The Hamilton Case by Michelle de Kretser Page A

writing boxes under the shade trees composing petitions for illiterate clients passed on speculation as certainty. The lowly bun proctors, who spent their days in the crumbling yellow hotel opposite the court where they would take on a case for the price of a cup of tea and a bun, embellished all facts with the baroque flourishes of master craftsmen. Men swore they had
reliable information
that all district judgeships would henceforth be filled from the Bar. Various fellows claimed to have heard from various other fellows who knew a
highly placed chap
that an all-Ceylonese Supreme Court was
in the bag
. Now here was Sir George tacitly confirming the foundations of such talk, if not its airier reaches. An able man embarking on a judicial career could look forward to rapid advancement: that was the gist of it.
    I was flattered; who would not have been? Yet I hesitated. There were, in the first instance, financial considerations. I was already pulling in fees well in excess of a magistrate’s salary. To give up the Bar would mean a considerable drop in income. My equivocation was fueled also by a sense of injured pride. Magistrate of Tangalle: it was hardly an illustrious beginning, even if Sir George was hinting at more to follow. One would have thought that my education and reputation entitled me to a district judgeship at the least, even if my relative lack of experience ruled out a more senior appointment.
    As well as coffee, Sir George’s peon had brought in a silver salver laden with sweets and pastries. The KA was known for his sweet tooth. At a cocktail party where the usual trays of deviled eggs and angels on horseback were circulating, he was said to have reached into his pocket and brought out a handful of marzipan-stuffed dates: “Do have one. They’re frightfully good.”
    While talking to me he had helped himself to potato
aluwa
, milk toffee,
thala guli
, coconut rock and two cream horns. Now he produced a large, blinding handkerchief with which he dabbed his lips as I considered how best to reply. At last, while stressing my sensibility to the honor I was being shown, I asked for time in which to reflect on my position. I hinted at financial difficulties, perhaps slightly exaggerating the unenviable state of affairs I had inherited from my father.
    Sir George nodded. The English understand money even if they do not always respect it; with us it is the other way around. Could my decision be postponed for a few weeks? “By all means,” replied Sir George.
    Two years later the KA made a first-class ass of himself over a Mrs. Jansz, whose cardamom-scented love cake was greatly in demand at birthday parties. He was obliged to leave the service in disgrace. That morning, as we shook hands, his fingers were just a little sticky.

A LITIGIOUS PEOPLE
    T he day after my conversation with Sir George I received a telephone call from Marcus Fernando, an old friend of Pater’s who lived up-country. Marcus and his two brothers, Clifford and Ronnie, were embroiled in a testamentary case over their father’s will that had dragged on for years and long escalated out of all proportion. But we are a famously litigious people. In 1849 Major Thomas Skinner noted that our love of litigation was probably not exceeded anywhere in the world; and the major, whose relentless application of engineering and ambition over nineteen years produced the Colombo-to-Kandy road, was quite a connoisseur of obsession.
    The original suit brought by Marcus had branched into a forest of countersuits and claims and writs and injunctions that outdid each other in improbability. For instance Clifford had sought damages against Marcus for allegedly sending a henchman to urinate on his wife’s dahlias, thus destroying her chances at the annual flower show. (“Ever heard such rot?” spluttered Marcus. “Why would I pay some bugger to urinate on her bally flowers? As if I’m a
godeya
who’s never heard of weedkiller.”)
    Recently there had been