In The Fourth Girl by Arefa Tehsin, a long-buried disappearance brings three former friends face-to-face with the secrets they thought they had left behind and a question that refuses to stay buried: what really happened to the fourth girl?
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The Swimming Club
Colombo
4 March 2019
The air was peppered with sea salt and coconut. Egrets flew in formation comparing notes of the summery evening. The sun was a bindi on the forehead of the horizon, shifting shyly towards the ocean with matrimonial intent. A few ships stood still on the waves, buoyant as corks. The raucous shrieks of kids playing in the club’s saltwater swimming pool were drowned out by a rattling train. The tracks ran parallel to the club. The train thundered past on its seaside tracks against a perfectly immobile sky.
‘You know what is disarming about Sri Lanka? Even the ocean here seems to be swirling her skirts to the tune of baila.’ Qailah took a long drag off her cigar. ‘In Bombay, it slams on the Bandra rocks as if it were the police, whacking the asses of honest people.’
‘You mean Mumbai?’ Siddhesh felt duty bound to correct his countrymen (and women), even when he felt intimidated by them. Pride in one’s origins was not to be taken lightly.
Qailah let out a low chuckle. ‘Is that your next question?’ Her red lips matched the bloodthirsty dusk sky. And her eyes the biscuit brown of the butter cookies on the table. She rolled a lock of hair around her finger. The dampness of the sea breeze had made her curls frizzy.
Beauty scared Siddhesh even more than the constant fear of chewing his nails in public. He fumbled as he flipped his notebook for the questions. There was such dignity in being orthodox. Taking notes on your phone or tablet was the most vulgar thing to do.
‘I know you generally don’t do interviews, Qailah ji. Such a successful Indian author based in Sri Lanka—the largest selling romance author of the Indian subcontinent with three major Bollywood films made on her books. It’s an honour for me.’
‘It is for my own benefit, Siddhesh ji. I was alarmingly bored socializing with the usual suspects.’ She studied him with her kohl-lined eyes, tapping her painted nails on the table to a distant music. ‘I know you came from India to cover the funeral of Kehan Karunaratne, KK, who passed away early morning today. The internationally acclaimed editor-in-chief of The Punchline. You’re doing this interview as a side story.’
He felt a surge of uneasiness and let out an embarrassed cackle. ‘In-In Jaipur Literature Festival last year, you recited a poem on the increasing incidents of mob justice and lynching. And I quote . . .’
‘Yes, I spoke about that noble band who want the others to do exactly what they like. But must we continue in this depressing vein?’ A spicy cloud from her cigar twirled before eloping with the sea breeze.
‘Uh-huh . . . No, Qailah ji, not if you don’t like. Um . . . let me see. What is your favourite character in literature?’
‘You really mean to ask this question?’ She raised a perfectly arched brow.
‘No, actually . . . the favourite character you have written?’
‘Have you read my books? What is your favourite character from my novels, Siddhesh ji?’
Siddhesh almost took his gnawed nails to his teeth and stopped midair, horrified, directing his hand to scratch his chin instead. Tickle it, more likely, with the nailless fingers.
‘I have not had the honour . . . um . . . of reading . . .’
‘Gawd, the impoliteness of being polite all the time! That’s okay, you don’t look the reading type to me. Just the writing type.’ Qailah gestured at a crisp waiter with her cigar. ‘Malinga, can you be a saviour and see they don’t put more than two olives in my dry martini?’
‘Sure, Ma’am.’
‘What will be your poison tonight?’ she asked Siddhesh.
‘Er . . . just a cup of coffee. Cappuccino please. Extra milk.’ The waiter gave an efficient nod before striding away purposefully.
The bar was beyond the archways and a black and white chequered passage. The twentieth-century club with its white-washed walls stood right opposite Temple Trees, the prime minister’s official residence. Shouldering the American Embassy on one side and an ugly high rise under construction on the other, the club opened its arms to the Indian Ocean.
The scattered tables around the terrace and lawns had started filling up. The sun had sunk and the kids, wrapped in purple pool towels by their attending maids, were being marched to the changing rooms. They looked like walking banana flowers.
