Burmese Lessons (21 page)

“I don’t know, Lennie. We’ll see.”

That is enough to satisfy her. We’ll see. My mind is reeling. When we pull off the highway and into the turnoff for Zoë and Sawan’s place, Maung is still gazing fondly at the brown-skinned, green-eyed child.

Suddenly I remember the question he asked me as I dropped into sleep last night. “Do you want to have children?”

No wonder I fell asleep before I could answer.

That first night
, I called him back to me and he came, but the truth is, I lag behind him. The body—oh, I am good at the body, the joys of skin and food, the open mouth, the eating. That’s always the easy part.

This morning he said, almost casually, “I want to love you forever.” He was rising from the bed. He stood and stretched, then stepped out the back door of the little house. Down two stairs is an enclosed outdoor shower room, with orchids growing out of the bamboo walls. He laughed as he lathered soap over his torso, under his arms, his chin. “What you don’t understand about me yet,” he said, “is that I am a child. I am a child!”

Tears jumped to my eyes.

He is a healthy, happy child, declaring his love because he’s sure that he will be loved in return. So simple, so romantic. And unbelievable? We have spent almost four days together. Despite my attachment to Southeast Asia, I disappoint myself, because I am a cynical Westerner when it comes to the realm of emotions. Sure, I dream of real and long-lasting love, but the idea of sacrificing anything for it gives me pause.

I did not expect this man. Do we ever expect love, even when we are hungry for it? My emotions for him are tangled up with my thoughts and feelings about his country. The dream of love has become enmeshed with a much larger dream, of political change in Burma. Am I just a parasite, falling in love with this man because he brings me closer to his country? I don’t bother asking Maung this question. He would think I was being too hard on myself. Besides, he’s in love. He can’t be properly critical of me.

I am trying to be critical of myself in an effort to control the strength of my feelings. When I see him, that perfect, clichéd phrase happens: my heart goes out to him. Some essential part of me literally pulls toward him, cleaves to him. Why? Because he is himself. A remarkable person. Who makes me laugh. And surprises me. I often have no idea what he is going to say next—a rare and useful quality in a mate. I want to meet his ability to give. And to change. And I love the way he smells.

I was telling him over breakfast about Greece, my wish to go back to the island for a while. He understood. “You need to go because that place is also your home.” He moved my coffee cup out of the way and took my hand, lightly, lightly. That is part of his power: he doesn’t hang on too hard. His fingers moved from the tips of my fingers to the top of my wrist. “I know you may leave Thailand. There may be separations, sometimes long ones. For me, too, because of my work. Moving around is part of our lives now. But I hope you give your heart to Asia.”

I heard those words all day long, as I watched Maung swim far into the lake and wave to me from the place where I had shivered and dived down, seeking a ghost in the green water. Give your heart to Asia. As we made love, again, in the hot silence of midafternoon. And fell asleep easily, then woke to the children home from school, their voices rising and falling in the garden.

“I hope you give your heart to Asia.” He said it once, smiled, and talked of something else, but here I am, awake on our last night, watching Maung sleep as I turn those words over and over in my mind. They have a built-in rhythm, and a weight to them, like prayer beads.

•    •    •

I
n the morning, the warm brown body, the voice, the deep-lidded eyes, with irises so dark they look black: these disappear. The generous mouth is gone. In the past four days I’ve lived a life out of time, sweet and heady and held, protected within the bounds of the gardens and the lake, Eden in the middle of rice paddies. Zoë and I dropped Maung off at the bus station early this morning. My lover and I barely embraced in public; we’d said our goodbyes earlier, in the privacy of the room we shared. We both felt exposed at the bus station—a rough spot beside the busy marketplace—and reverted to the physical reticence that is part of intimacy in Thailand. To restrain the obvious gestures. To smile only. To touch hands briefly. Look, my heart. This closed bud contains the whole flower.

O
n our way back to the resort, Zoë and I keep our eyes on the road. “So, are you in love?”

“I think so.”

“He’s handsome. He’s obviously intelligent. Of course you’re in love.”

“I admire him.”

“To be dedicated to a great political cause is admirable.” There is something in her voice that reminds me of a corkscrew. It turns. “He spent a lot of time on his cell phone.”

I can’t help being impressed—she was observant without ever seeming so. I think it’s motherhood; it makes women hypervigilant. My mother used to say, “I’ve got eyes in the back of my head.”

“Yes, he’s attached to his cell phone. But a businessman would be, too.” I laugh, lightly.

“So. What else do you think?”

“Well. It’s very sudden. He’s a serious person. He would be, wouldn’t he, given his day job. He’s already asked me if I want to have children.”

She exhales sharply, blowing the blond hair off her forehead. “These men!”

“You can’t blame him for asking.” I refrain from mentioning my non-response. “They all want kids. Those guys I met at the Christmas party, the dissidents I met last year in Bangkok—they all talk about wanting to get married and have a family.”

“To replace the families they’ve lost.”

“Well, isn’t that what most people do?”

“Yeah, sure, most people do get married and have kids if they aren’t waging a revolution. Do you know if he has any money? Or where he gets it, for that matter?”

Now I exhale sharply. Her hard-nosed approach pisses me off: I didn’t ask for her opinion. “No, I do not know where he gets his money. NGOs, probably. It’s not something we talked about. Obviously he’s no millionaire, but I’ve never been all that interested in money anyway.”

“Well, poverty is fine when you’re single, but if you get knocked up you’ll need to be interested in money.” She’s smiling. But I know she’s smiling to soften the gravity of her words.

I remind myself of what I like about her: her practicality. I hate it, too. The bitch. Here I am, high on romance, blissed out on fabulous sex, and she’s lecturing me about the responsibilities of having a family.

“Zoë, I just met the man. In case you’re wondering, we used those condoms, okay? I feel as if I’m talking to my mother. No, actually, my mother will be thrilled—she’ll be, like, ‘Oh, and I’ll get to come to Thailand every winter and look after the babies.’” I laugh, too shrilly, and then bark, too loudly, “Fuck!”

For a few minutes we drive on in silence, each sequestered with her private thoughts. Then Zoë lifts one hand off the steering wheel and waves it in the air, a flag of surrender.

“Karen, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to upset you. And it’s none of my business, really. I know that. I’m just …” The sentence remains unfinished. “I know that everything changes after children come. And you’re an artist. You’re a real writer, it’s part of you. But here that wouldn’t matter so much. To … to them. You’re a white woman with a Canadian passport, and if you have kids here you’ll have to support them. And him, too, possibly … if the NGO money gets thin. The money to raise a hypothetical family won’t come from the revolutionary coffers—I can’t imagine they’re too deep.”

I turn my head and glare at her, willing her to meet my eyes. But she just keeps driving, competently and rapidly, passing the slower vehicles. I work to keep my voice steady. “So, what, he’s after me for my Canadian passport? He’s not interested in moving to Canada; he wants to live in a free Burma! That’s all his life is about.”

“That’s what I mean.”

“But what you said was … It sounded like something a racist would say!”

“Karen, come on. You know me better than that. You know my life better than that. Just remember how heady and exciting any affair is, in the beginning. The complications come after. That’s natural. But his complications, his world—there’s a lot you don’t know yet.”

I fear that I will either scream or burst into tears. Ferocious words rush through my head: You’re just jealous! Of my freedom, my pleasure. You’re unhappy, that’s why you always talk about other people having wild affairs that mean nothing. Maybe you want to have them yourself! Go ahead! Getting properly laid might relax you!

I raise my voice slightly. “Why do you say that? How do you know what it would be like for me?” I watch her steadily, thinking I see the whole of her in that narrow jaw, clamped down. When she turns to meet my eye, it’s a shock. She’s crying. Tears spill freely from both eyes.

“Oh, God, you’re so young. There’s so much in you that you think you can just give it away forever.” She gasps as she cries—ten seconds,
twenty—then wipes her face and stretches her mouth open to turn off the saltwater faucet. She grabs a tissue from the console between us and blows her nose.

We’re close to home when Zoë speaks again, in a voice that’s almost back to normal. “How do you think I know?”

“Do you miss me?”

“You are a major distraction to my work.” I hear Maung smiling through the words.

“Then both of us are distracted. Where are you, anyway?”

“Mae Sarieng.”

“I thought you were in Mae Sot.”

“The meeting was canceled. Have you ever been to Mae Sarieng?”

“No.” But I know it’s a border town, with various Burmese organizations stationed there: the ABSDF, DPNS, and another one or two groups I can’t remember.

“We have a house here. It’s a nice town. Quieter than Mae Sot.”

I wonder who belongs to this “we.” “Do you live with many people?”

“It depends. Five or six. Sometimes more. We have a military camp a few hours away from here, so when people need to go to Chiang Mai or Bangkok they always stop here for a day or two. You’ll have to visit sometime.”

“I will, probably. Sooner than you expect. Maybe I’ll come tomorrow.”

“I thought you were going to Burma soon.”

“Ah, that’s my big news. I didn’t get the visa. I’m on the blacklist.”

“Oh! Congratulations!” He laughs.

“I don’t think it’s that funny.”

“No. But to laugh is to make it smaller, not so important.”

But it is important. To me.

“I’m happy you didn’t get the visa.”

“Why?”

“Because you will be closer to me this way. I can protect you.”

“I don’t want your protection, Maung. I want to keep doing my work. I need to spend more time eating, drinking, and breathing Burma. And I need to work on my Burmese.”

“You can do that in Thailand. This is the Burma outside of Burma, so don’t worry about the visa. It can be easier here, too. People will talk to you more openly. And you have a Burmese dictionary now.”

“What has that got to do with it? I’ve had a Burmese dictionary for months. Not a very good one, but … What’s so funny?”

“Sometimes you are so serious that you miss the joke. I don’t mean a paper dictionary. I am the Burmese dictionary.”

“Oh.” This softens me. “Right. My handsome talking dictionary.”

“Who misses you. I want you to read me.”

“I need to memorize the alphabet first.”

“You know my alphabet well already. You are fluent in my alphabet.”

This charming innuendo acts on me like a tonic; my bad mood shifts and longing pours in to fill its place. “So when will I see you?”

“Now that I know you are not running away to Rangoon, I will come down to Bangkok in a week or so. Ten days at the most.”

“…” The sound of disappointment.

Which he hears. “Remember. Patience is important. What are you doing now?”

“I’m just lying here.” I skip a beat, then add, “Naked.” I roll over on the bed, stretching out. Let’s have phone sex with the man of the velvety voice!