The Lizard Cage (54 page)

“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 belongings 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.

I
n 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.”

I
t’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 and 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.

T
iger 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.

Sometime past three o’clock, Tan-see Tiger’s men begin returning. Knowing the cage routines, Nyi Lay can’t understand why the prisoners have come back so early; most of the other inmates are still out in the workshops or gardens. But he’s more surprised to smell them as they file back in, talking and teasing each other as always. They smell like
food
, and food is what they carry: la-phet in small bags and three kinds of curry in stacked bamboo bowls, fragrant rice in a dented aluminum dish, fresh tomatoes and shredded cabbage and new-fried garlic slices for the tea-leaf salad.

The boy catches the scent of each man as he walks in. He looks from one criminal to another in contained confusion, his mouth flooding with saliva. Roused by the spices and the pungent scent of pickled tea and a salty whiff of dried fish, his guts immediately start churning and groaning again. He looks from the criminals—Kyaw Kyaw the truck thief is busy spreading a big cloth on the cell floor—to Tiger, who is rubbing his hands together like a giant about to devour an ox. The tan-see speaks in a booming voice, “Well done! I was starting to get unbearably hungry. I bet you’re hungry too, eh, Nyi Lay? I know you’ve had a good shower, but I want you to wash your hands again, with soap. That’s why we have the extra
bucket, so we can eat with our hands instead of those damn metal spoons.” The boy jumps up and speedily scrubs his hands. The convicts follow suit.