The Lizard Cage

by Karen Connelly

  “Saya Chit Naing?”

  “Yes?”

  “What’s going to happen to me?” He is full of weariness, and acceptance, like an old man who’s made a hard journey to the wrong village. It is night. There is nowhere else to go.

  Chit Naing takes a step closer, lowers his voice. “That’s what I want to talk to you about. I’ve already spoken to the Chief Warden. He came down to the kitchen when he heard what happened.” The boy’s shoulders curve inward as he pulls his sling bag close to him.

  “No, Nyi Lay, it’s all right. Don’t be scared.” Chit Naing decides very quickly to lie again, in an effort to reassure the child. “The Chief’s not angry at you about … being in the kitchen. The cook’s in trouble, not you. You didn’t do anything wrong. Do you understand that?”

  Later, much later, the boy will remember Chit Naing’s voice and his face, drawn and thin, the brow wrinkled against the top of his wire-rimmed glasses. The words will become a mantra, an acrid blessing: You didn’t do anything wrong. But right now he believes himself to be the sole author of various disasters. It’s his fault that he went into the kitchen, that he stole the pen and made Handsome angry.

  It’s his own fault that he lived. The roaring truck struck his father, who died, and his mother died too. The shame of surviving sticks in his throat like a fishbone. He reaches out to steady himself and touches the smooth bark of the tree.

  Chit Naing steps closer. He would like to pick the child up as he did the other night, but Nyi Lay moves away from him.

  “The Chief Warden isn’t angry at you. He’s angry at the cook, who did a very bad thing. We talked about you, Nyi Lay. There’s something we want you to do.”

  Always there is something, the boy thinks, some deal or tradeoff. “What?”

  The jailer hears the challenge in the small word, the hardness. He doubts Nyi Lay will take up the offer. “There is a pongyi-kyaung in Rangoon.”

  The boy quickly replies, “I know about that place. The singer told me.” They’re all in it together, the singer and the jailer, even the Chief Warden.

  “The Hsayadaw takes in children, and teenagers too, boys who don’t have a family.”

  “I don’t need anyone to take care of me.”

  “I know that. We were thinking about something else. Something very important.”

  “What?” The word snaps out and hits Chit Naing like an elastic band.

  “If you went to live at the monastery, you would learn to read. And write. The Hsayadaw would be kind to you. He’s a good man.”

  The boy’s fingers spread wide over the light brown skin of the tree. A slight breeze makes the leaves tap against each other, a thousand tiny doors. Still gazing hard at Chit Naing, the boy asks, “When do I leave?”

  . 58 .

  Chit Naing accompanies the child back to Hall Four for the night, walking him all the way to Tan-see Tiger’s cell. The men, in the throes of gossiping about the events in the kitchen, quiet down when they see the senior jailer and the warder with his fistful of keys. The boy walks between them, staring at the ground. He knows that he’s become a topic of conversation. News travels fast in the cage, but Nyi Lay has never been at the center of it before. He wants to disappear. All five of the tan-see’s cellmates are here, smoking cheroots and picking their teeth after dinner. The old man who’s blind in one eye is working on a basket, weaving threads of stretched plastic. Tan-see Tiger is sitting on his bunk, a ragged book in his hands; he’s reading. When the warder opens up the grille, the other prisoners make way for the boy to pass. Tiger looks up at him, sadness plain on his face.

  Scrawny Hla Myat runs his long-nailed fingers through his greasy hair and greets the boy, then pokes the convict beside him in the ribs. This man, a diminutive car and truck thief with a nose splayed wide beneath restless eyes, is called Kyaw Kyaw. A big joker, Kyaw Kyaw can’t help muttering something under his breath to the two other inmates of the cell, who burst out laughing. Tiger warned them not to make jokes, but they’re already failing miserably. The temptation to pervert the usual greeting—Tamin sa bibi la? Have you eaten rice yet?—is simply too great.

  The tan-see and the old weaver are the only men in the little group not involved in the muffled but increasingly raucous laughter. After the boy drops into his nest beside the tan-see’s bunk, Tiger growls at his men, “Would you guys shut the fuck up? Can’t you see the kid’s worn out?” Discreetly avoiding the pervertible question, Tiger asks, “Do you want something to eat, Nyi Lay? Can I get you something?”

  What the boy really wants is a shower, with real soap and a lot of water, but that’s not an easy thing to arrange. At night the shower rooms are off-limits to the inmates, and he wouldn’t want to go to shower alone with a warder. He whispers, “Water. I’m thirsty.” When Tiger waves his hand, the basket-weaver puts his work on the floor and dips an aluminum cup into the clay water pot, then gives it to the boy. Nyi Lay drinks deeply, but his throat is sore and his stomach is churning. He sets the cup of unfinished water in front of him on the floor and nestles into his felt blanket, pulling a corner of it over his head like a shroud. He wants to wait a few minutes, gather his wits, then change into his other pair of clothes—the lime-green FREE EL SALVADOR T-shirt, the turquoise longyi—but he falls sound asleep.

  Hours later he wakes with a low moan, belly clenched in a painful cramp. Still shrouded, he doesn’t know where he is. He tears the cloth away from his head and sits bolt upright, a yelp escaping him. Tiger’s cell. The pounding in his chest is so loud that he’s sure the men would be able to hear it if they were awake. He pulls his sticky legs apart, sniffs. Oh, shit. He’s already lost some of it, shit and piss mixed together, on his longyi, soaking into his felt blanket. Ugh! His belly tightens and twists again. He looks around, taking in the four bunks of snoring convicts and Hla Myat and Kyaw Kyaw asleep on the floor. The events of the evening tumble in slow motion through the boy’s mind, gathering speed until the memory with its blood taste crashes down like a falling wall and he has to go, he can’t wait, quickly, quickly, the latrine pail.

  He clutches his belly and hunches over, not wanting to shit in front of the men—he’s not used to it, he tries to do his business in private—but at least they’re sleeping. He stands up quickly, unsteadily, knocking over the aluminum cup, which clanks and rolls toward Hla Myat, who turns over on his mat and groans. Quiet! Don’t wake him, or he’ll never stop teasing you. The boy steps gingerly around the sleeping bodies, his face sweating now, twisted by the spasms in his gut. He’s afraid he’s going to lose it while walking, no no no, the mess would be horrible, hurry. He bunches his longyi up around his waist—it’s wet with stink—and with great relief squats over the latrine pail.

  A few minutes later, when he’s finished, he feels lucky to be in Tiger’s cell. There’s real toilet paper here, a whole roll of it rigged on the wall beside the pail. The boy unravels an extravagant handful and cleans himself, then pats his green longyi. The smell doesn’t go away. He’ll have to scrub it later, with soap and water.

  He walks to the front of the cell. Two water pots are there, one for drinking, one for handwashing; the extra bucket, with soap, is further evidence of Tiger’s status. Trying hard to be quiet, he lathers up his hands and splashes them clean.

  A ragged breath catches in someone’s throat, becomes a cough; the boy goes still. Drops of water dap-dap-dap fall from his fingers. He holds his breath until the cougher falls silent again. In the corridor, moths and lizards move in their old dance around the light. He hears the small flutter and thump of wings. And the syncopated snores of the men. He hears his own breathing. It makes him remember: I will leave this place soon. Tomorrow.

  He reaches over to the clay water pot. Standing there, the cup in his hand already dipping down into the cool water, the boy truly wakes up. He senses the small weight of his own life, its particular shape. That shape is bounded only by time, the time he himself is filled with, like the water that fills the clay pot. His hand is st
ill poised, the cup completely submerged, completely full. He raises it, dripping, out of the water, and takes a long, slow draft.

  Back at his sleeping place, he changes into his clean turquoise longyi, then takes the dirty one off the floor and rolls it into a small, discreet ball. The problem is his felt blanket, wet and reeking and big, too bulky to be tidily folded. He bunches it up and puts it in the corner, where it sits accusingly, stinking at him. He takes off his T-shirt—it’s dirty anyway, streaked and blotted with brown roses of blood—and stretches the stained cotton over the blanket. There, that’s better, now it’s just a pile of dirty clothes.

  He settles down on his rags again and pats the bulky blue pouch of his sling bag. Everything’s all right. His treasures are safe.

  Ssst. Hey, Little Brother. Come’ere.”

  The boy whips his head around. It’s Tiger. He crawls over to the tan-see’s bunk.

  Tiger has raised himself up on one elbow. He sniffs a couple times and looks over at the boy’s blanket. But he just says, “You okay, kid?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Crazy place, isn’t it? You did the right thing. In the kitchen, I mean. Though the guys were making fun, they’re proud that you took care of yourself.” He whispers more softly, “But I have to tell you a few things, kid. It’s not gonna get any easier in here. I’m gonna do what I said, get in touch with those folks of mine in the city.” He puts his big, heavy paw on the boy’s arm. “It’s hard to believe, but that fuckin’ cook has friends. You can’t stay in the cage. You know, ‘once blood is spilled’ and all that. Believe it or not, kid, we’ve tried to watch out for you. We warned the cook years ago, when your dad first died—Eggplant knew he wasn’t supposed to lay a hand on you, the dirty pig. That’s why Sammy went into the kitchen, Little Brother. He’s always kept an eye on you. And you know what?”

  The boy’s voice is a tiny sliver. “What?”

  “Sammy wanted to cut off Eggplant’s head. But you … well, let’s just say you’d already done the job.” The tan-see ruins his whispering by laughing too loudly at his joke. “Get it?” The boy stares at him; he does not get it. Tiger clears his throat.

  “Sammy feels real bad that he was too late to help you. We let you down, Nyi Lay. First that bullshit with Handsome, then the cook, who’s more of a creep than the jailer, believe it or not. He’ll get somebody to hurt you. If he lives, that is. They can’t do more than sew a few crooked stitches around here, so they took him to Rangoon General. But the word is they never have enough blood for transfusions. And when they do it’s full of malaria! Or HIV!” More laughter rumbles from Tiger’s throat. The boy has no idea what a blood transfusion is, but he keeps quiet and the tan-see keeps talking. “So maybe that creep will die. But if he lives, he’ll come back to work. And then you’ll really have to watch out, Nyi Lay. You know what I mean?”

  The boy nods gravely. “I know, Saya Gyi. Saya Chit Naing wants me to go too. To a pongyi-kyaung.”

  “Aha! That’s what he was up to! Sneaky jailer. He said he was trying to arrange something, but he wouldn’t tell me what. Hey, this is good news. A monastery school is much better than a tea shop.” Tiger puts his free hand on the boy’s shoulder. “You’ll go to the treehouses in the People’s Park. You’ll eat biryani and fried noodles instead of the shit they give us in here. And you’ll go to all the temples and pagodas! When you first walk up the stairs to the Shwedagon, your head will spin like a top, it’s so beautiful, like nothing you’ve ever seen in your life.” Tiger knows that orphans in monastery schools have little chance of eating biryani or going on tours of the city—from what he remembers from his own childhood, the monasteries are desperately poor—but what the hell, the kid has to have something to dream on. Even a lie. The smallest and the grandest of lies, he muses, can keep you going your whole life.

  “Saya Gyi?”

  “What’s up?”

  “Will the monks really teach me how to read?”

  “That’s what they do in those monastic schools—they teach boys their letters and then they teach ’em the scriptures. I learned to read in a monastery school in a little village near Mandalay. Then I ran off to Rangoon and got all mixed up with some rough fellows. Don’t you go and hang out with pickpockets and black-market boys. They’ll just lead you into trouble. Then you’ll end up right back in here.” He peers into the boy’s eyes, wanting to believe that there’s still time for the child; his life might be different. Better. That’s probably bullshit, of course, but he tries to be encouraging. “You’re meant for something else, Little Brother. Just stay put with the monks and do as you’re told. They’ll take care of you.”

  The boy drops his head, chin to chest, and glances timidly at Tan-see Tiger’s extravagant white grin. Then both of them look up and listen. The iron-beater is striking one two three.

  “Do you know when you’re leaving?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Hmm. It’s three in the morning, Little Brother. That means it’s already tomorrow.”

  Nyi Lay’s stomach lurches and cramps. Oh no, not again. But the lurch rises out of his belly and wraps around his chest like a rope. How can he be leaving, and so soon? He won’t give Tiger his massages anymore, or watch the purple cats roaring on his skin. He won’t see Jailer Chit Naing anymore, or the Songbird. It’s unfair that tomorrow is already today. Soon someone will come from the monastery to pick him up. In a taxi. The boy will have to ride in the taxi, which Chit Naing says is the same as a car. The boy has never been inside a car before. All motorized vehicles remind him of the truck that killed his father. A great sigh empties him out.

  Tan-see Tiger whispers, “Oh, I know. It’s hard to be out there at first. I’ve been through it a couple times. Just like it sucks to be in here when you first arrive. But you get used to it. So don’t worry about being scared shitless. It happens to all of us.”

  Incredulous, Nyi Lay asks, “Even to you, Saya Gyi?”

  The feared criminal laughs again, more loudly this time. The man in the bunk above him mutters in his sleep. Tiger reaches out and punches the boy lightly on the shoulder. “Yeah, Nyi Lay, me especially. I’m the biggest chickenshit around here. Why do you think I have to be so tough?”

  The boy laughs too, not believing him. “Saya Gyi, you’re joking!”

  “No, I’m not.”

  Tiger smiles with his strong white teeth. Saya Gyi, he thinks to himself. Not very many people would use this respectful title for a smuggler convicted of murder. Funny kid, he thinks, a good kid, so damn sharp. He regrets not feeding the boy better. Not getting him out of here sooner. He regrets … Oh, fuck it, the list is too long, and involves a lot more than the orphaned rat-killer. Tiger’s smile falters, then closes into a tight line.

  “Now go back to sleep,” he whispers. “You have lots to dream about, Nyi Lay.”

  . 59 .

  Senior Jailer Chit Naing’s businesslike walk is slower than usual. He’s not used to carrying a tray loaded with a double portion of boiled rice. To do so is a glaring breach of protocol, but he doesn’t care. He slipped some money to the new cook—brought in on emergency from a military barracks—to throw in a boiled egg. An egg! As if a fucking egg is going to put flesh on a skeleton. As he passes the shrine and the hospital, Chit Naing repeatedly checks the congealing mush of rice, wondering how much of it the singer will eat. He has the distinct impression that Teza has started his hunger strike without making a formal announcement.

  When he comes around the outer wall, he finds the gaunt man sitting in half-lotus position, right leg folded on top of the left. His eyes are closed. The jailer stands perhaps eight paces away, watching him through the bars. Chit Naing hasn’t seen him for two days. In that short time, Teza’s face has changed. The skin is slightly loose and wrinkled under his sharp right cheekbone, but tight where his left jaw juts out in its brokenness. Because he’s thinner, the deformity of his face is more pronounced. His neck is all ropy tendon and muscles around the rungs of esophagus. If hi
s blanket were not wrapped around his shoulders and chest, Chit Naing would see collarbones pushing like tent pegs against his white prison shirt.

  It’s peculiar to see how calm he is, his face serene in its unmaking. As his physical body becomes more worn down, worn away, something else becomes evident, glimmering, like the sheen in old silk just before it tears.

  What a life, Chit Naing thinks. What a life this is. Not far from the meditating, starving prisoner, the inmates and warders of the cage discuss the latest gossip insatiably, like feral dogs around a dead goat. Just how badly did the boy bite Eggplant? Will the cook survive the blood loss? Most inmates know that Eggplant was in critical condition because it took a long time to find enough blood of his type. Most of them don’t yet know that the Chief Warden requested blood from the military hospital, which is always better supplied than Rangoon General. Alas, the cook is not going to croak after all. But will he survive not being able to screw boys for however long it takes his dick to heal? Here is the question that elicits the most raucous laughter and the most extravagant betting: What if they’ve had to amputate? And has the cook already paid someone to kill the sneaky little kala-lay who bit him? The rumors are flying.

  Undoubtedly the palm-reader has set up a betting racket regarding the exact number of stitches. Chit Naing exhales his disgust. Weary of holding the tray, he slouches against the dirty white wall and sighs again, louder, hoping to rouse the singer from his meditation.

  Eyes still closed, Teza asks in his warped but resonant voice, “What happened last night? A man was screaming bloody murder, but not because of a beating.”

  Chit Naing pushes himself off the wall, spilling some of the rice gruel on his trouser leg. He swears under his breath, then says out loud, “I thought you were going deaf in one ear.”

  “In one ear only.” Teza opens his eyes. He looks up at his slice of sky: blue, blue, blue. It’s such a relief to see it, almost every day now, this sea bath for the eyes. Only after tasting the blue does he look at Chit Naing. He sees the tray in the jailer’s hands and immediately asks, “Where’s the boy?”