The Hungry Ghosts (55 page)

The Indian Peace Keeping Force, too, had met an ignoble end, becoming so unpopular that the old government had united with the Tigers to oust them from the country. The Indians had suffered a high number of casualties, but also stood accused of civilian massacres, disappearances and rapes.

Reading all this should have made me anxious about going, but by now I had thrown up such high barricades around myself, I would not let anxiety in. Things were different now, I kept telling myself. This was a new era; there was a new government; Sri Lanka was moving forward.

I didn’t share the newspaper stories with Michael as I felt he would use the crumbling ceasefire to erode my confidence. In March, he found out he had been accepted into the master’s program, but even this did not lift his spirits. He remained glum, almost indifferent about his acceptance. I interpreted this as one more sign I had to return to Sri Lanka and make peace with the past.
Then, a little over a month ago, Satomi threw another party. I arrived even later than usual, and once I’d said hello to Michael in the kitchen and gone through our pantomime of affection for Satomi, I went to join the other students in her living room.

There was an addition to the evening. A man who sat on the futon sofa between two female grad students, smiling easily as if he had always been part of this group. His lanky thighs were spread, taking up too much couch, and he held a beer between his legs, thumb and middle finger grasping the bottle below its lip, other digits splayed—this arrangement of fingers like the elegant hand gesture of a bharatanatyam dancer. His heavy expensive watch was loose, and its silver strap hung like a bracelet around his wrist. The newcomer’s name, I soon learnt, was Oliver, and the students were extra jocular with him, always a sign of deference, I knew, from my years at university. He looked to be in his forties, though his shoulder-length hairstyle was young, with blond streaks and limp curls gelled in half moons over his forehead.

I was alone in the kitchen later, where I often retreated during these events, when Oliver sauntered in and saluted me with his beer. He leaned back against the counter and just looked at me in a friendly way, head nodding as if on a spring. Though he had nice features, he missed being good-looking because of a receding chin. I thought the young hairstyle emphasized his age.

“Are you a visiting scholar?” I finally asked. “Visiting professor?”

“Professor.” He continued to nod as if palsied, lips pressed together.

“From where?”

“Columbia. Just here for the semester.” Then he arched his back with a little frown and swivelled his hips from side to side, as if he had noticed a crick in his spine. There was something dismissive about this gesture. “You work in the President’s Office,” he said when done. He was amused at my surprise. “Michael,” he said, as if it was obvious. He took a swig from his beer, watch clattering against the bottle. “Yes, my expertise is Heian court literature.”

This was the subject of Michael’s proposed thesis—popular culture during this period and how it shaped women’s education and national identity. “Ah,” I said, feeling the need to prove something. “Sei Shōnagon’s
Makura no sōshi
.”

Oliver smiled tolerantly at this mention of the famous
Pillow Book
, then stretched again. “Yes, I’ve fallen into a sort of advisory role with your boyfriend.”

As if on cue, Michael appeared in the kitchen. He feigned surprise at seeing us together and went to check on the Japanese version of curry he and Satomi were making. He bent over the large pot, lips pursed as if unsure what was missing, his concentration exaggerated.

“I was just telling Shivan about our mutual interests.”

Michael gave Oliver an uncomprehending look that seemed tinged with alarm.

“In Heian court literature.” Oliver laughed teasingly, as if he had tricked him in some way.

Michael’s features turned cold.

“I was just about to tell your boyfriend of my offer to have you at Columbia, after your first year here.”

“Oh,” Michael said in an aloof tone, then seeing my look of surprise, he added, “Oliver just mentioned it in passing. I haven’t really given it much thought.” He shot Oliver an annoyed glance before he smiled at me. “Anyway, it’s not like you can leave your job and move to New York.”

I smiled back fondly at Michael. “Yes, we’re stuck here, unfortunately, my dear.” I shifted my smile to Oliver, “Too bad. Columbia and New York would have been lovely.”

Oliver grinned and raised his bottle, toasting us as a couple.

When Michael and I were on the bus home, I asked, “So, is Oliver married?”

“Married?” Michael took my hand. “There are no gay marriages in the US, Shivan.”

“He’s gay?”

“Of course, silly. He screams New York queen from miles away.”

I should have been comforted by his dismissal of Oliver, but it only heightened my uneasiness. Michael hadn’t held my hand or talked to me in this teasing way for a long time.

A few evenings later, we took the bus to Point Grey for dinner with Michael’s parents. He was silent for most of the way, but when we were a couple of stops from getting off, he sucked in his breath as if he had just remembered something he had been meaning to tell me. “Some of us are thinking of going to New York in two weeks. For a conference.”

A jangle of shock went through me. “New York?” I blurted. “I’ve never been there.”

“You’re welcome to join us, Shivan.” He pressed my arm. “I just didn’t think you’d have enough vacation days, not with your trip to Sri Lanka.”

I dug through my pocket for a Kleenex and blew my nose even though I didn’t have to, needing time to collect myself. “Why wouldn’t I, Michael?” I snapped. “It’s just the beginning of the year. I have tons of vacation days. And I don’t go to Sri Lanka for four weeks.”

“Then join us by all means. I’ll be busy during the day, but we can do fun things at night. Satomi is going too. We were going to share a room, but that can be easily changed.”

His wide-eyed insincerity enraged me. “I think I very well might. I work so damn hard, and Sri Lanka is not going to be a picnic.”

Michael got up and rang the bell for our stop.

As we walked towards his parents’ house, I was fizzing with a manic energy. I wanted to punish him further, and when Robert and Hilda ushered us inside, I cried, “Guess what! We’re going to New York in two weeks!”

Their delight pierced Michael.

“Why New York?” Hilda inquired.

I remained silent and Michael was forced to say, “I’m attending a conference. At Columbia.”

I gloated at the way he stumbled over the name, at his glum expression as he went through the small amount of mail that still came to him at his parents’ and was left out on the hallstand.

“Do you have a guide we could borrow?” I asked.

“Yes, Fodor’s. And just keep it.” Hilda led the way to the kitchen. “It’s from last year. The next time we go, we’ll get a new one.”

Robert went upstairs to fetch the book. When he returned, he and Hilda sat on either side of Michael and me at the breakfast bar and pointed out all the sights we had to see and ones we must certainly avoid. Michael tried to appear interested, but his parents had picked up on his glumness and exchanged quick worried glances as they talked.

My bitter verve had worn off by the time we left, and I felt wretched with uncertainty as we sat turned slightly away from each other on the bus. I was desperate to know the truth and, the moment we were in our apartment,
I cried, “Michael, are you having an affair with Oliver? I beg you, please tell me the truth.”

He had half unbuttoned his coat and now clasped it shut at his chest in a curiously modest gesture. We could hear our neighbour upstairs dragging something across her room. “No,” he finally replied. “No, not an affair.” He removed his coat, started towards the closet, but then tossed it over the sofa and sat on an armrest, legs stretched out. “Oliver made a sleazy pass the first time he invited me to his office. I let him kiss me. Kissed back, too. But I told him I am with you and love you. Still, it didn’t deter him from trying that shit at Satomi’s party.” He pressed his palms together between his thighs and rubbed them back and forth as if cold.

“And yet you were planning this trip to New York.”

“And yet I was planning this trip to New York.” Involuntarily, he nodded like Oliver, head as if on a spring.

I went out onto the balcony. The wind was fierce and a mist had made the floor slippery. When I leaned on the top rail, I could feel dampness soaking through my coat and salt from the air forming a sticky mask on my face.

A grim anger was taking hold of me. “I’m trying,” I said to myself. “I’m trying everything. I am trying so hard, and this is how he rewards me.” Michael did not care that I was suffering, that I was doing everything I could to mend things between us. Angry tears stung my eyes at the thought of him kissing Oliver. I felt pathetic next to Oliver’s professorship at an Ivy League university, his older-man’s finesse, the sophisticated life I imagined he could offer Michael in New York.

The next day, Michael told me he was not going to the conference after all. For the rest of that week, he came home early every evening and cooked things I liked for dinner. He even turned down a student party. Yet none of this placated the anger I felt or the grimness with which I spoke to him now. I often just glared in response to questions he asked. I needed my rage. It was the only barrier left to throw up between me and the truth: this trip to bring my grandmother back was not going to restore my happiness. And so what occurred next took place because I couldn’t face this truth, couldn’t accept I had reached the end of the road.

About a week later, while we were washing up after dinner, Michael reminded me that Satomi’s birthday was approaching and that he had promised a while
ago he would throw a party for her in our apartment the coming Saturday.

“That woman is not entering our home,” I declared, holding out a washed pot to him.

He took the pot and dried it. “Satomi has nothing to do with Oliver.”

“You think I’m an idiot, that I don’t know you told her about Oliver even before you told me? She was going to New York with you and no doubt would have aided and abetted the whole shitty thing.”

“That’s not fair!”

“She’s always disliked me and been jealous of our relationship. I don’t want her here.”

“Well, I’m having the party. It’s my apartment.”

“Yes, I know.” I gave him an acid look. “I’m merely a tenant here.”

“Shivan! Can’t we please find some way to be comfortable with each other?”

I turned my shoulder away and continued to wash dishes.

On Saturday morning, Michael informed me nervously we had to visit Granville Island Public Market and get provisions for the party. I looked him over with disdain. “Do you actually think I’m going to help you shop for the party of a friend I despise?”

“Why are you like this?” he begged softly.

“You dare to ask me that, after what you’ve done? After you were going to fuck that old sleazebag in New York? I told you the truth. Now I’m even going all the way to Sri Lanka so we can be good together. But you don’t care. You don’t notice what I do. Nothing is good enough for you.”

After he left, I went out onto the balcony and watched him walk up Harwood Street. The stoop of his shoulders made me want to cry, yet I couldn’t control this urge to punish him. “Enough,” I kept saying to myself, “enough, enough.”

I went for a walk along the seawall. It was the first really lovely day of spring. The temperature had risen to twenty, and a mild breeze was coming in off the ocean. Soon I had removed my jacket and tied it around my waist, sleeves slapping against my thighs as I strode along. The pathway ahead was crowded with a group of Middle Eastern families. The women pushed strollers, their burkas cracking like sails against their bodies, their unheeded warning cries to children like ululations. The men walked in front, speaking and gesticulating effusively, passing around bags of nuts and sweets with old-fashioned courtesy. A young boy on roller skates was being pulled along
by a large out-of-control golden retriever, the boy pitching from side to side, in danger of going over the seawall onto the rocks below. The vendors had come out, and there was the caramelized odour of scorched hot dog buns in the air, the gunshot smell of popcorn.

I walked for three hours, then sat down in the grass among some totem poles to take a break. By now I was sure Michael would be home, and I exulted at him finding me gone without so much as a note left behind. He would have bought fresh bagels, lox and cream cheese for lunch, as we always did at the market. It filled me with vicious pleasure to think of his worry as he sat eating, wondering what had become of me.

Once rested, I continued on, and when I reached the other end of Stanley Park it was early afternoon. I felt like eating Thai food and wandered into a restaurant on Robson Street. While I waited for my meal to arrive, I flipped through a
Georgia Straight
someone had left on the seat across from mine and read the film reviews. There was nothing I wanted to see at the closest multiplex, but I decided to take a bus to Granville Street and go to whichever matinee I arrived in time for. It would be early evening when the movie finished, and by then Michael would be frantic. Yet even the thought of his panic could not sate me. Each thing I did to punish him inflamed my need to punish him further.