“That’s the definition of a refugee,” I said.
He shook his head. “The real refugees are in the worst situation. Their lives have been stolen from them. It’s bad for refugees from Burma because Thailand isn’t a signatory nation to the U.N. convention on the status of refugees. So, officially, they don’t exist. The Thai government doesn’t have to care about what happens to them. If they work, they can be exploited, beaten, killed. Have you ever been to a refugee camp?”
“No, never.”
“You will have to go, if you want to learn about Burma.” He turned his head to light a cigarette and added, “Soon they will be burned down.”
“What do you mean, burned down?”
“It happens every dry season, to the camps that are close to the border. Burmese soldiers come across in the night and set fire to the camp. Thai soldiers guard the camps, but they are useless. They run away.” He paused. “So you see, our situation is not so bad.”
In this place and time, facing the world and my ignorance of it, everything has become sharper. When I look at Maung, I see someone who has given himself over, completely, to a cause bigger than his one life. The shadow of his eyelashes on the sheet rises, flutters, falls again. The eyes slide, pearl-like, under the closed lids. What is he dreaming?
For years he slept in a hammock, in the jungle—they all did—to keep off the insects and the damp. He says he can sleep through mortar explosions, if they’re not too close. Here there is only the sound of crickets.
The next morning, on the restaurant deck that overlooks the pond, Maung and I have hard-boiled eggs and fruit and steaming cups of Nescafé with condensed milk. We watch fish jump in the water. Fog hangs in the gardens, shrouding the trees and the bird-of-paradise flowers. Zoë is already up and about, chatting with other guests as she makes tea and changes the tape in the machine to some hypnotic Indian tabla music. I catch only one of her curious looks. When she approaches with a coffee mug in hand, I ask her to join us. She sits next to me, comments on the cool morning weather, and takes surreptitious glances at Maung. Eventually she asks us about our plans for the day.
Maung and I look at each other bashfully. I say nothing, but I’m all for spending the day between the lake and bed.
Receiving no response, Zoë continues, “We’re going into town later. Didn’t you say you needed to go to the bank, Karen?”
I blink. The bank?
Then I remember: “the bank” is a euphemism for the pharmacy. I’d told Zoë that I had a single condom in my overnight bag. Gone now. Maung brought some—in battered-looking packages. Also gone now. “I forgot all about that. What time are you leaving?”
“Around noon. I have some errands to do, but you could go to the bank then have lunch. We’d be back by two. Plenty of time after for a swim.”
“You are so thoughtful, Zoë.”
“Just trying to help. And Maung can have a little tour of the village.”
The best noodle shop in town is situated beside a big machinery and mechanics shop. It smells not only of garlic and chicken but of diesel and grease. There’s oil on the floorboards. Spiderwebs hang thick in the corners of the ceiling. I love the place. Young grease monkeys and old men and betel-nut-chewing ladies from the market are in and out all day long, eating, talking, gossiping. On the weekend the tables are packed with teenagers, who come for the good cheap food and for the fancy Sony TV that sits at the back of the concrete room, beside the Buddha altar.
Maung pauses at the threshold. “This is your favorite noodle shop?”
“At least in northern Thailand.”
“Hmm,” he responds doubtfully. “If you like this, you will like Mae Sot. Everywhere in Mae Sot is like this place. But with more dust.”
When he leaves here in two days, Maung will stop in Bangkok en route to Mae Sot, a border town farther south, where many Burmese migrant workers make their entrance into Thailand to work in factories and on building sites. A good number of dissidents live there, too; some of the men and women I met at the Christmas party talked about the “Mae Sot office.” Refugee camps of Karen and Karenni people are also situated close to the town. I don’t know why Maung is going there, and I don’t ask. I’ve understood that he doesn’t want to talk too much about his work.
So we talk about mine instead—the series of interviews I’m conducting with former political prisoners, the people I met in Burma, the people I would like to meet here, in Thailand.
Maung says, “I will help you to make contacts.”
I thank him for the offer, thinking that I’ll have to be careful about accepting it. I’ve already figured out that there are a lot of rivalries between different groups of dissidents and revolutionary organizations on the border. I don’t want to alienate other contacts by seeming to be too connected to the ABSDF, or to him. Nevertheless, we talk about various well-known dissidents and activists. Maung tells me which ones are living in Bangkok. One man, a well-known musician I’d heard of in Rangoon, emigrated to Norway a few months ago.
“It’s too bad I missed him.”
“You should have come sooner. More people leave every year. They go to one of the U.N. holding camps and they wait to become official U.N. refugees. They get tired of the instability, the poverty. If they have children, it is more difficult. They have to choose: Thailand illegal or somewhere else legal. There is not so much here, for some people.” He looks at me searchingly.
I stare into my noodles and reply, “I’m beginning to see the Thailand that so many Burmese people live in—safer than Burma but still a brutal place.”
“Not compared to Burma, though. And we get used to it.”
“I don’t know if I could. I would probably leave. Though leaving Asia can’t be easy, either. In Canada, it’s really tough for new immigrants.”
“And so cold.”
“That’s why I’ve spent a lot of time in Greece.”
“Is that really the reason?”
“It’s not just the physical weather, it’s the mental weather. I’m more comfortable in Greece. My character fits the Greek character. I’m happier. Canada feels too stiff for me. When I’m there, I’m always thinking of somewhere else. I would like to settle down at some point—just not where I was born.”
“You are lucky! You don’t have to choose a country. You can belong everywhere. I think that is the sort of person you are, naturally. I had to learn to be that way. Most of the Burmese people had to learn to be that way. We always miss Burma. But you don’t miss your country.”
“That’s because I left freely. And I can go back if I want to. Besides, I’m not sure that belonging everywhere is a lucky trait. I’m sick of moving all the time.”
“Then you will stay somewhere. You have a choice.” His eyes contain the obvious question. “All you have to do is make it.”
On our drive home from town, Zoë’s kids are in the back of the truck with us, giggling and bickering in Thai and English. Earlier in the day, they refused to believe that Maung was not Thai, and kept saying all sorts of silly things to him in that language, trying to make him laugh. But to every one of their jokes and jabs he replied to the extent that his Thai would allow him: “Hello” and “Fried noodles” and “Grilled chicken” and “Omelet with pork.” The kids laughed until they couldn’t breathe.
The older boy and girl are ten and twelve. They’re talking with him a little in English. As we get closer to home, they lapse into long silences, and sit with their heads turned toward the green fields and hills rushing by. Five-year-old Lennie, though, continues to be chatty. Cuddled up next to me, she addresses Maung in Thai. It’s the easier language for her, and she still can’t grasp that someone who looks Thai can’t speak it. She turns her beautiful face up to mine and asks, “Is he your boyfriend?”
Maung smiles. Interesting, that he understands that particular phrase. He regards Lennie tenderly.
I take a deep breath and exhale, “He is.”
Lennie takes my hand, snuggles c
loser. “Do you love him?”
I hesitate. And think, Why not? Why not say it? “Yes.”
“Are you going to get married?”
Maung laughs. He understands more Thai than I thought. He leans out the back of the truck, unable to contain a whoop of joy. The other two kids look over. The boy yawns.
I say, “Out of the mouths of babes.”
Lennie touches the back of my hand. She is a naturally gentle child, almost too softhearted. “Will you marry him?”
“I don’t know, Lennie. We’ll see.”
That is enough to satisfy her. We’ll see. My mind is reeling. When we pull off the highway and into the turnoff for Zoë and Sawan’s place, Maung is still gazing fondly at the brown-skinned, green-eyed child.
Suddenly I remember the question he asked me as I dropped into sleep last night. “Do you want to have children?”
No wonder I fell asleep before I could answer.
CHAPTER 22
GIVE YOUR HEART TO ASIA
That first night, I called him back to me and he came, but the truth is, I lag behind him. The body—oh, I am good at the body, the joys of skin and food, the open mouth, the eating. That’s always the easy part.
This morning he said, almost casually, “I want to love you forever.” He was rising from the bed. He stood and stretched, then stepped out the back door of the little house. Down two stairs is an enclosed outdoor shower room, with orchids growing out of the bamboo walls. He laughed as he lathered soap over his torso, under his arms, his chin. “What you don’t understand about me yet,” he said, “is that I am a child. I am a child!”
Tears jumped to my eyes.
He is a healthy, happy child, declaring his love because he’s sure that he will be loved in return. So simple, so romantic. And unbelievable? We have spent almost four days together. Despite my attachment to Southeast Asia, I disappoint myself, because I am a cynical Westerner when it comes to the realm of emotions. Sure, I dream of real and long-lasting love, but the idea of sacrificing anything for it gives me pause.
I did not expect this man. Do we ever expect love, even when we are hungry for it? My emotions for him are tangled up with my thoughts and feelings about his country. The dream of love has become enmeshed with a much larger dream, of political change in Burma. Am I just a parasite, falling in love with this man because he brings me closer to his country? I don’t bother asking Maung this question. He would think I was being too hard on myself. Besides, he’s in love. He can’t be properly critical of me.
I am trying to be critical of myself in an effort to control the strength of my feelings. When I see him, that perfect, clichéd phrase happens: my heart goes out to him. Some essential part of me literally pulls toward him, cleaves to him. Why? Because he is himself. A remarkable person. Who makes me laugh. And surprises me. I often have no idea what he is going to say next—a rare and useful quality in a mate. I want to meet his ability to give. And to change. And I love the way he smells.
I was telling him over breakfast about Greece, my wish to go back to the island for a while. He understood. “You need to go because that place is also your home.” He moved my coffee cup out of the way and took my hand, lightly, lightly. That is part of his power: he doesn’t hang on too hard. His fingers moved from the tips of my fingers to the top of my wrist. “I know you may leave Thailand. There may be separations, sometimes long ones. For me, too, because of my work. Moving around is part of our lives now. But I hope you give your heart to Asia.”
I heard those words all day long, as I watched Maung swim far into the lake and wave to me from the place where I had shivered and dived down, seeking a ghost in the green water. Give your heart to Asia. As we made love, again, in the hot silence of midafternoon. And fell asleep easily, then woke to the children home from school, their voices rising and falling in the garden.
“I hope you give your heart to Asia.” He said it once, smiled, and talked of something else, but here I am, awake on our last night, watching Maung sleep as I turn those words over and over in my mind. They have a built-in rhythm, and a weight to them, like prayer beads.
• • •
In the morning, the warm brown body, the voice, the deep-lidded eyes, with irises so dark they look black: these disappear. The generous mouth is gone. In the past four days I’ve lived a life out of time, sweet and heady and held, protected within the bounds of the gardens and the lake, Eden in the middle of rice paddies. Zoë and I dropped Maung off at the bus station early this morning. My lover and I barely embraced in public; we’d said our goodbyes earlier, in the privacy of the room we shared. We both felt exposed at the bus station—a rough spot beside the busy marketplace—and reverted to the physical reticence that is part of intimacy in Thailand. To restrain the obvious gestures. To smile only. To touch hands briefly. Look, my heart. This closed bud contains the whole flower.
On our way back to the resort, Zoë and I keep our eyes on the road. “So, are you in love?”
“I think so.”
“He’s handsome. He’s obviously intelligent. Of course you’re in love.”
“I admire him.”
“To be dedicated to a great political cause is admirable.” There is something in her voice that reminds me of a corkscrew. It turns. “He spent a lot of time on his cell phone.”
I can’t help being impressed—she was observant without ever seeming so. I think it’s motherhood; it makes women hypervigilant. My mother used to say, “I’ve got eyes in the back of my head.”
“Yes, he’s attached to his cell phone. But a businessman would be, too.” I laugh, lightly.
“So. What else do you think?”
“Well. It’s very sudden. He’s a serious person. He would be, wouldn’t he, given his day job. He’s already asked me if I want to have children.”
She exhales sharply, blowing the blond hair off her forehead. “These men!”
“You can’t blame him for asking.” I refrain from mentioning my non-response. “They all want kids. Those guys I met at the Christmas party, the dissidents I met last year in Bangkok—they all talk about wanting to get married and have a family.”
“To replace the families they’ve lost.”
“Well, isn’t that what most people do?”
“Yeah, sure, most people do get married and have kids if they aren’t waging a revolution. Do you know if he has any money? Or where he gets it, for that matter?”
Now I exhale sharply. Her hard-nosed approach pisses me off: I didn’t ask for her opinion. “No, I do not know where he gets his money. NGOs, probably. It’s not something we talked about. Obviously he’s no millionaire, but I’ve never been all that interested in money anyway.”
“Well, poverty is fine when you’re single, but if you get knocked up you’ll need to be interested in money.” She’s smiling. But I know she’s smiling to soften the gravity of her words.
I remind myself of what I like about her: her practicality. I hate it, too. The bitch. Here I am, high on romance, blissed out on fabulous sex, and she’s lecturing me about the responsibilities of having a family.
“Zoë, I just met the man. In case you’re wondering, we used those condoms, okay? I feel as if I’m talking to my mother. No, actually, my mother will be thrilled—she’ll be, like, ‘Oh, and I’ll get to come to Thailand every winter and look after the babies.’” I laugh, too shrilly, and then bark, too loudly, “Fuck!”
For a few minutes we drive on in silence, each sequestered with her private thoughts. Then Zoë lifts one hand off the steering wheel and waves it in the air, a flag of surrender.
“Karen, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to upset you. And it’s none of my business, really. I know that. I’m just …” The sentence remains unfinished. “I know that everything changes after children come. And you’re an artist. You’re a real writer, it’s part of you. But here that wouldn’t matter so much. To … to them. You’re a white woman with a Canadian passport, and if you have kids here you’ll have to sup
port them. And him, too, possibly … if the NGO money gets thin. The money to raise a hypothetical family won’t come from the revolutionary coffers—I can’t imagine they’re too deep.”
I turn my head and glare at her, willing her to meet my eyes. But she just keeps driving, competently and rapidly, passing the slower vehicles. I work to keep my voice steady. “So, what, he’s after me for my Canadian passport? He’s not interested in moving to Canada; he wants to live in a free Burma! That’s all his life is about.”
“That’s what I mean.”
“But what you said was … It sounded like something a racist would say!”
“Karen, come on. You know me better than that. You know my life better than that. Just remember how heady and exciting any affair is, in the beginning. The complications come after. That’s natural. But his complications, his world—there’s a lot you don’t know yet.”
I fear that I will either scream or burst into tears. Ferocious words rush through my head: You’re just jealous! Of my freedom, my pleasure. You’re unhappy, that’s why you always talk about other people having wild affairs that mean nothing. Maybe you want to have them yourself! Go ahead! Getting properly laid might relax you!
I raise my voice slightly. “Why do you say that? How do you know what it would be like for me?” I watch her steadily, thinking I see the whole of her in that narrow jaw, clamped down. When she turns to meet my eye, it’s a shock. She’s crying. Tears spill freely from both eyes.
“Oh, God, you’re so young. There’s so much in you that you think you can just give it away forever.” She gasps as she cries—ten seconds, twenty—then wipes her face and stretches her mouth open to turn off the saltwater faucet. She grabs a tissue from the console between us and blows her nose.
We’re close to home when Zoë speaks again, in a voice that’s almost back to normal. “How do you think I know?”
Burmese Lessons Page 15