‘Your father was… this thing… right?’

‘What…’

‘Your father was Nelson K. Tissera?’

‘Yes.’

‘I worked with him at Spittel’s Hospital.’

‘Yes…’

‘Look at those padayas. Look-the rubbish here in the halls. This is a hospital, no? Bloody bastards, like a latrine. You are busy now?’

She was busy though she could have changed her plans. She was eager to speak to Dr. Perera and reminisce about her father, but she wanted to do so when he was decaffeinated, calm and alone, not in the midst of a fury. ‘I’ve got a government appointment, I’m afraid, sir. But I’m in Colombo for a while. I hope we can meet.’

‘Your dress is Western, I see.’

‘It’s a habit.’

‘You’re the swimmer, no?’

She walked away, nodding exaggeratedly.

Sarath was reading her postcard upside down as he sat across the desk from her. An unconscious curiosity on his part. He was a man used to cuneiform, faded texts in stone. Even in the shadowed light of the Archaeological Offices this was an easy translation for him.

The sound in the offices was mostly that of the careful pecking of typewriters. Anil had been given the desk by the copy machine, around which there was a permanent tone of complaint, for it never worked properly.

‘Gopal,’ Sarath said, slightly louder than usual, and one of his assistants came to his desk.

‘Two teas. Bullmilk.’

‘Yessir.’

Anil laughed.

‘It’s a Wednesday. Your malaria pill.’

‘Took it.’ She was surprised by Sarath’s concern.

The tea arrived with the condensed milk already in it. Anil picked up her cup and decided to push it.

‘To the comfort of servants. A vainglorious government. Every political opinion supported by its own army.’

‘You talk like a visiting journalist.’

‘I can’t ignore those facts.’

He put his cup down. ‘Look, I don’t join one side or the other. If that’s what you mean. As you said, everyone has an army.’