Free The Legend of Pradeep Mathew by Shehan Karunatilaka Page B

me. ‘Am I right?’
    ‘Revised, how?’ I ask, as if I am a drunk in a bar wielding a bottle.
    ‘Pradeep Mathew,’ says Danila, shaking her head.
    ‘That fool was a troublemaker,’ says the MD, smiling at his cufflinks. ‘Also, he left debts to the Cricket Board.’
    ‘What sort of debts?’
    ‘Bigger than all your annual salaries put together, Uncle. Broke his contract and left loans. The SLBCC does not wish to promote such a character.’
    ‘Where is he now?’ asks Ari.
    The MD shrugs. ‘Ask Dhani, Pradeep was her friend, no?’
    Danila smiles and says nothing.
    ‘If I knew where he was, I would personally break his face,’ says the MD with a smile.
    Brian has been seething in a corner for some time. He controls his voice. ‘If you like we will remove the Mathew segment. But you cannot cancel funding. Graham Snow promised these gentlemen…’
    ‘No offence, Brian,’ says Danila. ‘Graham Snow makes a lot of promises when he’s drunk. If we funded every one of them, we’d be bankrupt.’
    ‘Seven lakhs, no, Wije? We have it in writing.’
    The MD pours himself some coffee. ‘There are many sports shows wanting grants. We cannot put all our eggs in one basket.’
    The walls have photos of great cricketers of eras past and a few bats with signatures on them. On the antique desk is a photo of Punchipala’s wife and two sons. Next to it is a giant TV screen showing the highlights of Sri Lanka’s surprise win over Australia in the Benson and Hedges World Series. This is the reason for the meeting starting thirty-nine minutes late or at 0.39 SLT.
    Under a framed photo of Madam President, the TV replays Kalu belting Glenn McGrath. It distracts us for a moment. I breathe in air that has been conditioned and freshened, listen to the low hum of the TV, and speak. ‘I suggest we call Graham Snow. It’s his money. We have invested time into this project. If anyone is to pull the plug, it should be him.’
    At first there is resistance. Danila places her hand on Punchipala’s forearm and suggests this may be a wise course of action. He calls his secretary. A toy is placed on the table, black with flashing red lights. We are told that it may take a while to get Graham Snow on the line.
    ‘Bugger must be full busy. NSPN have extended his contract,’ says Brian, not without envy.
    ‘How are our boys? You think they will get into finals?’ The MD turns up the TV and steers us in the direction of all Sri Lankan conversations this holiday season.
    Despite the future of our documentary being in tatters, Ari cannot resist. ‘MD. This is only our second win. We have to win all remaining games to get to the finals.’
    Neither can I. ‘No. No. We will win. Our team is pumped up. They are playing for Murali.’
    ‘Now they have cleared Murali, no?’ says Rakwana.
    ‘Real umpires haven’t no-balled him,’ says Mrs Kolombage. ‘Only that fellow Hair. Must cut that hair. Hee. Hee. You saw that, Doctor? Watch. Watch. McGrath is shouting at our Kalu. Next three balls, Kalu whacks him for fours.’
    It is more words than she has spoken in all previous meetings combined.
    ‘Hello. Graham Snow speaking.’
    His voice crackles from the toy on the table. The static is worse than my Samyo radio, which gives me perfect reception from Lord’s, Barbados and Cape Town, but can only offer broken signals from neighbouring Mumbai. Danila reaches for the remote and kills the TV.
    ‘Hi, Graham. This is Jayantha Punchipala. Sri Lanka Cricket Board.’
    ‘Hi, Jayantha.’
    ‘We have your friends, Karunasena and Byrd.’
    ‘Hello, chaps. Sorry for being out of touch. My schedule’s been mental. Love those scripts. Magnificent work. Can’t wait to see the films.’
    ‘We have my advertising manager, Danila…’
    ‘Hi, Dhani.’
    ‘My accounts manager, Yasmin…’
    ‘Look, Jayantha, could we skip the roll call? I’m really busy.’
    The MD drops his accent. ‘Graham. I am sorry but the Cricket Board cannot approve a