Miss Burma

by Charmaine Craig

  And against this eerie tableau of diversion, in the home of the warden to Burma’s woes, Louisa seemed to arrive at her own temporary solution—to the problem of not knowing anymore when she was pretending rather than simply pretending to pretend, or where her old self ended and her new self began, or if there even was an authentic self to sully with self-deception. As far as she was concerned her previous self—which had sought to cultivate inner beauty and alleviate outer suffering—was dead.

  Then one night in 1960, she was sitting alone in her bedroom at the old dressing table that was also her desk, when she looked up to find her previous self staring back at her in the mirror.

  A few months earlier, Ne Win had returned the country to the civilian government and called general elections, which U Nu had won again. But there was something doomed about that victory. And as if to compensate for his inherent weakness, U Nu had soon decided to bring a delegation of more than four hundred “luminaries”—­including Louisa—to the People’s Republic of China to meet Zhou Enlai. There, endless banquets—held to sweeten negotiations finalizing a border long in dispute between the two countries—had cured Louisa of every last illusion about communism (there was no stronger medicine than to be subjected to ten-course meals under the supervision of the starving, and everywhere on the streets of China there were so many starving). And after her return, she had been sick to her stomach for days, unable to purge herself of the pressure of her growing sense of culpability. Hadn’t she stuffed herself in China because she’d been expected to? And didn’t that describe many a cowardly and evil act? She was no better than any government administrator if she complied with the government’s unjust requirements, never standing up to them.

  On this night, she saw in the mirror how pale her face had become, its irises covered over by dark disks, its cheeks hollowed and skin waxen. Yet tears of feeling suddenly filled its eyes, and, as if in response, or in compassion, her hand surprised her by finding the penknife she had been using to open letters and tenderly lifting it to her throat. Through the point of the knife, she seemed to feel her heart begin to pound, and she forced the knife down. But again, her hand lovingly lifted it, now to the fragile, purplish skin beneath one of her eyes. Just one quick, deep slice, an inner voice prodded her.

  “Don’t be foolish,” another voice cut in.

  It was Mama. Through the mirror, Louisa saw her standing in the doorway, looking remotely back at her reflection.

  “Mama—” she started, turning, but her mother drew away, left the room, left her alone with the knife and the tears that suddenly wouldn’t cease falling.

  In the desolate hours that followed, Louisa had every ugly thought about herself and her parents. It seemed to her that they were all slaves of their circumstances, living in a kind of permanent estrangement within these walls they shared. Even Daddy . . . There had been a time, after his release from prison, when she had gone nearly nightly to find him in his study, even though she’d come to believe that nothing could rival his affection for the old peeling desk where he seemed to do battle with his political convictions and his commitment to Mama and the family. From the shadows beyond the doorway, she’d listened as he paced back and forth in the half-light of the kerosene lamp, or as he raved and dashed to the desk to write a line, or moaned and cursed without ever noticing her. “What I believe—what I actually believe—dare I confess it?” he might say to himself on one of these nights. “What I actually believe is that in some ways Nu is right to despise clanism. Don’t I despise it—that veneration of my virtues, my laws, my faith, my heritage, my songs.” Or: “Who are my people? Who, other than the dead?”

  Back then, she had told herself that she trusted—and, in fact, did mostly trust—in Daddy’s trustworthiness, in his sanity and courage. But she had also been unable to avoid viewing him through the lens of the courageous man who had temporarily replaced him: Lynton. And though she’d felt like a criminal, she had sometimes longed for Lynton, for his quick wide grin, his decisive laugh, and his steady convictions. “For every day we are given, we owe that day our courage and vigor,” Lynton had once told her, before teasing her for having a piece of rice on her cheek. He was the first person who’d made her feel that he, too, could be unburdened of that thing that seemed to oppress all humans: the desperation to persist, a desperation that could alternately take the form of cowardice and brutishness. And perhaps because she had understood the dimensions of Lynton’s freedom from fear, she had been transfixed by fear of losing him. And when he had finally left them in Bilin, she had secretly wept and made a vow to herself to forgive him—and to forgive herself for caring about him—should he live through the war.

  Years had passed since she’d permitted herself such thoughts, or dared to intrude on Daddy in his study. But now, near midnight, with the penknife still beckoning to her, she fled from her room and crept down the dark staircase.

  Daddy was there, past the partly opened door of his moonlit study, seated in a chair before the small window that looked out to the wild backside of their property. And he was talking to himself—or talking to God, she understood—as he used to. “Whom to trust?” she heard him say.

  She almost called to him, but he said it again: “Whom to trust?”

  It wasn’t until her third year at university, in October 1961, that she was finally granted a reprieve from her own isolation and distrust.

  One minute she was moving down a corridor to class, enshrouded in the solitude she kept when not in front of the cameras or her fans, and the next she heard someone whistling something melodramatic that could have been composed by Henry Mancini. Then there he was—a boy striding to keep pace with her, whistling in time with his step (or walking and whistling in time with hers?).

  And what an attitude, what a swagger he had, this undeniably good-looking, tall young man—if you could call him a man (when she glanced at him, she saw that, appealing as he was in that way, he hardly had a hair of stubble on his chin). He smiled, as if in return for a smile she hadn’t offered, and then kept on with his exuberantly whistled song, which he occasionally interrupted with a tuba-like blast from his lips. Was he making fun of her, suggesting that she had the plodding walk of a—of a farting, fumbling creature from the Black Lagoon? She felt herself flush with shame and immediately feigned irritated indifference. But he cast her another unabashed grin and loped off, whistling his way into one of the lecture halls.

  Only then, with him out of view (but hardly out of her mind’s eye), did she recall where she’d seen him—with one of Gracie’s closest friends, called Myee, a kid whose father was a Shan leader and an important political figure. Myee had even introduced her to this boy at one of Gracie’s parties—but what was his name?

  That afternoon—after she boarded the bus, stopped in the aisle to sign several autographs, tucked herself into an empty bench, and hid her face in a book—he abruptly reappeared, plopping himself down beside her and causing her to yelp, which caused him, in turn, to laugh.

  “You don’t recognize me?” he said with a huge grin.

  She meant to tell him that she did, but was so aware of the inquisitive eyes staring at them from up and down the now lurching bus that she said, “We’re being watched.”

  “I know,” he whispered in response. “Should I speak more loudly so they don’t have to strain to hear?”

  Involuntarily, she smiled—though she was sure he was teasing her, and she generally despised sarcasm (she had too much of it everywhere!).

  “Yes,” she found herself replying, as sincerely as she could. “That would be considerate.”

  His look of astonishment told her he hadn’t been prepared for that. But a moment later, he dusted off his lap and stood, turning on unsteady legs to face their onlookers.

  “My name is Kenneth!” he announced to the old ladies and the toothless men, to the mothers and kids and university students now watching him with smiling i
nterest. “I’m sure you know Naw Louisa—”

  “Don’t—” she whispered, pulling on his trousers, and feeling a jolt of excitement at the intimacy of the gesture.

  But he was already having too much fun. Motioning down to her, he continued: “She and I are actually old friends, though she doesn’t seem to remember we’ve met several times. You see, her sister”—and he said this with a punishing glance down at her—“happens to be pals with a kid who’s like my brother.”

  From the bus, there came comically sober exclamations of “I see” and “Aha,” then all fell silent, waiting, it seemed, for him to go on. But he appeared to have grown self-conscious. He faced the stony stares, flashing the riders a gracious, flustered smile before concluding, “Just wanted you to know, because Naw Louisa was very worried about you feeling left out of our conversation.”

  He gave a nervous bow, and when he sank back down, it was to look bashfully at her. “Did I go a little too far?” There was a blush on his cheeks and also something like familiarity in his stare.

  What was it with this boy—this Kenneth—who made her unwillingly smile even though he seemed only to elicit and take pleasure in her embarrassment? “A little,” she said. “We’ll probably read about it tomorrow in the papers.”

  “You read what they write about you?”

  Now she felt herself color with humiliation. “I try not to.”

  Her honesty surprised her, and she was suddenly so disconcerted she found herself opening her book again and pretending to read a line, though she knew she was obviously failing to be convincing at that. And even as she tried to assume a look of concentration, the heat of her blush intensifying, she felt him watching her—as if to see how long she could endure pretending not to notice that her play-acting was pathetically unpersuasive. From the corner of her eye, she saw him finally reach into the sack at his feet and pull out a heavy textbook, which, when she glanced over (she couldn’t help it), she saw had the words “Probability Theory” in its title, and which he flipped open, finally landing on a page of equations that she (also unwillingly) stole peeks at.

  This was ridiculous.

  She closed her book, looking squarely at him, but now he was mocking her pretense of indifference, alternately scowling at his page of problems and gazing up at the flaking ceiling of the bus, squinting and nodding.

  At last, looking pleased with himself, he turned to her and said, “You have something to write with?”

  “What?”

  “A pencil. A pen. Something to write down an answer.”

  “There’s no need to show off. If you want to have a conversation, we can.”

  But just then the bus passed into shadow, throwing them into a darkness that made her feel exposed, and she looked away to the reflective window at her side—and caught him glancing at himself and (vainly, adorably) running a hand through his longish hair. Their eyes met in the window, and then they were thrust into the light again.

  “Why are you so miserable?” he said, almost shyly, as if avowing his own miserable crush on her.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You go around, your eyes downcast, like the saddest girl in the world. It’s very romantic, but—”

  “There’s a difference between being miserable and . . .”

  “And what?”

  “Wanting a bit of seclusion.”

  “Is there?”

  “In fact, I’m very happy.”

  But her words made him look at her with sadness. He didn’t believe them, and suddenly neither did she.

  She felt an inward surge of grief overtaking her—and another of anger. And, dizzied by the vacillating tides of her emotions—and of his cockiness and self-abasement, joshing and sincerity, put-downs and praise—she steadied herself with the view of her book, mentally reciting a litany of complaints against him.

  “Do you eat?” he interrupted her.

  “Don’t I look like I eat?” she said to the book.

  “I wasn’t sure. You seem—”

  “What?” This was said with coldness and directly at his earnest eyes.

  “Never mind—let’s get off.”

  “I have another six stops—”

  “I know, but there’s a Chinese café on the next corner. You look like you could use some noodles.”

  Over noodles, then, and Chinese tea—both remarkably delicious—in the humid café and the presence of still more pressing onlookers, they sat sweating and slurping and falling into increasingly relaxed conversation, only occasionally lapsing into silences more intimate than awkward, in which she seemed to feel him assuring her that imperfection was what he yearned for: the imperfection of her wit, the imperfection of her composure, the imperfection of her beauty, and even the imperfection of their uncannily easy and evolving rapport.

  They spoke sparingly and tenderly of their families. His father, a Chinese prince, had passed away when Kenneth was a child; like Myee’s elders, his were based in Shan State, and had been pressured two years before by Ne Win to abdicate their sovereign rights to their people in favor of an elected administration (despite their having no confidence that such an “elected” government would represent those people’s interests). Yes, it seemed that Ne Win had cooperatively handed the reins back to U Nu, and even that U Nu was beginning to consider eventually sharing governmental power with ethnic states in some sort of genuine federalist system. But Ne Win and his army loomed in the shadows, and there was no need to discuss that continued threat.

  As Kenneth talked, she saw—beyond his own beauty and intelligence and playfulness—an innocent soul that longed for truthfulness. And it asked her, in many ways and again and again, to come out of the box in which she had been keeping her own inmost, honest self. It welcomed embarrassment, because embarrassment was the entry point to candor. And it basked in the light of self-revelation.

  “What was that tune you were whistling in the hall today?” she asked him. “Or should I say whistling while making fun of me?”

  “Something inspired by you! Not to suggest anything inappropriate, but it came to me the other day in the shower.”

  Now she freely laughed. “You think I’m ridiculous.”

  “A little bit.”

  And again he began to whistle and wiggle around, as though in impersonation of someone’s lumbering walk.

  “I do walk like that, don’t I?”

  “You do!”

  “How embarrassing.”

  “You should be proud of it! Exaggerate it a little. Like this . . .”

  He jumped up by the table and, to the astonishment of everyone but her now, began to strut in time to the tune. And, relishing her humiliation, she waited a minute before beckoning him back to the table, something he thoroughly seemed to relish.

  For a while, they sat perspiring again over their soup, and then she said, suddenly seeing there was really no reason not to, “I like you, Kenneth.”

  That November, hours in advance of a party, Katie Ne Win sent a car to bring Louisa to the Government House. Because of Kenneth—and because of the honesty he inspired in her—Louisa had determined finally to raise the subject of Daddy’s friend, Rita Mya. But as soon as she and Katie were alone in the drawing room of the Victorian mansion, Katie—in lavish jewels, and with a gleam in her eye—drew back, peering at her with a smile.

  “You’re keeping a secret,” she said to Louisa. “Yes, I see it. The shining eyes. The confidence. The clearness of complexion, the charming reddened cheeks. I’m not wrong, am I? Ah! This is something to savor! Louisa has a secret! And tell me, what is his name? Someone you’ve met here?”

  Feeling the heat of her feelings for Kenneth rise to her lips, Louisa nearly divulged everything. But she saw a flash of pain in ­Katie’s eyes, of something more personal than jealousy. And instantly she understood that it would have been an unforgivable mistake
to confide in Katie, who relied on her to mirror her own need for diversion from truth and its ugliness. And yet, blinking at the woman, Louisa found herself uttering, “What is it?”

  The question was, if not unwelcome, clearly too much for Katie. She rushed away to the table, where she found a box of cigarettes and then searched around for a light.

  Trying to make up for her blunder, Louisa took some matches from her own handbag and said, “Let me,” and went and lit the quivering cigarette at Katie’s mouth, before the woman turned to a window and the far-off view of her husband bending over his golf club on the lawn.

  “He’s been in a foul mood,” Katie said after a minute, and then she gave a little stifled laugh. “Ever since his last trip to China he’s wanted everyone to call him ‘Chairman.’ Will you be shocked if I tell you that he asks me to refer to him like that when we’re—” She turned and gave Louisa a wicked wink. But seeing Louisa’s timidity, she added, “You’re still very naive, aren’t you? That’s why I like you. Stay just like that.”

  As always, her every word seemed to have a second meaning, and a third, leaving Louisa to wonder if Katie wasn’t faulting her for an innocence she envied, and also warning Louisa against persisting in that innocence for long.

  “Sometimes I think his men love him more than I do,” she continued saying now to the window. “Aung Gyi. Maung Maung. They love to call him ‘Chairman.’ . . . Chairman Ne Win. Disgusting, don’t you think?” She took a suck from her cigarette, while beyond her, on the grounds, Ne Win peered out at a distant target. “Aung Gyi would do anything to wrest the throne from U Nu and seat my husband on it. But, like a lover who never has enough attention, he’d also do anything to hurt him . . . Now you know love’s torments, don’t you, darling?” She turned to Louisa, as though remembering her all at once. “Just wait until your new flame sees you around other men. Do you know what Aung Gyi said about me to Win? That—ha!—he saw me flirting with someone else. So what?”