26/96. The thermometer says 32°, but I don’t believe it. It must be 37 at least. They’ve taken my portable fan for an assembly in the auditorium, and I have to keep the ceiling fan on low or it scatters the kids’ stuff. The windows are open but it makes no difference. Sigh. If I’d never moved away from here, would I be comfortable in this wretched heat? I know, I know. It got hot where you and I grew up, but this is different. There’s no winter here. I think my body underwent some sort of mutation over all those Canadian winters. That makes sense, doesn’t it? Or am I just a born wimp? Hmm. I can see you smiling, Clare. You know the truth. First-class whiner and complainer, that’s me, no? But my life is here now. Or it will be. I’m not going back. Where I should go is to the staff room (it has air con), but I’m not in the mood to socialize. Anyway, the break’s just about over. English 12 next. More essays coming in today—sigh again. Thank God for Easter holidays.
RUDY CLOSED HIS DIARY and glanced up at the clock. Wistfully he tried to imagine being cold, to conjure up the sensations of stinging cheeks and frozen nostril hairs, but a trickle of sweat meandering from his temple to his ear distracted him. Something had happened to him in his twenty-five-year absence. The heat in which he used to play cricket and hunt for snakes now tortured him. On particularly oppressive days, his hands and feet swelled up and he moved like an old man through the viscous air. The weight he’d put on from his aunt’s cooking slowed him down all the more. And he sweated—unstoppable streams that pooled in any crease or depression, dripped from the hooked tip of his narrow nose, salted his lips and stung his eyes. As students began wandering in, he recalled the day he’d confiscated a crumpled drawing depicting a naked Mr. Vantwest (the maple leaf covering the nether regions gave it away) spraying sweat over the school flower beds. Embarrassed, but also amused—it was a damn good cartoon—he’d slipped the paper into his pocket and carried on with the lesson while wide-eyed glances darted back and forth across the room.
Today, however, he was quite certain his students wouldn’t be taking any notice of him. The object of their attention would still be the new student, Kandasamy Selvarajah, now strolling toward the front desk of the middle row, explaining the correct use of the semicolon to a group of girls. Kanda wasn’t an ordinary student. He was larger somehow, more present. He’d read more English literature than most of Rudy’s colleagues and had no reservations about quoting Shakespeare or Milton to his bewildered classmates. He was the kind of pupil Rudy had fantasized about having back in Canada. But the reality was all wrong. The boy’s presence in class—his confidence, his command of the lessons—had become irritating. Each time he raised his hand, Rudy felt his own hands clench. He expected to be challenged, to be revealed as a fool or an impostor. And yet, there was nothing concrete for him to complain about, even to himself.
The bell rang. Shirt sticking, drips of sweat trickling from his temples, Rudy took his place before the five rows of uniformed boys and girls, looked past Kanda, and said, “Good morning.” As the buzz of conversation quieted, he mopped his face with his handkerchief. “We’re going to start off with some of those exercises on identifying point of view,” he began. “I think we got up to page sixty-five last time.”
Textbooks were opened, pages flipped. When it seemed to Rudy that most of them were ready, he began reading the page sixty-five excerpt from Robinson Crusoe, his voice strangely crisp in the languid air. His students listened politely, not taking in a word of it, he was sure. With the exception of Kanda. By the end of the passage, not five minutes into the class, the boy’s hand was up. Wiping his forehead, Rudy braced himself wearily against the possibilities—a comment on Defoe’s racism, perhaps (though the selected excerpt was innocent enough), a question about the meaning of distemper ... or maybe that challenge he would be unable to answer. He lowered his eyes and met Kanda’s stare.
“Yes?”
The boy hesitated a moment, then cleared his throat. “Are you feeling ill, sir?”
Around the room heads turned and eyes widened. Rudy coughed involuntarily. “What do you mean?”
“I was only wondering, sir, as you seem to be perspiring very heavily. I thought you might be ill.”
If it was a joke, or an insult, the kid certainly had balls. Rudy mopped his face and studied his student. Kanda himself was tidy to a fault—navy tie knotted snugly around his white collar, black hair trimmed and gelled, spine straight, skin dry. I’m not the impostor here, his appearance insisted. Yet his expression was sympathetic. Not a hint of ridicule or sarcasm.
“I’m not sick, Kanda. I just don’t handle the heat very well. Anymore. But thank you for your concern.” He glanced at James Fernando, the caricaturist, and snickered in spite of himself. “You see, when I first came here, I applied for a job as a garden sprinkler,” he said, folding his handkerchief into a neat square. “But I wasn’t quite sweaty enough, so they made me a teacher instead.”
While James shrank behind his desk, the others laughed. Rudy risked a wink. Then Kanda raised his hand again.
“I have an idea, sir. If we put the desks in a semicircle and you stood under the fan, you might be more comfortable.”
Around the room there were murmurs of approval. Rudy dragged the folded handkerchief along his jaw. Finding no good reason not to take Kanda’s suggestion, he nodded, and the boy stood up. It seemed that he intended to organize the desk-moving himself, and indeed he got right to it, directing his classmates, even reminding them not to scrape the furniture across the floor. “Lift it up, or it leaves marks,” he said, his manner neither condescending nor bossy. When the brief chaos had subsided and the students were again seated, their desks forming a horseshoe that opened toward the front of the room, Rudy took his place under the ceiling fan. Chamika Heenatigala, seated closest to the regulator dial, got up and adjusted the speed to full. In the rush of cool air, Rudy’s shirt pulled away from his skin, and his pores tightened in tiny, euphoric contractions. He pocketed his handkerchief, cleared his throat, and returned to the lesson with an awkward smile in Kanda’s direction.
At the end of class, he called for the essays he’d assigned. There was a brief stampede at his desk, and when this had subsided, Kanda came up, paper in hand. “I hope this is acceptable, sir.”
Rudy straightened the stack of essays on the desk. “I’m sure it’ll be fine. Would you like me to consider it a practice run? I mean, I’ll mark it, but we don’t have to count it. You weren’t here when I explained the assignment.”
“I’d like you to count it, please.”
Rudy nodded and took the essay. It occurred to him suddenly that he should thank his student for the new seating arrangement. In his head he fumbled with the words, but the longer he hesitated, the more lodged in his throat the message became, until it seemed that to cough it out would sound ridiculous. Just as Kanda was about to disappear out the classroom door, he called to him to enjoy his holiday, but the boy didn’t seem to hear.
Rudy stared blankly at the door, then he lowered his eyes to the essay in his hand. The title, “A Defence of the Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam and Their Fight for a Tamil Homeland,” made him frown. He’d asked his students to write argument essays, and predictably most of their chosen topics were banal. Kanda’s topic challenged even more than his classroom manner did. At the same time, Rudy felt his ambiguous antipathy toward the boy taking root in the unequivocal words. He checked the clock then added the paper to the pile.
THE BUS HOME WAS CROWDED AND HOT. Arms and legs, shopping bundles and briefcases nibbled at the boundaries of the tiny space Rudy managed to secure on a padded vinyl seat behind the rear doorway. He eyed
