9. Best Price - Lords of Serendipity

Devi was working on her admissions essay when she heard her brothers come home from work, cursing. They couldn’t get the cricket tallies on their phones. Internet was down.

Devi had tuition with Johannes later that night, on WhatsApp. She didn’t have data but she had a backup plan.

Well after midnight, Achchi sleeping soundly and the internet still not working, Devi snuck out of the house and walked down the lane to the main road. The dogs chained in front of the shuttered market stalls and the dogs loose in the courtyards of the larger houses all greeted her with their marble eyes and wagging tails. No barking, no growling. Devi grew up here. The dogs knew she was no rogue.

She walked under the bug-buzzing streetlights. She passed the green-lit all-night surgery; the apothecary; a mobile shop; a boarded-up grocery store that in daylight was a backdrop for sitting, kneeling, and singing beggar men; and finally the knife maker’s stall. The owner and his friends were smoking and drinking at a little table in front, waiting for drunk Australians to arrive and demand massive custom knives, as happened most nights. The knife maker and his friends waved at Devi.

She waved back and kept walking, ignoring the steady night traffic of timber trucks and trishaws and airport taxis and boys on motor scooters who asked if she wanted a ride but sped away when they saw the knife maker and his friends stand up, smoking and swinging their steel.

Devi made her way to the main church square across from the Buddhist temple that her family visited on Poya Days to bring food gifts for the grim monks. Whenever the Catholics had one of their festival days her brothers would go for the music and sweets, and sometimes she was allowed to go with them, which was how she learned that the church offered free Wi-Fi. You could pick up the signal in the square, which was lamp-lit up along the limestone parapet walls that ran on both sides of the church, which, past midnight, was itself all dark. Tattered old men and skinny stray dogs slept on its cool stone steps. A cleft-lipped little man was walking around barefoot, wearing a beaten-looking wooden calendar covered in bright papers, and calling out, Lottery! Lottery! Tickets here!

Devi saw a group of people gathered around crate-box countertops on one side of the square. They were buying sacks of cashews and plastic cups of cloudy coconut water and banana leaves full of papaw and mango slices, which they covered in salt and chili. Nearby, two small boys squatted, yawning, beside jugs of fresh water for drinking and hand-washing. Devi wasn’t thirsty or hungry. She moved toward the people checking their phones in the middle of the square. They stood close to a lit-up, rose-covered box holding a statue of a young man covered in cuts and cash. She hadn’t realized the square would be this busy at night. The internet must have been down in lots of places.

As she approached, she saw that the Catholics had installed chargers along the base of their martyr box. That’s why everyone was standing around it. But Devi wouldn’t need to. She’d come prepared: her phone was at 100 percent, and she had charging blocks in her pockets. Early for her session with Johannes, as usual, she logged on to the Wi-Fi and did a speed test. She walked around the square, checking the signal, and found it was strongest at the back of the martyr box. There was a signal booster plugged in at the skinny young blond man’s bloody feet.

She turned on her camera and checked her hair and inserted her earbuds, then plugged the cord into her phone.

She tapped and tapped.

She waited, breathing in and out and closing her eyes, ignoring the voices of the people around her. They were all having so much useless fun.

Johannes started the call.

She was admitted.

She was successfully admitted.

Devi didn’t need to have fun.

Every time Johannes admitted Devi to a meeting on WhatsApp, she said these things to herself, like a prayer for the future, and this little part of her rose and rose. It wasn’t a little part of her. It was almost all of her, looking and praying to the future when she would be successfully admitted to the real thing. Ochpys.

Hello, Johannes! she said to her tutor.

He was a brown man in his early twenties. His hair looked more greasy than groomed and the bags under his rabbity red eyes were black and creased. His background was the Gothic towers and spires around the River Cam. Devi had screenshotted it, the first time she saw it, and stared at the image for inspiration before she went to bed.

Where are you? he asked.

Internet’s down at home, so I am here, at the Catholic church. They have free Wi-Fi.

He nodded. Can you turn the camera and show me?

Why? Do you think I should write about this for my essay?

Exactly. Maybe. Turn the camera. Show me.

Devi turned the camera and showed Johannes the goings-on in the square.

Johannes? Devi said. Are you okay?

He wiped something from his eyes. It looks like fun, he said.

Devi shrugged. Maybe for them. Not for me.

I know, I know, Johannes said. He sighed. So. Shall we begin? What do you want to discuss, today?

My essay.

Okay. Did you choose your quotation?

I did.

And?

Devi smiled. She’d already memorized it.

“Peace is the result of courage and of respect for others. It demands awareness and commitment from everyone.”

Nelson Mandela?

No. Chandrika Bandaranaike Kumaratunga. CBK.

Who?

Sri Lanka’s first lady president, Johannes! Also, I attended CBK Primary School. Makes sense, don’t you think?

He shrugged.

Yes, okay. But sorry, and no disrespect, I don’t think many university people overseas have heard of, of . . .

CBK. Former Sri Lankan president Chandrika Bandaranaike Kumaratunga.

Right. CBK. Whereas, Nelson Mandela? Easy. Guaranteed. Nothing doing.

You really think so, Johannes? Did you quote Mandela for your essay?

No, Devi, I’m more of a literary man. For me, it was Shakespeare, Sir William. “To be, or not to be, that is the question.”

And?

I got into my school of choice, he said flatly as he gestured behind him at the virtual screen, but he broke it.

For a moment Devi saw where he lived. Johannes’s room had no windows and was full of clothes and empty takeaway trays and black, box-shaped cooler bags and several young brown men staring at their phones. Two were sleeping on the floor and another was sleeping against the wall. Then the River Cam repixelated.

Johannes?

Yes?

Where are you?

How do you mean? I’m here, at the university, he said.

But who else is in the room with you? And what kind of room is that?

No one.

But I just saw—

Devi, I kindly direct you to recall, please, the terms of our agreement.

She nodded. Something made her want to ask him, again, where he really was. But something greater stopped her: Getting an answer she didn’t want, an answer that wouldn’t help her go to university.

When she had first found Johannes online—or actually, he’d found her—she had been in a South Asian uni-student chat room. He had offered his services on one condition. She had to agree that he would not inform her of which prestigious overseas university he presently attended, until she had been admitted to her own. Which she would be, by working with him. He explained that this was to avoid conflicts of interest, in case he was asked to comment on her application. Devi had accepted all of this. Why hadn’t Madam Principal, that time she’d come to the house?

Shall we proceed? he asked.

She nodded.

Good, said Johannes. So, updates.

I wrote an essay for each of my chosen schools, using, as noted earlier, an inspiring quotation from Sri Lanka’s first madam president, who is also the namesake of the elementary school where I was the runner-up in the all-Negombo-schools spelling competition that gave me the inspiration for the journey I am on, to attend one of the world’s most prestigious overseas universities and therein study arts and in so doing, have the education and experiences that will help me bring peace to others, with courage and respect.

She waited.

He was looking down.

Devi was worried.

Was he looking down because he couldn’t break it to her, that this essay had no chance?

Or was he looking down because he couldn’t believe how much she’d accomplished already, on her own?

Johannes?

He looked up from his phone and put it away.

Please, keep going. First-class so far, he said.

So you could tell what I have done, Johannes? How I am just now quoting CBK after quoting CBK, but making CBK’s words and ideas my words and ideas? Showing how, you see, if I am admitted to the university, I will make such a positive, positive impact?

Not really.

Not really?

Devi had been writing and rewriting this essay for weeks now. And the application deadline was approaching. None of her teachers had been willing to read it. They told her that they weren’t trained at teachers’ college to read fairy tales. The other girls in her class were no help, either. The few applying to Sri Lankan universities had already done so. The ones considering overseas uni had Colombo consultants helping with their essays. The girls who weren’t considering uni would only read something if she promised it had pictures of Meghan and Harry. The only person willing to read her admissions essay was Thathi, but he couldn’t read English, so she’d read it to him a few nights earlier, after her brothers took Ammi and Achchi to watch a Tom Cruise movie in Marlon’s palazzo. Their neighbors had built a grand new house with the money their youngest son sent back from his nursing home job in Italy. The first floor had been finished, and the family showed movies there for best price.

Devi read her essay to her father in the front room. He asked her to read it to him a second time, and a third time. At the end of Devi’s fourth reading Thathi stood up, paced around the room, bent over with his hands behind his back, and finally said, Wow! Genius!

Sorry, Devi, but it’s just this, as follows, said Johannes. I want to help you, as you know. But you asked if I can see what you are doing in this essay, which you are reading to me from a church square with a party going on around you.

Okay. Meaning?

Better if I actually see the essay. As I mentioned last time.

I know.

So then?

The fee, Johannes. The added fee. Sorry, but I can’t pay. Exchange rate keeps going up, no? And my family are already doing extra work on Saturdays in the hotel because you keep raising your fees. Is there anything else that can be done?

I don’t need to see all the essays. Just one. Best one. And I can give you a good deal. Best deal for Devi. Best price best price.

Johannes picked at his ear and stared at her, muttering best price best price best price.

Devi flinched. She wondered what was wrong with Johannes. He was reminding her more of a market stall boy than the esteemed young scholar and gentleman who had been providing her with tuition in respect of applying to prestigious overseas universities. Even what he was wearing seemed off. No blazer, no beret, just a red golf shirt.

Johannes, what is Staples? she asked.

What Staples? he said.

Your shirt. It says Staples.

He looked blank but then began smiling.

It’s a prank, Devi! Ragging. I’ve been elected general secretary of my college’s literary society.

Congratulations.

Thank you. At our most recent meeting, I was presented with this shirt in honor of my nickname. They call me Staples because I’m always the one to staple the reports and speeches and poems. It’s a prank. Ragging. I’m sure you’ll be the president of the literary society when you go to university. Which reminds me, you should send me the essay. Send on WhatsApp. I’ll read and give feedback. Best price. Send, Devi. Send it. Also, do you have friends in need of expert overseas tutoring?

You asked me that last time, Johannes.

And?

Don’t you remember what I said?

No. I don’t remember.

The other girls applying to overseas uni from my school are going through Colombo agents.

So?

They provide full service, Johannes.

Okay. I bet I could do better for less money but never mind. It’s just you. Fine. Very good. Excellent. Send the essay. Best price, Devi.

I can’t, Johannes. I don’t have. I already gave you all my extra. That was the money my ammi gave me to apply to a Sri Lankan uni.

Which one?

Madam Principal told me my A-level results matched well to the National University at Kurunegala.

That doesn’t sound like a proper place for you, Devi. Compared to Oxford? Cambridge? Harvard?

It’s getting a new name, actually. Serendipity University.

Still not meant for you, Devi.

Doesn’t matter.

Why?

I never applied.

And your parents didn’t notice?

They don’t understand these things.

No South Asian parent understands anything about anything. But they understand A-level results.

Not mine, Johannes. But I know I can’t attend a Sri Lankan university now. And if my mother finds out I gave you the money and didn’t apply? She’ll murder me!

We already discussed that, Devi.

Yes.

But maybe you should have?

What do you mean, Johannes?

Well, all this work, all these months, to go over overseas for uni, Devi, will be for nought if the essay isn’t in top shape. And isn’t the deadline approaching?

I already missed the deadlines for Sri Lankan unis.

No. I meant, for the real ones. Not your Serendipities.

Oh. Yes. Deadlines approaching.

Nothing matters more than the admissions essay, Devi. Believe me. You have worked so hard, but if your essay isn’t top-shelf—he dramatically wiped his hands—then your university plans? Finished. Believe me. I know! I know how easily all university plans can be finished. So send it. And I promise I will replace your CBK with Mandela Mandela Mandela. All the best schools quote him in their lecture halls.

She couldn’t imagine where the family would find more money than they were already giving her. And she couldn’t ask Ammi if she had any more secret money, because of course Ammi would ask her what she did with the first bundle. She could keep something from Ammi but she couldn’t lie to her. Actually, she could, but Ammi would know.

There’s nothing else you can do, Devi? Really?

There was. The lower sort of girls did it.

You went to the public beach beside the resort at night, near the torches, and you went into the water in a white cotton shift and came out and waited and eventually foreign men would appear. They would approach and say things in Russian and show money and point at darker places, down the beach. And you’d walk that way, and they’d follow, and there would be a signal and you’d run and the boys would come out of the dark and tackle the Russians and take rings watch phone money and at the end you’d be given your amount and told where to appear next time.

She could do that. Once. Just once.

Okay, said Devi.

Okay? Okay! Okay, said Johannes. Good. Very good. Please forward to my attention via WhatsApp. And you can transfer the extra funds with the payment for this session, right? Right, Devi?

She didn’t say anything.

Devi?

Just . . .

What?

Very expensive, Johannes, all this. My family is doing everything it can. So now I have to do everything I can.

I know, I know. Everything is very expensive these days, with inflation and all, and especially for the best. Devi, you are the best. You are applying to the best. You need a tutor who is the best. Because what do we have?

Meaning what, Johannes?

What do we have between us?

An agreement?

Not just any agreement, Devi. We have an alignment of interests. A reciprocal investment. A symbiotic relationship. And do you know how long it will last, Devi?

How long, Johannes?

Until death do us part.

Devi flushed and suddenly became self-conscious about her hair.

Isn’t that what is said about marriage, Johannes?

Never mind. I was remembering something else. Someone else once said that to me. A very different person than you or me.

Another one of your students, Johannes? she asked, not without jealousy.

No. Someone else in the same field of tuition as I am. But a totally ruthless fellow. But never mind me. I want you to be so successful, even more successful than me, I am giving you best price. Okay? Okay? You’ll send the money? Also, Devi, who is that woman coming so close behind you?

Devi turned around.

Ammi!

Who’s that bloody mobile shop boy on the screen? Is that the overseas tutor we throw ourselves at coffins for? The tutor your father cleans extra toilets to pay for? And why is he talking about marriage? Bloody madness! If that’s an Ochpys man, then I’m Camilla Parker Bowles.

Ammi! Aiyo! Sorry, Johannes, please I have to go.

Johannes sat up, very erect, and nodded. Good day to you, Devi, and good day to you, madam. Devi, I’d keep CBK and add in the Mandela. No extra charge. Don’t send the essay. But we can discuss it at our next tuition. Okay? Nod. Nod and confirm next tuition session. I have to write a special exam very soon and will contact you afterward, okay?

Devi nodded and the call ended.

Ammi!

What?

Why did you do that?

You really don’t know?

I don’t even know why you’re here.

Internet is down at home. I knew you’d come here. I’ve been waiting for you.

Why? I’m seventeen years old, Ammi! I can do these things.

Yes. And I’m thirty-seven years old, Devi, and I can, too.

Meaning?

How much is he going to make you pay for marking your essay now? After I spoke?

Nothing.

Right. Come, child, let’s go home.

Okay, Ammi.

They walked through the church square to the main road, passing more trucks and scooters and the knife-maker stall before turning down the village lane.

They were both quiet. Finally looking at Ammi, Devi could tell she wasn’t upset. Ammi was, instead, just pleased looking for once, walking with her daughter in the middle of the warm night and carrying a banana leaf full of fresh-cut fruit.

Thank you, Ammi. Thank you for—

Never mind, child.

Ammi?

Yes?

Would you like to read my essay?

Don’t be stupid, child. Here. Take a little mango.