A Well-Tempered Heart

by Jan-Philipp Sendker

  “Maybe you could …” She never finished the sentence because it had no predicate. She knew there was no work for him in the village.

  For a long time they said nothing.

  Nu Nu did not want him to go away. Every fiber of her being bridled at the thought. She already missed him when he was away in the fields a whole day while she stayed in the village with Ko Gyi. Since their wedding they had not spent a single night apart. She needed him to go to sleep. She needed him in the morning to find the strength to face the day. She needed his laughter. His even temper. His faith that we are not powerless against the vagaries of fate, but determine fate ourselves. Now more than ever with Ko Gyi and Thar Thar. And they needed their father. Especially Thar Thar.

  As a lumberjack he would travel about the provinces. He would be on the road for weeks, probably months at a time. How often would they see each other? Twice a year? Three times? The very thought was unbearable. She felt the pressure mounting in her eyes. She felt her heart constricting.

  “No, I won’t have it,” whispered Nu Nu, hoping he would fail to notice that she had started to cry.

  “Do we have a choice?”

  “We could go with you.” For a brief moment a glimmer of joy in her voice.

  “Hauling the children from village to village?”

  “Why not?” Don’t say No. Please don’t. Say Maybe.

  “I’ll never be in one place for very long, my love. I’ll be working in forests throughout the country. How could we ever manage that?”

  When she had no answer he added: “Besides, someone needs to stay here to look after the tomatoes and the fields. Even as a lumberjack I won’t earn much.”

  “So why do it, then?” she challenged.

  As if he were to blame.

  Nu Nu searched long for a solution. Any solution. Anything would be better than living here alone with her sons.

  “We could send Ko Gyi and Thar Thar to a monastery,” she blurted out.

  “They’re five and six years old, much too young to—”

  “We could give it a try for a few months,” she interrupted him in her desperation. “And if it didn’t …”

  “No.”

  Yes. Yes. Yes. “Maybe just one of …”

  “Nu Nu!”

  “Why not?”

  “Because, because …” He looked at her, his voice faltering.

  By the light of the fire she looked into his face.

  Maung Sein’s eyes were bloodshot, and his face contorted.

  Chapter 13

  HE HAD NOT taken proper leave of them. A white truck had arrived before sunrise to collect him and one other man from the village. Maung Sein had not wanted to wake his sons. The evening before, he had not been able to bring himself to say good-bye.

  Nu Nu accompanied him with quivering knees to the well in the middle of the village where the truck was waiting.

  They did not say much by way of farewell. Neither was in the mood for talk. Take care of yourself. You, too. I love you. I love you, too. Come back soon. I will. Promise.

  Maung Sein climbed onto the bed of the dented vehicle, tucked the small bundle of his few possessions between his feet, and stared at the ground.

  Nu Nu took a step toward him. It was all she could do not to climb into the pickup herself. And she felt her resistance waning. She was already standing next to him, clenching the tailgate.

  The truck set off slowly. Nu Nu walked beside it, not letting go. Her husband sat less than three feet away. She could still jump in.

  Maung Sein lifted his head. One desperate, imploring look.

  It was the moment when Nu Nu realized with certainty what she had suspected since the day Thar Thar was born: that her good fortune was not limitless.

  She let go of the metal, took a couple more steps, and stopped. The darkness quickly swallowed up the truck.

  When she told the children later in the morning that their father would be away for many weeks and that she did not yet know when he would be back, Thar Thar refused to believe her.

  Would he be back that evening, he wanted to know.

  No, in a few weeks, repeated Nu Nu. At the earliest.

  Had he gone to the next village to take care of something?

  No.

  Was he working in the fields?

  No, she replied with a sigh. A truck had picked him up. He was gone. Far away.

  Thar Thar ate his rice in peace and looked at his mother as if she were talking about a neighbor.

  Half an hour later he had disappeared. He was not to be found in the yard, nor in the little chicken coop where he usually liked to hide. She waited awhile in the hope that he had gone to play somewhere. When near midday he still had not appeared she went to look for him in the village. None of the neighbors had seen him. She went several times to the new well and to the old, exhausted one. She walked to both of the ponds outside the village and made inquiries of the monks at the monastery. By evening half the neighborhood was involved in the search, but there was not a trace of Thar Thar. What could have befallen him? Maybe he had fallen out of a tree while playing and was lying somewhere with broken legs. Had he climbed up to one of the nearby caves, despite her having forbidden it explicitly, and not been able to find his way back out? Or perhaps a stray dog had molested him? Only last month a child in the next village had fallen prey to a rabid dog.

  She spent a long, sleepless night.

  The next morning some farmers found him on the edge of the field that the family cultivated. He was sleeping in the shelter that his father had built for him.

  Nu Nu explained to her sons again that Maung Sein was not working as a farmer anymore, but cutting down trees, and was very far away and would come back sometime. Thar Thar still did not believe her. There were trees here, too. You didn’t need to go away just to cut down trees. For one whole week he scoured the village for him, going from house to house and asking everyone he met if they had seen his father, or if they knew where he might be. When he had finally convinced himself that Maung Sein had actually disappeared, for some mysterious reason, he withdrew. Nu Nu had worried that he would in his anger and spite become even more rebellious and impulsive. Quite the opposite. Thar Thar fell silent.

  He stopped quarreling with his brother.

  He stopped contradicting her.

  He slept long and had no appetite.

  While Nu Nu and Ko Gyi were eating he preferred to retreat to the hen house, being satisfied later with the leftovers.

  He felt no urge to get away. On the contrary, he often sat silently in the yard whittling at an old tree stump. For hours.

  Nu Nu watched his behavior with concern while secretly also feeling relieved. She savored the peace in which he left her, and the time she spent with Ko Gyi. His attachment to her helped to dampen her longing for her husband. When she woke in the night with him lying beside her she even had the sensation that he smelled like his father.

  Now and then she would catch Thar Thar observing them out of the corner of his eye. With a guilty conscience she would ask whether he wanted to come eat with them or sit by the fire or play in the yard with them. It would be so much nicer all three together. He only shook his head and looked at her in a way that made her so uncomfortable that she had to avert her eyes.

  A child’s soul knows everything.

  Only when he strayed about the village with other children did he get into more trouble than before.

  He climbed the tallest trees, jumping from branch to branch or rocking so violently in the crown that the children below screamed in alarm. He alone would brave the darkness of the cold, damp caves; he alone dared to somersault from the bridge into the river. The older boys feared him because he let no one push him around and never shied away from a scuffle.

  There was no test of courage that he did not pass.

  At home he was gradually starting to lend a hand. Though a year younger than his brother, Thar Thar was bigger and stronger. He had inherited not only his father’
s wavy hair and light skin, but also his powerful build. One day, Nu Nu thought, he would be a fine and handsome man. When she asked him for anything he would help without complaint. He hauled firewood from the yard into the house, gathered kindling in the woods. As soon as he understood which wood was best for lighting a fire, how to break it and tie it in little bundles, he preferred to go without her into the woods, staying away for a long time and returning with armfuls of dry branches. On market days he would carry small but much-too-heavy baskets full of tomatoes and ginger to the market while Ko Gyi was still holding his mother’s hand. Thar Thar spoke little throughout it all. If his mother asked him a question, he would answer simply and succinctly.

  WHEN, AFTER six months, Maung Sein returned home for the first time for two weeks, it was Thar Thar who spotted him first. He was stacking wood beneath the porch when he heard the creak of the front gate. For a few seconds Thar Thar did not move. Maung Sein spread his powerful arms wide; his son set the log carefully on the ground without letting him out of his sight. As if not believing his eyes. As if fearing that a single blink would be enough to wash his father away as suddenly as he had appeared. He took one step toward him, hesitated briefly, then turned and ran behind the hut and hid. Despite many calls and pleas he did not come out of hiding until the evening. The next day he ignored his father completely. On the second day he would look at him, but would not say a word. On the third day he asked him a question: How long are you staying?

  When he heard the answer he fell back into silence.

  On the following days, too, Thar Thar avoided his father’s every attempt to approach him. He would go with him to the fields and deftly carry out whatever tasks Maung Sein assigned him. Pulling weeds, turning the soil over, sowing seeds. And saying not a word.

  All told they did not exchange more than a few sentences.

  On the last evening Maung Sein had to search long before he found his son in the chicken coop. When he refused to come out even after lengthy entreaties, Maung Sein managed to squeeze himself inside through the tiny opening, in which he nearly got stuck. Thar Thar lay in one corner on a bed of straw. All around him the hens were cackling, disturbed by the unfamiliar visitor. Little brown feathers fluttered in the air. It was hot and stifling and stank of dung. Maung Sein wondered how his son could stand to be in there. He lay down beside him and waited.

  “Why are you hiding?” he asked after a spell.

  “I’m not hiding.”

  “What are you doing here, then?”

  “Visiting my friends.”

  “The chickens?” Maung Sein asked, surprised.

  “Yes. They like me.” He stretched out an arm. One of the birds landed on it at once and picked at his hand with her beak. It was not a greedy hunt for food but more a gentle nibble. Thar Thar’s face lit up with an unaccustomed smile. “You see?”

  Maung Sein nodded. “Mama says you spend a lot of time here.”

  “Yes. Sometimes I even sleep here.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s beautiful. Because they’re my friends. Because they need me and sometimes they ask me to stay with them.”

  “You talk with them?”

  “Of course. I know all their names.”

  “They have names?” Maung Sein wondered.

  “I gave them names. That’s Koko.” He pointed to a lanky brown bird. “Her eggs taste the best. That’s Mo, she’s the cheekiest, and above her is Mimi. She especially pays attention to me.”

  “What do you tell them, then?”

  “Everything.”

  “Do they listen to you?”

  “Of course.” His son made an odd sound and all the hens immediately fell silent. From the remotest corner Mimi strutted forward. Thar Thar stretched his hand to her and she, too, nibbled at it delicately.

  Maung Sein imitated his son, but hardly had he moved his arm when the birds startled off to hide. A few words from his son sufficed to calm them again.

  “They don’t like Mama, either.” A second smile. Stranger still.

  Maung Sein was delighted that the birds loosened his son’s tongue, and he hoped it would last, although he was not quite sure what he should talk to him about. He wanted just to talk. To hear Thar Thar’s voice before he left again. He waited a long time for a clarification, but it was quiet again in the coop.

  “I’m leaving again tomorrow,” Maung Sein said finally.

  His son stared mutely at the ceiling.

  “Tomorrow, before sunrise. You’ll still be asleep.”

  “I want to go with you,” said Thar Thar suddenly.

  A second hen came up and nibbled at his bare feet. Now it was Maung Sein’s turn to be silent. He wondered whether there was any possibility of bringing him along, but a lumber camp was no place for children. “You can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m on the road so much, and I have to work the whole time.”

  “I can help you.”

  Maung Sein smiled. “That would be nice. But felling trees is not easy and also a bit dangerous.”

  “I’m not afraid.”

  “I know. You can come with me when you’re a little bigger. Promise.”

  Thar Thar did not reply. Maung Sein watched him in silence, and the longer he looked at him the sadder he felt. In the light of the candle his son’s face lost all its youthful aspect. His lips were thin like the tail of a field mouse. He pressed them together the way he often used to do. His eyes looked tired. Was it just his imagination, or were those early wrinkles at the corners? It was not the weariness of a child after a long day that Maung Sein beheld; it was the exhaustion of a sad, lonely adult.

  “Besides, Mama needs your help when I’m not there.”

  “She doesn’t need me.”

  “Sure she does,” contradicted Maung Sein. “You’re wrong about that. She told me how industrious you are and how much you help her. That’s very kind of you.”

  “Mama has Ko Gyi. She. Doesn’t. Need. Me.”

  Maung Sein had to swallow twice. He wanted to give some answer, but nothing occurred to him. It was the way he said it that most alarmed Maung Sein. Grave and cool.

  If only it had been a complaint.

  Chapter 14

  SHE WANTED TO surprise him. A little treat for him and the children. That was all. For his sons who always found it hard to see him go. Especially Thar Thar, whose most sincere wish was to go along when his father took to the road. Now he would have a chance to see what a difficult and dangerous trade Maung Sein practiced.

  One of the last tall trees in the village needed to be cut down. It stood at the main intersection. Beetles had eaten away at its trunk. It was old and unsound, and it threatened to fall on the nearby houses in the next storm. Before it could be cut down, someone had to prune the crown. Otherwise it would fall on huts at the end of the street.

  Maung Sein was the most experienced lumberjack in the village. He gladly volunteered.

  The men were amazed at how deftly he scaled the tree with a saw over his shoulder. He shinnied right up to the top. They closed the street, he started to saw, and no one could say afterward exactly what happened then. A first branch came whooshing down. Then a second. All at once they heard a creaking and rustling, quietly at first, then louder and louder. Everyone looked up, many held their breath, out of a few mouths came short, high cries. The dull thud of the impact. No one who was there would ever forget it.

  Most of the villagers were convinced that the spirit who lived in the tree had cast him from the crown out of vengeance. Others thought he must have stepped on a rotten branch. Several claimed to have seen him leaning too far forward to give a final kick to a branch that did not want to fall. A small number insisted that he had carelessly neglected to hold fast and then lost his balance. Or maybe for a moment he had let his guard down.

  Everyone agreed there was nothing anyone could do about it. A tragic mishap. A twist of fate. Everyone has the karma he deserves.

  N
u Nu knew better.

  It was her fault. She had distracted him. She had seen him from a distance sitting in the crown of the mighty tree. Thirty, maybe forty yards off the ground. He had already lopped off two big branches. A black spot amid the green leaves.

  She pointed him out to her sons, marking his position with her finger until they could discover him. They looked up at him full of pride and wanted nothing so much as to run right to him.

  When they came to the barriers all three of them looked up and recognized him clearly among the branches and called his name in unison. He had not noticed them approaching and looked down in surprise.

  They waved to him.

  He waved back.

  The children hopped and waved and clapped for joy.

  He leaned forward to see them better. Waved. With both hands.

  There was a creaking and a rustling in the crown of the tree.

  Chapter 15

  IT LASTED TWO years. Two years after which Nu Nu could not say how she had survived. Two years during which hardly a day passed when she did not fear that she would fall into madness. Not a single day on which she did not ask herself why this tragedy had stricken her of all people. What had she done to deserve the fate of a young widow? Why not the village leader’s stingy wife? Or the greedy, cantankerous wife of the rice merchant? Why her with her two little children? Why was life so unjust?

  There were many weeks during which she never left the hut and hardly ever got out of bed. Neglecting the laundry. Cooking nothing for her sons. Not even preparing alms for the monks. She was wakeful all night and slept the whole day. At times, believing it was all just a dream, she would go to look for her husband. Ko Gyi in hand, she would wander the village with empty gaze, grimy longyi, and disheveled hair. Her ramble ended every time at the stump of the beetle-ridden tree at the crossroads. There she would squat in the dust and remember.

  See him waving.

  With both hands.

  Eventually Thar Thar would arrive, take her by the hand, and lead them both back home in silence.

  The brothers responded completely differently to their father’s death. Ko Gyi clung to his mother. He slept next to her. By day he would not let her out of his sight. He begged her to get up when she simply lay there. He entreated her to say something when she was silent for days. He followed her every step the moment she left the house. As if, having lost his father, he feared now also to lose his mother. Most of the time, though, he simply crouched beside her and waited.