A Well-tempered Heart (10 page)

—Why?

I know this place, where we are now. It will bring you grave misfortune.

—What kind of misfortune?

They will come to get you.

—No one is coming to get me.

That’s what you think. You don’t know them.

—Who?

The black boots. They come by day. They come by night. They come whenever they please. They take whomever they wish.

—Not me.

You, too.

—My brother will protect me.

No one can protect you from them.

—I am a foreigner.

They don’t care. They take the elderly, women and children, if they wish.

—What do they do with them?

You hear all kinds of stories. Few there are to tell them. Those who return are changed.

—Did they get you?

Not me.

—Who then?

My son. That’s much worse. Those left behind are changed, too.

—Where will I find the black boots?

They find you. When they come, don’t look them in the eye. Don’t look them in the boots.

—Why not?

Because they have magical powers. In them is reflected all of the cruelty, all of the evil we are capable of.

—Who are “we”? I interrupted her.

We humans. In the world you see reflected in that shiny, polished leather there is neither love nor forgiveness. In that world is only fear and hatred. There are sights we cannot endure. They turn us into a different person. Don’t look there.

She had never before revealed so much about herself. I waited a long while to see if she had more to tell.

—Who are you? Where do you come from?

Silence.

It was always the same. As soon as I wanted to know something about her history or origins, she would clam up. What’s your name? Where were you born? Where did you live? She had not once offered even a shred of an answer to any of these questions. Now I knew, at any rate, that she was acquainted with Kalaw, that she had had a son, and that the black boots—whoever they were—had come to get him.

Don’t tell him about me. Not a word.

—Who?

Your brother.

—Do you know him?

Silence.

—I’m going to tell him everything. That’s why I’m here. He’s going to help me find you.

There is no me anymore. I am dead.

—Find out who you were. Why you died.

I forbid it.

—Why?

It will only make things worse.

—What? Tell me!

I can’t tell you. It must remain secret. Forever.

—You’re trying to frighten me. It’s not working.

I’m not trying to frighten you; I want to warn you. You must not search for me. You must fly back to New York tomorrow.

—Then tell me how you died.

No. Never.

—Did someone murder you?

Silence.

—The black boots? Did they kill you?

Nothing.

—Was it an accident? Were you old and sick? Did you kill yourself?

Unrelenting silence.

—If you don’t tell me I’ll just find out on my own.

I did not expect an answer.

Eventually my eyes fell shut.

I was wakened in the middle of the night by the droning sound of a violin. Beethoven’s violin concerto. Now, half asleep, I recognized it instantly.

The power was back on.

I heard my brother cough, rolled over, and went back to sleep.

I WOKE TO
unaccustomed sounds. Birdsong, the pig snuffling, roosters crowing. Children’s voices. It took a few seconds for me to place them and to remember where I was. I must have slept a long time. The sun was high in the sky. It was warm. My stomach growled with hunger.

Someone was sweeping in front of the house. I stood up and went to the unglazed window. U Ba was cleaning the yard. When he saw me he put his broom aside and hurried up the steps.

“Good morning. Did you rest well?”

I nodded sleepily.

“You must be near starvation.”

I nodded again.

“Then I shall prepare breakfast at once. I do not have a shower, but you can wash at the well in the yard.”

He gave me a longyi and an old towel, then disappeared into the kitchen. I undressed and slipped the cloth around me, pulling it so high that it reached from my knees to my
armpits. The well was a thin water pipe that reached over the hedge from the neighbor’s property and ended over a large concrete sink. Beside it were two red plastic buckets and a large white enamel bowl. I filled the bowl and poured it with both hands over my head. The water was bitter cold despite the mild air temperature. After the third round I had gotten used to it, and after the fifth I was enjoying the refreshing chill. After washing from head to toe I was wide awake.

When I got back to the house, breakfast was waiting on the coffee table in front of the couch. Two mugs with hot water, beside them a bag of instant coffee, two sugar cubes, and canned milk. U Ba had made scrambled eggs with tomatoes and peppers. Thick pieces of butter melted on slices of toasted white bread were arranged on another plate.

“It looks wonderful. Thank you. How kind of you. Where did you get the butter?”

My brother smiled with delight. “I got it this morning from a friend in a hotel.”

We sat down. The egg was delicious. Even the coffee tasted good. Only after the second slice of toast did it occur to me that my brother was eating nothing. “Aren’t you hungry?”

“I will wait until you are finished.”

“Why would you do that?”

“One does not dine together with guests. One waits until they are satisfied. That is our custom. Not so in the States?”

I had to laugh. “No, that would be very impolite. We all eat together at home. Besides, I’m not a guest; I’m family, aren’t I?”

He smiled in agreement and self-consciously helped himself to some egg and a piece of bread.

We ate together. Silently. It did not seem to bother him. I was again unnerved by the quiet.

“How did things turn out for you?” I asked in order to break the silence.

My brother considered the matter so long that I grew anxious for his reply.

“Well,” he said at last.

“Well?”

“Yes, well. The Buddha says: ‘Health is the greatest gift, contentment the greatest wealth, faithfulness the best relationship.’ I am healthy and content. My faith is unshakable. And, as you can see”—he spread out his arms and let his gaze sweep once across the room—“I lack for nothing. What cause would I have, then, to complain?”

I looked around the room myself. “I can think of a few things you might find a use for,” I said, half in jest.

“Really?” he replied, surprised.

“A shower, for instance. Hot water. A hot plate, maybe?”

“You are right. Those things would make my life more comfortable. But do I need them?”

U Ba contemplatively scratched the right side of his head with his left hand. I had seen my father do the same thing when he was thinking hard about something. “I think not.”

He covered his mouth and coughed.

“How long have you had that cough?”

“I don’t know. Probably a couple of weeks. Perhaps a bit longer.”

“Do you have a fever?”

“No.”

“Runny nose or sore throat?”

“No.”

“Any pain?”

“None to speak of.”

I couldn’t help but think of Karen. A colleague at the firm, a couple of years older than me, the only female partner at Simon & Koons. She had put up for weeks with a nagging dry cough that sounded similar to my brother’s. Karen had no fever, no other cold symptoms, and, assuming it was an allergy, she had not gone to a doctor. When she finally went, the radiologist discovered a pulmonary mass, an indication of lung cancer. Follow-up examinations confirmed the diagnosis. Six months later she was dead.

“Have you been to a doctor?”

He shook his head, smiling. “It appeared on its own, and when the time has come, it will disappear the same way.”

“All the same, you ought to see a doctor, just to be on the safe side.”

“I fear that would be an utter waste of time, and though I may possess enough of it, I am loath to squander it. We have no doctors here who specialize in dry coughs. We have only the two hospitals: one for emergencies, the other for the
army. The former cannot heal the sick, and the latter helps only its own. Don’t worry; it’s nothing serious. It will be gone in a few days. Tell me instead whether I can help you.”

“What gives you the idea that I need help?”

“I see it in your eyes. I see it in the way you smile at me. I hear it in your voice, and our father would presumably insist that he could hear it in the beating of your heart.”

I nodded mutely.

I thought of everything the voice had told me the previous night. What if she was right? If my search for her would prove dangerous? If there was some secret behind her life and death that ought not to be revealed? Who could protect me if things got rough? Certainly not U Ba. The American Embassy in Rangoon was far away. I did not even have a telephone so that I could notify them of an emergency. But I hadn’t traveled halfway around the world to be daunted. I had to know the hidden fate of the voice within me.

“You are right; I am not doing so well.”

Breathless, I told him.

Breathless, he listened.

Now he furrowed his brow in concern, scratched his head, and closed his eyes.

His lanky body sank into the leather armchair. His cheeks were slightly sunken, his eyes deep in their sockets. His thin dark-brown arms, capable of carrying more than they let on, hung limp at his sides. He looked vulnerable.

“I think I can help you,” he said abruptly, looking at me soberly.

“Do you know the voice?” I asked in surprise.

“No.”

“Do you know who the black boots are?”

U Ba hesitated. Then he shook his head very slowly without taking his eyes off me.

I wasn’t sure whether he was telling me the truth.

“But I know where our search must begin.”

U BA WAS
deep in thought. All bounce had faded from his step. He strode swiftly through Kalaw, almost as if hunted, paying little attention to anyone who greeted us and answering my questions so brusquely that I stopped asking.

We walked past the teahouse, past the mosque and the monastery where our father had lived as a novice. We turned left at the big banyan tree and followed the road until we struck a well-beaten path that led us up a hill to the other end of the city.

We came to a halt before the overgrown, dilapidated remains of a garden gate. With one arm my brother pushed the branches aside, and we stepped into the yard where, beside a hut, banana, papaya, and several palms were growing. The little house with walls of dried grass stood on bamboo poles just about three feet off the ground. A few steps led up to a tiny porch where a red longyi and a white blouse hung over the railing to dry in the sun.

U Ba called out a name and waited. He called it a second time.