A Well-tempered Heart (27 page)

It had taken a moment for the meaning of those two sentences to sink in. Neither my brother nor I had considered that possibility for a second. We had assumed we were on the trail of a dead man. Nu Nu had imagined her son was dead. As had Khin Khin and Ko Gyi.

Maung Tun had not learned anything from the rebels about the whereabouts of Thar Thar and Ko Bo Bo. They had left them in peace. The powerful man had eventually stood up, taken the limp body lying next to him in his arms, and headed off downstream.

Years later Maung Tun heard reports from a number of truck drivers of a monk who lived with several children and dozens of chickens in an old monastery in the vicinity of Hsipaw. An utterly extraordinary man who looked after the children. He was missing a finger on his right hand. Under his chin was a birthmark, and on his right upper arm a long scar. The result of a gunshot wound. Apparently he had lived for years as a soldier in the jungle. Supposedly he had been a dauntless warrior.

Two bus drivers later confirmed the tale. Maung Tun was convinced that it must be Thar Thar. U Ba, too. I was skeptical.

Now we were on the way to Mandalay. We planned to sleep there and then continue on to Hsipaw the next morning.

The train stopped with a jolt. My brother woke up. He looked around quickly, licking his dry lips. I gave him my water. He drank in small sips and exchanged a few words with a neighbor across the aisle. “We arrive in Mandalay in two hours,” he said, turning to me. “Are you hungry?”

I nodded.

“Me, too. Shall we go for a bite to eat?”

“In the train?”

“There’s a dining car.”

I looked doubtfully at my armchair’s grimy upholstery, the sticky floor. “I’m not sure it’s a good idea.”

“We’ll have just a bit of fried rice and coffee. The water is boiled. Don’t worry.”

U Ba rose, and I followed him reluctantly.

The train was rocking violently. I staggered along the aisle, bumping my head twice.

There were still two seats free in the dining car. My brother made for them single-mindedly and sat down. I hesitated at the entrance. A group of soldiers were eating their dinner at the next table. I saw their green uniforms. I saw their shiny black boots. Their bloodred teeth.

U Ba indicated with a glance that I should sit down with him. I couldn’t decide. My hesitation aroused attention. Curious looks. Abandoned conversations.

It was too late to turn back. I didn’t want to leave my brother alone, so I walked over to him.

“They won’t bother us,” he said quietly. “They can’t even understand what we’re saying.”

The soldiers looked at us with interest. U Ba responded with a smile that they returned. I stared out the window.

When the waiter came U Ba ordered coffee and rice with chicken and vegetables. In the kitchen I could see several men in filthy, sweaty T-shirts working over an open fire spooning something out of a trough.

“May I ask you something?”

“Anything,” he replied with a wink.

“Why do people always laugh here, even when they don’t really feel like it?”

He tilted his head to one side and looked as if he had long been expecting this question. “Laughter has many meanings here. We laugh when something is unpleasant. When we are afraid. When we are angry.”

“Is it a kind of mask?”

“You could call it that. If you look closely you will quickly recognize what lies behind it, what kind of laugh it is.”

The waiter brought two glasses of hot water and packets of instant coffee. The rice followed shortly. It looked more appetizing than expected. U Ba dove in hungrily, burned his tongue, and laughed at himself. “How can someone my age still be so greedy?”

The rice was nicely seasoned, dusted with coriander and other herbs. Delicious.

“Do you think we’re going to find Thar Thar?” I asked him after burning my own mouth.

He nodded.

“Maybe this monk with the missing finger is someone else.”

“Maybe.”

“Or Thar Thar has died in the meantime. The story with the truck drivers is already a few years old.”

“It’s possible.”

“You still think we’re going to find him?”

He nodded confidently.

“Why?”

“Intuition.”

“Intuition can be misleading.”

He shook his head. “You should never doubt intuition.”

I had to laugh. “Unless you’re me. My intuition is not very reliable. It’s always letting me down.”

“I don’t believe it. Intuition is the incorruptible memory of our experiences. We have only to listen closely to what it tells us.” With a smile he added: “It does not always speak plainly. Or it tells us things we don’t want to hear. That does not make them untrue.”

I ate my rice thoughtfully.

U Ba was finished long before me and ordered a second coffee. He looked tired, more haggard than usual. His face seemed to have grown leaner in the past few days.

At first I thought he had choked on the coffee. I stood up and whacked him between the shoulder blades, but he waved me off. Another severe coughing fit. He could hardly breathe, was turning red in the face, gripping the table tightly. Even the soldiers looked at us with concern. I got scared and took his hand, rubbed his back. When it was over, he looked even more exhausted.

“I’m taking you to a hospital as soon as we get to Mandalay,” I told him authoritatively.

He tried to calm me. “It’s not so bad.”

“U Ba, stop it,” I answered, annoyed. “The whole time I’ve been here it just keeps getting worse. That’s no allergic reaction.”

“It is,” he contradicted weakly.

“To what?”

“I don’t know.”

“You need to be examined.”

“And if they find something, what then?”

“Then we’ll see that you get treatment.”

“They can’t treat it. I’ve already told you. What good is a diagnosis?”

“If they find something they can’t treat we’ll take the next flight to Bangkok,” I declared with certainty. “They’ve got top-notch hospitals there.”

He smiled. “Julia, my dear, I don’t even have a passport.”

“Then we’ll get you one,” I said, unimpressed by his objections.

“That’s kind of you. We’ll have to go to Rangoon for that. Processing an application for a passport can take months here, sometimes years. And I’m not even sure I would get one in the end.”

“Months? For a passport? I can’t believe it. I’m sure there’s some way to expedite it for urgent cases.”

“Maybe so. But not for people like me.”

“What do you mean, people like you?”

“People without connections to the military.”

“We’ll find a way. First of all we need to get you examined.”

“I don’t know …”

“U Ba! In Mandalay we’re going to step right into a taxi and take you straight to the best hospital. Until then I’m
not going to any hotel or boarding any trains for Hsipaw or anywhere else.”

“But we have to …”

“I’m serious. I’ll just stand there in front of the train station.”

My decisiveness apparently made an impression on him. He sighed and gazed off into the evening. The streets were getting broader. There were more people on the roads, more houses, more lights. We were approaching Mandalay.

“So why don’t you have a passport?” I wanted to know.

“Why would I need a passport?” he challenged.

“To visit me, for instance.”

“You are right.”

“Will you try to get one when we get back?”

“We’ll see.”

I was disappointed. “Wouldn’t you like to visit me in New York sometime?”

“Of course.” After a long pause he added, “But it is a long, arduous journey.”

When we got back to our seats, U Ba took another short nap. Looking at him, I was filled with tenderness.

There were few people I felt so close to, so comfortable with. He was so utterly without guile, without ulterior motives. What would I do if it turned out his cough was a symptom of something serious? Fear for his well-being was taking hold of me. The thought of losing him was unbearable to me just now.

THE MANDALAY GENERAL
Hospital was only a few blocks from the main train station. A betel nut monger pointed out the way. I cinched up my backpack and relieved my brother of his bag. To my surprise he made no objection.

The entrance to the hospital was bustling like a market. Several stands offered bananas, pineapples, coconuts, and mangoes. You could get drinks, magazines, and books. Pedestrians stood and read by the light of bare bulbs. Between them rickshaw drivers and taxis waited for customers. A young man approached me, hands loaded with freshly woven wreaths of jasmine blossoms. He handed me one, and its intense fragrance immediately filled my nostrils.

“You like the scent of jasmine?” asked my brother.

“I love it,” I answered, looking for some money, but the young man just smiled and disappeared into the throng.

On the street in front of two fully equipped food stands a dozen folding tables and plastic chairs had been arranged.
Curries simmered over blazing fires; skewers of meat, mushrooms, and peppers roasted on a grill.

U Ba stopped abruptly to look at a group of men playing a kind of checkers with bottle caps on a homemade board. One of them had tattoos over his legs, arms, hands, even his neck.

“What’s that about?” I whispered.

“The tattoos protect him from evil spirits,” U Ba answered.

I pulled him along. We crossed the hospital forecourt and entered a biggish hall, a kind of emergency room, and for a first long moment I doubted whether it had been a good idea to bring my brother to a hospital.

It was hot and humid, and it stank. Two sluggish fans turned on the ceiling. Lurid neon lighting illuminated the crowded space. People huddled on chairs, sometimes two to a seat. Others leaned against the wall, sat on the tiled floor, or lay on blankets they had spread out. Mothers clutched infants in their arms. One child cried softly. Some of them gave us a once-over; most were too exhausted or sick to pay us any mind.

I could see that my brother felt ill. He dropped back, leaning against a column by the entrance, not even pretending to have some other purpose. I set about finding a doctor, stepping right over patients, treading unintentionally on a leg. Someone groaned; I apologized immediately and profusely, went on, spoke to a nurse who listened attentively, smiled, nodded, and then disappeared again without
a word. I had no confidence that she had understood a word I had said.

A few minutes later a young doctor came and waved to me to come into a side room. U Ba followed us reluctantly. He sat down on a stool right next to the door. As if he had nothing to do with the whole affair.

“How can I help you?” the doctor asked in surprisingly good English.

“My brother has had a severe cough for some time now, and it gets worse day by day. When he’s coughing he can hardly breathe.”

The doctor regarded U Ba skeptically. “Is your brother Burmese or foreign?”

“Burmese,” I replied, annoyed. “Why?”

“Our hospital is quite full. You have seen so.” He paused briefly as if weighing his words carefully. “In an emergency I could offer a foreigner preferential treatment. Not so a Burmese. Would you be able to come back in a few days?”

“A few days?” I wasn’t sure I had understood correctly.

“Yes. This evening, tomorrow, or the day after would be very difficult. I’m sorry,” he said, smiling. Even I could tell what kind of smile it was.

“Let’s go, Julia,” I heard U Ba say behind me.

“No,” I declared authoritatively, “we cannot come back in a few days. My brother is sick. He needs help.”

The young doctor was still smiling, but I was no longer sure what lay behind it.

“There are many patients right outside the door who need our help.” He paused briefly again. “I am truly sorry.”

“Julia, please.”

I pulled two hundred-dollar bills out of my bag and laid them on the table.

The doctor looked for a long time at the money, then looked back and forth between my brother and me. A sad smile lined his face. Behind me I heard U Ba sigh deeply.

The doctor hesitated, eventually stood up, pocketed the cash, and went to the door. “Follow me, please.”

We walked down a corridor that was likewise lined with patients. U Ba slunk, head bowed, behind us, not returning my look. The doctor led us into a room where four other patients were already being examined. He asked my brother to sit and to bare his upper body, to inhale and exhale deeply while he listened. He prodded his head, neck, shoulders, and chest, looked down his throat and in his ears, and then wrinkled his brow. U Ba let it all happen without glancing up.

“Do you have pain in your chest when you inhale deeply?” he asked in English.

“No,” replied my brother softly.

“In your armpits, maybe?”

“No.”

“Do you cough up mucus when you have an attack?”

“Sometimes.”

“A lot?”

“Sometimes more, sometimes less.”

“Is there blood in the mucus?”

U Ba shook his head mutely.

“Are you certain?” asked the doctor, looking to me.

I shrugged my shoulders.

“I suspect your brother has severe bronchitis. I’d like to get an X-ray of his lungs.”