The Lizard Cage

by Karen Connelly

  My father wrote a word

  in the red dust

  in the red dust

  of the city of temples.

  They tore the word away.

  My father fed the child

  by the river

  by the river

  of the city of temples.

  They made that child beg.

  My father placed the rice

  at the altar

  at the altar

  in the city of temples.

  They tore the temple down.

  . 8 .

  He thinks that maybe Handsome will deny him his second meal, but Sein Yun appears shortly after five o’clock with the food tray. There is a markedly large amount of rice under the thin curry.

  “Where is he?”

  “He sent a warder in his place. He likes to order his underlings around.”

  “Where’s the warder?”

  “Don’t start yelling again, okay? You’ll wreck my night. He’s down at the end of the hall, reading the newspaper. Please don’t make a fuss.” The palm-reader points his finger at Teza like a chiding schoolmaster. “About this morning—you were retarded. I’m not going to say I told you so. You know Handsome is easily provoked.”

  “So am I.”

  “A perfect match. That’s why he’s your jailer.”

  “And why are you my server?”

  “To keep you entertained.” The grin cuts the serious edge off the conversation. “To wit, can I ask you a personal question?”

  “No.”

  “Oh, come on, Little Brother, it’s not that personal.”

  Teza sighs, shoveling some rice into his mouth, unable to wait. Through the food he mumbles, “Ask your question.”

  “What makes you cry?”

  Still chewing, Teza looks carefully at Sein Yun to see if he’s joking. He is not. Teza swallows and replies, “I don’t cry anymore.”

  “What do you take me for, an idiot? You’re an intellectual. Intellectuals bawl their eyes out.”

  “I cried at the beginning. Not now.”

  Sein Yun thrusts out his lower lip, a balloon of doubt. “Fine, then. What would make you cry?”

  Teza is not insulted, only surprised by the pointedness of the question. Tears are private. He’s not troubled by his lie.

  “Why don’t you take away my shit pail? While you’re gone, I’ll come up with my answer.”

  Hoisting the pail, the palm-reader replies, “I don’t want just any answer, I want the truth! This is a psychological test.”

  When he returns and hands Teza the pail, the singer immediately notices that he hasn’t cleaned it this time.

  Sein Yun replies to his glance. “Sorry, the water wasn’t running.”

  “Is that why I’m not allowed a proper shower? For fuck’s sake, it’s the rainy season. You’d think we were living in a bloody desert.”

  “No, just a backward country. You know what the water supply is like. So tell me, what would make you cry?”

  “The sight of a clean toilet.”

  “Seriously, Little Brother.”

  “Why do you want to know? Are you helping them devise a new method of torture?”

  “I’m doing a survey.”

  “I hope it’s not for another betting racket!”

  Sein Yun’s yellow eyes become round. “Ko Teza! Never! I’m just a dedicated student of human nature.”

  The singer gives in. “I suppose eating my mother’s food at home would make me cry. Especially after bathing properly with as much soap as I wanted.”

  “A fine answer! An honest answer, I would say. Well, that’ll be me, in a year or so. Of course it won’t be my mother’s food, it’ll be my wife’s. Even if she’s gone and shacked up with someone else, I’ll make her cook for me, though I can’t imagine it will make me cry.”

  “Ko Sein Yun, it’s hard to imagine anything that would make you cry. Now I’ve answered your question, why don’t you answer mine? Is there any news about Daw Aung San Suu Kyi?”

  “What do you think I am, BBC Burmese Programming? All I can say is that the bets are in her favor. Fewer inmates think that the SLORC will have her knocked off. You know what that means?”

  “What?”

  “They don’t want her to die. Even these dirty criminals adore her! They want her to liberate them from the cage so they can join the BLPA.”

  “The BLPA? Who are they?” It has always been a challenge to keep up with the endless acronyms and initials of Burmese politics.

  The palm-reader’s mouth drops open. “You don’t know? Wasn’t the BLPA already in operation when you were still outside? You don’t mean to tell me you weren’t a member of the BLPA?”

  “Ko Sein Yun, what is the BLPA?”

  “The Beautiful Lady’s Private Army!”

  “The betel is wrecking your mind as well as your teeth.”

  “Good thing too, or I wouldn’t be talking to you, would I?”

  “No news at all, then?”

  “Nothing new, nothing juicy.”

  “Speaking of juicy things …”

  Sein Yun holds up his yellow palm and asks indignantly, “How would I know where the food parcel is? You ask me the same question every day and I state my case: nobody tells me anything.” He lowers his hand. The familiar grin begins, but slowly, changing his face by subtle degrees. “Shouldn’t you be starting your hunger strike right about now, Songbird? Isn’t that what you said you were going to do?”

  Teza swears under his breath.

  “Sorry? I missed that.”

  “Where is the fucking thing?”

  The two men stare at each other until Sein Yun places his right hand over his heart. “You must understand—none of that has anything to do with me. The last thing I am interested in is your food, Ko Teza. Really. I have more important things to worry about. You know that the Chief Warden is pissed at the politicals because of Daw Suu Kyi’s release. Maybe that’s why your food parcel still hasn’t come. I don’t know for sure.” He bobs his head from side to side and injects an Indian lilt into his loud voice. “Sahib, I will do my best to find out what the hell is going on!”

  “You won’t have this job for long if anyone hears you. You’re not supposed to be talking to me.”

  “Don’t worry. They’ve run out of people to feed you, so I’m sure I’ll be visiting for a while yet. I have friends in high places.”

  “What do you mean? There are thousands of men here who could bring me my food and take away my crap.”

  Sein Yun spreads his arms. “Oh, Little Brother, you are so wrong. Not just anyone is good enough for you and your shit! Criminals who serve evil political stooges like yourself must be beholden to the prison authorities. We must be cowardly and controllable—otherwise they’d suspect us of smuggling radios to you.”

  “Yeah, and television sets.”

  “Women!” Sein Yun titters.

  “News about Daw Aung San Suu Kyi.”

  The palm-reader doesn’t miss a beat. “That’s right, Songbird, and materials for building bombs to blast your way out of this shithole. Yes, the authorities took one look at me and knew I would not be such a man. I am definitely not in the movement. But I’ll keep my voice down in the interests of my career. Thanks for the tip, buddy.”

  Teza shakes his head.

  The palm-reader leans toward him with a critical eye.

  “What is it?”

  “You really do need a proper wash. And a shave.”

  “You are so kind, Ko Sein Yun.”

  “Just trying to be helpful. I know you don’t have a mirror in here.” The palm-reader slaps his leg gleefully. “Listen, you should be grateful you don’t have a big beard.” He delicately pulls on the wiry hair of his mole. “Shall I tell you a story?”

  Teza smirks. “Of the Buddha’s past lives, perhaps?”

  “Ha! I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist my powers.” The palm-reader steps deeper into the cell and begins in an urgent whisper. “This is a
verifiably true story, and someday it will appear in a book because it is a tale to warm the hearts of all people. Just a few months ago, one of the men in my hall mouthed off to one of the inspection captains, and the captain turned around and socked him in the eye, made him drop into a squat for an hour, nothing serious.” He pauses for emphasis, head cocked to the side, eyes wide with the drama of it.

  “But then they refused to give him a shave. The more he howled, the faster his beard grew. He was Indian, so it got to be a big scruffy thing, like a cat stuck on his face. The bedbugs almost ate his chin off. It was hot season and the poor bugger was going crazy. Anything, he said, anything, any other punishment but this! Of course that’s just what they wanted to hear, so the whole hot season went by and he had this piece of fur suffocating him. Not a single inmate with a razor would touch him, out of fear of the captain. In protest, the Indian started throwing his shit through the window at the top of the cell, and one day, what happened but it landed right on the Chief Warden’s head!” Sein Yun claps his hands, applauding this karmic display of justice.

  “You’re lying!”

  “No, I’m not, that’s what’s really incredible! It’s a true story. The Indian got the shit kicked out of him and two more years added to his sentence for gross indecency and assaulting an officer. The fuckers! But isn’t it priceless? You throw a piece of shit out a window and it goes splat! Right back to an asshole!” The palm-reader flaps his arms. “Isn’t that brilliant? What are the odds of it? One in ten million!”

  “Come on! I don’t believe that happened.”

  “I swear to you it did. You could ask one of the warders.”

  “They’d knock me in the head if such a question came out of my mouth.”

  “Ask Jailer Chit Naing—he would tell you.”

  When Teza says nothing, the palm-reader leans over and whispers, “Not to worry, Songbird. I’m just observant. I hear he is very concerned about your food parcel …”

  “What have you heard?”

  “You were getting too friendly with each other, so they sent him away to do other work.”

  “Away? They’ve sent him away?”

  “Oh, don’t get upset, they haven’t sent him to another prison. He’s still here. I saw him this morning. I think he’s overseeing the first two halls now. You know, prisoners awaiting trial. He’s a clever fellow. He’ll find a way to visit you.” The little man places a new leaf-wrapped pack of betel in his cheek. “Want some?”

  “No.”

  “Don’t worry. Your food is coming.” He gives Teza a thoughtful look. “I could get you a rat. Would you eat a rat? They sell them cooked, you know.”

  “Where do the rats come from?” It’s another one of Teza’s rules, besides never eating what the cockroaches have touched. No rodents. Lizards are cleaner.

  “There’s a snot-nosed little rat-killer who whacks them on the head when they come out of the drains. He makes good coin selling them.”

  “Which drains?”

  “Shower drains, as often as not. Outside the bathing rooms. I’ve seen him out here a few times, beside the coffin. Out by the big walls too. The cage is full of rats. I suppose he catches them wherever he can.”

  “Do you eat them?”

  The palm-reader grimaces in disgust, pulling red lips back over gold incisors. “Are you out of your fucking mind? Eat a rat that’s been eating who knows what?”

  “Ko Sein Yun, why do you offer me food that you would not eat yourself?”

  “Because you’re hungrier than I am, Songbird!”

  Teza exhales a defeated laugh.

  “Your parcel will come soon enough. Remember, patience makes a man wise.”

  “And skinny!”

  “But the Buddha himself was very skinny, Ko Teza, so you know you’re on the right path.” A sharp laugh pokes the air as the palm-reader steps out of the teak coffin. Before closing the door, he sticks his head back into the cell. “And if you’re really that hungry, Songbird, just eat more of your little friends.”

  The door slams shut.

  . 9 .

  Unbelievable, really, the things you have to do to win a man’s trust.

  Storytelling and rat-selling and cajoling the skinny bugger every time I visit that hole. The palm-reader wipes his hands on his longyi. And as if I don’t have enough to deal with already, I have to listen to Handsome, that arrogant bastard, laugh at me. It’s a good thing he’s so useful.

  Sein Yun walks a little more quickly, his oversized slippers slapping hard. The gravel and sand have turned to mud, so he hikes his longyi up over his knees to keep it from getting dirty. Soon the rollers will come out—inmates who sweep the water off the compound, then push big metal hand rollers back and forth, back and forth, to restore the surface. In the rainy season they have to do it every day, sometimes two or three times a day when it really pours. An absolutely useless job with no possible benefits, only a sore back and blisters.

  Frankly, it’s better to clean up someone’s shit if it’s going to get you out of the cage faster.

  He walks along, past the gardens of Halls Four and Five, past the watchtower. Near the kitchen, a guard he dislikes asks where he’s going.

  Keeping his head down, Sein Yun answers meekly, “To worship.” Then, in a clearer voice, knowing the guard is a bit thick, “I’m going to the shrine.” The man waves him along. They might despise each other, but with the Buddha in mind they are civil.

  In the circular cartography of the prison, the shrine is almost directly opposite the teak coffin. See? he thinks. There is a fateful symmetry in that. Passing the kitchen, Sein Yun waves at the cook, who sits just inside the door peeling potatoes with his fat hands. They exchange nods, each of them revealing a hint of a smile. It’s crucial to make friends with the cook, no matter where you are. Judging from his double chins, the cook eats half of the prison food himself, gives a quarter of it to his little lover boys, and sells another big chunk of it for profit. No wonder the politicals are so scrawny.

  The shrine stands between the kitchen and the hospital, not far from the main prison office and the warders’ quarters. A very public place, it is a locus between the ordinary and the sublime. Fittingly, it’s also where prison officials and convicts do business. All with respect for the Buddha, of course.

  Sein Yun looks around with a vaguely beatific expression on his face, mirroring the Enlightened One, who sits surrounded with real and plastic flowers, ash-topped sticks of incense, scraps of colored cloth, glasses of water, offerings of shriveled fruit. Some men who have not prayed since they were small boys come here now, transformed by the cage into desperate penitents asking favors and protection. Most often they are first-timers in for second-rate offenses—minor fraud and theft, assault, disturbing the peace during drunken binges. Their short prison terms feel intolerably long because of the filth, the bugs, the shitty food, and the horny men. These soft criminals, who live in a state of infinite longing for their wives and girlfriends, become remarkably religious inside the cage.

  Sein Yun finds them hilarious, swaying like the holiest of monks, counting their prayer beads. He looks over their heads, past the flaking gold face of the Buddha, and scans the first brick wall, about twelve feet high, which encloses the prison. The second brick wall looms beyond it, higher, more imposing, impossible to climb over. One of the guards in the watchtower would shoot you in the back before you were halfway up one of the lookout post ladders. Only insects and lizards can crawl over those lousy walls.

  The best way to escape is by walking through the two iron doors, smiling at the buggers as you go. Never to return!

  The palm-reader’s whole body feels curiously itchy, as though the restlessness within him has somehow worked its way up to his skin. Despite giving his warder all kinds of vegetables for extra soap and extra bathing time, he still has infected sores from scratching at bug bites, and the pinworms drive him crazy. He wonders how many fights break out in the cage simply because hundreds of men have un
bearably itchy asses.

  Switching his weight from one foot to the other, he looks around, then spits. The restlessness makes him want to move. Just before money or goods pass hands, he’s always agitated. He used to feel this way on the outside too, when the small plastic bags full of rubies were splayed out on the table in a contained explosion of scarlet. This is the delicious anxiety of closing a deal.

  He inhales incense and sighs out nostalgia. He loved working for the colonel. Sein Yun’s job was recruitment. He used to find young men to smuggle gems into Thailand. It was a real shame when one of those strapping fellows disappeared with a whole shipment. But it’s best to look on the bright side. At least the colonel didn’t slit his throat. In comparison, a bad beating and a prison sentence seemed like a wonderful punishment.

  When the warder appears, Sein Yun approaches the Buddha and prostrates himself three times among the other mumbling inmates, then quickly rises and walks toward the hospital wall, where the man waits for him with a stony face. Sein Yun works up his most ingratiating expression—a slight, humble upturn of pursed lips, without showing his stained teeth. Oh, he knows this so well, how to make little men feel the wealth of their power. The two turn toward each other, their discretion making them obvious. The warder slips a cylindrical object into the yellow, taloned hand. Sein Yun swallows his smile.

  As soon as the vial of heroin is warming safely in the pocket sewn to the inside of his longyi, the palm-reader leaves the shrine. No time for lengthy prayers today; he’s a busy man. Rushing back toward the prison gardens in front of Hall Four, he starts thinking about Teza and his comrades.

  He tries to be sympathetic, but frankly he dislikes the politicals’ lack of practicality. All that idealism goes against his entrepreneurial spirit.

  And it’s not just Teza he has to worry about. He’s started to run errands for a whole bevy of them, despite his general aversion. Over a dozen of them in Hall Three are planning something, brave-hearted, stupid souls. Myo Myo Than is their leader, and they are following him like sheep. The palm-reader has a plan of his own, which is why he took on the job of errand boy to these earnest fellows. If he arranges everything properly, he will get rewards all around. They’re already giving him half the contents of their food parcels to pay for paper and pens.