mind, because he laughed. “Of course. Why should you know him? There are millions of Sri Lankans.”

By now I trusted him. He told me he was a social worker with troubled youth, and soon I found myself telling him I went to York University and what I was studying there. All this time, we had not mentioned a word about my reason for calling.

Finally he said in a businesslike tone, “So, what can I help you with?” After my silence became prolonged, he added, “Please, take your time telling me.”

“I found this pamphlet, your pamphlet, in a bookstore, and I read it and …” I fell silent again.

“And you’re gay, and you’ve never said this to anyone before, right?” he said gently.

“Yes. Yes, I have never said this to anyone. And yes, I am gay.”

It felt so strange, those words coming out of my mouth, and the next moment I was crying. As I sobbed, he talked to me in a soothing tone about how it was alright to be gay and how one could find a lot of happiness in coming out, a lot of support, that I did not need to be lonely anymore, that he knew exactly what I was feeling because he had spent his teens in a small town in the 1960s and knew as well as anyone what it was to feel different and alone. His voice, with its depth and quiet authority, calmed me. When I was no longer sniffling, he said, “Look, it’s sort of late and I must get home. Would you like to meet in person?”

“Yes, yes, I would like that a lot.”

He gave me directions to a café at Bloor and Spadina. “By the way, my name is Ronald. And you don’t have to tell me your name. Some people feel more comfortable making up a name.”

“No,” I replied, “I want to, I really do. It’s Shivan.”

“Well, Shivan, I’ll see you in a couple of days.”

Once I had put down the phone, I lay on my bed, limbs heavy with fatigue.

I arrived at the café early, and after darting a look around to see if anyone was trying to catch my eye, I sat near the door, hands clutched under the
table. After a while, worried I might be evicted, I bought a coffee from the counter and returned to my seat. In my nervousness, I sloshed some on the table as I sat down and was patting the mess with paper napkins when someone said, “Shivan?”

A man in his thirties stood before me.

I struggled to my feet and thrust out my hand, dumbly. He held it in both of his, head cocked to one side, blue-grey eyes twinkling to say it was okay for me to be nervous and he was glad to see me. I got a whiff of his cologne, a sweet lime fragrance.

“Let me get a coffee too.” He patted my shoulder and went to the counter.

I sat down, and after a few moments allowed myself to examine him as he stood in line.

For an older man, he was quite handsome, with tanned skin, broad cheekbones and square jaw. I liked how, when he smiled, furrows cut through his full cheeks and the pink bags under his eyes grew more pronounced and shiny, little lines radiating out from them like eyelashes. The top buttons of his white shirt were open to reveal a turquoise tank top underneath, short sleeves rolled up to draw attention to his biceps. I could not tell if his stockiness was muscle or fat, as his shirt was loose. He might have been aware of my scrutiny, for he casually looked everywhere but at me.

When Ronald came back, he declared, “So,” and sat down, swinging his leg over the chair as if mounting a horse, “tell me how you are doing in Canada.”

“Fine, fine,” I replied, grateful he had started with a neutral subject. “It’s such a great country,” I continued, lying like I always did to Canadians. “I can’t tell you how happy I am to be here. Everything is so ordered, so clean. The people so nice and welcoming. Yes, it’s wonderful.”

“Wonderful?” His blue-grey eyes twinkled, those attractive little pouches appearing under them. “That is not a word I would use to describe this place.”

“No?” I asked, surprised.

“I find most of my fellow Canadians pinched and Protestant. Until about fifteen years ago, you couldn’t get a drink on a Sunday. Even sidewalk cafés were illegal. I hate how unnatural and artificial and snobbish people are. And how it’s always about outer appearances. Canadians are so uptight physically; we never touch and embrace in the casual way people do in other cultures.”

As he spoke, he struggled to keep the merriment in his eyes, but he sounded wounded, as if he had been hurt by the coldness of Canadians, as if he, too, was an outsider.

“Take Goa or Thailand, for instance,” Ronald continued. “People there are so warm and gentle and accepting of others. They live closer to nature and are more true to their real selves. I mean, men in Thailand and India who are just friends often put their arms around each other and embrace and hold hands. You would never find that here.”

He stopped himself with a laugh and wiped his lips on a napkin. “Sorry to go on. It’s my favourite pet peeve. Now, tell me more about yourself. Do you have a job at the moment?”

I told him about the motel and he shook his head. “Sounds dreary. You should get another job.”

“But I lack Canadian experience.”

“That shouldn’t be an issue, Shivan. You don’t know the system, being new here. I’ll bring you some job-searching information the next time we meet. I help my young clients get on their feet all the time.”

“Thank you.” I blushed, grateful for this, but also grateful he was already willing to see me another time.

“Now, on to business,” he said with a wink and a grin. He produced some pamphlets from his bag on being gay and also on AIDS and how to avoid getting it. After he had explained the AIDS pamphlet, he said, “And have you had sex with a man yet?”

I flushed under his steady gaze.

“That’s okay, that’s good actually. Don’t be in a rush, Shivan. Before taking that step, you should make sure it’s the right time and place, and with the right person. Someone you know and trust. Someone who has your very best interests at heart. Promise me you’ll do that. Promise me you won’t rush.”

“I … I promise,” I replied, blushing again.

“God, you men from the East are so beautiful!”

He laughed at my astonishment. “Sorry, I hope you don’t mind my saying that. Do you? Do you mind?”

“No, no, not at all,” I blurted. “It’s a compliment. Thank you.”

Ronald smiled as if I had given him a gift, then, seeing I was uneasy, changed
the subject. He drew me out with questions, and soon I found myself telling him about my life in Canada, the words pouring out.

When we left the café, he walked me to the subway, and gave me a small salute when we reached it. “Until the next time?”

I grinned and nodded.

He stepped forward and hugged me. I was stiff with surprise, but recalling what he had said about hating Canadian uptightness, I put my arms around him. After a moment he pulled back, gave me a pat on the arm and declared, “Well, Shivan, I look forward to seeing you soon,” then gave me his business card.

Over the next few days, I called Ronald late at night when my mother and sister were in bed, or from a pay phone at York when I had my evening class. He was always warm and friendly, and soon I was so easy with him that my wit, buried for so long, surfaced. I enjoyed making him laugh at my sarcasm, relished being able to speak without that creaking in my voice, or my bark of a laugh.

One thing that surprised me was how negative Ronald was about the gay community. He told me that the “ghetto” was very “cruisey,” a word he explained meant men constantly searching for sex with other men. “You can’t go to buy a damn carton of milk or do your laundry without some queen trying to pick you up.” He also hated the other people he worked with at the phone line: “A bunch of sour, vain, shallow queens.” This was why he worked the late shift, so he could avoid “that gaggle of nattering ladies.” He spoke about the community and his fellow volunteers in the same wounded way he had talked about Canadians, as if personally hurt by them.

We had known each other a week when Ronald asked me to his home. He lived in upscale Cabbagetown in a renovated three-storey house. When he opened the door he was beaming. He pulled me in and hugged me as if we were old friends who had not seen each other for a long time. Then he gestured to the Persian carpets, white couches, glass-topped tables, chrome-legged chairs and declared, “Welcome to my humble abode.”

As I followed him into his living room, I gazed at all the sculptures and artwork from India and Thailand. Seeing this, he smiled. “I am an honest person, so I will tell you, Shivan, I couldn’t afford this place on my social worker’s salary.
My father used to run a factory in our home town. I inherited some money.”

He got me a glass of wine, and then, when I was seated on a couch, he picked up a photo album from the table and scooted close. He let the album fall open across our knees. We had to press them together to keep the pages balanced. “I’ve been dying to show you my Bangkok photos,” he said. As he turned the pages he pointed out the temples and palaces and floating flower markets. There were also a lot of photos of him with his Thai friends, all of them young men. “They are very poor,” he said, “I do what I can to help them, given I am blessed with so much.”

As Ronald continued to talk about each friend there was such warmth and happiness in his face that I could not help thinking how lucky I was to have met such a good person. On the last page of the album was a letter from one of his friends, thanking him in broken English for the money he’d sent for his mother’s eye operation.

Once he had put away the album, Ronald said solemnly, “There is something else I want to show you.” He opened a drawer in a side table, took out a framed photo and held it out to me with both hands, as if it were a sacred object. The photograph showed Ronald at Niagara Falls with a handsome man of about my age, who looked Sri Lankan.

“Cheran Muttuswamy?” I asked and gave him a long look to say I surmised they had been lovers.

He nodded, lips pressed together.

“Where is your friend now?” I handed back the photograph.

“Married and in Scarborough,” Ronald said with a sigh as he slipped the photograph into the drawer.

“So,” he said, turning to me and rubbing his hands together, as if wishing to put away his sorrow, “what would you like to do this evening? Anything you want.”

I was silent, because the thing I wished to do most with him was something I knew he would dislike.

He nudged me in the ribs and grinned. “Come on, Shivan, be honest.”

My grin was more of a grimace, and I looked at my hands before I said, “I know you hate it, but could you please take me to see the gay community?”