Lest They Be Forgotten

Nombera Eka (Number One)

(This story was written in 1980, submitted to the national radio station in the old country for its popular program "This Week's Short Story" and rejected because it was deemed "not good for tourism." The manuscript was subsequently lost by me and discovered 30 years later in a box of old belongings. The story was polished, resubmitted and was published in the UK anthology Forever Travels - Mandinam Press, in 2010)

 Nombera Eka

Bandu sits on the terrace of the hotel on the beach at Mt. Lavinia and sips a Coke. The sun is turning hot and soon the tourists will be out. A Scandinavian woman is already sprawled on a deckchair, her body glistening with sun-tan lotion. Bandu surveys her: blonde hair, eyes behind orange sunglasses, big breasts thrusting against a flimsy bikini top, a flabby belly, pubic hair threatening to emerge from all corners of her G-string, body yielding to the sun as if to a lover.

After a while the woman removes her bikini top and her white breasts flop out and level against her tanned skin; although nudism is against the law, tourists flout it openly and no one objects. The woman suddenly sickens Bandu. He turns his gaze away to encounter the waiter eyeing him and his empty Coke glass.

The waiter, a man in his early twenties and a few years older than Bandu, is one of his own kind. The guy has obviously studied and made it through hotel school. After all those years of hard work and earning a diploma, his parents must be proud of their son, serving drinks to blue-collar Europeans who choose Sri Lanka for a vacation. Bandu stares disdainfully at his fellow countryman and barks, “Yes?”

“Is there anything else you want?” The waiter speaks in Sinhala, his contempt palpable.

Bandu laughs. Serving a fellow countryman, and a tout at that, had probably not been on the waiter’s curriculum at hotel school.

“What?” Bandu yells back, staring the waiter down, his eyes narrowing in cruel delight as he remembers his last complaint to the Food & Beverage Manager about the poor service around here. “Do you want me to speak to Mr. Perera again? About your attitude?”

The waiter gulps. “Is there anything else you want – sir?”

Bandu laughs again. “Bugger off and bring me another Coca Cola.”

“Yes sir.”

On the street one of these days, Bandu knows that the waiter, out of uniform, will get even, pulling in some neigh-bourhood thugs to do the dirty work for him maybe. But right now that doesn’t matter; he is the guest and companion of a foreign tourist, and the waiter has to serve him. He is Nombera Eka or Numero Uno as his Italian tourist clients would say.

Bandu glances at the used newspaper carelessly spread out on the table before him. More bad news: Tamils Arming in the North. Why do they leave these banners of doom for tourists to read? He crumples the newspaper and tosses it into a nearby trash can.

Hoffman comes out on the terrace and smiles sadly when he sees Bandu. He makes his way over.

“Ach, Bandu – so it is my last day.” Hoffman sits down.

Bandu switches on his practised smile. He holds his hand out and Hoffman takes it greedily, fondling it. The German’s knee touches Bandu’s under the table, rubs and stays pressed.

“I hope you have had good holiday, Kurt.” They are familiar with each other’s broken English by now.

Kurt Hoffman, a thickset man of forty-five, balding, with missing teeth and bad breath. Bandu had met him two weeks earlier when a tourist charter arrived at the hotel. It was easy to spot his type in the group: while the rest were couples, and the men who came without women had other male company, Hoffman was alone, hugging his shoulder bag and the wel-come garland of flowers, looking surreptitiously towards the male receptionist at the check-in desk.