Chit Naing kneels down. The aluminum scrapes through the metal trap.
“Where is Nyi Lay?”
The jailer stares at the wet slop of rice as he tells the singer about the screams he heard last night. Teza listens in silence, eyes cast down to the hands in his lap, right upturned palm resting on the left one. When Chit Naing finishes speaking, Teza asks, “But is he all right?”
“I don’t know. He seemed to be fine. Who knows what’s going on up here?” The jailer taps his forehead with three fingers. “Or in his heart. I did what I could. I’m not sure … exactly what happened to him.”
“Maybe a doctor …”
“No doctors. I asked him if he was hurt physically. He said no. I think he was telling the truth. It would be more frightening for him to see a doctor than just to do what he’s always done.”
“Which is?”
“Look after himself.”
“But he’s a child. I don’t even know how old he is. Ten, eleven?”
“Twelve, maybe close to thirteen. He’s small because of malnourishment. I hope the food will be better at the monastery.” Until now the jailer has been talking to the tray, pushed through into Teza’s cell. Now his eyes meet the singer’s. “That’s the only good thing to come from this mess. After last night, the Chief Warden wants to send the boy out.” He pauses, knowing he shouldn’t tell Teza more than he needs to know. But Chit Naing wants to tell him. He wets his lips and whispers, “I finally met him last night. Your Hsayadaw. He was just back from Sagaing, very tired from traveling, but he listened to what I had to say. He’s agreed to take the boy. The monastery is badly overcrowded, but he said there has to be a way to fit in one more sleeping mat. He really is a generous man.”
“My father loved him very much. My mother loves him still.”
“I can understand why. It was after midnight when I left. He’s the sort of person you can talk with for hours.”
Daw Sanda’s face flashes into the jailer’s mind and leaves him speechless. Teza is quiet too. Both men listen to the sounds of the cage beyond the white house, past the outer wall: the shuffle of feet and the clank of manacles as new prisoners are escorted to their assigned hall, the jeers of their warder, the low murmured talk of three guards hurrying across the compound. And from somewhere nearby comes the argumentative chatter of sparrows. Soon, when Chit Naing is gone, they will swoop over the wall and wait to receive their daily portion of rice.
Teza asks, “When will the boy leave?”
“The Hsayadaw will come for him early this evening.”
Teza has been waiting for this. He wants it. But he turns away from the news and stares dumbly at the back wall of his cell. He has longed for the child’s departure, imagined and helped to engineer this feat of escape while sitting right here. Yet his voice sounds shaky in his own ears. “Will I see the boy before he goes?”
“For a quick visit. I’ll let him bring over your dinner tray.”
“Yes,” whispers the singer.
“I know it’s sudden, Ko Teza, but with all that’s happened, it’s the best way. And Handsome is supposed to be coming back to work. He hasn’t shown up yet, but when he does, he’ll make trouble for Nyi Lay. It’s better to get the boy out of here as quickly as possible.”
“Yes, I know. I agree.”
Chit Naing knocks the metal frame around the food trap. “Have you already started your strike without telling me?”
“It’s always hard to eat. Very painful.”
Chit Naing gives him a level look. “You can’t live on talking.” He gives Teza a grim smile. “I brought you an egg.”
“Thank you. I will eat it.” He returns Chit Naing’s look. “Yes, sir, I am eating. A little every morning. I’ll begin the strike when the boy is gone. Tomorrow, I guess. Tomorrow.”
Chit Naing still cannot understand. His voice is foolishly loud. “Ko Teza, what about everyone else? The ones you’re choosing to leave behind?” It’s not possible for him to say, What about me? In the silence after his questions, he realizes that a warder passing in the compound could have heard every word he’s said. Called back to himself, he quickly pulls away from the bars and straightens up. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.
“Ya-ba-deh. It’s all right.” Teza has been watching him intently. “You’re exhausted, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I barely slept last night.” He rubs his forehead for a few seconds, surprised by how his skin aches, not just the muscles beneath it. He looks down at Teza and sees him clearly: a man he loves but cannot comprehend. That must be why I’m so angry, he thinks. Like a child worrying a scab, he continues, “Ko Teza, wouldn’t it be the ultimate failure, to protest with your death? Isn’t that what the generals want of you?”
“U Chit Naing, there is really no point in talking anymore about failure or protest. Every day I’ve lived here, I’ve succeeded, because I’ve continued to love. Even a spider, even a big Indian with no tongue.” He exhales laughter. “Even my good jailer. That is no failure. But something in me is finished. I am empty. The only way I could keep going now is to return to those old sources of inspiration. Anger. Passionate hatred. And I won’t do that.”
“Do you think they care about that, whether you hate them or not? Do you think they care about you at all?”
“Oh, the Chief Warden cares a great deal. As do the generals. If they didn’t care, I wouldn’t be here, would I?”
“Ko Teza, seriously, do you think they care?”
“I am serious. In this time, in this life, the way their lives are, of course they don’t care—not in the way you mean. The torturer cannot allow himself to care about the person he hurts: his job is to destroy the body and the spirit. And the soldier’s job is to kill. That’s his duty. But they know they are destroying, killing. If they admitted their guilt to themselves, it would be the end of their lives as they know them.”
“As it will be the end of mine?”
“Probably,” Teza responds lightly. Again he breathes out his laugh. “But you already accept that the life you had before is over. Usually that makes you happy. If such a transformation happened to you, it could happen to any number of them too. I believe this. We all sleep. You, I, the generals. The ones who run the cage. Everyone sleeps, some more deeply than others. And everyone can wake. That is what the Buddha taught.”
“Ko Teza, think of Handsome. Or the MI agents who tortured you. You think these men will wake up and suddenly care about what they did, to you or to anyone else?”
“I don’t know if they will. But I know that they could. It’s possible. You might think this is pure foolishness, but I often wonder what would happen if the generals went away for one month—just a single month—of meditation retreat. To simple monasteries, just to sit and meditate during the day, and listen to a few lectures by good teachers. When the chiefs—the big ones, Ne Win himself and Khin Nyunt and Than Shwe and the rest of them—came away from retreat, I bet they would begin a dialogue with Daw Aung San Suu Kyi and the NLD. I bet they would disband the dictatorship of their own free will.”
“You would bet on it, would you? I’ll be sure to mention that to the palm-reader as a possible racket. Maybe he could get the whole cage bidding on the results. Except that such a thing will never happen, Ko Teza. Dictators don’t like sitting on the floor.”
“I know. It’s very un-Burmese of them, isn’t it? They should try sleeping on concrete through the cold season. My rheumatism was bad enough with the rains, but it’s getting worse as the weather cools. My hips are so stiff that it takes me half an hour to rise in the morning. Worse than my grandfather! The cage makes us old. Even Nyi Lay is a little old man.” He shifts his legs again. He needs to lie down; the talking has worn him out. He closes his eyes and murmurs, “I hope he’ll get to be a child when he leaves here.”
“The boy’s not so keen on games.”
“He might learn.” His eyes open to Chit Naing’s face. His voice pulls in on itself, tightens. “He’ll take his bel
ongings with him, won’t he?”
“Yes, of course.”
Teza’s words are like simple loops in rope. “It’s not like he has very much to carry.”
“No. His little sling bag. His collection of useless knickknacks. He’s a bit of a pack rat. He won’t be able to leave that stuff behind.” Chit Naing squints, trying to see where the singer wants to lead him.
The loops close, complicate into a knot. “They probably won’t even search him. Or maybe they will?”
Understanding what he’s being asked, the jailer quietly answers, “No, I doubt anyone will search the boy. We know he has nothing to hide.” The young warder Tint Lwin will be in the releases room, and Soe Thein will be on the gates tonight. The boy’s not an inmate for release, anyway, and there are no instructions for him to be searched. Chit Naing takes a deep breath, as though preparing himself to voice the question in his mind: What are you going to do? But he stands up and bids his friend good-bye.
. 60 .
In Tan-see Tiger’s cell, the men are finishing breakfast and getting ready for their work details. Hla Myat stands at the bars, clearing his throat like a consumptive. When he lustily hawks a gob of phlegm into the corridor, the attending warder spins around and yells at him. Hooting like a schoolboy, the young convict leaps away from the grille and swaggers deeper into the cell, until he’s standing at the end of the tan-see’s bunk.
Nyi Lay is there, kneeling on the floor, arranging and rearranging his belongings, wondering how to take everything with him. The important treasures are in his sling bag, but he doesn’t want to leave the extra longyi and the blanket behind. The bloody shirt doesn’t matter, he’ll throw that away, but his Chinese felt blanket and his green school longyi are coming with him. Could he just carry them, as a bundle, under his arm? He’s mulling over this question when Hla Myat leans down and pokes him, very hard, in the ribs. Still on his knees, Nyi Lay jumps sideways and up onto his feet like a cat beside an exploding firecracker. A high-pitched, uneven yowl escapes him, and his face contorts with fear.
But stupid Hla Myat is only making a joke. “Scared ya, didn’t I? Ha-ha, I hope ya didn’t shit yerself again, kiddo.” The gangly young man snorts at the air and quips, “Is that stink the latrine pail or you? Where’s it coming from?”
Nyi Lay gives the man a black look and pushes the bundle of dirty cloth under the end of Tiger’s bunk. “Leave me alone,” he snaps.
“That’s a nice way of washing clothes, you stinker. Hey, Tiger, how do you like that—he just put his shitty blanket under your bed!”
Tiger has been watching everything from his preferred position, half sitting, half lying at the head of his bunk. He blows the dust off one fingernail and starts filing the next. His morning voice is deep but croaky. “Hla Myat, you’re left-handed, aren’t you?”
Hla Myat replies in a guarded voice, “Yes, Tan-see, I am.”
“That’s what I thought. Because that’s the hand you poked the kid with. But I wanted to be sure. Now leave him alone, asshole, or I’ll break your thumb and index finger. On the left hand, of course.”
This sturdy promise makes the whispering men go quiet. “Hey, kid, come’ere. Sit over with me while the men get ready to go.” Tiger pats the mattress.
Rubbing the spot where Hla Myat poked him, the boy pads over to the tan-see’s bunk and leans tentatively against it.
Tiger smiles. “Come on, kid, hop up here.” The boy pushes himself onto the bunk and sits cross-legged. “There ya go. That’s more comfortable, isn’t it? Pretty soon these devils will be out of here and we’ll have room to dance around, okay? Or play a game of football!” Nyi Lay leans his back against the brick wall and gives the tan-see a very small smile.
A few minutes later a warder comes to take the convicts away to their work details in the workshops and gardens. Only the weaver remains with Tiger and Nyi Lay. Though he’s a taciturn old codger with tobacco-stained hands and lips, Nyi Lay is comfortable with him, and fascinated by his blind eye. Far from being dead, the white-scarred pupil slides around with deftness and purpose, while the other eye seems to follow it, squinting in the same direction, trying to catch a glimpse of what the blind eye sees. Nyi Lay finds himself doing the same thing, though more surreptitiously. When the old man breaks from weaving to stretch his neck, the ruined eye gazes upward. The boy follows it, hoping to discover something more than bricks and water-stained ceiling.
Not long after the convicts leave for work, Soe Thein appears and opens the grille like a man unlocking his own house. He seems to be on very good terms with Tiger, greeting him politely and nodding amicably to the old weaver. “You shouldn’t be working so hard, Uncle. You’re supposed to be on vacation in here.” The men laugh. Tan-see Tiger pulls a cheroot from under his pillow and takes it as a gift to the warder. Then he turns around and announces, “Come on, kid! It’s time you had a good shower.”
The tan-see crosses the cell and pulls a big striped carrying bag out from under his bunk. He grins at the boy, who’s sitting wide-eyed on the mattress. “Hey, look what I’ve got for you. Here’s a nice clean towel.” He plunks it down in front of Nyi Lay. “And a new bar of soap with perfume in it. Oh, and look at this, a pot of thanakha too. One of my ladies sent it to me, but you take it, so you leave the cage smelling fresh and clean.” Tiger piles these valuable items on top of the towel. “We might even be able to find a new toothbrush for you. Shit, have you ever brushed your teeth?” He looks up inquiringly, but Nyi Lay’s chin has dropped against his chest. “Hey, Nyi Lay, what’s up? Hey! What’s going on? Kid! Your face has sprung a leak!” Smiling, Tiger puts his face close to the boy’s, examining him. The boy blinks; tears slide down. “Two leaks! The plumbing in this place, I tell ya. I’m going to complain to the Chief Warden. Where’s this water coming from? It’s the monsoon all over again.” Pretending amazement, Tiger spreads his muscular arms—the tiger on his chest stretches out—and stares up at the roof of the cell, looking for rain. Nyi Lay starts to laugh, crying at the same time. The tan-see says in a louder voice, “You think it’s funny, do you? It’s not funny, it’s a disaster, but I’m glad you’re laughing. Now come on, cheer up, the warder’s going to take us to the shower room. Grab that stuff. You’ll feel better when you’re all cleaned up.”
Soe Thein escorts them out of the cell and to the end of the row. They walk through another long corridor, turn right, and arrive at the shower room of Hall Four. The warder unlocks the double doors and Tiger says, “Go ahead. I’ll wait right out here. The warder and I are going to have a smoke and solve the country’s problems.” Soe Thein laughs very loudly at this comment, but the boy doesn’t think it’s funny at all. Tiger hands him a plastic pot for scooping water. “Go crazy, kid—use as much water as you want.”
The warder has heard this exchange. He reassures the boy, “On the last day, we don’t count scoops.”
It’s a big room, cavernous and gray, with hooks on the walls and two long troughs, one for washing clothes and one for bathing. As he walks beside the concrete trough, he checks over his shoulder several times. But no one else is here, no one is following him. The room smells of water and dust. He holds the tin of thanakha up to his nose and inhales the fragrance of small ivory flowers, skin of the thanakha tree. And his mother. The orange oval of soap is like fruit candy mixed with slightly rancid lime juice. To a boy thrilled by the luxury of soap, this is a wonderful smell.
The concrete floor is cool and wet in some places but not in others. He looks around again. Seeing his wet footprints on the dry stretches of concrete, he whispers, “I am following me.” The sound of his own voice reassures him.
After hanging up his towel, he takes the soap and scooping pot to the trough, which comes up to his rib cage. He stands in front of the water as straight-backed and concentrated as a diver. When he unknots and steps out of his longyi, the leftover stink of his nighttime accident hits him in the nose. He begins his bath with great enthusiasm, plunging the pot into the trough an
d pouring water over his head more times than the prisoners are allowed when they come here every morning, more water than the Songbird was ever allowed.
He washes his backside first of all, lathering up and sluicing away the soap with cool water. He rubs down his chest, as if he’s giving Tiger a massage. Everything needs to be washed, scarred knees and skinny shinbones and dirty ankles and leathery feet, bisqued with brick-chip dust. Greedy to get as clean as possible, he stretches his hands over his shoulders, around his waist and up, to scrub his back, all the small muscles braiding and unbraiding under dark brown skin. Then, remembering two places he usually doesn’t bother with, he returns to the top and washes right inside his ears.
Shivering, the boy douses himself with water once more, fervent as a duck. He sees with great satisfaction that the waterline of the trough has fallen significantly. Toweling off—with a real towel, not an old piece of cloth—he also notes with pride that there is not a dry spot on the concrete floor for ten feet. Before dressing, he makes a paste of the thanakha and smears it on his legs and arms, his neck and face. When he emerges from the shower room, he fastidiously dries off the orange soap with a corner of the towel, then politely holds soap, towel, and thanakha out to the tan-see, who smiles down at him. “No, they’re yours, Nyi Lay,” he says, laughing. “To keep. You know, as a going-away present.” The boy does not know. He’s never had a going-away present before. But he draws the bundle of items to his chest, cradling them, and walks back down the corridor with Tiger and Soe Thein.
Tiger and the weaver do not seem to be worried about lunch. Usually the rich prisoners have a midday meal, but the iron-beater pounds out twelve strikes, then one strike an hour later, and the two men don’t discuss food at all. Neither does the boy. He is already very grateful for the tan-see’s generosity, so he doesn’t dare say that he is hungry.
The Lizard Cage Page 42