by David Dagley
“I was planning to go to Lashio and then meet a friend back here in Mandalay,” answered Cale.
“An American friend?”
“Yes.”
“A woman?”
“Yes.”
“Good plan. You should see our country for yourself. See what has happened to our people. Recognize that almost everyone you see has lost someone in their family, one way or another, but usually through the butchers of Burma, the Tatmandaw. There are wailing spirits searching for answers in every heart and mind in our country.”
Cale realized it was time to go when the jeweler stood and said, “While you are here, be careful who you talk to and what you say. It’s very important.”
Cale shook hands with the four brothers and the Dutch couple. He thanked the wife and children before being led by hand through the dark shop by the silent brother. They stopped at the window, and the silent brother looked out for a minute, spying the road.
“Did that man on the trishaw bring you here?”
Cale looked with surprise at the brother then down the street at the trishaw driver. “Yes.”
“Then, since he’s still here, you should go back with him. He’s secret police. They’re everywhere. Have him take you to your hotel. Leave tomorrow at seven o’clock in a blue taxi truck from the same place you arrived by tour bus. They will expect you to take the train, so don’t. Get up on the Shan plateau, and go to Mam myo. It’s an old British colonial hill station. It is a very peaceful place. They call it Pin Oo Lwin now. From there you can go by train to Lashio if you wish. Enjoy a few days of holiday, and do not pursue the stones. We will take care of the stones. One more thing, how many stones are like this one in my pocket?”
“A bag of them the size of a small papaya.” Cale touched his fingertips together and formed an empty sphere with his palms.
The man smiled and remarked, “Here in Burma, that is a very small papaya.”
Cale smiled and nodded. “Besides knowledge of the stones themselves, I am interested in any names of foreigners who might have bought such a bag of stones recently. I would like to offer a donation to the four of you for your labors on my return.”
The brother smiled, dipped his head, and said, “Have a good journey.”
“Chee jew tim ba day.” Cale walked out into the quiet street. A dog barked in the distance. In the heat of the night, male cicadas screamed a deafening noise with their wings and legs, and crickets and frogs sang at the edge of the moat. There were very few lights in the windows overlooking the road, but the stars were bright and seemed very close.
Across the road the trishaw driver rang his bicycle bell to get Cale’s attention, “Hello. Where you go? You want trishaw?”
“Yeah, to my hotel near where you picked me up.”
“Did the jeweler help you with your questions?”
“No, not really, I have to try somewhere else.”
“Okay, I will take you there. Where would you like to go?”
Cale recognized the language gap and explained, “Uh, not now. My hotel is fine for now.”
“I see. I told you I grew up here. I could possibly help you with your questions.” The driver stood and slowly worked the pedals under Cale’s weight.
“Maybe tomorrow.”
“What time tomorrow? I can give you a tour of the city while we talk.”
“I’m sorry. I think you misunderstand me. I don’t know what I’m doing tomorrow, so I don’t wish to make any plans.” Cale realized the less he said, the better.
“I see.” The driver pedaled silently down the main road towards Cale’s hotel.
There were few cars on the road. Small groups of people sat in the dark, smoking cheroots and enjoying the evening. All eyes seemed to watch as the trishaw passed in slow motion. Cale was preoccupied, attempting to visualize the traumatic events of the brothers’ saga. Again his mind focused on some of the deeply rooted scars on their faces.
The driver broke the tranquility of the evening, “How long will you be in Mandalay?”
“I don’t know. I just arrived by bus today, and I’m very tired from the bus ride. I’ll look at a map tomorrow and think about it.”
“There is a lot to see in Mandalay. Historically, Mandalay has been an important city for cultural trading, for war, and for many other forms of commerce. The river is the easiest way to travel. There are boats that will take you down the river towards Pagan. Of course you need to drive some at the other end. I can help you get a ticket on one of the boats after you have seen all the sites here.” The driver pulled to the curb and said, “That will be seventy kyat, please.”
Cale got out of the trishaw, handed the driver fifty kyat, and explained, “This is what we agreed on this afternoon.” Cale turned and walked towards the hotel stairs.
The persistent Trishaw driver tried one last time, “I’ll be waiting for you across the market square tomorrow morning if you need a trishaw.”
Cale raised his hand over his head to say good night as he passed through the hotel entrance.
The morning heat had already begun when Cale woke. He looked out his balcony to the square below. Two blue trucks sat side by side heading in opposite directions. All was quiet. Early risers sleepily converged on the tea shops for morning roti or began unpacking their wares for the morning market. Cale left his key in the door and exited down a concrete, side stairwell near his room rather than through the front lobby where he would surely be seen and reported. Both trucks were now running and almost full when Cale got in the back. There were two hardwood benches over the wheel wells and a rebar-framed shell overhead with a blue canvass cover. The side canvasses could be tied up for a breeze on pavement or down for bad weather or dust. Most of the travelers’ luggage went on top. The back bumper supported another plank. Some young men hopped on the bumper and stood holding on to the rebar frame as the truck taxi pulled out of town.
Cale put his small bag between his feet and knees. There was no way to see out of the curtain of bodies until a couple of people got off at the outskirts of the city. Each time the truck came to a designated stop, venders would approach with wraps of roasted peanuts, sunflower seeds, or small ripe oranges. The road followed a valley depression up to switchbacks ascending onto the Shan plateau. Cale noticed that some of the hardwood forests had been clear-cut and replanted with eucalyptus tree saplings. Near the top of the climb, a small roadside community specialized in car and truck brakes and maintenance. The truck stopped, and everyone got out for a more substantial meal or a cup of sweet tea, a cheroot, and a stretch. Cale was sore from sitting on the hardwood bench for so long, and his back had bruises from the combination of potholes and rebar. As he walked off his cramps, he watched some teenage boys turn a mountainside waterfall into a public shower with their loungyis on. The younger children played in a shallow pool at the base of the waterfall, and the parents ate, laughed, and relaxed together on blankets in the shade of a nearby grove of trees.
The passengers re-boarded in the heat of the day. The road had been newly paved, and the driver tied up the canvass flaps. It was hot, and the breeze was welcome. The travelers eyed Cale at a glance, never making direct eye contact. He was bigger than the rest of the passengers. Many smiled politely but dared not speak. A few hours went by in silence before Cale caught sight of a black horse-drawn carriage from another era heading in the opposite direction. A Burmese woman sitting knee to knee across from Cale waved her hand in his face and announced, “Pin Oo Lwin.”
“Mam Myo?” Cale affirmed.
The woman smiled brightly as if to say, “Good for you. You don’t use the military titles.” She nodded deliberately and pointed down a road bordered by mature eucalyptus trees, all shedding sheets of bark and branches of seed pods into the street, saying, “Guest house down that road, maybe one mile. Very quiet.”
“Che jew tim ba day,” Cale said, bowing his head slightly.
Everyone in the back of the truck smiled and physically loosened up.
Old white
colonial buildings lined a small portion of a main street where the truck slowed down to let some of the young boys jump off the bumper. Dark water stains had formed down the faces of the buildings, giving the town the aged presence it deserved. The truck taxi pulled to the side of the road where Cale and half the people paid their fares before drifting off in various directions.
There were many Indian faces in the tea shops and only a handful of Westerners. Shop owners came out to welcome Cale into their shops of antiques and artifacts as he walked by their doors and windows. The town had only two main streets, and the rest of Mam myo was built on dirt side streets. Many of the old colonial homes were in disrepair and built away from the dusty roads, well within rock walls and buried in thick vines of honeysuckle. Cale felt weary from his travels so far and planned to call it an early night. He walked two miles before he found the guest house the woman on the truck taxi had mentioned. The main building sat out on a cleared point with a waist-high hedge wrapping the perimeter of a fruitful vegetable garden and a lush green lawn with tables and chairs, all overlooking a stream, which drained into a large pond at the base of a vast field of golden grass. Cale put his things in a large room with a private bath and fell asleep.
—
18
—
Mr. Won walked into the police department up to a large, high counter and spoke to an officer behind the desk, “Excuse me. My name is Mr. Won. My father called in from South Korea. I am here to identify my brother’s body. We believe he might have been the man murdered in the Cho Estate Museum.”
The officer picked up the phone and called Detective Hanna to the front desk, “Hey Martin, there’s a gentleman here, a Mr. Won, who claims to be the brother of the museum victim. Do you want to come down?”
Martin came to the front desk quickly and introduced himself, “Mr. Won, hi. I’m Detective Hanna. Would you follow me, please?”
Mr. Won followed Martin back to his desk, “Have a seat, Mr. Won. I have a few questions before we go and identify your brother. First of all, what makes you think it’s your brother?”
“I live in Seoul, South Korea. So does the rest of my family; my four brothers, two living sisters, and my parents. One of our housekeepers brought it to my attention that my brother was not yet home from the United States, San Francisco to be precise. My brother was already a day overdue without as much as a phone call. We are a very close family, and it would be disrespectful for him not to call his own family and let us know he was going to be late. Then I read in an international newspaper about the murder in San Francisco of an Asian man at the Cho Estate Museum. He was stabbed with a traditional knife of some kind. Is that right?”
“Yes, Mr. Won.”
“My brother loves museums. I have a picture of my family here.” Mr. Won reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a group of photos. He pulled the top photo off the stack and handed it to Detective Hanna.
Martin looked at the family photo and saw the victim’s face among the other siblings.
Mr. Won pointed at the man while saying, “This is my missing brother.”
Martin nodded at the man in the photo and said, “That looks like the victim.” Martin began picking at a callus in his right palm and consoled, “I’m sorry for your loss.” Martin politely waited for a moment before continuing, “Mr. Won, what was the nature of your brother’s visit here in San Francisco?”
“I have no idea. He was only supposed to be here for a few days and then return to Seoul,” responded Mr. Won.
“What line of work does he do regularly?”
“He is in the import-export business, pearls mostly, in bulk. The majority of his work is in Asia, among Japan, Korea, and Indonesia. I don’t know of many clients in the United States,” explained Mr. Won.
“I ask because we found some pink sand in his shoe that came from Indonesia,” stated Martin.
“Yes, well, he has to go to beach communities in Indonesia. That’s where most of the pearl farms are located, near the beach. Detective Hanna, will I be able to bring my brother’s body back to South Korea for burial?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“I think it’s a matter of you making the arrangements, signing some papers, picking up the body, and taking it to the airport for transportation.” Martin paused, “Although we know how he died, we were waiting for someone to show up and identify the body before any further steps were taken, such as an autopsy. Do you understand?” asked Martin.
“Yes and no. I do not wish for an autopsy on my brother. You know how he died, and I suppose you have analyzed his blood and came up with nothing but blood. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
Mr. Won argued, “And that is all you are going to find. Plus, I do not wish for you to dishonor my brother’s body with your chemicals and scalpels. Let me assure you, I have a good lawyer, and the proper paperwork will be signed to stop any autopsy. I have a lawyer on retainer right now. I hope it is not necessary to call him. Please, let’s go visit my brother and allow me to take this matter out of your hands.”
Martin stood up and said, “Okay. I still have more questions for you. Do you want to answer them on the way, or can we do it here?”
“I want to see my brother’s body.”
“He’s down at the coroner’s office not far from here. I just have to tell my boss where I’m going and pick up some of the forms for you to fill out and sign. The coroner will have some as well, so be prepared. Please wait here, and I’ll be right back. I’ll take you to see your brother, and I can help you get started with the transportation paperwork.”
—
19
—
Cale awoke at 5:00 a.m. to the sound of a military troop jogging in heavy boots and chanting loudly in unison through the neighborhoods, waking the locals wherever they went. Dogs barked riotous alarms, and roosters crowed. Cale got up and went to a common room and watched through the front window.
A young boy dusting the dining room before setting it for breakfast saw Cale looking at the troop and stated, “Soldier boys.”
“What are they doing?” asked Cale without turning around.
“They don’t know, and their guns are heavy.” The boy looked out the window briefly then asked, “Would you like to have breakfast soon?”
“Yes, but I have to put on more clothes. It’s freezing.” A cool mist filled the air outside, and Cale could see his breath inside the building.
At breakfast the boy gave Cale directions to a botanical garden that the British had put together and abandoned when they left in 1947. The locals continued to maintain the garden and spent a great deal of time within its peaceful borders.
Cale watched monks thoughtfully stroll around in red and orange robes, congregating around white celebratory pagodas as other students sat in meditation in the afternoon sun. Cale carried a numbered vegetation guide and map in a history brochure as he walked though a vast forest of indigenous and imported trees, all with Latin genus names and origin placards. Ponds and benches were thoughtfully designed and placed along the way. Cale settled down on the grass for a short nap near a large pond. The murder at the museum seemed removed from his cares except for the image of the victim lying on the museum floor with a mouth full of red stones pouring out like blood.
Cale ate an early dinner in town after noticing many restaurants had closed for the night at 5 p.m. On his walk back to the guest house, Cale stopped in a three-sided open bar and restaurant for a beer. There were two booths and four tables. Three boisterously drunken soldiers occupied one of the booths. Cale sat in the other booth with his back to the soldiers.
After more whiskey, one of the soldiers got up enough courage to introduce himself, “I am Chin soldier. I am sergeant. You are very clever. He reached for Cale’s hand, placed it between his, and touched his head and heart. He smiled toothlessly and let go. His comrades all said hello, stood up, and said good night before peeling the sergeant away out into the street.
A round woman, the proprietor, wearing a blue dress and her hair up in a bun, came over with some soup and finger foods and placed them in front of Cale, apologizing, “Please don’t let those men influence your stay in Mam myo. They are drunk. Have some soup. It will warm you up.” She sat at a table near Cale and asked, “Where are you from?”
“America.”
“You like it there?”
“Sometimes. How about you? Do you like it here?”
She smiled and replied, “Sometimes.”
“Why only sometimes?” asked Cale.
“You know why. We just try and get by. As a country, we are rich. As a people, it is hard.”
“Do the soldiers bother you and your family much?”
“These men just want to eat and drink for free. Sometimes I have to allow it; sometimes I don’t. There’s a fine line. As for my family, it’s just me and my son.” She pointed into the kitchen. “My husband is in Mandalay prison. I have not seen him or heard from him in five years.”
“Why is he in there?”
“He is what they call a political prisoner. My son and I joke about it sometimes. We say it’s because he wears glasses. It’s really not very funny because he does wear glasses, and they do put people in prison just for that, wearing glasses. It usually means that you use your eyes to see and read. He never did anything against anybody.”
“Are those men Tatmandaw?”
“No, they are Chin soldiers, like they said. But you may also know that I cannot talk freely about our political situation or our government. The saying, ‘The walls have ears and eyes,’ is real in Burma. Someone will be watching us now. My people, all over Burma, are scared to talk to Westerners because the next thing that happens is a family member is called to duty in some snake—and malaria—infested jungle far from home. Many do not come back.”
“I’m sorry I brought it up. We can change the subject if you like.”
“That would be nice, and you should eat your soup while it’s hot. Are you married?” she asked.
