A Well-Tempered Heart

by Jan-Philipp Sendker

  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.”

  The X-ray machine looked like a holdover from British colonial times.

  A good hour later, during which time U Ba and I sat beside each other in silence, the doctor reappeared holding a couple of papers in one hand. He sat down next to me.

  “Your brother does indeed have severe bronchitis. The X-ray also revealed a nodule in one lung. That could be the cause of the infection.”

  “A nodule?” I asked, alarmed.

  “A kind of circular shadow on the lung.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “It can mean many things,” he answered evasively.

  “Such as?”

  “It could indicate acute tuberculosis, which for various other reasons I think unlikely. A healed tuberculosis is also a possibility. Or the shadow could be a remnant from an old, healed infection. In that case it would be completely harmless. Or …” He pursed his lips and faltered.

  “Or?”

  “Or it is a symptom of some more serious disease.”

  “What kind of more serious disease?”

  “There are a handful.”

  “Which ones?” I was impatient to know.

  “In the worst case, lung cancer.”

  I felt a pang in my stomach. Shortness of breath.

  “There are tests one can perform to determine whether it is malignant,” he added quickly. “But we can’t do them here, not for all the money in the world.”

  I caught the drift. “Where, then?”

  “In your country.”

  “Not even in Rangoon?”

  “No. Maybe in one of the military hospitals, I can’t say for certain. But your brother would have no access. Or do you have a Burmese army general in your family?”

  I shook my head and didn’t know what to say. My brother was sitting a short distance away. I was sure he could understand what the doctor was saying. I tried to exchange a glance with him, but he fixed his gaze on the floor.

  “So what do we do now?” I asked, flummoxed.

  “Wait.”

  “For what?”

  Clearly he was disconcerted by my questions. He avoided making eye contact. His legs were perpetually bouncing, and he was rubbing his left hand with his right thumb so that it was clicking.

  “For the next symptoms.”

  “And what might those be?” I asked tentatively.

  “I’ll give you some antibiotics. If it’s just bronchitis, he’ll feel better in a few days.”

  “And otherwise?”

  “Otherwise he’ll eventually have blood in his mucus. Probably sooner rather than later. Pain in his chest, pain in his armpits.”

  “And then?”

  The doctor lifted his head. Our eyes met. There was not the least trace of a smile on his face.

  “And then?” I repeated softly.

  He didn’t answer.

  WE GOT A taxi in front of the hospital. U Ba asked the driver to take us to the nearest hotel. It was still quite hot. The car had air-conditioning, but it didn’t work. Some of the potholes jolted us to the bone; the driver smiled at us in the rearview mirror. The streets were full of people strolling around or crouching in sidewalk restaurants.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to … I just wanted to know …”

  My brother gazed out the window, deep in thought. He took my hand and stroked it.

  “It was the first time I ever bribed anyone,” he said suddenly, as if to himself.

  “You didn’t bribe anyone,” I contradicted.

  “Of course I did. The doctor.”

  “Why you? I am the one who gave him the money.”

  “That’s irrelevant.”

  “How is that irrelevant?”

  “Because you did it on my behalf. I profited from it.”

  “But it was my money and my idea. You couldn’t do anything about it. I never even asked you.”

  “I ought to have stood up and left.”

  “But U Ba!” I didn’t know what to say.

  “No, no. I let it happen and am therefore complicit,” he said, reflecting. “We are responsible not only for what we do, but also for what we fail to do.”

  “I … I’m sorry. I didn’t want to make trouble for you. I only wanted to help.”

  “I know.” He pressed my hand again.

  I took the pills out of my pocket. “You need to take one of these every morning and evening.”

  He looked at the bottle, shook his head, and gave them back to me.

  “They’re antibiotics. If it’s bronchitis, they’ll help you.”

  “I don’t take pills.”

  “Why not?” He was being stubborn like a child.

  “Because most of our medicines are counterfeits from China. What’s inside the bottle has nothing to do with what’s on the label. They do more harm than good.”

  I looked incredulously at the packaging with its Chinese and Burmese script. “But we got these from a doctor. I can’t imagine, I mean, he wouldn’t …”

  “What else could he give us? That’s all he’s got. In the hospital in Kala
w patients die from pills like these.”

  The taxi stopped in front of a rundown building with a flashing red neon sign over the entrance. Above it plants were growing out of the facade. The windows in the lower stories were dark and barred. There was a pile of trash in front of the door.

  I looked doubtfully at my brother. “Maybe there’s some other hotel in the vicinity?”

  He regarded the entrance with skepticism equal to my own. He exchanged a few words with the driver. He nodded quickly, and we were on our way again.

  A few minutes later we turned into the driveway of a modern six-story hotel. A footman hurried solicitously to the car and opened the door. A second footman relieved me of my handbag and backpack. Still two more bid us welcome in chorus and held open the heavy glass doors. The spacious lobby was cold and empty. In the middle of it stood a Christmas tree whose artificial candles and red balls were reflected in the glossy, polished floor. Several hotel staff bowed. The concierge greeted us yet again and escorted me past a lush flower arrangement to the reception desk. A young woman offered me a moist cloth and a reddish-yellowish cocktail. I requested two quiet, adjacent single rooms, non-smoking, as far from the elevator as possible, ordered a wake-up call for six the next morning, and laid my credit card on the counter.

  Only then did I notice that U Ba had not followed me. He stood as if lost at the Christmas tree, fingering the knot of his longyi, looking at the door as if he were already on his way out. I waved him over to me, but he didn’t move.

  I recovered my baggage from the befuddled bellhop and walked over to U Ba.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I could sleep elsewhere, there’s another …”

  “Out of the question,” I interrupted him at once. “We have two single rooms. They’ll wake us at six tomorrow morning, we’ll have breakfast and then catch the next train to Hsipaw.”

  He nodded and followed me to the elevator that one of the staff had already summoned for us. We rode in silence to the sixth floor, walked down a long corridor, and parted ways outside our rooms.

  “Do you need anything?”

  He shook his head wearily.

  “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Then sleep well.”

  “You, too.”

  MY ROOM WAS much too cold. Chilled, I turned off the air conditioner and had a look around. A big bed with fresh sheets. Minibar. A desk, writing paper, two telephones, wi-fi, color television, bouquet of flowers. A bowl with fresh fruit. It all felt dreadfully familiar. How often had I stayed in similar rooms on business trips? Dallas. Miami. Chicago. Houston. San Diego. The hotel rooms, offices, and conference rooms I worked in looked the same wherever I went. It was an anonymous, interchangeable world. Even-tempered, sterile, odorless, non-sensual. A world in which I could find my way without difficulty. In which I had until now felt neither good nor bad. In which I felt, to be honest, nothing at all. In which I functioned. Conducted negotiations. Accomplished tasks. This room was a reminder of it, and in a disconcerting way I suddenly found myself feeling out of place in it. Alienated. As if, after a long absence, I were visiting dear friends only to find that we no longer had anything in common.

  I fell enervated into an armchair, put my feet up, and waited. For what, I didn’t know. I had actually been looking forward to a hot shower and a soft bed. Now I was too exhausted to get undressed. I don’t know how long I sat there. At some point I heard U Ba coughing. As the attack went on and on I decided I had better check in on him. His door was ajar. In the corridor stood his shabby flip-flops. He had taken the blanket off the bed, folded it in half, and laid it on the floor. The bag with his two shirts and longyi served as his pillow. There he was, sleeping on his side, his knees pulled up almost to his chest. The coughing had not woken him, or else he had fallen right back to sleep. I closed the door softly, sat on the bed, and gazed at my brother. His thin legs, his callused feet. His rib cage rising and falling in the even rhythm of a sleeper. Lying on the floor, resting, he looked still older and more haggard. Needy. Vulnerable.

  I thought of the ten years that separated my two journeys and during which we had not seen each other. How could I have failed to notice how much I missed him? Suddenly I understood why he had never visited me in New York. I could not picture him there with his longyi and sandals any more than I could imagine him walking the streets of Manhattan in jeans and shoes.

  Why had I brought him to a hospital against his will? Why had I bribed the doctor without consulting him? I wanted to help. I was afraid for him. How could I imagine that I knew better than he did what was good for him?

  I was reminded of something our father used to say, something I never understood when I was little: “In the hell of the well-intentioned.” That was how he referred to the charity balls my mother helped organize. “Hell” and “well-intentioned” were for me incompatible concepts. They stood in irresolvable contradiction to each other. Only much later did I understand how apt his description was. How difficult it was to resist the well-intentioned. It was impossible to make a clean getaway. The shadow of the guilty conscience was too long.

  My father’s jibe might just as easily have come from Amy. I wondered how she was getting along. Since my departure ten days earlier we had had no contact at all. It had been years since we had gone so long without speaking. What would she say if she could see me sitting on this bed? If she could hear the tales we had heard?

  I wonder whether this voice might also have some purpose?

  Yes, Amy, it might. It does. And an important one at that.

  I missed her I-wonder’s.

  I wonder whether it makes sense to drag your brother to a hospital that can’t do anything for him?

  I wonder what you were thinking, subjecting an honest doctor to such temptation?

  I wonder whether “well-intentioned” is ever a cover for something else?

  Why didn’t I just call her? It had to be early afternoon in New York. Her voice, a few words with her to help me manage my fear for my brother, that’s all I wanted. I walked to the desk, picked up the receiver. One of the few numbers I knew by heart: 001-555-254-1973. I paused, hesitating. The thought that I could dial a few numbers and be connected to Rivington Street in Manhattan was absurd. As if my world were separated from this one by no more than the push of a couple of buttons.

  If only it were that simple.

  U Ba wheezed and coughed a bit. I crouched beside him and put my hand on his arm. Eventually I rose, fetched my blanket from my own room, and lay down on his bed. I’m not sure which was stronger: my unwillingness to leave him alone when he was so sick, or my desire to be close to him.

  Chapter 3

  THE BREAKFAST BUFFET was opulent. We were the only guests in the dining room at this early hour, and more than a dozen waiters and cooks hung on our every move. U Ba closely examined the various kinds of cheese and sausage, bent low over the diverse rolls and jams, wanted to know what croissants, muesli, and cornflakes tasted like, and in the end ordered a Burmese noodle soup.

  My cheese omelet didn’t taste like anything. Probably because I had no appetite. I felt queasy. I had an uncomfortable pressure in my stomach. I had slept badly, and my shoulders were tense. I couldn’t get the images from the hospital out of my mind. The doctor’s face as I laid the two hundred dollars on the table.

  “Is it true that you have never bribed anyone?” I wanted to know.

  He sipped his tea and nodded.

  “I thought the authorities here were so corrupt.”

  “That they are. But I had no children for whom I had to purchase better exam scores. I own no shop for which I need permits. I have never been seriously ill. In my whole life I have never yet had dealings with the police. I require nothing from the authorities for which I would have to pay.”

  “Except a passport,” I said.

  “Except a passport,” my brother confirmed with an expression that I could not interpret
.

  The waiter brought a steaming noodle soup. My brother slurped at it, savoring it. I had the impression he was doing somewhat better.

  “Is it good?”

  He nodded. “Yours isn’t?”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Why not?”

  I shrugged.

  “You’re worrying too much.”

  “What would I be worrying about?” I countered, forcing a smile.

  “I am not deathly ill. Trust me.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “I sense it.”

  “Intuition?”

  “Intuition!”

  He saw me laughing. “What a beautiful woman you are.”

  “Oh, U Ba, stop,” I replied wearily. “You’re not taking me seriously. I’m worried about you.”

  “Why?”

  I wasn’t sure whether he meant it seriously, or whether his innocence was feigned. “Because it might be that you are very ill.”

  My brother finished off his soup before answering. “It’s true. That is a possibility. For you, too.”

  “I don’t have a nodule on my lung.”

  “You woke up this morning with a headache. It might be a tumor in your head that you are as yet unaware of.”

  “It’s a tension headache. I know what they feel like.”

  “Or it might be …”

  “I could get hit by a car on our way to the train station,” I interrupted him. “That’s not what it’s about.”

  “What then?”

  “It’s about the fact that you have severe symptoms. That you might … that we have to do something …”

  “We are waiting. The doctor explained it to you. There’s nothing else we can do at the moment.”

  “I don’t believe it. I can’t imagine it.”

  “If there were something we could do, would it frighten you less?”

  “I don’t know. At least I wouldn’t feel so helpless. Waiting to see what happens: I can’t bear it. There’s always something that can be done.”

  “Who am I to contradict you?” he answered with an impish grin. His ironic undertone was suffused with tenderness.

  The worlds we came from were too different for us to reach agreement on this point.