by Rosanna Ley
After a restorative G & T in the plush bar, Eva had retraced her steps to the Indian and Chinese quarters where the locals squatted on their haunches among sacks of rice, lentils, heaps of noodles and, yes, definitely fried locusts. She grimaced. They chatted and laughed, their children playing nearby, as bicycles and trishaws careered along the narrow pot-holed streets, and as they cooked Burmese curries in huge cauldrons on top of braziers, the scents of spices, dried fish and nut oil hanging ripe and heavy in the air.
She laughingly refused a trishaw ride, a rejection which inspired the driver to spit betel juice forcefully on to the road. A nasty habit, she thought, noting his gory, red-stained teeth. The trishaw looked ancient and possibly dangerous, its saddles supported by two rusty springs and the driver himself was bow-legged and certainly no spring chicken. He rattled his money pouch enticingly at her, but she decided not to dice with death on Yangon’s busy highway. Instead, she bought a bag of oranges and a pancake for her lunch and stood in the shade for a moment to take it all in. It was as if she’d moved from one side of the world to the other. A G and T in the Strand Hotel at one end and a Burmese pancake cooked in peanut oil at the other – the price of said G and T enough to buy dinner for six at the local open-air eatery.
Before coming here for lunch, Eva had visited Bogyoke Aung San market, where she purchased two longyis made to measure, one in magenta silk and one in indigo batik; two embroidered white cotton blouses and a pair of black velvety Burmese slippers, flip flops really, but made of softer fabric and clearly de rigeur in Yangon. And she’d enjoyed the shopping trip; the Burmese liked to barter, but it seemed it was just for fun. ‘I am happy; you are happy,’ more than one of the stallholders had said to her when they’d agreed a price. And they were right. Eva was glad that she had come here with some room in her suitcase, as her grandfather had advised.
Her companion, probably in his early forties, she guessed, had taken his time before ordering Myanmar beer and a Burmese noodle soup. There was a cultured look about him, in the suave confidence of his voice and manner, in the clothes he wore, which were casual but expensive. Was he a tourist? He looked as though he knew his way around.
He glanced across at her, friendly enough. ‘It is your first visit here?’ he asked.
She must have it stamped on her forehead under her widebrimmed straw hat. An innocent abroad. ‘Yes,’ she admitted. ‘I only arrived yesterday.’
Yesterday, the agent from MyanTravel had met her at the airport and accompanied her in the taxi to the Agency Offices housed in a huge old colonial building where she had been given green tea and slices of juicy watermelon. She would have the morning to settle in, he’d told her and then she would be meeting with her company’s contact in Yangon who would collect her from her hotel at 3 p.m.
At three on the dot he had appeared in the hotel foyer. ‘I, Thein Thein,’ he said. ‘Now, I take you to the showroom.’ They had driven miles, finally arriving at a building that looked more like a shack than a showroom. The man who let them in looked rather shady too and already Eva was having doubts about what she was here to do.
The friendly little waiter brought the kauk-sweh soup, a thin broth with vegetables and stringy noodles.
‘How about you?’ Eva asked her companion. ‘It’s not your first trip, is it?’
‘No, it is not. I have been here many times,’ he told her. ‘The first in 1999.’
‘The city must have changed a lot since then.’ Eva poured herself more jasmine tea. The hotels seemed full and although all visitors must still bring only pristine US dollars to the country and there were few ATMs and internet cafés, she could see that other changes wouldn’t be long coming.
‘It has, yes. And you are travelling for pleasure, is that so?’
‘Yes and no. I’ve wanted to come here most of my life,’ she admitted. ‘But I’m here on behalf of the company I work for. I’m hoping to authenticate some antique pieces and arrange for them to be shipped back to the UK.’
‘Indeed?’ He took another spoonful of his soup. ‘You work for an antique dealer? You are an expert, perhaps?’ His blue eyes were twinkling and he had an open smile that she liked.
She tried to look modest. ‘It’s what I do,’ she said.
‘And what have you seen so far?’ He called over the waiter and ordered more beer for himself and tea for Eva. ‘If you do not mind me asking? I might even …’ He leaned forwards confidentially, ‘… be able to help you, if you are looking for contacts, that is.’
Eva remembered what Jacqui had said about looking around for more stock. ‘It’s possible that I might be,’ she said. He seemed nice enough and it was good to have some company for a change. Why not tell him what had happened?
‘It was a bit of a disappointment, I’m afraid,’ she said.
‘Oh?’
‘I can’t possibly examine them in this light,’ she had told Thein Thein. ‘It’s far too dim.’
A lengthy discussion followed between Thein Thein and the man in the shack. Voices had grown more and more heated but no one was actually doing anything.
‘Come on.’ Eva picked up one end of what she hoped was a nineteenth century scripture chest. ‘Give me a hand. Let’s get it outside.’
Eventually, amidst much grumbling, Thein Thein helped her and they heaved it into the open air. It was weighty enough to be solid teak … But there was a lot of damage, as she could now see. She ran her finger over the wood carving. It almost looked like termite damage, but teak was generally very resistant because it was so rich in natural oils. She examined the piece all over for colour consistency and patination. It had been extensively repaired, although the top was sound. But there was a muddy look to the wood grain that made her suspect it had been treated with something. ‘What are you asking for this one?’ She checked her paperwork. It would need considerable restoration.
Thein Thein translated. The Burmese dealer looked her up and down briefly as if to assess her wealth. Eva sighed. Hadn’t it been explained to him who she was and what she was doing? He named a figure.
It didn’t correspond to what was on the paperwork and Eva pointed this out to Thein Thein. He shrugged. ‘He want to barter,’ he said.
‘Well, he can forget it.’ Eva put her hands on her hips. ‘We’re not interested.’
‘You do not think it genuine?’ Thein Thein took off his battered straw hat, he seemed so shocked.
How could she explain to him? Authenticity was a blurred subject. How much an old piece had been worked on – restored, repaired, whatever you wanted to call it – could affect whether it was considered genuine or not. How much reconstitution was permitted before an item ceased to be an authentic antique? And how it had been repaired would certainly affect the price that could be obtained for it. Everyone had to make a profit, after all, this was a business.
The dealer burst out in a spate of outraged Burmese.
‘He say it came from a sacred temple.’
Eva nodded. It might well have done.
‘He say it has been protected by a special guardian, a nat, and that it once held holy scriptures on parchment.’
‘Is there any documentation?’ Eva asked. Not that she would understand it, but Thein Thein would presumably be able to translate.
Both men looked blank.
‘Come on then,’ she said. ‘Let’s look at the rest.’ Experience had shown her that in every scrap heap there could be a pearl, and if it were here, she would find it. Otherwise Jacqui Dryden would certainly have something to say.
Eva gave her companion a condensed version of the story. She didn’t want to say too much to someone who was virtually a complete stranger, but on the other hand he might be a useful person to know.
‘And what about the rest of the pieces?’ he asked. ‘Was there anything interesting?’
‘Not really.’ She pulled a face. On behalf of the Emporium, she had purchased an old circular lacquer table, a carved teak screen and a few bits of colonial furnitur
e that she knew would be highly saleable. But nothing that had made her heart beat faster. Still, onwards and upwards as they say. There were still Bagan and Mandalay. And she had also been able to talk to Thein Thein about the packaging and shipping damage that Jacqui had complained about. In fact she’d arranged an inspection the following morning of a shipment that was due out this week. She’d caught it just in time.
Thein Thein was doubtful about her conclusions. ‘I am surprised that your company not want these special goods I have found,’ he said. ‘Very surprised they not want to take advantage.’
He could raise his eyebrows and widen his eyes as much as he liked, Eva thought. It wouldn’t affect her judgement.
‘You are likely to find better items in Mandalay,’ her companion now told her.
‘That’s good,’ said Eva, ‘I’m going there next.’ She eyed him curiously. ‘And what about you?’ she asked. ‘Are you over here on business?’
‘I am.’
She raised a questioning eyebrow.
‘I have various interests,’ he admitted. He sipped his beer and regarded her appraisingly. ‘I help to run a German charity which supports an orphanage in Mandalay.’
‘That’s nice.’
He sipped his beer, still watching her. ‘And I like to buy gemstones.’
‘Ah.’ Eva’s gaze was drawn to the signet ring he wore. ‘From here?’ she asked.
He nodded. ‘A small Burmese ruby.’ He smiled warmly. ‘I’m sure a connoisseur such as yourself, knows that Burma is very famous for her rubies.’
Eva twisted her own diamond daisy ring. It was the only jewellery she was wearing. In this heat she had decided to dress light, in a simple white sleeveless cotton blouse and a flowery wrap-around skirt; she wanted to fit into the culture as far as possible and it was the best thing to wear to preserve the required modesty and to keep relatively cool. ‘Hardly a connoisseur,’ she protested. ‘Especially not of jewellery.’
‘Ah.’ He smiled. ‘Every beautiful woman is a connoisseur of jewellery, is that not so?’
‘Perhaps. But tell me …’ She leaned a little closer. ‘How do you know the stones are genuine?’ Her guidebook had advised not to purchase unless you could truly identify the real thing. And Eva had seen the jade and the rubies in the jewellery shops and on market stalls, there were so many, you couldn’t help but. If they weren’t genuine, then they were very clever imitations.
He touched his nose. ‘Contacts,’ he said. ‘For those who are interested in buying good stones, they must make contacts who can be relied on. It is like furniture, I think.’
‘So it’s all about who you know?’
‘In Myanmar, yes.’ He frowned. ‘The government here is very strict about the export of gemstones. There are disreputable dealers. You must find a dealer you can trust.’
Disreputable dealers … Eva thought of the pieces she’d seen so far and the reaction of their contact Thein Thein. How trustworthy was he? He had seemed disappointed about the amount she had purchased and yet he must have seen for himself that some of the pieces were of dubious quality.
She looked thoughtfully at her companion, who seemed pretty knowledgeable about such things. Eva had gone into this business because she loved old artefacts and the history they could tell. But in the end, how could you make people really care that a diamond was a real diamond and not a piece of glass, or that an intricately carved teak Buddha painstakingly made by hand hundreds of years ago was still in its original condition?
‘It is the price, of course,’ her companion said when she put this to him. ‘Look at the buses.’
‘The buses?’
He was pointing towards the busy wide road. Two buses were creaking and hurtling down the street as if they were on fire, people hanging tightly on to the handrails. ‘Why do you think they drive so fast?’
She shrugged. ‘Because they’re running late?’
He laughed. ‘Because they are paid by the number of passengers on board. So they race and overtake each other to get to the next stop first.’
She laughed with him. ‘Really?’
‘For sure.’ He nodded. ‘Always, everything is about money.’
Eva pulled a face. That wasn’t what she wanted to hear, or believe. ‘Not always,’ she said. ‘It’s about history too. It’s about the original source. The value of a genuine artefact. Its story.’
She realised that he was giving her that appraising look again.
‘Your passion does you credit,’ he said. ‘But you should take care in this country when you say what you think.’
‘About politics?’ She had read that one shouldn’t engage the Burmese in conversations about politics or their government – a loose tongue could get them into trouble.
He spread both hands. ‘About many things,’ he said. ‘We take free speech for granted in Europe. The Burmese do not.’
Eva sat back in her chair, chastened. It was true though. She plunged in, whether to conversation or to love, and then considered the wisdom of it later.
‘My name, by the way, is Klaus Weber,’ he said.
She smiled at the fact that they hadn’t yet even exchanged names. ‘Eva Gatsby.’ And shook his outstretched hand.
‘And tonight?’ he said smoothly. ‘What plans do you have?’
Eva checked her watch to give herself thinking time. Had she really been talking to this man for almost two hours? And more to the point, did she want to spend any more time with him? She certainly wasn’t looking for romance. But on the other hand, he had been very easy to talk to.
He shrugged. ‘We are both travelling alone,’ he said. ‘I am staying at The Traders Hotel just down the road here. If you like, we could meet there for a drink and share a taxi to see the Shwedagon Pagoda at sunset. You have not yet seen it, I think? And it is the best time of day to experience its splendour.’
‘No, I haven’t.’ Though she had seen the pagoda from a distance, of course, gilded and graceful, rising above the city like a halo. And the temple was apparently a ‘must see’. She’d have to go tonight; tomorrow afternoon she was flying to Mandalay.
Mandalay. The next leg of her journey. Where she would be examining more antiques but also looking for a woman who might not even be there, who might be long dead in fact, for all she knew. And if she was dead? She had to find this woman’s family then, if they existed, so that she could return her grandfather’s chinthe to its proper home with its twin, in order to restore harmony. Not only that, but she had to try and discover the truth. Would she find Maya? And if she did, how would Eva feel about her?
‘We could have dinner afterwards,’ said Klaus.
‘Well …’ He was friendly and interesting and would be a lot more amusing over dinner than her guide book had proved to be.
He held up his hands and shot her again that open grin. ‘No pressure. No ulterior motive. You are quite safe.’
Eva laughed. His attempt at humour had convinced her. ‘Why not?’ she said. Max was long gone. And anyway, this was just companionship and just for one evening. What harm could it possibly do?
CHAPTER 8
‘You’re early.’ Rosemary looked up at the sound of Alec’s key in the door. This was unusual. She knew that he was heavily involved in a project and that usually meant a late one.
‘Uh huh.’ He came closer, bent and kissed the top of her head.
Rosemary half-smiled, distracted. She’d been thinking about Eva. Eva in Burma.
‘I’m just going to have a quick shower.’ He was heading for the bathroom already. ‘And then I thought maybe we could go for a walk.’
‘A walk?’ Mentally Rosemary calculated how long it would take to cook supper. ‘Is there something wrong?’ she asked him. It had rained earlier and already the light was fading.
‘No.’ His voice was muffled and then she heard the water coming through. ‘Nothing wrong,’ he called. ‘I just need some fresh air. Want to clear my head.’
‘OK.’ But she knew there
was more to it than that.
They walked along the promenade at Nyhaven, the seventeenth-century waterfront, one of their favourite strolls, where you could admire the brightly painted townhouses and the historic wooden boats moored in the canal. There were plenty of bars and restaurants too, but Rosemary could tell that Alec wanted to walk – and talk.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ he said, as they strolled along the wide walkway. ‘It’s been a long time since you saw Eva and your father.’
She glanced at him. Was that it? ‘I know.’ Almost a year to be precise.
Alec stuffed his hands in his pockets. ‘Any reason?’ He sounded casual, but Rosemary wasn’t fooled.
‘Not really,’ she said. Other than the fact that during her last visit her father had been defensive and Eva more distant than ever. The truth was, it hurt. She wanted to see them both, of course she did. It was just that it was so hard. And surprisingly easy to lose yourself in a different life and not remember. Or at least to try. Alec wouldn’t push it, he never did. Alec’s parents had died several years ago and since then there was little reason for him to go back to the UK, apart from with Rosemary. He had one brother who was living in Australia and he’d lost touch with most of his British friends. It had happened to Rosemary too. Easier to bury yourself, easier to let them go.
They walked in silence for a moment. There had been a slight drizzle in the air and the sky was November-grey and dimming into dusk. The colour of the canal was a dull olive. Like the winter sea back in Dorset, thought Rosemary.
‘Eva’s in Burma,’ she said, after a while.
‘Burma?’ he repeated. He pushed up his glasses which had slipped down his nose. ‘Isn’t that where—?’