Anil's Ghost by Michael Ondaatje Page A

breasts. Her body felt good against the hard floor, the coolness of the polished concrete through the newspaper, the same firmness she had felt as a child sleeping on mats.
    He was using the felt marker to trace her shape. You will have to put your arms down for a moment. She could feel the pen move around her hands and alongside her waist, then down her legs, both sides, so he linked the blue lines at the base of her heels.
    She rose out of the outline, turned back and saw he had drawn outlines of the four skeletons as well.
     
    There was a knocking and she roused herself. She hadn’t moved. All evening she kept discovering herself stilled, unable to think. Even reading she’d gotten entangled sleepily in the arms of paragraphs that wouldn’t let her go. Something about the phrasing of Ava Gardner’s complaint about Sinatra held her. Wrapped in a sheet she opened the door. Sarath passed her the bulb and disappeared from sight. He had been in a shirt and sarong. She was going to ask him to . . . She pulled the table to the centre of the room, switched the light off. She used the sheet to unscrew the hot bulb. She feared wild electricity somewhere in the wire. She could hear the noise of the waves outside. With effort she lifted her head and screwed the bulb Sarath had brought into the socket. Everything was suddenly heavy and slowed down.
    She lay flat on the bed, cold once more, shivering, a moan in her mouth. She rummaged through her bag and found two small bottles of scotch she had taken from the plane. Sarath had taken off her clothes and traced her outline. Had he done that?
    The telephone rang. It was America. A woman’s voice.
    ‘Hello? Hello? Leaf? God it’s you! You got my message.’
    ‘You’ve picked up an accent already.’
    ‘No, I— Is this a legal call?’
    ‘Your voice is all up and down.’
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘Are you okay, Anil?’
    ‘I’m sick. It’s very late. No, no. It’s fine. I’ve been waiting for you. It’s just I’m sick and it makes me feel even further away from everybody. Leaf? Are you well?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Tell me. How well?’
    There was silence. ‘I’m not remembering. I’m forgetting your face.’
    Anil could hardly breathe. She turned from the phone to wipe her cheek on the pillow. ‘Are you there? Leaf?’ She heard the noise of great distances on the line between them. ‘Is your sister with you?’
    ‘My sister?’ Leaf said.
    ‘Leaf, listen, remember—who killed Cherry Valance?’
    Crackle and silence as she held the phone tight to her ear.
    In the next room Sarath had his eyes open, unable to escape the sound of Anil’s weeping.
     
    *
     
    Sarath reached his hand across the breakfast plates and held Anil’s wrist. His thumb on her pulse. ‘We’ll get to Colombo this afternoon. We can work on the skeleton in the ship lab.’
    ‘And keep the skeleton with us, whatever happens,’ she said.
    ‘We keep all four. A unit. A disguise. We claim they’re all ancient. Your fever is down.’
    She pulled her hand away. ‘I’ll remove a chip from Sailor’s heel—to have a private ID.’
    ‘If we take more pollen and earth samples, we can find out where he was buried first. Then do the study on the boat.’
    ‘There’s a woman who has been working on pupae around here,’ Anil said. ‘I read an article. I’m sure she was from Colombo. It was a very good junior thesis.’
    He looked at her quizzically. ‘Don’t know. Try the young faculty when you’re at the hospital.’
    They sat facing each other in silence.
    ‘I said to my girlfriend Leaf before I came here,
Perhaps I’ll meet the man who is going to ruin me.
Can I trust you?’
    ‘You have to trust me.’
     
    They were at the Mutwal docks in Colombo by early evening. She helped him carry the four skeletons into the lab on board the
Oronsay.
    ‘Take tomorrow off,’ he said. ‘I have to find more equipment, so I’ll need a day.’
    Anil remained on the ship after he left, wanting to work for a