The Lizard Cage

by Karen Connelly

  But the familiar heavy thud of his boots doesn’t come today. Odd. Teza turns his ear to the door. Definitely no boots. Just Sein Yun. In slippers that are too big for him. The shuffle is longer, more awkward than usual. Have they sent a different criminal to serve him? Has something happened to Sein Yun?

  On the other side of the door, the aluminum food tray clatters down on the cement floor. The key chain rattles. Unseen fingers select the key, which slides in and turns the lock. Now the hand must throw open the outer bolt.

  But the hand doesn’t touch it.

  Teza stares quizzically at his closed door, waiting.

  No sound. The outer bolt stays clamped.

  His stomach suddenly tightens. Sein Yun would have opened the door by now.

  Who is there?

  He controls the speed of his breathing as an old stitch of pain in his ribs pulls tight. Sweat begins to gather under his eyes, on the edge of his cheekbones.

  Still the door does not open.

  The man on the other side is playing a game.

  The singer refuses to be undignified. He won’t ask who is there. Why would they send anyone to hurt him? He hasn’t done anything. They’re the ones who aren’t feeding him, who are stealing his fish. And he requested a haircut and a shave two weeks ago, but they’ve denied that too.

  Twice he opens his mouth to speak but remains silent.

  Just as he opens it for the third time, impatient to finish with this bad joke, the man on the other side of the door sings out, “Yooo-hooo! Is anybody in there?”

  Teza jumps at the voice—Sein Yun’s—then growls, “Of course I’m in here! Where the fuck else would I be? Why didn’t you say anything?”

  “I’m saying something now.”

  “Open up the bloody door, then, and bring in my breakfast. Where have you been? Why have you been standing there in silence for five minutes?”

  “Had you worried, huh? Did you think I was a ghost?”

  “No, I did not think you were a ghost, but now I’m sure you’re an asshole.”

  A peal of laughter is interrupted by the clunk and whisk of metal over wood. The outer bolt slides back and Sein Yun pulls open the heavy door. Shifting the bulge in his cheek, he says, “Ko Teza, no need to get so excited. I was just wrapping my betel. It’s a delicate task, you know.” Scooping up the tray, he half leaps into the cell, which makes a clump of rice fall to the floor. Teza sighs in exasperation.

  Six weeks into his association with the palm-reader, he is still taken aback when he sees the man. Sein Yun is like a creature from another star. Most of his teeth are the dark red of a betel-chewer. His lips are burgundy slashes and the lines around them leak red-black stains. Only his eyeteeth are clean. Capped in gold, they gleam like yellow fangs. A skein of grizzled hair covers his head, the shriveled scalp showing through like a rusty lemon. The little man’s skin is all yellow: face, hands, neck. Even the whites of his eyes are yellow. He is a walking, talking, cursing Petri dish of hepatitis.

  The wild gray hairs of his eyebrows make up for the lack of hair on his skull. But the king of hair on Sein Yun’s face is one long, imposing, curly strand of black that grows out of the mole on his chin. The palm-reader often twists the wiry black curlicue thoughtfully between his fingers, just as he is doing now—stroke, stroke, and a sudden pull as he turns his head to shoot a torpedo of betel juice out the open cell door. He crouches down and drops the food tray on the floor with a clatter.

  Teza begins, “Where have you been with my—”

  Sein Yun’s syncopated “Heh-heh-heh” interrupts him. “I have a very good excuse, trust me.” He waves his hand in a downward motion, wanting Teza to crouch beside him. The singer glares.

  “Ko Teza, don’t be stubborn, it doesn’t suit you. Come, come here. I have some news.”

  Teza scratches his head. Lice.

  With an avid grin, the palm-reader whispers, “It’s about Daw Suu Kyi.”

  Teza immediately drops down.

  “Heh-heh. You monkey. I knew that would get your attention.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s the reason you missed your meals yesterday.” The stained lips stretch gloatingly over his teeth. “Daw Suu Kyi is free. Released from house arrest. A thousand journalists are on University Avenue right now, they’ve come from all over the world. It’s a better tourist attraction than the Shwedagon Pagoda!” Sein Yun places his hands around an invisible box in front of his face and pumps his index finger up and down. “Click-click-click! The Nikons are out, the flashes are on. The beautiful lady is free, she’s free!”

  “How do you know?”

  “The whole cage knows—a warder must have brought it in. Leaky warders! I accused Jailer Chit Naing, but as usual he admits nothing. The cage has gone crazy. It happened one or two days ago, I don’t know exactly when. An auspicious day for Burma, a lucky day for us. Our savior is more famous now than when she won the Nobel Prize. They can finally take her picture! And she is so lovely.” Gold eyeteeth flash. “But too skinny, they say. She has to start eating more bananas.” The palm-reader leers, lifting his eyebrows.

  Teza’s mouth twists with doubt. Sein Yun might be making up the whole story.

  Sensing disbelief, the palm-reader snaps, “Oh, you’ll know the truth soon enough, Songbird. Your esteemed friend Chit Naing will drop by one evening when things calm down, I’m sure.”

  This comment sends a jolt of fear through the singer. How does the palm-reader know about Chit Naing’s nocturnal visits? If he knows, he knows. It’s better to say nothing. Instead he asks, “Where’s Handsome? Why hasn’t he come with you?”

  “Ah, how sweet! You miss him, do you? Should I call him over? He’s down at the far end of the hall having a smoke. You know he hates this solitary block—it puts him in a bad mood. Bad luck in here, that’s what he says. All those rats down the hall. The guy is terrified of them.” Sein Yun laughs and slaps Teza on the shoulder. “Isn’t that funny?”

  “Hilarious. What about my shower? Are you going to escort me to the shower room?”

  “Please, Songbird, I don’t know what you’re suggesting, but whatever it is, I’m not interested.”

  “You are sick. Would you just tell Handsome that I want my shower?”

  “Aie! Ko Teza, I’m beginning to understand why they put you in the coffin. You’re a royal pain in the ass, and you don’t know a good thing when it’s poking you in the eye. The guy doesn’t even want to come down the hallway, and if he did, he would just abuse you, because as we all know that’s his karma, to be a nasty shithead. But can you leave well enough alone and just let him sit there, smoking? No, you cannot. You want to provoke him. Mr. Political, give it a rest!”

  This earnest outburst is so out of character for the palm-reader that Teza has to cover his mouth with his hand to keep from laughing.

  “See? See? You think it’s funny! Well, you won’t think it’s funny when he beats the shit out of you, I promise you that. Idiot!”

  “Ko Sein Yun, you’re allowed to shower every day. Twice a day? I bet you have a nice wash twice a day, right? Your arms aren’t covered with scabies, are they? Look at this.” The singer thrusts his arms out. “You know why they bleed like that? Because I scratch them in my sleep. You know what scabies are, don’t you? Tiny little bugs burrowing tunnels under my skin. Tunnels, Ko Sein Yun, tunnels! If I manage to keep away from the sores during the day, I scratch all through the night. And you get to eat, don’t you? A lot, too. You have a racket in the gardens, you’ve told me that, fresh vegetables. I am pleased for you. But it’s not like that for me. The cage is really a cage. So don’t lecture me about being a good boy. If I don’t complain and make demands and get in trouble, they will treat me worse than they already do.”

  Sein Yun fixes him with a yellow eye. “Are you done?” He spits some more betel juice. “Good. Listen again, I’ll say it more slowly this time: Handsome does not want to go into the shower room because of the rats. I can’t say I blame
him. You’re just going to have to wait, Songbird. I’ll fill your water pot right to the top. You can give yourself a wash. And maybe a warder will come back later and take you.”

  Teza grimaces and opens his mouth to speak, but Sein Yun cuts him off. “Songbird, I’m not going to make things complicated for myself. He’s a friend, okay?” Sein Yun leans over, eyes wide, and whispers, “You see, I’ve read his palm, and now he’s mine. These guys! The toughest among them are as superstitious as old women! Even Senior Jailer Chit Naing had me read his palm! If only everyone outside were like them, all the palm-readers set up around the base of Sule Pagoda would be richer than generals. And don’t be such a whiner—I’ve brought you something to smoke.” The palm-reader stands and fishes two cheroots out of the pocket hidden inside his longyi. He proffers the cigars in his outstretched hand.

  Staring at the little man’s long, curved fingernails, which are caked with dirt from the kitchen gardens, Teza checks an unexpected urge to turn away. He doesn’t reach for the cheroots.

  “What’s with you? Don’t tell me you’ve decided to start smoking cigarettes—they’re too expensive. Besides, what would you read? Do you want these cheroots or not?” This time he offers them to Teza in the formal way, with his left hand cradling the elbow of his right arm, the thick, leaf-wrapped cigars lying flat on his open palm. The singer rises and gingerly picks them up without touching the palm-reader’s hand.

  Sein Yun smiles directly into Teza’s eyes. The force of the look is physical, as though the man has grasped his shoulder. “There’s a good boy.”

  “Where’s my food parcel?”

  Sein Yun replies, slightly offended. “Little Brother, they told me nothing about it. No one tells me anything. I’m just the one who carries the crap around.” To emphasize his point, he puts out his hand.

  Teza turns to fetch the latrine pail. “Is there anything else about Daw Suu Kyi? Any other news? Has she been able to speak to the public?”

  “Now, now, that’s enough for one day. I have to get on with my work. I suspect your friend Chit Naing will be here soon enough with all the juicy details. I’ve heard this sort of thing interests him …”

  Again Teza does not acknowledge the trailing bait. “Everyone, even you, is interested in what happens to her.”

  “True. We are all interested, but for different reasons. The men are going crazy about the whole thing. They’ll gamble on anything. The bet of the day is how many weeks it will take the SLORC to assassinate her.”

  Teza gasps.

  “Yeah, those guys in Hall Four, a savage bunch, I agree, but that’s the wager. Like father, like daughter, they say, and why else would the SLORC have released her? So the generals can have her killed and pretend they had nothing to do with it, right? Then they’ll announce that the house arrest was for her own good and it’s a shame they ever freed her. Our heroes!” Sein Yun claps his hands, then lowers his voice dramatically. “You know, there are still rumors that Ne Win was behind her father’s assassination. And if he could have the great Bogyoke Aung San and his whole cabinet shot to death right in their offices, his lovely daughter doesn’t present much of a challenge.”

  “Ko Sein Yun! Don’t say that. I don’t want to hear it.”

  “I thought you wanted to know what was going on. That’s what the men are saying.”

  “The generals wouldn’t dare touch her. She’s too well known. The entire world would despise them.”

  Sein Yun cocks his head to the side. “Has that ever stopped them before? It will be very interesting to see what happens next.”

  Teza frowns. “Ko Sein Yun, who’s taking the bets?”

  “Hmm?” The palm-reader is backing up, turning to the door.

  “Somebody must be making money.”

  The slashed grin comes again, a silent part of Sein Yun’s vocabulary. “Little Brother, a very good question. I have no idea. And I don’t mean to offend you, but I’m sick of standing here with your shit in my hands. I’m going to empty this bucket.” The cell door heaves shut.

  Teza stands in front of it, shaking his head. When the leader of the National League for Democracy is released from six years of house arrest, the palm-reader responds by organizing a betting racket on the date of her possible assassination. He really is sick. And the only human being Teza speaks to on a daily basis.

  Less than five minutes later the palm-reader reappears at the coffin door and hands him the emptied pail. It’s surprisingly clean inside.

  “What, you washed it?”

  “No, I got the rats to lick it out.” Sein Yun flashes his teeth. “Sometimes the tap at the latrine hole actually works. I sprayed the thing clean.”

  Teza stares at the pail. None of his servers has ever done this before. The unexpected kindness and weird intimacy of the act catches him off guard. He had no idea there was a tap at the latrine.

  “Don’t look so amazed, you’ll dirty it soon enough. Take it as a token of my friendship.” For once the palm-reader meets Teza’s eye without making a snide comment.

  Teza feels genuinely touched. “Thank you.”

  “Not at all. It’s your shit that’s getting me out of here. I’m cutting down my sentence with every pail. That’s how we buy freedom in Burma.” He emphasizes his statement by letting go a sonorous fart.

  The singer laughs. “I am glad to be contributing in some small way to your impending freedom, Ko Sein Yun.”

  “Little Brother, I only wish my shit could do the same for you.” He steps over the threshold of the teak coffin but turns to wink at Teza before he closes the heavy door.

  “Ko Sein Yun?”

  “Yes?”

  “If the next food parcel is empty, I will stop eating. Let them know, would you?”

  Sein Yun snaps disapprovingly, “They? They? Who is they?”

  “Whoever steals the food.”

  “Oh, fucking politicals! If you’re hungry, you stage a hunger strike. Is that intelligent behavior? Eat your fucking breakfast.”

  “There was only one fish in the last parcel.”

  “I know, I know, one fish and now you’re dying. Try to remember, Songbird, you are too important for them to starve you to death. All right? The parcel is coming. In the meantime, one of these nights you should sing. You know, to celebrate Daw Suu’s release. The cage would go wild. We could have a riot!”

  “I could lose more teeth.”

  “If you ever need to pull one, let me know, I have a foolproof technique. And I can get you all the paracetamol you want for the pain. Ko Sein Yun, palm-reader extraordinaire, at your service. See you later.”

  He pushes the teak door closed. The bolt cracks back into place; the key turns in the lock. Sein Yun’s shuffling feet retreat down the long corridor.

  . 5 .

  The palm-reader’s smell—the ammonia of old sweat, the pungent scent of betel and lime-slaked leaves—hovers in the cell like an unwashed ghost. Teza wrinkles his nose. Then a familiar twitch sends his eyes down to the floor. He swears loudly and stamps his foot, but the cockroaches aren’t afraid. They know this prisoner well. Partly because of Buddhism, partly because their guts make such a mess, Teza doesn’t kill cockroaches.

  He squats and glares down. They’re on their way to his breakfast. The only way to keep them at bay while he’s eating is to give them their own little meal. “You’re worse than the damn wardens!” He collects the rice Sein Yun spilled and places it, in several discrete portions, in front of the advancing battalion.

  He shifts the tray to the center of the cell, away from the roaches, quickly rinses his hands, then sits down to eat, facing the teak door. His fingers pause at the tray’s edge.

  Pea curry. Pea soup, really, because a curry requires spices and oil, two ingredients that are mostly absent from this gray water. Completing the menu is half a teaspoon of very low-quality fermented fish paste and a clump of broken rice.

  The evening meal is slightly different: a kind of vegetable soup, also mostly water,
also served with rice normally fed to pigs. Sometimes the “vegetable” is simply grass, or stalks of cauliflower. Occasionally he receives a piece of gristle in his soup. The prison kings believe this piece of gristle is meat, which shows how corrupt, well-fed men gradually lose touch with reality.

  Dissatisfied with plain rice, a few of the cockroaches have begun a hesitant advance toward Teza, who claps his hands together. “Get away from me, you fascists, get away!” It depends on his mood. He also calls them socialists, capitalists, Americans, imperialists, Chinese businessmen, and bloody dictators.

  With oily grace, the troop disperses, back to the rice, into the dark corners.

  Still sitting before his food, the singer clasps his index finger and thumb around his wrist. It used to be that the index finger wouldn’t reach his thumb. Only the middle finger could close the bracelet. But now index finger meets thumb with room to spare. The prison is erasing him.

  Weighing himself this way, or looking down at the knobbed bones of his hips, or feeling the holes in his gums where teeth used to be, Teza experiences a disturbing lucidity of vision, as though he is dreaming of someone else. There he is, a man with dark eyes and famine wrists, black hair grown to his shoulders. He sits in the center of a small cell, encircled by a shifting ring of cockroaches. Taking a deep breath, he begins to eat the broken rice with his long fingers, pinching the grains into a ball, dipping it into the fish paste and the soup, lifting the food to his lips. With the third bite, his teeth close on a small stone. One of the reasons he eats slowly is to catch these dangerous bits. He once found a piece of iron the size of a fingernail in his soup.

  His tongue delivers the stone out of his mouth. Like a child on a riverbank, he turns it this way and that, as though it might bear a secret mark of worth. But it’s just a small gray rock. He places it on the tray’s edge, for later. Nothing is useless in a coffin.

  Nausea undulates through his stomach, ripples up into his throat. Ya-deh, ya-deh, ya-ba-deh. Never, never mind, it doesn’t matter. He disciplines himself to chew, chew. No matter how bad it tastes, every meal is a small event in the abyss of prison time.