The Incident at Badamya

by Dorothy Gilman

  "What were you doing in China?" she asked, calmly finishing the fish.

  "Why should I tell you? Look here, do you have to wear that fool hat?"

  "Yes."

  "Stubborn child. All right, I was gathering information, is that enough for you? I assume you're aware that Chiang Kai-shek fled China for Taiwan last year and the Communists have won their revolution. At the moment they seem to be doing their best to take over your country, too—I mean this country."

  "You mean you're a spy."

  He shrugged. "If you want to call it that. Look, you can help me, you know the language, don't you? I can help you, too—you shouldn't be heading north alone, it's dangerous, insurgents everywhere."

  "There's only one bicycle," she said, considering this, "but I suppose if we walked we could follow the river better." Her voice brightened. "And we could leave tonight if there are two of us, instead of waiting for daylight. " With a last shred of fish she efficiently wiped the dish clean. "I don't mind if you come too, but you can't go like that. My father's shaving cream and razor are in his room," she told him. "You could wash the blood off your face while I finish packing."

  "Good girl," he said, but he didn't move. "You're pretty cool for a girl who's just lost her father, aren't you? What did he die of?"

  Without expression she said, "He shot himself."

  Appalled, he stared at her. "Why would he do that, and leave you here alone?"

  "I think there was no longer any money for us both to go back to America," she said.

  "He sacrificed himself for you, then?"

  She said seriously, "He was really quite a selfish person—I think most unhappy people are, don't you?—so it's hard to know." She added calmly, "I think it was his kan to go, because his spirit had become so unhappy."

  "Hey," he said, shocked, "you're speaking of a dead man and your father."

  "Yes of course," she said, giving him a puzzled look.

  Primitive little beast, he thought. "How would you know his spirit was unhappy?"

  She said gravely, "I think because he'd stopped believing in God."

  "That sounds damned pious."

  "Well, you see he was a missionary," she added politely.

  And that, he thought, was that.

  "Just the same, I wish—" A sigh escaped her and she leaned forward, thin arms clasping her knees.

  "Wish what?" he asked, wondering what next.

  "When Mr. San Ya's brother died in Mandalay," she said wistfully, "oh he was very rich, a man of pon, alugyi— a big man, that is—his body was burned into ashes, just like the kings here, like the royalty, I forget the word for it." She was silent, thinking about this, and a tiny smile curved her lips. "If my father hadn't killed himself—yes, if he'd died of malaria as Ma Nu thought last year—" Her chin went up. "I would have spent all the kyat he left on such a funeral, and given a great feast for the village."

  He sat down again on the edge of the bed. "So you did love him."

  He had startled her but out of respect for this stranger she considered the word. In Rangoon after her mother had died, one of the missionaries had questioned her at length about her feelings but she had thought them none of his business, and while not exactly telling him so she had made this clear. She was not accustomed to talking about feelings but she found at last an honest word to say. "There was a thread between us."

  He nodded. "A bond, then, okay. Yes I understand." What the hell, he thought, and out of a generosity he'd not felt for a long time he said, "So why don't we give your father a royal funeral before we go? We could, you know."

  He noticed that her hands were trembling—not so calm after all, he told himself—and now they moved convulsively. "Could we, could we really?"

  "Why not? I've been lying out by that pagoda for two days, I wouldn't mind some digging if you've a shovel. There aren't any trees up on that hill, we'd have to carry the coffin down here but that shed in the back looks highly flammable. And we couldn't linger," he added sternly. "I mustn't be seen here; if insurgents capture this village your friends could be accused of hiding me."

  She nodded. "There's a shovel in the back, I'll go and get it. A lantern, too?"

  As she paused in the doorway for his answer the light from the candle entered the shadows under her hat and he saw her face: the thin delicate features, the eyes glittering with reflected candleshine. He said, "How old are you, anyway?”

  "Sixteen."

  "Cripes, not a child. But so thin!"

  She nodded. "Ma Nu says it was the war."

  He said caustically, "In the two days I've hidden behind that pagoda I haven't seen any natives that thin."

  She said matter-of-factly, "We weren't here in Theingyu for the war. “ A startled look crossed her face. "What should I call you, what's your name?"

  "I'm Neil Hamlin, I'm twenty-six and what's your name?"

  "They call me Zen here, Zen Penis," she said, and left to bring back the shovel. When she returned he was bent nearly double over the mirror in her father's room, his face carved in yellow by the candle he'd placed under the mirror to shave his jaw. She had brought back not only the shovel but food as well, which she proceeded to wrap and stow away in her father's old knapsack: a pound of rice, peanuts, a precious tin of condensed milk, a handful of chick peas, and tea leaves wrapped in oiled paper. "There's a sweater of my father's that might fit you," she told him.

  "Sweater? Thank God! Where?"

  "In the corner hanging from a peg."

  With this she returned to her own room to pack her treasures in a woven shoulder bag: the last magazine she'd received from her aunt, dated October 1949; a book of child's crossword puzzles, a pencil, a knife, matches, the papers her father had bequeathed her, the slingshot she always carried with her, and last of all the beloved figure of Zawgwi.

  When he joined her she regarded him measuringly for a moment, studying the American look of him and comparing him with the photographs of movie stars on her wall, but it was quite hopeless, he merely looked solid, square-jawed, and plain. He did, however, look honest and responsible. "I'm ready," she said, he nodded and they left the house.

  This time the front gate entering the maze of village lanes was to be avoided; Gen led him through the gate at the back of the compound and out into the fields. The huge arc of darkening sky still held brush strokes of color from the sun's passage; there was a sense of drama, of suspense in this change from day to night, the birds silent, the moon round and pale in the east, waiting to emerge onstage with the pale stars. A dog barked. An owl hooted, a faint breeze stirred the trees. Gen pointed to the grave and he began digging into the earth until the coffin was exposed.

  "Now the hard part," he said, fervently hoping the coffin would hold together. Carefully, gently, he pried the box from its hollow, and down the hill they struggled with it, not daring to show a light, stopping often to rest. Through the rear gate they carried the coffin and now Gen took over, for having built the shed herself she knew how to quickly disassemble its reed and thatch. When a pyre had been built the coffin was lifted to the top.

  Hamlin said, "Before we light the fire bring everything here for a quick retreat and place it by the gate."

  She nodded and carried knapsack and shoulder bag to the rear of the compound. When she returned he handed her a match; the moment had arrived. "This is your baby," he said cryptically.

  She held the match, looking gravely at the pile of bamboo and straw. "I don't know what to say, but something— something should be said..." And lifting her voice she recited, " 'To everything there is a season—and a time to every purpose under the heaven: a time to be born and a time to die.' " Her voice faltered and then to his surprise she closed her eyes and said, " 'I take refuge in the Buddha, I take refuge in the Dharma, I take refuge in the Sangha. . .' "

  She opened her eyes, struck the match and lit the straw.

  "Okay—let's gol" he shouted.

  They ran with the sound of flames crackling greedily behi
nd them, ran out of the compound through the fields and across the road, passed the shadowed pagoda with its stupa gleaming under the rising moon, and stopped only when they reached the edge of the forest. There, panting, they looked back at flames pouring into the sky, silhouetting walls, trees and roofs, and then as they watched the brilliance flared, weakened and sank down behind the walls, leaving only a dull glow.

  And suddenly all the feeling that Gen had dispatched to distant regions of the heart rose in her in outraged protest and she burst into tears. Great and terrible sobs assaulted her as she wept at last, violently, while Neil Hamlin held her, awkwardly patting her shoulder from moment to moment, and hoping like hell he'd not made a mistake in joining forces with this weeping child.

  3

  The Steamer Khayioe ran aground twelve miles above the village of Kyaikkasan. The river had not been completely cleared of debris in the five years since the war had ended and further attempts had been abandoned after Independence, when insurgency erupted and steamer service had to be suspended for weeks at a time. Now with the rainy season ended the wing of a downed Zero fighter plane had slowly edged its way loose, twisted and drifted up from the riverbed, dusk rendering it nearly invisible. Once it was seen the tiller was thrust hard to starboard, the steamer missed the obstacle by inches, but in turning shoreward it met the muddy shallows of the riverbank with a thud and reverberating tremors.

  For Lady Waring this was nearly the last straw: she had been seven days aboard the Khayioe, they had been shot at by insurgents, stunned by heat during the day, chilled by night, and in spite of there being two others in her party to harass, she was bored. She had waited weeks in Rangoon for transport to Mandalay, but Mandalay was currently in the hands of the Karens, the rail line had been cut and plane service canceled; she had begun to envision spending the entire dry season in Rangoon. Hearing rumors that a steamer might be leaving soon with arms for the government soldiers she had made daily rounds of the Ministry of Information, the Special Branch of police, the British Consulate and the shipping lines, alternately cajoling, threatening and bribing, making it quite clear that she had connections in London and at Buckingham Palace, and that she was accustomed to having her own way.

  In the end a permit for travel into Upper Burma on the Khayioe had been issued but the British Consul, aware of the precariousness of his position—and of those connections in London—had insisted on young Culpepper accompanying Lady Waring and her secretary on an official basis. The Ministry, the police and the shipping company having submitted, they acknowledged defeat and issued permits to the handful of other Europeans besieging them; it was hoped that by the time the steamer reached Mandalay the government forces would be in control again but if not it was thought that unleashing Lady Waring upon the insurgents would not be without benefit.

  When the last shudder of boat meeting shore had died away, Lady Waring lifted her cane and pointed it at Mr. Culpepper. "You," she said. "Kindly approach the captain and see what he plans to do now and how long this will delay us."

  Culpepper said cheerfully, "I suspect he's rather busy just now." He had learned in seven days that the only possible insulation against Lady Waring was to (1) pretend to misunderstand her, (2) pretend not to hear her, or (3) surround himself with a deadening and quite unrealistic cheerfulness, which he was displaying now.

  "Then try eavesdropping," said Lady Waring tartly. "You said you'd learned a little Burmese—practice it."

  The steamer's accident had been accepted calmly enough by the natives aboard the Khayioe. Having rushed to the rail they retired now to the corners they'd staked out on the deck with their rugs, blankets, flowers and baskets of food. Lady Waring had observed them for seven days, marveling at their stamina, their obvious enjoyment of this endless trip, the babies fed and played with, the dice and dominoes engrossing husbands and soldiers, some of them vanishing into the villages at which they stopped every night to be replaced by new faces, new babies, new husbands and children. When the steamer had been machine-gunned from the shore they had preserved their calm, simply moving to the opposite side of the deck or taking refuge behind crates or boxes while the soldiers lazily returned fire from the boat. There seemed to be a distressing lack of worry among them, which she supposed was due to their equally distressing beliefs in the Buddha. Nothing seemed to worry them, not even sleeping on the deck, which was surprisingly open to attack, the so-called Europeans—actually most of them were Americans—occupying the three cabins squeezed into the stern, a cabin Lady Waring had to share with the silent, pretty Miss Thorald, who was at least civil enough to be quiet, and with Mrs. Caswell, who dithered and faltered and seemed apologetic for her very existence.

  Culpepper returned, smiling his obnoxiously cheerful smile. “We're being asked to go ashore to lighten the weight of the boat," he said, "and the soldiers are going to heave and push. If that fails, someone will walk to the next village and bring back ropes, and probably bullocks, and more men to do the heaving and pushing."

  She surprised him by only shrugging. "A welcome change. Ask my secretary—Moreland—to carry my deck chair ashore, if you will."

  Once ensconced in her chair, Lady Waring observed the scene around her with her usual jaundiced eye. The Caswell couple were wandering up and down the shore, pointing into the trees and examining the clusters of tiny orchids. Pompous ass, thought Lady Waring, and shifted her gaze to his wife, who looked drowned, as so many women did who married overbearing and dominating husbands. The silent Miss Thorald had seated herself on the fallen trunk of a tree and was reading a book. Culpepper and her secretary Moreland were discussing birds: words like pied-crested cuckoo, iora and Bengal brown fish-owl reached her, but Lady Waring realized that the natives and the countryside had begun to interest her more than her compatriots. For the children this was playtime, and without the slightest embarrassment they were naked in the shallows, their wet flesh gleaming like mahogany; the men, still wearing their longyis, were pouring water over themselves, several women crouched in the water washing clothes while older boys watched with glee the efforts to back the steamer off the sandbank.

  Her gaze went beyond them to the river that ran like pale silk in the late afternoon light. On the distant shore a water buffalo stood patiently in the shallows while a man stood in an ox cart and filled barrels with water. Beyond him lay the tender green fields stretching to blue hills, on one of which the sun caught and picked out the tip of a pagoda. She supposed the scene had looked no different a hundred years ago.

  She had been prepared to find her journey nearly intolerable and the country primitive and boring. Fed on the hostility of the colonial attitude toward all darker-skinned subjects of the British Empire, she found it difficult to admit now that she was stirred by the tranquility and the sense of timelessness that she was meeting here. She was tired— from grief, from the war, from change, but a knowledge had begun growing in her that she was being overtaken by something that reached out to her tired spirit and caressed it, stroked it, gave a more enduring light to her memories and offered healing.

  I'm not sure I want to be healed, she thought peevishly, and wondered if she had grown too accustomed to pain.

  She rose from her chair. "I'm going to walk a little," she announced to her secretary.

  Moreland only smiled and nodded but Miss Thorald, hearing her, looked up from her book. "I'd like that, may I join you?"

  Mr. Baharian, strolling barefooted up from the shore, overheard her and said, "Give me a minute to put on my shoes and I'll go with you."

  Outrageous man, thought Lady Waring with distaste; he had tied a length of silk around his head and looked like a pirate; what was worse, the prim and fastidious Mr. Gunfer, as narrow as Mr. Baharian was huge, at once announced that he would walk, too, and Mr. Caswell, hearing of their plans, paused beside Culpepper and Moreland and said to his wife, "There now, Helen, you can walk with Lady Waring, too, it'll do you good to stretch your legs."

  "There's a small pa
th over there," said Miss Thorald. "Perhaps it will lead to a village."

  Mrs. Caswell said eagerly, "There's either a pagoda or a not shrine that we glimpsed through the trees. Perhaps we could investigate!"

  The small group set out up the narrow path between the tamarinds and the palms, a plump brown-faced Burmese following them.

  Dusk began to creep slowly over the river and darken bright silver into pewter, the boat gave one final shudder and broke free of the sandbank to the sound of cheering. The gangplank was set up again, the Burmese swarmed aboard, chattering and laughing, the steamer blew its horn and Mr. Caswell, Culpepper and Moreland hurried aboard, still talking. It was several minutes before it was noticed that Lady Waring's deck chair remained standing on the empty shore, and it was nearly dark before it was discovered that five of the Europeans were missing.

  4

  I'm sorry," Gen said, drawing away from Hamlin's awkward comforting arm and wiping her tears with a sleeve.

  "Look, when was the last time you cried?” he demanded.

  She gave him a wan smile and hiccupped. It was a fair question and for a second she wrestled with her terror at having lost control, pitted against a feeling of lightness and delicious exhaustion. She said solemnly, "It's like vomit, isn't it."

  He shook his head. "You sure have a weird way of expressing things but I suppose the analogy applies: both have to come out. Or up." He picked up the knapsack and slung it over his shoulder. "Let's go, okay?"

  She nodded and turned for a last glance at Theingyu, asleep again in the moonlight. "Yes, but up ahead we should cross the road and walk near the river," she told him. "We can walk faster across the fields."

  The night was dark but it was the soft velvety darkness of Burma: the moon having reached its zenith the night before it had entered the time of la byigyaw, the waning moon, but the stars were no less brilliant, scattered across the sky like handfuls of glittering sequins. They walked in silence, two very small figures moving in and out of shadows under the vast panorama of night sky, Hamlin carrying the knapsack and Gen her Shan shoulder bag. The moon that had hung over the low hills in the west moved slowly into the sky and cut a gleaming swath of silver across the Irrawaddy. They bypassed several villages, inspiring a number of dogs to bark, and stopped at last to rest inside a dense grove of bamboo, welcomed by the mournful cry of an owl.