The Burma Legacy

by Geoffrey Archer

  Harrison walked on along Market Street, peering up at every corner house, hoping to recognise it. After six blocks, he began to think he must have missed it. The heat was getting to him. He needed a rest and stepped into a tea shop which seemed to be staffed by cowed boys no older than ten. As soon as he sat down, one of them hovered for his order.

  ‘Lek peq-ye,’ Harrison mumbled, hoping he’d remembered the right Burmese words. The boy scurried away and returned with a brimming mug.

  As he sipped the sweet and milky tea, he watched the children scurry from table to table, snapped at by a fat slave-master perched behind a counter stacked with pastries. At the next table a middle-aged man was studying him intently. Eventually he leaned forward.

  ‘Where you from?’

  ‘England,’ Harrison replied. He drank up quickly wanting to avoid conversation.

  ‘Yes,’ the man nodded, as if he’d guessed all along.

  ‘Tell me,’ said Perry, having an idea, ‘do you know the house of U Than Swe?’

  The man’s face lit up. ‘Oh yes. You walk one more street.’ He beamed with pleasure at having been of service.

  ‘Thank you very much.’ Harrison stood up. The tea had done its work. He was ready to move on.

  At the next junction he looked up and there it was. He experienced an extraordinary sensation of coming home. The familiar balcony, still the dark green colour he remembered. And the french windows behind it, open in the way they’d always been.

  Insein Prison

  Tin Su squatted in a long corridor, waiting in line with scores of other inmates’ relatives. She kept her eyes averted.

  There was a Buddhist saying that people don’t own their children, but are given them temporarily to take care of. She’d done her best for hers in the years past and was still doing so now, but the fact that she was here in this place to see her son made her think she’d failed.

  She sighed wearily. Whenever she came it was the same. The long wait for her name to be called. The all too brief interlude with Khin Thein.

  Her first born, he was the only flesh and blood she had left. Her other son had vanished on the eighth day of the eighth month in 1988, when the Burmese people rose up to demand a return to democracy. A million people on the streets believing the dictatorship could be overthrown. Then the soldiers had opened fire. She’d looked for her son for days after. In the hospitals. Tracked down his friends, but all they could do was shake heads and wipe away tears. She’d never found him. Never learned his fate.

  She looked up. A prison officer had appeared at the end of the corridor. He called out five names, but not hers.

  She slumped back into her memories, the stepping stones that had brought her to where she was now.

  Her journey had begun forty-seven years ago when the Englishman had walked into the library in Mong Lai. He’d had wild, fair hair and a proud face. She’d likened him to a lion. His eyes had been startlingly blue, and the sensation of knowing they were exploring her slender back as she’d reached up for a volume of Dickens had caused her to wobble on the ladder. There’d been an extraordinary intensity about his gaze, a look which conveyed desire, with a directness no Burmese man could ever contemplate. But a look which had burned with something else. Something dark, which in all the years she knew him she’d never understood.

  She remembered trembling when signing the book out to him, blushing over her inability to spell his name. At first she’d thought he’d said ‘Pelican’, then he’d taken her hand with the pen in it and traced the letters for her in her ledger. P-E-R-E-G-R-I-N-E. Peregrine Harrison.

  His forwardness in touching her like that had shocked her. In fact everything about him had left her breathless. His physique was rugged yet he’d moved in a graceful way. Not effeminate, yet devoid of the brutishness common amongst Europeans. He’d said he was in the hill resort for a week, taking a break from Rangoon.

  The next day he’d reappeared, not to return the book or seek another, but to talk to her. With no sense of shame he’d told her he couldn’t get her out of his thoughts. She could still feel the heat of her blushes. He’d asked if she would join him for dinner that evening at the hotel where he was staying, a colonial mansion by the edge of the town’s small, artificial lake. She’d refused, of course. It was unthinkable for an unmarried Burmese girl to be seen alone with a man. And even if she’d been tempted to break the rules of her society, she’d had nothing suitable to wear. When her father died she’d given away her finer clothes, because their bright colours had seemed to mock at her grief.

  She remembered how her rejection of his invitation had startled him, as if he were unused to being denied something he’d set his heart on. Then a twinkle had come to his eyes and he’d left the library, telling her he would be back.

  Several hours later ‘Per-grin’, as she’d called him, had returned with a parcel. He’d placed it before her, saying she couldn’t possibly refuse to dine with him now. Inside the package was a longyi of Mandalay silk. She’d blushed to the roots of her hair, startled that a man could have such insight into a woman’s mind. He’d stayed there talking, telling her about his life, as if to prove there was nothing unwholesome about him, charming her, until she’d given in.

  She’d been nervous that evening. More nervous than ever before. Per-grin had offered his arm as they walked up the steps of the hotel, but she’d refused, not daring to touch him. The table he’d reserved was on the terrace overlooking the lake, and as they’d taken their seats she’d been conscious of the disapproving stares of the staff and other guests.

  Eventually she’d begun to feel sufficiently at ease to tell him about herself. He’d listened, and he’d smiled – except when she’d talked of the war years living under the Japanese. It had felt wonderful to have a man listening to what she said rather than rebuking her foolish thoughts as her father had done.

  The next day Per-grin had been waiting outside the library when she arrived for work. And in the days that followed, with no family to caution her, she’d allowed herself to fall in love with him.

  One day he’d hired a car and driver and asked her to accompany him to a pretty waterfall 30 kilometres away. After a hot and dusty journey, they’d climbed up past the torrent and looked down on the valley from the ruins of a monastery. She could still remember the sun glinting off a distant stupa. He’d talked about the life of the Lord Buddha, as if the stories were more familiar to him than to the shaven-headed monks who begged in the streets every day.

  They’d watched the sun set beyond the distant peaks, and then he’d asked her to marry him. It had shocked her. Shocked her too when she heard herself say ‘yes’. As the car rattled and banged its way over the stony road back to the town, she’d let him hold her hand. He’d told her about the home they would set up in Rangoon, with servants – a gardener and a cook. Of the beautiful babies they would have, to whom they would impart all their wisdom. And in time, if they wanted, they could travel the world. Even to England, to the land she’d read about in Trollope, Jane Austen and Dickens.

  That night she’d let Per-grin come into her home. And there, in a room filled with her treasured books and with photos of those no longer with her, they’d embraced. At first he’d done it the Burmese way, a nose pressed to a cheek and a little sniff. But then he’d put his lips against hers. She’d felt the hard press of his flesh and her physical desire for him had been awakened. He’d taken her into her sleeping room and they’d lain down on her mat. A part of her had wanted him to open her up as a woman there and then, yet deep inside she’d feared it. Feared this might be a dream after all. Again that night, his intuition had been good. He’d held back, understanding her caution. Told her they’d be married as soon as they reached Rangoon, and then they would make love. Every day and every night, and never be parted.

  The prison guard was back. More names called out.

  This time hers was one of them.

  Market Street, Yangon

  Set into the side wal
l of Than Swe’s house, a stone staircase led up to the first floor. Perry Harrison gazed at it, remembering the indentations in the treads and the scar along one wall where something metallic had been scraped. The last time he’d walked up them was in 1963, the day before being expelled from the country, along with all foreign workers. They’d said their goodbyes, he and his lifelong friend, believing the generals’ nationalisation programme would be disastrous and short lived and it wouldn’t be long before he could return. They’d been right on the first point but wrong on the second. Burma’s crippling socialist isolation had lasted twenty-five years.

  Harrison began to climb, full of trepidation about what he would discover at the top. The stairs gave access to a small terrace where clothes hung to dry. He paused to regain his breath. The door to the apartment was open. It always had been, he remembered – for visitors and to let a cooling breeze pass through.

  A middle-aged woman in a dark patterned longyi and short-sleeved white top emerged, with a baby in her arms. She looked at him without curiosity, as if it were perfectly normal for strangers to turn up here. Even Europeans.

  ‘Is this still the home of U Than Swe?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Could you tell him Perry Harrison is here?’

  She looked as if she’d seen a ghost.

  ‘We used to be close friends,’ he explained.

  ‘Yes. I hear him say you name. You please to wait here.’

  She turned towards the large, airy dayroom where he and Than had talked so often, so many years ago. On the threshold she glanced back, as if checking he was real.

  It was a couple of minutes before she reappeared, still holding the child. With her free hand she beckoned him in. ‘My father not well,’ she whispered. ‘Please, not stay long.’

  Her father. There’d been two girls and a boy, Harrison remembered. The woman had a beautiful face and her oiled black hair shone like polished ebony.

  Inside the room a very old man sat in a book-lined alcove, the skin clinging to his skull like crumpled paper. His hands clasped some ancient volume which was held together with black tape.

  Harrison hardly recognised him. He felt tears welling up and choked them back.

  ‘Than? My old friend?’

  The Burman stared at him without smiling. The face was so lifeless Harrison wondered if he’d had a stroke.

  ‘So it is you …’ The voice when it came was as dry as a husk.

  The daughter placed a chair behind Perry’s legs. He sat down gratefully.

  ‘Thank you.’

  For a while the two men looked at one another, slowly taking in what time had done to them.

  ‘You’ll be surprised to see me, I expect.’ Harrison’s voice trembled. ‘I’ve been a poor friend to you.’

  ‘Yes.’ Despite the immobility of his face, Than Swe’s eyes burned like gemstones.

  ‘I regret that. I’m sorry.’

  ‘It comes with age, regretting things.’ The Burman spoke with a light accent.

  Harrison’s tears welled up again. ‘But it’s damned good to see you …’ He leaned forward and took hold of Than Swe’s hands, prising them away from his book.

  ‘You don’t look well,’ his erstwhile friend remarked, unmoved.

  ‘I’m not. It’s cancer. I don’t have long.’

  The Burman nodded. ‘And I suppose you’ve come here to try to clear your conscience. To be reconciled with the people you turned your back on.’

  Harrison felt wretched. Stupidly he’d expected instant joy at being seen again, instant forgiveness for the past.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You have come to see Daw Tin Su?’

  ‘Well, yes …’

  ‘And because you have not contacted her for thirty-eight years, you don’t know how to find her.’

  ‘Help me Than Swe …’

  ‘I don’t know if I should. She won’t want to see you, you know.’

  ‘She is … still alive, then?’

  Than Swe’s contemptuous glare made him blanch. This man had once loved him but now it felt like hate.

  ‘I know I have a lot of ground to make up,’ Harrison mumbled.

  ‘You have left it very late.’

  ‘I’m aware of that.’

  Than Swe began to stir, like a moth emerging from a chrysalis.

  ‘You see … I am struggling to comprehend, Perry. Is it simply regret that has brought you all this way? Ahhh …’ His eyes widened as he perceived the truth. ‘Of course. You are a believer still. Afraid of what awaits you in the next life. You want to improve your standing. To obtain merit before you die. Like the generals in the SLORC who spend their stolen money on new Buddhas.’

  Harrison felt winded by Than Swe’s scathing sarcasm. ‘It’s more a matter of being able to die in peace,’ he mumbled defensively.

  Than Swe’s daughter returned, carrying a thermos of green tea and two cups on a small tin tray. She poured some for them, then left again.

  ‘You’ve been unwell too,’ Perry commented, wanting to turn the focus away from himself. ‘Your daughter said so.’

  ‘I got ill in prison. A long time ago. By the time they released me I was very weak.’

  ‘Prison?’

  ‘You didn’t know …?’ He said it scoldingly. ‘It was because of my writing. I was an enemy of the state.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘Six years. Three of them alone in a cell. Amnesty International campaigned for me. In England. Perry … How is it you didn’t know?’

  Harrison shook his head, his wretchedness growing. ‘Solitary confinement,’ he murmured, flinching at his own memories. ‘You had books?’

  ‘Nothing. Reading and writing were not allowed.’

  ‘How did you survive?’

  ‘I walked. Around my cell. It was only a few paces. But I counted them. All day long. Every day when I wasn’t sick. Counted my footsteps until I reached ten thousand, then I knew the day was over and it was time to sleep again.’

  Harrison bowed his head in admiration. He wondered about Than’s wife. There wasn’t even a photograph in the room. ‘May Kyi …?’ he asked.

  ‘She died two years ago. My daughter looks after me now. Because I cannot do anything by myself.’

  Suddenly he spread his hands in a gesture of welcome.

  ‘I am happy to see you, Perry.’

  Harrison’s eyes began to water again.

  ‘Now, please tell me exactly why you have come.’

  ‘To see Tin Su,’ he said, huskily. The main reason for his visit was one he could never reveal. ‘To ask for her forgiveness and to help her if I can. Perhaps some money …’

  Than Swe drew in his cheeks as if preparing to spit venom.

  ‘Do you know anything about what happened to her after you went away?’

  Harrison knew his shame was about to be immeasurably deepened.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then I have a story to tell you. And I hope it breaks your heart.’

  Seventeen

  Insein Prison

  The visit to her son was brief. It should have lasted an hour, but today it was less. No explanation why.

  Tin Su felt a terrible emptiness as she climbed into the back of the pick-up for the journey home. There seemed so little hope. The political accommodations between the military regime and Aung San Suu Kyi’s National League for Democracy that would allow Khin Thein’s release looked as remote as ever. And as far as she could tell, the outside world had turned its back on her country just as resolutely as her husband had on her.

  With a crunching of gears the truck drove off.

  It was nearly thirty-eight years since she’d last seen Per-grin. No way of knowing if he was alive or dead. There were many days when she wished she’d never let her head be turned by him. If she’d settled with some dependable school-teacher in Mong Lai, she might have had children to care for her needs, instead of having to care for theirs.

  The first years of their life in Rangoon had
been happy. A fine house, with a gardener and cook, even if the pair despised her for marrying outside her race. And beautiful children.

  When the military ordered the foreigners out, she’d wanted to go with Per-grin to England, happy to uproot their children and start a new life in a land she only knew from books. But the authorities had refused them exit permits. Per-grin had promised to return as soon as he could and send money through the firm where he’d worked.

  At first the arrangements had run smoothly and she’d convinced herself they’d be together again soon. There’d been letters saying he’d got work in the timber firm’s London offices and was making efforts through the Burmese Embassy to secure travel permits for her and the boys. Then the letters had stopped and after a few months it had dawned on her he might never write again. The money had come for another ten months. Then one day when she’d gone to collect it she’d been told the young man responsible for passing it to her had been arrested for stealing. His job had been taken by an older man with slicked hair and greasy skin called Myint Aung, who’d claimed there was no record of payments from abroad for her. In response to her pleadings he’d promised to look into it.

  A few days later he’d come to her home. Admired her furniture and possessions and flattered her over her looks. Then he’d claimed he was having difficulty tracing the money, but it might help if she were to do something for him. From his awkward demeanour, she’d guessed immediately what he wanted and, horrified, had sent him away. But as the weeks passed with no income she’d become desperate, resorting to selling treasured possessions to keep her family fed.

  One evening, after the children were asleep, Myint Aung had returned, bringing money with him this time. He’d told her very pleasantly that it would be hers if she would perform some sexual favours for him. She’d burst into tears and sent him away once more. A week later however, she’d gone to the timber office to tell him to come and see her again.