It had cooled off. I dug a fleece out of my pack and put it on. In the process I accidentally kicked one of the pails. “Why do you have so many plastic buckets scattered about?”
He looked around as if noticing them for the first time. “Oh yes, the buckets. My house is old; the roof leaks in several places. But don’t worry, the bedroom stays dry.”
“Why don’t you have a new roof put on?”
“It’s very expensive; the price of wood has exploded …”
“But with the money I sent you,” I interrupted, “you ought to have been able to build a brand-new house.”
He tilted his head to one side and looked at me thoughtfully. “That is true.”
“So why didn’t you? What did you do with the money?”
The question just slipped out. In a tone that immediately made me squirm. As if he had to justify himself. I wasn’t looking for him to give me an account of himself. The money had been a gift.
All the same.
“Of course it’s your own business, but I expected …”
U Ba furrowed his brow in thought. “You are completely correct, little sister. It is a good question: Whatever did I do with all that money? Let me think. Some of it I gave to the owner of the teahouse so that he could afford the new establishment. My neighbor’s wife was very ill. She had to go to a hospital in the capital and needed money. The son of a friend was studying in Taunggyi; some of it went to him.”
I hoped that was the end of the list. My shame deepened with every example.
“A few years ago we had a decidedly dry year, and the harvests were bad. A few families needed a bit of help. What else?”
He was quiet for a moment. “Yes!” he suddenly cried out loudly. “I also bought something for myself. Something truly marvelous.”
U Ba went to the bookcase and pointed proudly to a cassette recorder. “I bought this for myself with your money, and every time someone goes to Rangoon they come back with a new cassette for me. Half a moment.”
He loaded a cassette into the player, pressed “play,” and shot me a proud, expectant look.
Horns and strings started to play, something classical.
“Sometimes my neighbors come, and they bring their neighbors,” he said in a solemn tone, “until there are so many of us that we sit in tight rows on the floor listening to music together. All evening long.”
I concentrated on the piece and attempted to decipher what the orchestra was playing. It sounded simultaneously familiar and utterly bizarre. As if drunken musicians were attempting Beethoven or Brahms. It sounded like a Chinese-made tape recorder—tinny, shrill, and very uneven.
“I think the speed is fluctuating.”
U Ba was taken aback. “Really?”
I felt unsure and nodded cautiously. It hurt my ears.
“Do you really think so?”
I nodded again.
He was quiet for a long while. “It doesn’t matter. I find this music beautiful all the same.” My brother closed his eyes and followed the melody of a violin. “Besides, I have no point of comparison,” he declared, his eyes still closed. “That is the secret of a happy life.”
I saw how intensely the music moved him. He opened his eyes for a moment and cast me a grateful look, closed them again, and with every note the flutter and wow mattered less until I hardly noticed them myself. In the middle of a delicate solo the violin dropped out suddenly. It was so dark that I could no longer even make out my brother’s silhouette. For one moment I heard nothing but the humming of the insects. Then the neighbors’ voices.
“The power,” sighed U Ba in the darkness. “It has failed frequently these past few weeks.” He stood up, and a moment later I saw his face illuminated by a flickering match. He lit several candles and distributed them throughout the house. Their glow bathed the room in a warm, soft light.
“Sometimes we have electricity again after a few minutes, sometimes not until the next day,” said U Ba, refilling my mug.
I sipped at my tea. The strains of the road were beginning to tell on me.
“Has life,” he asked, having again sat down, “have the stars smiled upon you in recent times?”
I’m fine, thanks. Dandy. Wonderful. No complaints. Could be worse. In my mind I ran through all the pat responses I would have called on to answer a similar question in New York. With my brother any one of them would have been an insult.
“A good question,” I replied evasively.
“A stupid question,” he contradicted. “Forgive me for posing it so thoughtlessly. We often discover only many years later whether life and the stars were smiling upon us or not. Life can take the most surprising turns. What seemed initially to be a misfortune can turn out later to be a blessing, and vice versa, no? I really wanted only to know how you are faring? Whether you are happy? Whether you are loved. The rest is immaterial.”
I looked at him in the candlelight and fought back the tears. I didn’t know whether it was out of sadness that I couldn’t answer his question with a loud, resounding yes, or because my brother touched me so deeply.
Was I loved? By my mother, of course. In her way. By my other brother, I wasn’t sure.
By Amy.
Two people. Two very different forms of love. No one else came to mind.
Was that enough? For what? By how many people must we be loved in order to be happy? Two? Five? Ten? Or maybe only one? The one who gives us sight. Who takes away fear. Who breathes meaning into our existence.
There was no one like that for me.
When does love begin? When does it end?
U Ba’s gaze rested on me. He stole a look at my hands. My ring finger. I knew what he meant.
“Sir Michael is a long story,” I said. Sighing.
No lifelong love. But still a wish for it.
My brother sensed my discomfort. “Forgive me for asking. How presumptuous of me. How could I have asked so directly and carelessly when you have barely arrived at my house. As if there were no tomorrow. As if we did not have all the time in the world to tell each other whatever we have to tell. I am terribly sorry. It must be the excitement. And the delight finally to see you again. Of course, that does not excuse my behavior, either. I can only hope for your indulgence.” He put a finger to his lips. “And not another word this evening about these intrusive questions.”
His way of expressing himself made me laugh. “Promise. But I think that I need to go to bed anyway.”
He jumped up. “Of course. Another oversight on my part. I will prepare your bed at once.”
I insisted that I sleep on the couch. After a bit of back and forth he accepted my decision, dug a warm blanket and pillow out of a chest and blew out one candle after another. He put a flashlight on the coffee table for me in case I needed to find my way to the latrine in the night. He asked repeatedly whether I was comfortable, whether I had everything I needed for a good night’s sleep, wished me a good night and stroked my face once gently in the light of the last candle.
I could still hear him doing something with water in front of the house, then coughing his way up the porch steps and climbing into his creaking bed. Moments later he blew out the candle.
The couch was more comfortable than I expected. I remembered now how well I had slept on it the first time around. Tonight, though, despite my exhaustion, I was finding it difficult to fall asleep.
I was thinking about my father, and for the first time in a long time I wished he were sitting next to me, holding my hand, talking to me in his soothing voice. I had left someone out of my tally. The love of a dead person counted, too. No one can take that away from us.
A reassuring thought, but still I could not sleep. I sensed that I would soon have company. It took a few minutes of lying quietly on the couch and listening to insects before I heard her.
Please, leave this place.
It was the first time she’d had anything to say since my departure. I knew what she wanted. She had warned me repeatedly in New York
against this trip.
—Not a chance. I’m staying.
Don’t do it. Leave. Quickly. Before it’s too late.
—Why?
I know this place, where we are now. It will bring you grave misfortune.
—What kind of misfortune?
They will come to get you.
—No one is coming to get me.
That’s what you think. You don’t know them.
—Who?
The black boots. They come by day. They come by night. They come whenever they please. They take whomever they wish.
—Not me.
You, too.
—My brother will protect me.
No one can protect you from them.
—I am a foreigner.
They don’t care. They take the elderly, women and children, if they wish.
—What do they do with them?
You hear all kinds of stories. Few there are to tell them. Those who return are changed.
—Did they get you?
Not me.
—Who then?
My son. That’s much worse. Those left behind are changed, too.
—Where will I find the black boots?
They find you. When they come, don’t look them in the eye. Don’t look them in the boots.
—Why not?
Because they have magical powers. In them is reflected all of the cruelty, all of the evil we are capable of.
—Who are “we”? I interrupted her.
We humans. In the world you see reflected in that shiny, polished leather there is neither love nor forgiveness. In that world is only fear and hatred. There are sights we cannot endure. They turn us into a different person. Don’t look there.
She had never before revealed so much about herself. I waited a long while to see if she had more to tell.
—Who are you? Where do you come from?
Silence.
It was always the same. As soon as I wanted to know something about her history or origins, she would clam up. What’s your name? Where were you born? Where did you live? She had not once offered even a shred of an answer to any of these questions. Now I knew, at any rate, that she was acquainted with Kalaw, that she had had a son, and that the black boots—whoever they were—had come to get him.
Don’t tell him about me. Not a word.
—Who?
Your brother.
—Do you know him?
Silence.
—I’m going to tell him everything. That’s why I’m here. He’s going to help me find you.
There is no me anymore. I am dead.
—Find out who you were. Why you died.
I forbid it.
—Why?
It will only make things worse.
—What? Tell me!
I can’t tell you. It must remain secret. Forever.
—You’re trying to frighten me. It’s not working.
I’m not trying to frighten you; I want to warn you. You must not search for me. You must fly back to New York tomorrow.
—Then tell me how you died.
No. Never.
—Did someone murder you?
Silence.
—The black boots? Did they kill you?
Nothing.
—Was it an accident? Were you old and sick? Did you kill yourself?
Unrelenting silence.
—If you don’t tell me I’ll just find out on my own.
I did not expect an answer.
Eventually my eyes fell shut.
I was wakened in the middle of the night by the droning sound of a violin. Beethoven’s violin concerto. Now, half asleep, I recognized it instantly.
The power was back on.
I heard my brother cough, rolled over, and went back to sleep.
Chapter 10
I WOKE TO unaccustomed sounds. Birdsong, the pig snuffling, roosters crowing. Children’s voices. It took a few seconds for me to place them and to remember where I was. I must have slept a long time. The sun was high in the sky. It was warm. My stomach growled with hunger.
Someone was sweeping in front of the house. I stood up and went to the unglazed window. U Ba was cleaning the yard. When he saw me he put his broom aside and hurried up the steps.
“Good morning. Did you rest well?”
I nodded sleepily.
“You must be near starvation.”
I nodded again.
“Then I shall prepare breakfast at once. I do not have a shower, but you can wash at the well in the yard.”
He gave me a longyi and an old towel, then disappeared into the kitchen. I undressed and slipped the cloth around me, pulling it so high that it reached from my knees to my armpits. The well was a thin water pipe that reached over the hedge from the neighbor’s property and ended over a large concrete sink. Beside it were two red plastic buckets and a large white enamel bowl. I filled the bowl and poured it with both hands over my head. The water was bitter cold despite the mild air temperature. After the third round I had gotten used to it, and after the fifth I was enjoying the refreshing chill. After washing from head to toe I was wide awake.
When I got back to the house, breakfast was waiting on the coffee table in front of the couch. Two mugs with hot water, beside them a bag of instant coffee, two sugar cubes, and canned milk. U Ba had made scrambled eggs with tomatoes and peppers. Thick pieces of butter melted on slices of toasted white bread were arranged on another plate.
“It looks wonderful. Thank you. How kind of you. Where did you get the butter?”
My brother smiled with delight. “I got it this morning from a friend in a hotel.”
We sat down. The egg was delicious. Even the coffee tasted good. Only after the second slice of toast did it occur to me that my brother was eating nothing. “Aren’t you hungry?”
“I will wait until you are finished.”
“Why would you do that?”
“One does not dine together with guests. One waits until they are satisfied. That is our custom. Not so in the States?”
I had to laugh. “No, that would be very impolite. We all eat together at home. Besides, I’m not a guest; I’m family, aren’t I?”
He smiled in agreement and self-consciously helped himself to some egg and a piece of bread.
We ate together. Silently. It did not seem to bother him. I was again unnerved by the quiet.
“How did things turn out for you?” I asked in order to break the silence.
My brother considered the matter so long that I grew anxious for his reply.
“Well,” he said at last.
“Well?”
“Yes, well. The Buddha says: ‘Health is the greatest gift, contentment the greatest wealth, faithfulness the best relationship.’ I am healthy and content. My faith is unshakable. And, as you can see”—he spread out his arms and let his gaze sweep once across the room—“I lack for nothing. What cause would I have, then, to complain?”
I looked around the room myself. “I can think of a few things you might find a use for,” I said, half in jest.
“Really?” he replied, surprised.
“A shower, for instance. Hot water. A hot plate, maybe?”
“You are right. Those things would make my life more comfortable. But do I need them?”
U Ba contemplatively scratched the right side of his head with his left hand. I had seen my father do the same thing when he was thinking hard about something. “I think not.”
He covered his mouth and coughed.
“How long have you had that cough?”
“I don’t know. Probably a couple of weeks. Perhaps a bit longer.”
“Do you have a fever?”
“No.”
“Runny nose or sore throat?”
“No.”
“Any pain?”
“None to speak of.”
I couldn’t help but think of Karen. A colleague at the firm, a couple of years older than me, the only female partner at Simon & Koons. She had put up for weeks wit
h a nagging dry cough that sounded similar to my brother’s. Karen had no fever, no other cold symptoms, and, assuming it was an allergy, she had not gone to a doctor. When she finally went, the radiologist discovered a pulmonary mass, an indication of lung cancer. Follow-up examinations confirmed the diagnosis. Six months later she was dead.
“Have you been to a doctor?”
He shook his head, smiling. “It appeared on its own, and when the time has come, it will disappear the same way.”
“All the same, you ought to see a doctor, just to be on the safe side.”
“I fear that would be an utter waste of time, and though I may possess enough of it, I am loath to squander it. We have no doctors here who specialize in dry coughs. We have only the two hospitals: one for emergencies, the other for the army. The former cannot heal the sick, and the latter helps only its own. Don’t worry; it’s nothing serious. It will be gone in a few days. Tell me instead whether I can help you.”
“What gives you the idea that I need help?”
“I see it in your eyes. I see it in the way you smile at me. I hear it in your voice, and our father would presumably insist that he could hear it in the beating of your heart.”
I nodded mutely.
I thought of everything the voice had told me the previous night. What if she was right? If my search for her would prove dangerous? If there was some secret behind her life and death that ought not to be revealed? Who could protect me if things got rough? Certainly not U Ba. The American Embassy in Rangoon was far away. I did not even have a telephone so that I could notify them of an emergency. But I hadn’t traveled halfway around the world to be daunted. I had to know the hidden fate of the voice within me.
“You are right; I am not doing so well.”
Breathless, I told him.
Breathless, he listened.
Now he furrowed his brow in concern, scratched his head, and closed his eyes.
His lanky body sank into the leather armchair. His cheeks were slightly sunken, his eyes deep in their sockets. His thin dark-brown arms, capable of carrying more than they let on, hung limp at his sides. He looked vulnerable.
“I think I can help you,” he said abruptly, looking at me soberly.
“Do you know the voice?” I asked in surprise.
“No.”
“Do you know who the black boots are?”
A Well-Tempered Heart Page 7