Beggar's Feast by Randy Boyagoda Page A

things like the small world’s mallis and butterfly catchers. As promised: he would arrive as no one had before him.
    Sam tried schemes on six Englishmen—owners of a Crossley 19.6, a Crossley 25/30, a Morris Bullnose, a Morris Cowley, an Austin 12/4, and a Wolseley. He was laughed at and chased off and informed on one occasion that the vehicle in question had been used by the Prince of Wales during a tour of India and was most certainly not for native hire. And yet, whenever he wasn’t conducting his rice- and boy-loading business at the harbour, Sam was moving about Fort, listening for that cough and chug no bullock or man could make, his eyes sharp for the world-piercing flash that was sunlight on polished chrome. Going only harder after six no’s, Sam forced his own hand. He went to Galle and then on to Matara, where he searched inland until he found a fit house for his father and then returned to Colombo and from there went to the village with papers to show and a rail ticket to give and so sent his father south, and before leaving to arrive he discreetly inquired and had confirmed that yes, the Ralahami had an unmarried daughter. Only then did he return to Colombo to visit the offices of Paulet and Son, the firm whose rice Sam had been short-loading for months.
    â€œBefore you say anything else,” Henry Paulet began, standing at his desk to receive him, “and even though your suit has brought you this far into this office and it seems better than one might expect or really want, the answer, young man, is no. I have no need of a driver.”
    â€œSir, I have not come here to see you about a position. I have come because—”
    â€œJust where have you been to school?” Henry Paulet asked of his English, sitting forward, the first of the two occasions they met. He was crumpled and tired looking in his beige suit, like an old birthday balloon, an Englishman too long in the tropics.
    â€œIn the world, sir.”
    â€œWell said!” Paulet sat back. “That kind of answer means either you must be someone’s son gone to seed or you must be no one’s son and trying to do something about it. Well?”
    â€œI know who’s been short-loading rice onto your company’s ships.”
    â€œSo neither, or both, and anyway you’re just another Judas come for his silver.”
    â€œI have not come for any silver,” Sam began. “I have come about your losing money on your rice shipments. I have come to offer my assistance—”
    â€œExcuse me, sir. Mummy said to bring tea.”
    Sam turned at the girl’s voice and saw her roundness and he turned again to see Paulet with his head down, molesting his desk blotter as she approached with the tray. When she set it down the Englishman tensed and held his breath. Sam saw and Sam had him. Soo sa
    â€œAnd so,” Paulet coughed back into conversation, speaking over the servant girl’s leaving, her free hands back of her hips, her feet beating the timber floors, her mouth muttering the breathing song her mother taught her, “take your tea, but I only have so much time in the day, young man—”
    â€œLooks to me you have three months, at most, no?” Sam lit a cigarette, blew smoke and stared.
    Paulet hit a switch for the ceiling fan. The topmost papers on the desk lifted and fell a little. Barred light came through the second-floor window. Slow fan and barred light and city noise: carters and dogs calling after people, tram bells and a convent bell calling schoolgirls to little hours, a general static of crying babies; someone was recognized and recognized back; someone else needed another malli to help carry a chest. And through all that noise Sam could hear Paulet stirring his tea; thin silver on the thin rim of a bone china cup; the wearing down of men and days.
    â€œJust what do you propose?” Henry asked.
    â€œThat we take a drive in your vehicle, to start,” Sam