This week’s Spectrum presents the final instalment of the series of excerpts the Sunday Observer brought its readers of bestselling Sri Lankan author, Ashok Ferrey’s latest novel, The Ceaseless Chatter of Demons, through a special arrangement with Penguin Random House, India.
The treasure, the treasure, the treasure! It was the only way out, the only hope. Like many very rich old people, Clarice was panic-stricken that she would have to spend the last years of her life in straitened circumstances.
So, the older she got, the more she deprived herself, and the more pleased she became.
Occasionally, a chicken would be brought to the house – to impress the very rare luncheon guest; as for the rest of the time, it was vegetables all the way.
‘Veggies are good for you,’ she said to the servants. The fact that the servants had to follow suit in this deprivation added a spice to the vegetables that no curry powder could ever hope to achieve.
Clarice was down to one egg a week now; which meant that the servants were down to none a week. The rubber slippers she wore at home were on their last legs, even if the legs they shod were not ready to go yet.
What pleased her most about this deprivation was that she had become so very good as a result of it. She felt sure, the day she died the angels would carry her straight off to heaven in a sort of celestial Ruhunu Kumari.
There would be no need for requiems or novenas or those endless sleep-inducing prayers by Father Rosario for the repose of some damned soul or other.
Indeed, she realized with some satisfaction, she was currently roller-blading at dizzy speeds on the Plains of Higher Goodness, where visions were commonplace. Every morning she surreptitiously checked her palms for signs of stigmata.
So, thoughts of angels and other celestial beings were uppermost in Clarice’s mind when the Devil happened to come around the corner.
‘You’re not . . . surely you’re not . . . oh, my Lord you are, aren’t you?’ she said in wonderment.
The Devil waved a modest hand. ‘Enough of that. We don’t believe in titles where I come from.’
‘And where is that?’ asked Clarice archly, knowing full well.
The Devil laughed. ‘Well, shall we say Down Under?’
Clarice was a little disappointed. ‘I didn’t know they had angels in Australia?’
‘Australia? Who said anything about Australia?’
Clarice’s suspicions were now fully aroused. This was not an angel at all. Just that nosy transgender neighbour from Australia. ‘Oh, go to hell!’ she snapped.
‘I will,’ said the Devil. ‘I just need a little more time.’
The Devil was having a hard time of it. He had been sent upstairs to drum up business – a one man trade delegation – and Ceylon (or Sri Lanka as it was now known) had been the obvious choice. If that very fine upstanding cleric Bishop Heber had noted in the 19th century that in Ceylon’s fair isle only man was vile, and if Ceylonese themselves were fond of singing this hymn ad nauseam in their churches and chapels, who was he, a mere Devil, to contradict it?
So far the Devil had identified two people at the walauwa worthy of attention.
The Kumarihamy, though an absolute given, had been something of a disappointment. ‘Stop twirling that cape!’ she had snarled at him only the other day. ‘People will think you’re a Nancy boy. Remember you’re Australian. Try to be a man.’ The Devil did not exactly know what a Nancy boy was, but it did not sound good.
Clarice seemed to be a thoroughly nasty woman; in fact she managed to put the very devil into him each time they met. His nerves were all in shreds. Then there was Pandu the garden boy, who exhibited great potential for wickedness.
Pandu spent most of his afternoons weeding the flower beds that dotted the terraces around the big house.
Since there are only so many weeds you can pull out, and Pandu was bored much of the time, he turned his attentions to the flowers themselves.
‘When in doubt, pull it out,’ he sang to himself as he hurled perfectly good flowers over the terrace edge.
‘Ahem,’ said the Devil, who had been watching this wanton destruction for a little while. ‘I see you have green fingers.’
Pandu looked at his fingers. They looked perfectly normal to him. ‘Are you a goat?’ he asked.
‘Don’t be an ass!’ hissed the Devil. ‘Now listen to me closely. You like to earn a bit of pocket money?’
Pandu nodded. This was more like it. The Devil began whispering in Pandu’s ear, outlining his fiendish plan. There was a sudden click of the walker and the Kumarihamy stood above them, swaying gloriously and blocking out the sun, majestic and forbidding like some hairy old prophetess from the Old Testament.
‘Ha!’ she cackled. ‘Caught you!’
Pandu and the Devil sprang apart guiltily.
‘Watch out for him,’ said the Kumarihamy to Pandu. ‘He has wandering hands. He’s Australian.’