Nala saved the letter and showed it to her siblings and friends who all agreed that her husband was a very important man. She quietly reassured her cousins in the north that Rajan would never save the life of the new Prime Minister, Bandaranaike, should he ever find a cockroach stuck in his ear.

Despite Rajan’s mortification, she framed the letter and hung it proudly in her husband’s surgery, just below his certificates from the Royal College of Surgeons and above the merit certificates that he received in primary school. Her mother-in-law had kept those and insisted that they too be framed. But it was Kotelawala’s letter that she directed patients to: the letter and the legend that propelled her husband’s reputation and career into loftier circles.

All because Rajan, with the aid of his nurse Nala, had deftly removed an offending insect and cleaned out the former Prime Minister’s ears so that he could enjoy Colombo’s quiet while it lasted; and hear the noise of violence properly for himself, when it inevitably started again.

•

Why was Nala taking so long? Why did it take women so long to go to the toilet? That was the third time this evening. Rajan was sure their host would notice soon and become worried. Perhaps they would think she had a stomach problem. His nose wrinkled. He preferred to use his own toilet at home. It was something his mother had impressed upon him as a boy, the importance of using one’s own toilet. She was such a clever woman, he thought, momentarily distracted from his wife’s mysterious and alarmingly frequent disappearances to the toilet.

On her return Nala smiled sweetly at him, making him even more suspicious. She whispered something to Myrtle, Dr Jansz Vanderstraaten’s wife, whose finely manicured eyebrows rose in amazement. A moment later she too excused herself to go to the bathroom. What in God’s name was going on with these women and why was his wife always the instigator?

They were dining at John Kotelawala’s house while holidaying in the ancient royal capital of Kurunegala. Kotelawala no longer lived in the area permanently, but he was still a high-profile member of the local intelligentsia who fawned around him now. Decked in his military finest, he imposed his personal space on others as confidently as he imposed his opinions. His British medals glittered like the lights of his enormous ballroom chandelier as he talked to his adoring masses.