The Blue-Eyed Shan

by Becker, Stephen;

  Later Greenwood asked easily, “Naung, how is that French submachine gun?”

  Naung could not suppress a smile. “My mitraillette. A good weapon within fifty paces; after that, wild as a frightened hare. Also, there is no provision for the single shot. But one feels safe.”

  “As with mine. How many rounds do you hold?”

  “Thirty-two. Of the seven six five long.”

  “Eh. I have only thirty, but more like eleven millimeters.”

  “I remember the power of it,” Wan said.

  “I have three or four more catties to carry around,” Greenwood said.

  “Yes, much heavier, it would stop a leopard,” Kin-tan said, “but Naung’s is more accurate beyond twenty paces, which is sufficient for defense.”

  “I have the single shot,” Greenwood said. “You have a higher muzzle velocity, I think.”

  “That seems of little importance,” Naung said. “The bullets fly fast enough, and who will measure the difference?”

  At this they laughed, and Greenwood acknowledged the jest with a lift of the teabowl. He asked Za-kho, “May I drink to the bride and groom?”

  “How not, how not!” Za-kho called out, “Ang-ang! Wine for all!”

  “Well, and how about rum?”

  “A good idea,” said Mong.

  “Mong, you bag of sticks. My heart is full.”

  “It is a day Pawlu will remember,” Kin-tan said.

  Still later, boozy, they asked and Greenwood told the tale. “You remember the smiling Chinese general.”

  Wan slapped thigh. “Do I remember! Phe-win loved the man! He left a gold piece. We have it still. And he was an honest smiler. He knew a joke when he heard one and he smiled only for reason.”

  “A general?” Naung asked. “I have heard the story, but I allowed for natural exaggeration. Perhaps a colonel, I thought.”

  “No, a general,” Greenwood said. “A major general then; you remember the shoulder board with one star? And he has three stars now, a full general and a man of some importance.”

  “To whom?” Wan asked.

  “Always a plain blunt man, Wan.” Greenwood mulled the question. “Well then: to me.”

  “That is sufficient,” said Kin-tan.

  “Thank you.”

  “And what has he to do with us? Will you proceed into China?” Naung seemed hopeful.

  “No.” Greenwood delayed; drank; wiped his mouth on his sleeve. Flames danced, shadows danced, across the dark field voices rose and fell, the black sky was spangled white. In the end Greenwood said, “He is fleeing China.”

  “May the gods speed him,” Wan said. “May he flee all the way to Siam, or Tonkin. Mind you, I liked him. But generals.”

  “Well,” Greenwood said, and plunged, “he is coming here.”

  In the silence Greenwood prickled, as if he would soon sweat.

  “That is not for you to say,” Naung told him.

  “Well then, he is on his way. There was no time for other plans and no one to trust with a message. And the truth is, I do not know if he is dead or alive.”

  “It is unreasonable,” Naung said testily. “Why can he not flee to the Chinese islands like the others? Or to Tonkin? Or out along the Burma Road?”

  Greenwood said, “First: he was trapped by war, and cut off, and so moved west and south. Second: he would risk capture at frontier stations, as along the Burma Road, capture by the Chinese Communists or by the Burmese authorities. Third: he has something I want.”

  Wan said, “Ah.”

  Naung’s eye was steady and knowing.

  Kin-tan sipped pensively.

  By God, here was a falling-off! Greenwood sat perplexed, vaguely ashamed and not sure why. The prodigal son! These simple valiant souls, the lovely compliant woman. The adopted Shan. Well, had he or had he not saved their skins? Our little brown brothers.

  He called for more rum. Damn! He had expected ebullience, bustle, the excitement and approval of warriors with work to do.

  Naung said, “He will not enter Pawlu.”

  “Pawlu owes Green Wood much,” Kin-tan said slowly. “During the war not one Japanese set foot in Pawlu and not one Englishman either, and the Wild Wa never crossed the road. Yang too killed his Wa.”

  Naung made no reply. Naung had fought the war elsewhere.

  “And the weapons,” Wan said. “Rifles and ammunition and those pistols. Green Wood never came home empty-handed. American weapons and English and Japanese. And with Naung’s loot from the French after the Long-Haul-with-Koko,” he added tactfully, placatingly, generously, “Pawlu is armed for our lifetime.”

  “You could meet him in Nan-san,” Kin-tan said.

  “I do not know that he will come by Nan-san; or on foot or mounted or by air. It must be here.”

  “Perhaps nearby,” Wan suggested.

  “He will not enter Pawlu,” Naung repeated. “You will go to Nan-san and we shall bring him to you there.”

  If it is the woman, Greenwood wanted to say, if it is Loi-mae, I will do no harm. You need not send me away.

  The others were silent, until Wan spoke. “His bodyguard. Who comes with him?”

  “A guide, perhaps, and a few armed men, surely, to defend against bandits.”

  “It is true,” Naung said, “that the hills are full of Kachin.”

  “They fought well,” Greenwood said.

  “So did we all,” said Naung.

  “The Kachin fought on my side,” Greenwood said.

  Naung drank deep.

  “Not all of them,” Wan said. “Some Kachin, like some Shan, hated the English.”

  “I meant no slight,” Greenwood said.

  “I liked the general,” Wan continued. “He displayed a sense of propriety. He was old and wise but not officious.”

  “When he smiled in starlight,” Kin-tan said, “it made noon.”

  At that the Sawbwa chuckled moistly. “He bowed to me always.”

  “He bowed to the Sawbwa,” Wan said solemnly.

  Naung drew lines in the earth with his short dagger. Za-kho’s fire flared. Greenwood stared into it until his eyes ached.

  Naung said, “One hesitates to pry. Nevertheless, it is our village. What does this general carry that is so important?”

  Still gazing blindly into the fire, Greenwood said, “The true bones of his ancestors.”

  “That is very Chinese and commendable,” Naung said. “And why do you want them?”

  Greenwood peered up unseeing at the night, and waited; slowly a blizzard of stars pricked out the velvet black sky. How explain these old bones? How count off half a million years?

  “Five lakhs of years,” he began.

  “Now, that is a long time,” Naung agreed.

  “So long ago were those bones laid down. So long ago did those first men and women live and die.”

  “Yes, and there are some who say we have been here for ten lakhs of years and more. Yet are five lakhs venerable. Your general is a deeply religious man. Still we do not know why these bones are of interest to you.”

  Let me tell you all about world capitals, universities, learned societies, international conferences, man’s endless struggle to identify himself. As well tell of ice in the south. “No earlier Chinese bones are known. So these are holy bones to all priests and scholars.”

  “Ah well, now we have it,” Wan said. “Green Wood is a scholar, with his writings and his making pictures, and he will achieve eminence with these bones.”

  “That is making much trouble for eminence,” Naung said.

  “It is much eminence,” Greenwood told him.

  Kin-tan said, “Green Wood. A well-laid ambush. And we will spare your general or not, as you wish.”

  “The man is my friend,” Greenwood said. “By the gods, Kin-tan! Yours too! He fought beside you and shared your rice and your wine and your jokes. And now you would set his life at hazard?”

  “Naturally, you cannot set his life at hazard,” Naung said. “Yet you set
Pawlu at hazard.”

  “I see no risk.”

  “An unknown number of unknown men are to descend upon Pawlu so that you and this general may pay old debts.”

  “I see no danger.”

  “It seems to me,” Wan said, “that the question is, how much does Pawlu owe Green Wood?”

  “That is well stated,” said Kin-tan.

  “I cannot know what Pawlu owes Green Wood,” Naung said, “so I will shut up. My advice is to let no outlander into Pawlu.” He slipped the dagger into its sheath and rose swiftly. “I rose at first light and am tired. Kin-tan, will you visit the sentries?”

  “I will. Sleep well.”

  “Sleep well, all.” Naung stood immobile and impassive; he gazed first at Greenwood, then at the Sawbwa, then at Wan and Kin-tan; and he padded into the darkness.

  Za-kho said, “The planets are in favorable position.”

  The Sawbwa said, “Green Wood has come back to us.”

  Wan said, “They must not cross the road. We can fetch Yang from there, but his men may not cross.”

  “That is the way to do it,” Kin-tan said. “When will Yang arrive?”

  Greenwood showed palm. “Perhaps a day, perhaps a month.”

  “Perhaps he is dead,” Wan said.

  Greenwood was to sleep in the House of the Dead, a clean, bare, two-walled hut where corpses were washed and laid out, and later that evening, pack stowed, belly full, heart sore, he stood out back in the brush pissing manfully.

  He heard no footstep, only felt the hard hand on his shoulder and heard the hostile voice. “Green Wood.”

  “Naung,” he said. “Let me piss.”

  He tucked in and turned. Naung’s dagger flicked out like a toktay’s tongue. Its sharp tip pricked Greenwood’s chin. “This is for you,” Naung said, “what harm soever comes to Pawlu.” Naung’s meaty, rummy breath stank.

  “If harm comes, it will come to me first. I have stood before between Pawlu and harm.”

  “I fear that the harm has already come.”

  “Put up the dagger.”

  “I should kill you now. I know this as the Sawbwa knows the rain.”

  “Would I bring harm to Lola? Or to Loi-mae?” When Naung’s gaze shifted at the mention of his woman, Greenwood made a move, half in earnest, nimbly whacking Naung’s wrist back, reaching swiftly under the arm to grasp the hand, haft and all, and wrench down and back, not far enough to do harm or cause great pain but far enough to say, I am not a beginner. He released Naung immediately. “You must do better than that.”

  Naung said, “When the time comes I will. Now listen: whatever the Sawbwa says, you will not leave the village unless for good; and if your general comes at all he will enter the village alone.”

  “If he comes, I will take him away within three days.”

  “Three days I give you,” Naung said, and backed away, and seemed to vanish.

  Greenwood slept badly. Too much rum. He woke several times, once from a dream of Loi-mae, and he considered simply retreating; but he knew that he would not. Perhaps he had not yet exhausted his luck.

  They owed him this much. He had once been First Rifle, and that was no small thing. He had once held Pawlu in the hollow of his hand. He had once been a Shan.

  Lying in the dark, he ransacked his heart, and he found greed, and selfishness, and impatience, and dread, and he wished he were half a world away.

  9

  Across the Salween

  General Yang’s tatterdemalion company rattled and backfired into Fang-shih at sunrise of a frosty winter morn just after the turn of the year 1950. The general drove point, he and Major Wei and the two footlockers wedged into the one operational jeep. Colonel Olevskoy and his lady brought up the rear. The army of fifty-six men rode in four ill-assorted trucks and one weapons carrier. The general and the colonel, mollified by adversity, had learned to be cordial.

  In a small square the vehicles drew into a column of twos and halted. Olevskoy vaulted his tailgate and marched briskly to his general. “Good morning, sir.”

  “Good morning, Colonel. You seem jaunty.”

  “I’m filthy and hungry. Is there a hotel? A barracks? Are there public baths?”

  “I hope so. I am none too savory myself. The sawbwa here is a modern soul.”

  “Ah. We shall call upon him.”

  Yang could not restrain a feeble grin. “He will not see us, you know. He’ll be out of town.”

  The sawbwa was indeed out of town. His prime minister, or grand vizier, received General Yang. While the sawbwa here was a cosmopolitan gentleman, noted gourmet and keen judge of women without regard to provenance or ancestry, his factotum was dapper, bald and faintly feminine, a classic mandarin in his gray gown and black hat with red button. This statesman affirmed that the sawbwa enjoyed electricity, foreign journals, indoor water closets and spectacles from Hong Kong, actually made to prescription. To meet General Yang would have afforded him unforgettable pleasure. It was nothing short of calamitous that he should be at this moment visiting his outlying parishioners and constituents.

  General Yang was jolly: “We’re lepers now.” The sawbwa’s house seemed to be humming, vibrating; this was somehow a comfort.

  The secretary, fifyish, barbered, showed palm. “Surely not lepers. Only an embarrassment.”

  Yang had bathed and shaved, though his uniform was scruffy. He sighed. He did not mind wars so much, or famine or even pestilence. But an accumulation of small evils, balks, frustrations, annoyances dissipated the energies. A man, even an army, could be annihilated by hordes of mocking, invulnerable evil spirits. “On est bien dans la merde,” he murmured.

  In sibilant French, like a Moroccan or Tunisian, the plumpish secretary said, “Ce n’est pas si grave que ca.”

  “Mon Dieu,” Yang said. “I suppose you speak English too.”

  “American. They came through here like some Hunnish migration. Though I cannot,” he added quickly, “deny China’s debt to them.”

  “Indeed not,” Yang said, losing his reserve, abruptly churlish. “About one percent of the Chinese army fought at all, and it had to compete with the other ninety-nine percent for supplies and trained men. I seem to recall that as long as the Burma Road was open, your sawbwa imported Havana cigars and French brandy. One shudders to imagine his privations when the Japanese cut the Road. If not for the Americans, China would still be absorbing the invader, and in a century or so the new Sino-Japanese race would spill into Siberia, Persia, Malaya, goose-stepping and shouting a bastard language.”

  “You have eaten much bitterness,” the secretary said in Chinese.

  “Yes, forgive me, forgive me.” Yang rubbed his eyes with both hands. “I must say there is little patriotism left in my own heart. I have just spent thirteen years taking orders from scoundrels and blackguards, watching my men die by the thousands, losing a wife and son, losing a mistress, losing a whole war, for the sake of feudalism and foreign bank accounts. Your sawbwa is no hero.”

  The secretary reproached him lightly: “But he is remaining.”

  “Ah yes.” Yang’s good cheer was restored. “While I, being a man of the world, shall transcend narrow nationalism and confer upon a crude materialistic world the benefits of Chinese charm and sensibility.”

  “With that sort of talk,” the secretary allowed, “you cannot fail.”

  “Kind of you to say so. My problem at the moment is transport. Shall I speak plainly?”

  “Speak plainly.”

  “I have four trucks, a weapons carrier and a jeep, all aged and weary but functioning. I am prepared to barter them for forty ponies, mules or donkeys. I lose by the deal; but I have my reasons.”

  The secretary sat back in his armchair, making a traditional steeple of his fingers. “Shall I speak plainly?”

  “Speak plainly.”

  “The Communists will be here shortly. They will simply commandeer those vehicles.”

  “How if the sawbwa prepared them as a gift? A peace o
ffering?”

  “Then he would lose the price of forty ponies, mules and donkeys.”

  Yang grunted. “I could take the city, you know, with my fifty men.”

  The secretary was shocked.

  “I could destroy the power plant,” Yang pursued, “fire Fang-shih, level your compound. War, after all, is war. Permit me to threaten you directly. If your sawbwa sees fit to treat us like pye-dogs, we are justified in razing his little principality.”

  “Not pye-dogs,” the secretary protested. “It is awkward only.”

  “I could kill a few,” Yang offered, “which, when your new masters arrive, will witness to your resistance and our inhuman ferocity. Perhaps the sawbwa’s secretary’s head on a tall stake, high above the fabled Burma Road.”

  “My dear general,” said the secretary, “what a distasteful notion. You argue persuasively if without subtlety. Is there petrol?”

  “What fuels your power plant?”

  “Coal.”

  That puzzled Yang: whence this hum, this vibration? “The sawbwa has his own electricity?”

  The secretary nodded.

  “A generator? Running on diesel oil?”

  The secretary nodded.

  “Then he bought, stole and commandeered all through the war. He must have thousands of gallons stored. Two of my trucks are diesels. I have also about a hundred gallons of gasoline left and will be glad to see the last of it. I was sure I’d be blown to bits by now.”

  The secretary mulled all this.

  “Well?”

  “Done.”

  “And the noble steeds?”

  “I shall introduce you to our Donkey Woman.”

  “A local beauty,” Yang said.

  “She has a large nose and is illiterate,” said the secretary, “and looks rather like a donkey—”

  “Long silky ears?” Yang murmured. “A bony rump?”

  “—but she knows more about domestic animals than any man in Fang-shih. She converses with them.”

  “I am already in love,” Yang said.

  Olevskoy had proceeded directly to the public baths, men’s side, bearing a bundle, dragging Hsiao-chi after him and overriding the feeble protests of the attendant, a wizened old man with hairy ears who shrilled his objections in a kind of pidgin Chinese—“No female! Male side! No inside!”—until Olevskoy said “Shut up” and pushed him away.