surround of a fact. Or you’ll be like one of those journalists who file reports about flies and scabs while staying at the Galle Face Hotel. That false empathy and blame.’
‘You have a hang-up about journalists, don’t you.’
‘That’s how we get seen in the West. It’s different here, dangerous. Sometimes law is on the side of power not truth.’
‘I just feel I’ve been cooling my heels ever since I got here. Doors that should be open are closed. We’re here to supposedly investigate disappearances. But I go to offices and I can’t get in. Our purpose here seems to be the result of a gesture.’ Then she said, ‘That small piece of bone I found, the first day in the hold, you knew it wasn’t old, didn’t you?’
Sarath said nothing. So she continued. ‘When I was in Central America there was a villager who said to us: When soldiers burned our village they said this is the law, so I thought the law meant the right of the army to kill us.’
‘Be careful what you reveal.’
‘And who I would reveal it to.’
‘That too, yes.’
‘I was invited here.’
‘International investigations don’t mean a lot.’
‘Was it difficult getting the permit for us to work in the caves?’
‘It was difficult.’
She had been taping his remarks about archaeology in this part of the island. Now the conversation strayed onto other subjects, and she eventually asked him about the ‘Silver President’—the populace’s nickname for President Katugala because of his shock of white hair. What was Katugala really like? Sarath was silent. Then his hand reached over and took the tape recorder from her lap. ‘Is your tape recorder off?’ He made sure it was switched off and only then answered her question. The last time she had used the machine was at least an hour earlier; it lay there forgotten by her. But he hadn’t forgotten.
They turned off the road and stopped at a rest house, ordered lunch and sat outside above a deep valley.
‘Look at that bird, Sarath.’
‘A bulbul.’
She put herself into the position of the bird as it took off, and was suddenly vertiginous, realizing how high they were above the valley, the landscape like a green fjord beneath them. In the distance the open plain was bleached white, resembling the sea.
‘You know birds, do you?’
‘Yes. My wife knew them well.’
Anil said nothing, waiting for him to say more or to formally digress from the subject. But he stayed in his silence.
‘Where is your wife?’ she asked finally.
‘I lost her a few years ago, she did—She killed herself.’
‘Jesus. I’m so sorry, Sarath. I’m so . . .’
His face had become vague. ‘She had left me a few months before.’
‘I’m sorry I asked. I always ask, I’m too curious. I drive people mad.’
Later, in the van, to break the longer silence. ‘Did you know my father? You’re how old?’
‘Forty-nine,’ Sarath said.
‘I’m thirty-three. Did you know him?’
‘I’ve heard of him. He was quite a bit older.’
‘I kept hearing my dad was a ladies’ man.’
‘I heard that too. If someone’s charming they say that.’
‘I think it was true. I just wish I had been older—to learn things from him. I wish I’d had that.’
‘There was a monk,’ Sarath said. ‘He and his brother were the best teachers in my life—and it was because they taught me when I was an adult. We need parents when we’re old too. I would meet him once or twice a year when he came to Colombo, and he’d somehow help me become simpler, clearer to myself. Nārada was a great laugher. He would laugh at your foibles. An ascetic. He stayed in a little room in a temple when he was in town. I’d visit him for a coffee, he sat on the bed, I sat on the one chair he’d bring in from the hall. Talking archaeology. He’d written a few pamphlets in Sinhala, but his brother, Palipana, was the famous one in that field, though there never seemed to be any jealousy between them. Nārada and Palipana. Two brilliant brothers. Both of them were my teachers.
‘Most of the time Nārada lived near Hambantota. My wife and I would go down to visit. You walked over hot dunes and came upon the commune for unemployed youth he’d set up by the sea.
‘We were all shaken by his murder. He was shot in his room while sleeping. I’ve had friends die who were my age, but I miss that old man more. I suppose I was expecting him to teach me