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 18th 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.”