Jonny goes up to Jaki at the door and whispers in her ear. You float close enough to eavesdrop. ‘Get out of here now, sweetheart. They will burn this gallery to the ground.’
‘OK,’ says Jaki and does not move. Perhaps she feels emboldened by dating the ex of a Minister’s nephew. Most likely, she has not calculated the odds and therefore does not care. She sits there all evening, as the place begins to throng and people are asking each other who this MA is, and then a high-pitched voice pierces the air as if through a foghorn, even though Minister Cyril Wijeratne does not hold one.
The Minister has a bandaged leg and an arm in a cast. He sits in a wheelchair, propelled by Detective Cassim. The Detective looks like he has worked overtime since the blast. He sees Jaki seated in the corner and catches her eye. Jaki stares at him as if wanting to say ‘Sorry but I’ve forgotten whatever I promised you and Stanley is dead’. What she would like to say is ‘Thank you for saving me’, but she’s unsure how to convey that with a gesture, and then Cassim averts his eyes and pushes the Minister forward.
The Minister grunts, his feeble frame shuddering. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, due to dangerous intelligence reports, a curfew will be declared at 9 p.m. today. I advise that you make your way home as swiftly as you can.’
There is chatter and there are shouts and then there is panic as a bottleneck forms at the entrance and the Colombo 7 bubble begins to burst, jostling like a Colombo 10 bazaar. They do not see the Minister’s Demon walking beside the wheelchair. He gives you a wink and a nod.
The men who are neither army nor police position themselves at the exits as the Minister makes Cassim wheel him around the exhibition. He pauses at a photo, points to it, and then Cassim dutifully takes it down. You watch in silence as photos of dead journalists, kidnapped activists and beaten priests are erased from your walls, along with exploded planes, dead villagers and rabid mobs.
After the Minister leaves, with a lapful of frames, so do the spirits. You do not know if this is out of respect for you or out of boredom. You end up alone before walls filled with gaps. You hear the Dead Tourists bang the jukebox in the Arts Centre upstairs, and on comes a song your Dada used to love, that you ended up loathing. ‘The Gambler’ by that great philosopher Kenneth Ray Rogers.
The photos that remain came from only one of your five envelopes. They show sunsets and sunrises, hills of tea and crystal beaches, pangolins and peacocks, elephants with their young, and a beautiful boy and a wonderful girl running through strawberry fields. It is the envelope titled the Perfect Ten, and it pleases you like your own work rarely ever does.
And even though the photos are black and white, they gleam incandescent like all the colours of a royal flush. This island is a beautiful place, despite being filled with fools and savages. And if these photos of yours are the only ones that outlive you, maybe that’s an ace that you can keep. Chat with Dead Leopard
‘The only God worth knowing is electricity,’ says the Dead Leopard, standing upright at the counter, paws on your ledger book. ‘It is true sorcery worth kneeling before.’
‘What do you know of electricity?’ you say, watching the queue behind him lurch back as if a fart had poisoned the air. ‘And how are you speaking without moving those… are those lips?’
You have had many visits over the moons you have been at this counter, but never a member of the animal kingdom. You point to the ledger book and the beast shuffles to the left, removing its paws. You pick up the book and open it and read seven words:
Animals have souls.
Every living thing does.
The leopard studies you with its eyes and you are startled. Its eyes are not green or yellow, as on most dead beasts you have encountered. They are not brown or blue like those of the sapiens. They are white. ‘When the cabins in Block Three at Yala got electricity, I was impressed. I spent night after night hiding outside them, marvelling at the fluorescent lamps. If barbarian monkeys could create something like this, imagine what I could do.’
‘How can I help?’
‘I want to be reborn as Homo sapiens. And you will assist.’
‘That’s not my job.’
‘I need tools to create. The human meat suit comes well equipped.’
‘Not sure I can help you.’
‘Then let me meet the Creator. I will plead my case.’
‘I don’t believe in Creators.’
‘Don’t be silly. Even slaughterhouse pigs believe in a Creator.’
‘I don’t believe anyone is watching over anything.’
The leopard snorts and licks its paw.
‘Why should a Creator watch over you? Wasn’t creating you enough?’
It is not often you are stumped by a feline. This jungle cat appears to have a larger soul than most of the former Homo sapiens who have darkened your counter.
‘I guess every creature thinks itself the centre of the universe.’
‘I don’t. Because we’re not. We are microcosms,’ says the leopard. ‘An ant colony contains the universe. Though it is not its centre.’
‘Big word to describe a tiny thing,’ you say, and the animal blushes like a kitten.
‘I’ve spent a lot of time staring at insects.’
‘They do say insects control more of this planet than humans.’
You flip the page of your ledger book and stare at the words:
Do not get drawn into conversations you wish to exit.
‘Insects have genius. No doubt. There are thousands of species on both land and water far more intelligent than humans.’
‘Look, I have a busy shift.’
‘But none have invented lightbulbs yet.’
The leopard proves difficult to dismiss. You flip the pages of your ledger, but find nothing of use.
‘You want to invent lightbulbs?’
‘I have prowled your cities and observed how you live. It is both disgusting and remarkable.’
‘What’s wrong with being a leopard? You’re the king of the jungle over here.’
‘Not when the jungle keeps disappearing.’
‘You sound like a boy I once knew.’
‘I tried to survive without killing. Lasted a month. What to do? I’m a savage beast. Only humans can practise compassion properly. Only humans can live without being cruel.’
‘Aren’t most herbivores kind?’
‘Rabbits don’t have a choice. Humans do. I want a taste of that.’
‘There’s not much to taste.’
‘Everybody is just trying not to get eaten. I need a break from the food chain.’
‘Have you had… your ears checked?’
‘Of course.’
‘There is no animal more savage than a human.’
‘Of that, I have no doubt. But most evil can be cleansed from within.’
‘When you’re a human, you won’t remember being a leopard.’
‘How did you get this job, if you have no clue how things work? Nothing is forgotten. We just don’t remember where we put it.’
‘Maybe we should swap places,’ you say.
‘That is precisely what I am suggesting.’
‘Most sapiens are disappointed with themselves. Be careful what you…’
‘Yes, yes. I’ve heard this. But you can create light with some wires and a switch. I’ll take my chances.’
‘Not sure if you get to choose.’
‘Oh, that is one thing I am certain of. We all get to choose. If you can’t bring me back as a human, bring me back as a leopard with the smarts of a queen bee, the soul of a blue whale and the opposable thumbs of a savage monkey, cos opposable thumbs are essential when screwing bulbs.’
Confused, you open the ledger book and read what it tells you to do.
You go moons without thinking of DD and the boys who fondled you. You lose track of the country’s wars as they morph into conflicts unrecognisable from their causes. You hear that Drivermalli has joined Sena, who has taken his army up north and was last seen trying to assassinate an Indian prime minister. And then, while perched on your favourite mara tree in your favourite cemetery, you hear your name floating on the wind like a crumpled leaf.