Return to Mandalay

by Rosanna Ley

  Slowly, Ramon shook his dark head. ‘I cannot. But neither can I trust him. So I let him think that I would.’

  ‘We need to find out what’s in the crate,’ Eva murmured.

  ‘Yes.’ He frowned. ‘And I do not have much time in which to do it.’

  Because the crate wouldn’t be left in the warehouse for much longer. Eva put her cup back on the tray. ‘But why did he do it?’ she asked. ‘Why did he go behind your back like that?’ She’d got the impression that Ramon was highly respected by his workers. It seemed a very odd way to repay him.

  Ramon’s mouth was set in a hard line. ‘It seems that he is being blackmailed,’ he said. ‘There has been …’ He hesitated. ‘An indiscretion. He mentioned his wife who he loves very much.’ His gaze strayed to a point beyond her and then returned to settle on her face. ‘This is the sort of nasty game these people play, Eva. Men like Khan Li prey on people’s weaknesses.’ Abruptly, he got to his feet. ‘And so we must, as you might say, play them at their own game.’

  Eva watched him as he walked over to the other side of the room and picked up a canvas bag that was lying there.

  ‘So what will you do?’ she asked.

  ‘I am still considering my next move.’

  She repressed a sigh. She knew he wouldn’t be rushed. ‘And what was it you wanted to show me?’

  With a flourish, Ramon produced a parcel from the bag. He unwrapped the green tissue paper. Held it up triumphantly.

  ‘Maya’s chinthe,’ murmured Eva.

  He brought it over, knelt and held it out to her.

  She took it. With her forefinger she stroked its carved mane. ‘Did she bring it back with her from Pyin Oo Lwin?’

  ‘That,’ Ramon said, ‘is good.’

  ‘What’s good?’ Eva looked deep into the ruby eyes which had now replaced the red glass. Maya must have had them put in straightaway. It was odd knowing that they were rare, ancient and extremely valuable Mogok rubies. And yet …

  ‘That you think this is my grandmother’s chinthe,’ he said. He was looking very pleased with himself.

  Eva stared at him. ‘But it’s not …?’

  ‘The other one? No, it is not.’

  ‘So there’s a third?’ Eva was confused. It certainly looked just the same. Although perhaps … She examined the eyes more closely. They were different from the rubies she had seen at close hand, she realised. Not so deep, not so intense.

  ‘It is a replica.’ Ramon took it back from her. He scrutinised it critically, holding it this way and that. ‘I made it.’

  ‘You made it?’ Eva couldn’t conceal her surprise.

  ‘Yes.’ He was trying to look modest now, but failing miserably.

  And he had good reason. The wood was beautifully polished and exquisitely carved in the old primitive style. It was the work of a skilled master craftsman. Eva frowned.

  ‘So the rubies are not real rubies?’ She peered at them again. They were very convincing.

  ‘Clever fakes.’ He held the chinthe up to the light. ‘They would stand up to the rough scrutiny of most people, apart of course from the scrutiny of an expert.’

  ‘And you have aged it well,’ she added dryly.

  He shrugged. ‘Everyone who makes furniture knows how to make wood look old,’ he said. ‘It is as simple a process as staining or polishing.’

  Eva conceded the point. ‘It’s very good,’ she told him. She was beginning to see what his plan might be. And presumably, he’d been secretly working on the carving of this little chap in the room in the factory which he hadn’t shown her on his grand tour.

  ‘I did a lot of it from memory after our chinthe was stolen,’ Ramon admitted. ‘And then you came along, Eva.’

  She smiled. ‘And provided you with the real thing.’

  ‘Just for the finishing touches,’ he admitted. ‘Your timing was impeccable.’

  ‘And you plan to swap them?’

  He nodded.

  She considered this. ‘But how could you hope to do that? You’re the last person they’d trust to get within spitting distance of the chinthe, given the history.’

  He sat down again beside her. ‘I have no hope of carrying out the substitution myself,’ he said. ‘But I hope that one day I will find someone …’ He tailed off.

  They stared at one another. His green eyes were warm. His lips curved into a slow smile. And it came to Eva, slowly but surely. She had no argument with this man. She could trust him. Because they were on the same side.

  ‘I always knew that we could not simply steal the chinthe back,’ he said. He stretched out his long legs. ‘They would know who was responsible, there might be dangerous repercussions for my family and the matter would not be resolved.’

  ‘That’s true, I suppose,’ Eva agreed. ‘But it took you an awfully long time to come up with another plan.’

  ‘Not really. My grandmother did not tell me the story of Suu Kyi, Nanda Li and the chinthes. Not until after my mother died. She said she was trying to protect me.’

  Eva was surprised. ‘So you didn’t even know who had stolen it?’

  ‘I did not. I think she imagined me too headstrong. She was afraid of me getting hurt. She thought I would charge straight round there and accuse them.’

  Eva chuckled. And he probably would have. ‘So she didn’t tell you until she thought you’d grown a bit more sensible, is that it?’

  He bowed his head, but when he looked up his green eyes held a smile.

  ‘And that’s when you started hatching your plan to carry out a swap?’ It made sense, up to a point.

  ‘Exactly.’ He held the little chinthe at arm’s length away from them. ‘First, I had to find someone very accomplished at producing copies of Mogok rubies.’

  ‘Which you seem to have managed.’

  He laughed. ‘Through a contact of Khan Li’s,’ he told her.

  ‘But isn’t that taking a huge risk? Mightn’t he have told Khan Li?’

  ‘No chance of that. They had a big falling out a while ago.’ He gave her a knowing look. ‘Most people fall foul of the Lis sooner or later.’

  Eva didn’t doubt it. ‘And besides that, won’t Khan Li be experienced enough to recognise them as fakes?’ she asked. ‘He must have seen a few rubies in his time.’

  ‘You may be right.’ Ramon frowned. ‘It depends where they keep it, of course, and on the light. How often he picks it up to admire his little treasure.’

  Eva was silent as she imagined this. She could almost see the gloating expression on Khan Li’s face and she guessed that Ramon could almost see it too.

  ‘And by the time he does realise,’ Ramon said, ‘or has it pointed out to him. By then it will, I hope, be too late.’

  Because, she assumed, the chinthes would be far away. Or the Lis would have no idea whom among their acquaintances had done the swap. Though naturally, they would guess. It could work, she supposed. She tapped him on the arm. ‘But how will you carry out the substitution?’

  ‘That I do not know – yet.’ He seemed deep in thought, his brow furrowed. ‘But I know Khan Li. He would want to show it off. He does not keep it hidden away. I have already discovered that the original ruby eyes have been replaced in position. And if it is not hidden away …’ He let this hang in the air between them.

  Then it is up for grabs, thought Eva.

  Ramon glanced at his watch. He jumped to his feet. ‘But now,’ he said. ‘It is time for lunch.’ He held out his hand and Eva took it. He pulled her to her feet and for a moment he kept her hand clasped in his, looked at her, in that considering way he had. Was he thinking about what he should do next? For Eva it was simple. She must phone her grandfather. And then she must, somehow, find out what was in those crates.

  CHAPTER 46

  Lawrence came to with a start, her cool hand on his brow. Maya? Helen? But of course he had lost them both. He struggled to wake. It was hard to prise himself away from the hospital; it clung like the sharp smell of iodine to his
senses. He was there on R and R after a bout of malaria in the jungle, had been picked up by one of their light aircraft – a Dakota – carrying out a drop, brought back to India by a cheerful American pilot working double shifts and still with a grin on his face, bless his socks.

  ‘How are you feeling, Dad?’

  Rosemary. ‘Just tired,’ Lawrence croaked. ‘Bad night.’

  Too much to think of on those deep dark nights, sleeping under the mosquito net, listening to the sounds of the nurses changing shifts, discussing their reports and who needed what treatment the following day. A far off whistle from a train. The snoring of men in the ward, their sleep heavy from drugs, their occasional moans of pain, their nightmares. They all had those. And the sweats. A fever that seemed to carry him off to god knows where. The delirium.

  He heard the sweeper climb the stairs and walk past, drunk as usual, humming to himself, smelling of alcohol and bidis, those cheap Indian cigarettes. It seemed a lifetime since Lawrence had been in India, at the jungle training camp in Rawalpindi, nipping down to Cooper’s for coffee and a cake.

  ‘There now, it’ll pass,’ said the nurse with the kind smile.

  And she was right. Lawrence had been one of the lucky ones.

  He wrote to Helen while he was in hospital. He still had the birthday card she’d sent him, tucked in his pack. He reached for it now. It had a picture of a gate and a lantern on it. Your gateway to happiness, it said. It had seemed bloody ironic to Lawrence, even then. But she had tried her best. Happy birthday, my darling, she’d written in her neat sloping hand. She’d remembered. And the least he could do was write to her occasionally, she deserved that much.

  ‘I hope this finds you well, Helen,’ he wrote. And as he reread the words he sent a silent thought to Maya. My love, my love. ‘I’m recovering in hospital from malaria, and am better now. They say war is glorious …’ He stopped. That, it could never be. What was glorious about men falling by the wayside with disease and fever? They called that queasy dip in your stomach the thrill of battle. Some thrill. ‘But it isn’t,’ he wrote. Stark but true. ‘How was your Christmas? I hope you got something good to eat.’ The politeness of his own words to a woman he had grown up with, who was practically a sister, to whom he had once, so wrongly, made love, shocked him.

  Christmas … In the jungle, Christmas Eve had been a rare rest day. They’d spent it hunting and one of the chaps had nabbed a forty-inch-long Burmese black squirrel. It was bloody good, and they’d disturbed a flock of pea fowl that almost tasted like turkey if you closed your eyes and crossed your fingers.

  Lawrence hardly knew what else to say to her. He could tell of the men and the marching, the true conditions of war, but she would only worry. He could tell her of the politics. But he had never discussed politics with Helen and it seemed bloody pointless now. Leave the politics to them in charge, he thought grimly. They’ll do us.

  He was unable, however, to forget about what she called his promise. You’re mine now … Would she hold him to it? Was it even a promise at all? This was war and all the normal rules of behaviour went out of the window. Or did they? Wasn’t a commitment still a commitment, even if it were unspoken? His pen hovered over the paper. ‘Give my love to Mother when you see her,’ he wrote instead. His father was dead. Christ, so many were dead. He had received the news in a letter from home that had taken months to reach him. In truth, he felt that he had hardly known his father and perhaps this was why he found it hard to grieve; his mother had dominated his childhood and his life since, until Burma. ‘I think of you both often.’

  They wouldn’t mind that it was short, if they ever got it. He could hardly imagine that they would get it. It seemed a miracle that a letter could travel so far in wartime when all around was in chaos and turmoil.

  The nurse took his temperature. ‘You’ll be out of here soon,’ she said cheerfully, shaking the thermometer.

  ‘Can’t wait,’ he laughed. ‘Back to the jungle, eh?’ What a prospect.

  He stretched out in the narrow bed. How often did they have to change the sheets here because of the malaria and the dengue fever? But … Ah. The feel of the sheets around him. The softness of the bed after the hard ground of the jungle terrain … Even in the midst of his delirium, it had felt like heaven. And soap. The sensation of clean skin, he’d almost forgotten how it felt. It might have been exciting to rough it in the early days; they were marching to war, to victory, it seemed. That camaraderie around a section brew up. There had been moments and friendships he’d cherished.

  But now the marching seemed interminable and victory still a long way off. Forty-five minutes every hour tramping through the jungle, driving the mule, hoping he was surefooted enough to help show you the way, fifteen minutes rest. Not that the mules got any rest, it wasn’t worth unpacking them for such a short time, poor buggers.

  Some of the lads got fed up and tried to slip bits and pieces of their own load on to the mules. But Lawrence wasn’t having that. ‘Shape up,’ he’d said. ‘There’s a limit to what they’ll carry.’ And he wasn’t going beyond it. Those animals worked hard for the men and they’d be treated right.

  Two days before he’d gone down with the fever, he’d lost him, Gallop, his faithful and strongest mule who’d been with him all the way, the best leader they possessed.

  Lawrence had named him. ‘Hope he bloody doesn’t,’ one of the men had said, getting a laugh.

  He hadn’t galloped but he always knew where he was going. The mule needed to be shod, Lawrence knew this and he had some spare shoes ready in Gallop’s pack. But they also needed to cross the river and soon. He didn’t show he was worried: it didn’t do to show you were worried, or they’d all be in a funk. Lack of confidence saps confidence: if you don’t feel brave, just look brave, that was as good. Once they got to the other side they’d be safe – relatively – and there was a paddy dried out to grass where the animals could graze for an hour or two before being rubbed down and picketed for the night. He could see what looked like a mass of yellow flowers in the marshes too. But as they got closer, he saw that his eyes had been playing tricks again. And he saw them disappear, because they weren’t flowers but frogs, noisy as hell, each one the size of a man’s fist. If they could catch some they’d be good for tonight’s meal, he reckoned.

  Last time they’d crossed a river, Lawrence had swum across first, blown a whistle, which he’d blown at feeding time in training, and then the mules had crossed one by one in a wavering line, Gallop leading the way, each driver holding on to a mule’s tail. But this was the Irrawaddy, swift, muddy and cold. This time the river was deeper and wider, and Lawrence knew it well. He thought of all the times he’d used its power to transport the timber from upcountry down to Rangoon and he thought of the time he’d been stuck away from camp when the monsoon and the freak floods had hit. They’d never make it across here and they couldn’t risk blowing whistles either, the enemy was too close.

  They had a brief confab and decided. They’d use an eightmule ferry, built in situ. Swiftly, they got to work. Lawrence’s raft building experience from the logging came in useful, but this was something they’d also practised in training.

  Soon, it was ready, and they began to cross, the ferry going back and forth. But Gallop was slow because of his leg, so he was one of the last and the sniper appeared from nowhere. The bullet came with a crack and with a yelp, he was down. Christ.

  Jap. They were bloody effective in the jungle. How many times had they left gaps for the British troops to go through before closing the box? It was their military calling card, you might say, bloody devious too. But rumour had it they were using up their ammo and food. Meantime, British and American pilots were flying double hours to provide supplies for their men. They’d caught Jap off balance, it was said. Used observation patrols to go out and discover his concentration points, to break up attacks before they were launched. They were getting him out into the open and they were winning. But when would it end?

 
Now, Lawrence felt the tears wet on his face. He’d cried then too, cried for that mule who’d worked so hard on the march, plodding on, never kicking, never complaining. That animal could see a trail where a man could see bugger all. He was intelligent too. Mules could be stubborn but they were bloody strong. Gallop had never liked elephants but apart from that nothing would faze him, he wasn’t one of the skittish ones.

  Yes, Lawrence had cried for Gallop. So bloody what? He’d done it in private though, emotion had no part in war. Men died, animals died and more would follow, that was the nature of war and there was nothing more to be said. You got yourself up, you ate, you marched, you went to sleep: you carried on. Some called it the British stiff upper lip, not so popular these days, of course. But without it … Lawrence didn’t think they’d have got through.

  Two days later, he got the fever. But the march would be going on without him and he knew he’d be back. Someone would take him.

  *

  ‘Don’t cry, Dad,’ she said. ‘Please don’t cry.’

  He squeezed her hand. ‘I’m sorry, love,’ he said. He couldn’t seem to stop himself returning to the place. Did she realise?

  ‘Eva will tell you all about it when she comes back,’ she soothed. ‘I’ve made you some nice soup for lunch. If you eat it up, you’ll be strong enough to listen.’

  Strong enough to listen.

  It was almost as if she knew.

  *

  ‘Will you tell me about it?’ Rosemary asked him. She had brought him lunch on a tray and was sitting with him while he ate. Lawrence wasn’t hungry, but he was having a few mouthfuls, just to keep her happy.

  ‘About what, love?’

  ‘Mandalay.’ She leant to pull his dressing gown closer round his shoulders. ‘It sounds so romantic, doesn’t it? Bet it wasn’t like that during the war though?’

  She was trying. He knew how hard she was trying. And it had certainly been a shock to Lawrence when his men finally reached Mandalay that day in April. ‘It was in ruins when we got back there,’ he said. Though for a moment he’d imagined the city was as it had always been. ‘It was criminal really. We knew it would never recover its former glory.’ It had broken his heart.