Today was different. U Saw was standing in the corridor, welcoming a visitor. They bowed repeatedly and spoke in a language Tin Win did not know. When his uncle saw him coming, he waved him through into his office. Tin Win sat waiting on the edge of a leather armchair. The room was dark. Against the walls books were piled up to the ceiling. On the leather-upholstered desk a fan was blowing hot air. U Saw came in a few minutes later. He sat down behind the desk and looked at Tin Win.
“You attended the monastery school in Kalaw, did you not?”
“I did.”
“You know how to count?”
“Yes.”
“And to read?”
“Yes. Braille. I used to …”
“And to write?”
“Before I went blind I could write.”
“It will come back quickly. I would like you to go to school in Rangoon.”
Tin Win had been hoping for the train ticket to Kalaw. Perhaps not tomorrow, but in the coming days. The prospect had given him the strength to weather those days and to explore the city. Now he was supposed to go to school. In Rangoon. Stay. U Saw did not make suggestions. He simply announced what was to be done. Tin Win’s respect for an older family member prevented him from doing anything but showing humility and gratitude. Only one person in this house asked questions.
“I am not worthy of your generosity, Uncle.”
“It’s nothing, really. I know the director of St. Paul’s High School. You will visit him first thing tomorrow morning. The driver will take you. Actually, you are too old, but he has agreed to test you. I am certain he can help us.”
U Saw rose. “Now I must attend to my guest. Tomorrow evening you will report to me about St. Paul’s.”
U Saw went into the parlor, where the Japanese consul sat waiting for him. He wondered briefly whether Tin Win’s gratitude was genuine. Did it matter? The astrologer had left him no choice, anyway. A generous donation to the hospital in Rangoon would not help. It had to be a relative, and it must be a long-term commitment. He had to take the boy under his wing. Besides, had not the astrologer’s warnings and U Saw’s generosity already borne fruit? Had he not, only two days after the operation, signed his name to the long-coveted contract for the sale of rice to the government? Would not all British garrisons in the capital soon be eating his rice? Even the negotiations for the purchase of the cotton fields on the banks of the Irrawaddy had shown surprising promise since Tin Win’s arrival.
Perhaps, U Saw thought, I have brought a lucky charm into the house. He ought to remain in Rangoon at least for the next two years. U Saw might even find a use for him in his expanding business. Why should Tin Win not make a valuable assistant? It was no imposition to keep him in the household. What’s more, he always told such novel and entertaining tales at table.
Chapter 5
Did you hear the birds this morning, Mi Mi? Were they louder or quieter? Did they sing any differently? Did they deliver my message? Last evening I walked through the garden telling them in whispers, and they promised to pass the word along from bush to bush and tree to tree all night long, across the delta and up the Sittang, up into the mountains all the way to Kalaw. They said they would perch in the trees in front of your house and tell you.
And you, Mi Mi? I wish nothing so passionately as that you are well. I often picture you going about your daily business. I see you sitting at the market, passing through Kalaw on one of your brothers’ backs, or preparing food at home in the kitchen. I hear you laughing, and I hear the beat of your heart, the loveliest sound I have ever heard. I see you suffering but not discouraged. I see you sad, but not without joy and happiness. I hope I am not deluding myself. Something inside me tells me you feel the same way I do.
Do not be angry, but I must stop for now. Hla Taw is waiting. He takes my letters to the post office every morning, and I would not wish for one day to pass without your hearing from me. Please give my best to Su Kyi, your parents, and your brothers. I think of them often.
I embrace you and kiss you,
The one who loves you above all else,
Tin Win
Beloved Mi Mi,
When I look at night into the sky over Rangoon I see thousands of stars, and I am comforted by the thought that there is something we can share every evening. We see the same stars. I imagine that each of our kisses has turned into a star. Now from on high they are watching over us. They illuminate my path through the darkness. And you are the brightest of all planets, my sun …
U Saw read no further. He shook his head, set the letter aside, and pulled a handful of new envelopes out of the stack in front of him.
Beloved Mi Mi,
Why does time stand still when you are not with me? The days are endless. Even the nights have conspired against me. I cannot sleep. I lie awake and count the hours. I feel as if I am gradually unlearning the art of hearing. Now that I see again with my eyes, my ears are losing their edge.
Hearing for seeing? An appalling thought. It would be a miserable exchange. I trust my ears more than my eyes. Even now my eyes are foreign to me. Perhaps I am disappointed with them. I have never seen the world as clearly and vividly, as beautifully and intensively through them as through yours. To my eyes, the half moon is but a half moon, not a melon of which you have eaten half. To my eyes a stone is but a stone and not an enchanted fish, and in the sky there are no water buffalo, no hearts, no flowers. Only clouds.
But I do not wish to complain. U Saw is good to me. I concentrate on school and believe that I can be with you again at the end of the school year.
Do not forget to give my love to Su Kyi, the good woman. I kiss and hug you.
Yours forever,
Tin Win
Beloved Mi Mi,
It is seven months now since U Saw sent me to that school. Yesterday, for the third time, they promoted me to a higher class. They say now that I have landed where I ought to be for my age. No one understands how a blind boy at a monastery school in Kalaw could have learned so much. They did not know U May …
Beloved Mi Mi,
Forgive me if my letters in recent weeks have sounded so melancholy. I would not wish to burden you with my longing. Please do not worry about me. Sometimes it is simply difficult not to know how much longer I must be strong before I finally see you again. But it is not longing or fear that I feel when I think of you. It is a boundless gratitude. You opened the world for me, and you have become a part of me. I see the world through your eyes. You helped me to overcome my fear. With your help I learned to face it. My phantoms no longer overpower me. They diminished every time you touched me, every hour I was privileged to feel your body against my back, your breasts against my skin, your breath against my neck. Diminished. Tamed. I dare to look them in the eye. You have freed me. I am yours.
In love and gratitude,
Tin Win
U Saw refolded the letters. He had read enough. Where does love end and madness begin, he asked himself while tucking the papers back into their envelopes.
Why did Tin Win continue to write of the gratitude and admiration he felt for this woman? Even after long reflection U Saw could not think of a single person he particularly admired. To be sure, he respected a few of the rice barons. Especially those more successful than he. He had respect, too, for a number of the English, though recently it had been on the wane. And gratitude? He knew no one to whom he owed gratitude. He had been grateful to his wife whenever she held her tongue long enough for him to eat his dinner in peace.
He looked at the stack of letters sitting on the desk in front of him. His nephew had written a letter to this Mi Mi in Kalaw every day for the past year. A whole year. Every day. Without fail. And all in spite of the fact that he had never yet received a single response. Of course, he also sorted out the letters that came from Mi Mi every day with the afternoon post. They hear and read nothing of each other, and still they never fail to write. U Saw had to laugh out loud at so much lunacy. He tried to contain himself, but snort
ed, choked, coughed, and gasped for breath. When he had calmed himself, he put the envelopes back in the top drawer and opened the bottom one, where he had been keeping Mi Mi’s letters, unread until now. He selected a few at random.
… I hope you have found someone to read my letters out to you. Yesterday my mother came and sat by me on the porch. She took my hands, looked at me, and asked if I was feeling well. She looked as if she were coming to tell me of her own impending death. Thank you, Mama, I’m doing fine, I answered. How are you managing without Tin Win, she wanted to know. He’s already been away more than a month. I tried to explain that I am not without you, that you are with me from the moment I wake until the moment I fall asleep, that it’s you I feel when the wind caresses me, that it’s your voice I hear in the silence, you whom I see when I close my eyes, you who makes me laugh and sing when I know no one else is around. I have seen the pity in her eyes and said nothing. It was one of those misunderstandings where words are of little use.
It’s sweet the way my entire family watches out for me. My brothers ask me all the time if I want to go anywhere, and they carry me all over Kalaw. I think of you and hum to myself on their backs. They find my joy puzzling, sometimes even disturbing. How can I explain to them that what you mean to me, what you give me, does not depend on where you are in the world? That one need not feel the other’s hand in order to be in touch?
Yesterday we paid a visit to Su Kyi. She is doing well. She would be glad if you would send some word. I’ve told her we’ll hear from you, we’ll see you again, when the time comes. But you know her. She’s worried …
My big and strong, my little beloved Tin Win,
A few weeks ago I started rolling cheroots. My mother thought I ought to learn some craft so that I can one day earn money to look after myself. I get the feeling she doesn’t expect you to return. She never says as much, though. Neither she nor my father is doing particularly well. Both have pain in their legs and backs, and my father is getting shorter and shorter of breath. He hardly works in the field anymore. His hearing is also deteriorating. It’s touching to see how they’re growing old. Both of them are well over fifty, an age that few people in Kalaw ever attain. My parents are very fortunate. They are even growing old together. What a gift! If I have a single wish then it is this: that you and I will enjoy that same good fortune. I want to grow old with you. I dream of it while rolling cheroots. Of you and our life.
The work is much easier than I expected. Several times a week a man comes from town with a stack of dried thanat leaves, old newspapers and corn husks (I use these as filters), and a bag with the tobacco blend. Every afternoon I sit for a couple of hours on the porch, lay a handful of tobacco in a leaf, press it a bit, roll it back and forth between my palms until it is firm but not too hard, stick the filter in, fold the leaf, and cut off the end. The man says he has never seen a woman who can roll cheroots so quickly and effortlessly. His customers are quite enthusiastic and claim that my cheroots have a particular flavor that distinguishes them from other women’s cigars. Should they continue to sell so well, we need not have any worries about our future.
It has just started to rain. Cloudbursts always give me goose bumps now …
My sweet little Tiger,
I found this butterfly dead on our porch a few weeks ago. I have pressed it. It’s one of those whose wing beats you loved best. You once said it reminded you of my heartbeat. None sounded sweeter …
U Saw dropped the letter. He stood up and went to the window. It was raining. On the puddles the drops formed fat bubbles that quickly popped.
Tin Win and Mi Mi were out of their minds. Not one bitter word, not even after a year of silence. No hint of an accusation. Why aren’t you writing to me? Where are your responses? I’m writing every day, what about you? Don’t you love me anymore? Is there someone else?
He was happy that love was not a contagious disease. Otherwise he would have had to fire all his servants and thoroughly sanitize the villa and the garden. He might even have already contracted it himself, might have fallen for one of his female servants—a notion that he refused to entertain further.
U Saw considered whether the letters changed his plans in any way. He was convinced the infatuation would pass. There was no emotion strong enough to withstand the corrosive power of time. Given distance and the passage of years, this love, too, would eventually fall to pieces.
In all other ways Tin Win proved to be extraordinarily competent and useful. He seemed to have deflected the catastrophe foretold by the astrologer. Business was running more smoothly than ever, and that even while the general business climate was deteriorating. On top of everything else, the teachers at St. Paul’s High School—far and away the most prestigious school in Burma, incidentally—regarded Tin Win as extraordinarily talented. Everyone was predicting an illustrious future for him. After his graduation in one year he would be accepted at any university in England and would certainly be offered a scholarship, the director thought. The country would need native talent down the road.
U Saw had been flattered, but the war in Europe had him worried. It was going to escalate. The Japanese were advancing in Asia, and it could be only a matter of months, perhaps weeks, before they would be attacking the British colonial government. How long would the English then be able to resist the Germans in Europe? For him it was only a question of time before the German flag was fluttering atop Big Ben. The era of London as the capital of the world was coming to its inevitable close.
U Saw had other plans.
Chapter 6
TIN WIN HAD imagined the departure of a passenger steamer as something quite festive. The crew on board in white uniforms. Music. Pennants and banners in the wind. A few words from the captain perhaps. Instead, the sailors walked past him in oil-smeared uniforms. There was no band. No streamers, no confetti. He leaned on the railing, looking down at the quay. In the shadow of a warehouse stood a horse cart and several rickshaws whose drivers lay sleeping in their vehicles. The gangplank had long since been drawn up. In front of the ship a few uniformed men from the port authority were still waiting around. Some passengers’ relatives were gazing at the black hull of the ship and waving, craning their necks like baby birds. Tin Win did not see anyone he knew. At U Saw’s behest, Hla Taw had remained at home. A driver brought Tin Win to the harbor. Two porters took his trunk and lugged it on board for him. They were long gone now.
He and U Saw had dined together the night before, after which U Saw had given him the travel documents. The passport with the visa for the United States of America. One ticket for the journey to Liverpool, a second for the Atlantic crossing. A letter to his business partner, an Indian rice importer in New York who was supposed to look after Tin Win for the first few months. An envelope with money. Once more he had explained what he was expecting of him. At least six letters a year with detailed reports. A college degree. With honors. He had spelled out once again the future that awaited him on his return. He would make him into a manager, then into a partner. He would be among the most influential men in the city. He would want for nothing.
U Saw wished him every success. On his journey, with his studies. Then he turned and walked into his study. There was no physical contact between them. They never saw each other again.
Watching him go, Tin Win wondered how long it took a young tree to establish roots after being transplanted. A few months? A year? Two? Three? He had lived in Rangoon for two years now and had felt out of place the entire time. He had remained a stranger in the city. A tree that might be lifted and carried off by a gust of wind.
At school the teachers respected him for his accomplishments. His fellow students appreciated his readiness to help. Friends he had none. There was no one keeping Tin Win in Rangoon.
He looked out over the harbor and the city. The golden spire of the Shwedagon Pagoda glinted far off in the late-afternoon sun. The sky was blue, without a cloud. In the weeks preceding his departure, Tin Win had spent many evenings wa
ndering through the city. Along the way he had picked up on the rumors that were sweeping the city like a swarm of locusts in a paddy field. Every lowered voice at every soup stand offered a new one. As if people were living off nothing else. In the Bay of Bengal, the typhoon of the century was brewing, ran one theory. A tiger had swum across the harbor basin and helped himself to a family of five, along with the pet pig. Which, on top of everything else—as if it were not tragic enough in and of itself—was a clear sign of an impending earthquake, as anyone with even a modest confidence in fortune-tellers knew. German warships were blockading English ports, it was said, and, worse yet, the Japanese were preparing to attack Burma. The stars were not favorable for the British, neither in Europe nor in Asia. Burma was as good as lost if the invasion were to fall on a Wednesday or a Sunday.
Tin Win noticed these rumors and in a humble way even contributed to their dissemination. Not because he lent them any credence, but rather out of a sense of civic duty. The prattle meant nothing to him. True, his journey would take him through the Bay of Bengal and into English ports, but he was not afraid. Not of earthquakes, and not of the Japanese. Not of typhoons. Not of German U-boats.
The Art of Hearing Heartbeats Page 19
