The Lizard Cage

by Karen Connelly

  After leaving his dear Hsayadaw, the boy became more silent and withdrawn, but he followed the strangers with an uncharacteristic submissiveness, born of fear and the weariness of constant movement. He did not know where he was or what would become of him if he lost them too, these older brothers. The monks were kind to him, feeding him, trying to draw him out with jokes and questions in heavily accented Burmese. Among themselves they spoke Shan, known on the border as Tai Yai, one of the many tongues in that unnamed country between nations.

  From the Burmese Shan hills, along the edges of Kayah State, they journeyed into Shan and Karenni territory of Thailand, down into a valley of tall thin trees and pale morning fog near the town called Mae Hong Son. Though the boy wore Buddhist robes, he arrived like so many other refugees from Burma, a dark face drawn tight around feverish black eyes. Alternately shivering and burning with malaria, he clung to his bundle of relics from the other side. They were wrapped up in his simple sling bag, which he carried on his back or in his arms wherever he went, as an older sibling carries the infant of the family.

  He recuperated in the monastery at the foot of a mountain near Mae Hong Son. Once he entered monastic life again, he felt better, though the abbot of his new monastery did not smile and laugh like the Hsayadaw.

  One day, a few weeks after his arrival, two Shan monks explained to the boy that he would be leaving the monastery very soon; a Burmese man wanted to adopt him. Contrary to their expectations, this news caused the boy great distress. He protested to the Thai abbot, stating his case in a heartrending mixture of Burmese, Shan, even a few words of Thai. He did not want to leave the monastery; he did not want anyone to adopt him. He wanted to be a monk. The abbot promised the boy that he could return to the monastery if he wanted, but it was his duty to meet the person who was offering him a different life. The abbot told him that while he stayed with the Burmese man, he didn’t have to live as a Buddhist novice: he could give up his robes, he could eat after noon. But the boy said no. He would wear his robes, he would continue to observe a monk’s diet, and he would return as soon as possible to the monastery.

  The next day the Shan monks delivered him to a house built on the outskirts of the town. A net hammock was stretched between two trees in the weedy, dusty garden. A grown man was sleeping there, his mouth hanging open like a child’s. The monks and the boy stared at this man, but he did not wake. They left their slippers in the dust, walked up a few wooden steps, and stood silently at the open door. When the boy coughed, Burmese men inside the house turned from their desks and greeted them.

  One of the monks whispered to the boy, “You must not cry.”

  The other monk added, “And don’t be naughty.” Following a brief chat with one of the men, they left the boy standing there barefoot. He could not bear to watch his brother monks disappear down the road, so he closed his eyes.

  “Have you eaten rice yet?” one of the men asked, meaning Are you hungry? The boy did not open his eyes. He responded coldly, “I am keeping the Precepts. I don’t eat after noon.”

  The man smiled and said, “That’s a shame, because the abbot said you were free to join us for dinner. And we’re going to have an excellent dinner tonight. Aung Min has gone to the market just for you.”

  This made the boy open his eyes very wide. His forehead crumpled, and though his mouth opened, no sound came out.

  The man thought he should explain. “Aung Min is the man who wants to adopt you. He’ll be back within the hour, then we’ll eat together.”

  The boy felt the room sway around him. He sat down cross-legged where he’d been standing. Suddenly everything made sense. Now he understood where the journey had been leading him. Aung Min. Instead of making him happy, the revelation made him burst into tears. The men did their best to cheer him up, but he was inconsolable. His crying quickly turned to sobbing, wet gasps and heaves occasionally punctuated with choking.

  The boy’s sobs were so loud they woke the sleeping revolutionary. He had children of his own, whom he had left behind in Burma. He woke thinking, I have dreamed of my son. Then he realized he was awake and a child was still crying. He swung his legs out of the hammock and took the stairs two at a time. Crouching next to the boy, he murmured in a low voice for a long time. Eventually he put his arm around him and whispered unbelievable things one after the other. “You are safe with us. We won’t hurt you. Aung Min is a good man, he’ll take care of you. We’re happy you’ve come to find us. Hey—do you want a tissue to wipe your nose?”

  “No. That’s okay.”

  The boy blinked up at the man, sniffed, and slid out from under his arm. Standing, he rearranged his robes and guessed which was the bathroom door; he entered and came out with a washed face. Then he surprised them all by asking if he could have a candle, please. For his prayers, he said. They were gathered in the main room of the house; there was a little altar high on one of the walls, above a photograph of Daw Aung San Suu Kyi. Separated from the monastery for a few hours, he already missed the comforting rhythms and habits of the monks.

  Kneeling before the makeshift shrine with its gold-coated plaster Buddha, holding a yellow candle in his hand, the boy uttered another humble request, for incense. The revolutionaries glanced at each other. What a strange little bird this kid was! Someone disappeared into a bedroom and returned with a dusty package of joss sticks. The boy opened it, drew out several sticks of incense, and asked for a lighter. He knelt and lit the candle and the incense and genuflected three times, forehead touching the wooden floor. The men went to the outdoor kitchen behind the house and talked in low tones about the child who was praying inside.

  Aung Min arrived soon after, pulling up on a noisy motorcycle. Carrying bags from the market, he came in the back way. Yes, his men said, the boy was in the house, he was fine. Yes, he had brought his little sling bag; he rarely put it down. Aung Min peered in at the child through the half-open door but didn’t want to disturb him.

  The men talked over the work of the day, and cooked, and smoked cheroots. Slowly they fell silent, one by one, and began to listen as a small voice grew luminous and full in the twilight. The words of the chanted prayers came flooding back like those of an old song. Several of the men had made the same prayers, en masse, during the street protests of 1988, when they were university students. They forgot about the cheroots between their fingers. One by one the red coals went out. They stood in the darkness until the boy finished praying.

  When someone turned on a light, everyone noticed the aroma of cooked rice. They stepped quietly into the house. The man who had held him earlier bent down to the boy and whispered, “We hope you will eat with us.” And the boy said, “Yes, thank you, I will.” The strange company, silent boy and serious men, sat down on the floor together; in the middle of their circle, various plates and bowls sat steaming, set down on old newspapers. Aung Min and the boy were introduced hesitantly, because it had been Aung Min’s name that triggered the crying fit. But when the boy came face to face with the famous student leader turned revolutionary, he was polite and grave.

  Aung Min watched the child hover protectively over his plate. He ate with his hands, like the men, but not a single grain of rice or bit of curry escaped his fingers. The man smiled at the boy, who glanced at him without raising his head, jaws still in motion. Aung Min realized that this was an old child locked in an old hunger. Did anyone have candy? he asked. No? What about ice cream?

  Plied with sugar, the boy began to talk, first about the cold delicious cake, which he had never eaten before. How did they keep it so cold? The men smiled to see so much delight come from a sweetness they had long taken for granted.

  They asked the boy about his journey. He told them. They asked him about the monastery in Rangoon. He explained about the Hsayadaw and the other children and the trouser-wearers who had tried to find him and take him away.

  Aung Min leaned forward, and the boy saw that the man wanted something, badly. For the first time in that house of stranger
s, he felt a stab of fear.

  “Little Brother,” Aung Min said, “I want you to tell me about the prison.”

  The boy looked down at his hands. He didn’t know what to say. To tell about the prison was to tell about his life, but he wasn’t sure what he had to keep secret. Stammering slightly, he said, “We call it the cage.”

  Aung Min chose his words carefully. “I want you to tell me about your friends there.”

  This was easier. First the boy talked about his lizard, and the beetle in its box, and the great Tan-see Tiger, who gave him soap and a new towel before he left. Then he said Saya Chit Naing’s name. “And books,” he said. “My friends were books.”

  Aung Min’s head tilted, almost imperceptibly, to the right. One of the monks at the monastery in Mae Hong Son had told him the boy was just learning to read. How could books have been his friends?

  The boy started talking about a nat, a spirit who lived like an invisible monkey in a tree on the prison grounds. Several of Aung Min’s men glanced at each other.

  Clearly this child was many things. Inarticulate and superstitious. Malnourished. Uneducated. A variation of the boy’s story had preceded his arrival, but as they sat there listening to him talk about a tree-dwelling spirit, a contagion of sighs moved around the circle. The child wasn’t telling them anything they wanted to hear.

  Sensing their impatience, the boy abruptly stopped talking and shrugged his shoulders. He stared hard at Aung Min as he chewed his rice. He knew exactly what the big man wanted to know about: the Songbird. Still gazing into Aung Min’s eyes, he finally swallowed and said, “Teza. He also was my friend.”

  The men stopped picking their teeth or reading the newspaper beneath the dirty plates. Aung Min stopped smiling.

  The boy pulled his sling bag into his lap. He reached into it and retrieved his meager possessions one at a time, laying them out on the floor in front of his crossed legs. Tattered postcards. A lime-green T-shirt and a turquoise sarong. A thanakha tin. His new towel. The boy touched the large matchbox with his fingertip. There were little bones inside, and a single tooth.

  But Aung Min didn’t care about any of that. “Little Brother, what else do you have in there?”

  The boy felt the pounding rise in his chest. He put his hands on the sling bag and squeezed the cardboard edges through the fabric. It belonged to him. He glanced warily around the ring of men.

  “It’s mine,” said the boy.

  “I just want to look at it.” But Aung Min had trouble keeping the hunger out of his voice, and the boy, an expert in hunger, hunched protectively over his sling bag.

  “The Songbird gave it to me.”

  “I just want to look. I’ll give it back to you.”

  The boy blinked, his eyes burning. Why did they always have to take everything away? He clenched his teeth. No. “You have to promise.”

  Aung Min tried to smile, but a grimace appeared on his face. Each word came out sharp and hard. “Little Brother, just let me see the notebook.”

  The boy glared at him, then yanked down the cloth edges of the bag to reveal the stained ledger, which he picked up and held tightly in his hands.

  No one said a word; no one moved. The two of them could have been in the room alone. The boy pressed the notebook down against his legs and opened the cover. “The book is mine, so I will show it to you,” he said. His palm splayed wide on the paper. He stared unblinking into the man’s eyes.

  Aung Min raised his eyebrows. Bloody kid. He stood up, waved his hand impatiently. The men on either side of the child shifted away. He sat down next to the boy, who slowly turned the first page of the notebook, the second, the third. Aung Min saw only blurred numbers, handwritten rows of accounting. He swore under his breath. The figures meant nothing to him.

  Then the boy turned another page, and the words began.

  The handwriting was as familiar as the voice Aung Min often listened to on a dusty cassette player.

  PART ONE

  THE

  SONGBIRD

  . 1 .

  JULY 1995

  The singer is lying on the floor, a gray blanket pulled up around his chest. With slightly narrowed eyes, he stares at the ceiling. A single lizard is up there, clinging to the plaster.

  What if it were the last lizard in the world? Then what would you do?

  Teza opens his mouth.

  It’s not the last lizard. Rather, it’s the first. Most of them won’t appear until evening, little dinner guests neatly dressed in khaki. When the halo of insects has formed around the lightbulb, the reptiles run to and fro in their jerky, mechanical way, jaws snapping. Sometimes their mouths are so stuffed with insects that they can barely shut them. Gluttons. Showoffs. Any hungry mammal would be jealous. With all that eating, you’d think they’d get fat, but unfortunately the lizards are very skinny, like most of the human inmates. Teza closes his mouth.

  In response, his stomach growls, the sound as loud as his normal speaking voice. A predatory animal has taken up residence in his gut. Never mind the parasites, a small panther is mutating in there. A feral dog. Evening with its lizard bounty seems very far away.

  To confirm that sad thought, the iron-beater begins to strike eleven A.M. Teza counts each blow of a hardwood pallet against an iron bar in the compound, at the base of the watchtower. Clang, clang, clang. The timekeeper whacks the iron as hard as possible, so that the prisoners will hear him and know their time is passing. All ten thousand of them, especially the couple thousand politicals whom the singer counts as friends and comrades, are very far away. The nature of the teak coffin—of any solitary cell—is that it converts everything into distance. Time, space, food, women, his family, music, anything he might need or want or love: it is all far, far away.

  From solitary, the whole cage is a foreign country to him. He lives on the very edge of it, straining to hear the other voices.

  Tkeep! Tkeep! Tkeep!

  The lizard sings. Not like a bird, though Teza remembers from first-year biology that this common cling-to-house lizard is brother to a tiny prehistoric sparrow. Then the desert wind blew and the rain fell and the scales grew into feathers. As he stares at the lizard on the ceiling, he can imagine it: the front two legs and feet stretched out, webbing, blossoming into wings. The back feet articulated into clawed toes, which curled deftly around the thin branch of a tree. And birdsong ribboned through the steamy jungle.

  But before that, who knows how many millions of years ago, there was just this somewhat alarmed chirping tkeep tkeep tkeep to inspire the Neanderthals. Like Junior Jailer Handsome. Here we are again, the singer thinks, smiling. Back in the Stone Age, among cavemen, in a cave. His stomach growls.

  The iron-beater is still. It’s past eleven o’clock now. And Sein Yun has not shown up with breakfast. Teza watches the lizard run from the light, stop, run to the wall, stop. It runs down the wall and whisks itself out the air vent high above his head.

  Teza scans the brick wall around the vent. His eyes have learned the different colors of reptile and wall, lizard skin and skin of man, brick and spider. That’s what he wants to see now. The spider.

  It’s the color of a tiny, dirty copper pot. When the bulbous back catches the light, the copper becomes iridescent, an alchemist’s metal. It glints gold, then a sheen of blue-green rises toward copper again. At dusk the creature deepens to red, then fades with the invisible sun. When Teza first came to the teak coffin, the spider was almost indistinguishable against the red bricks. But now the singer can find him in seconds.

  A fine web is strung high in the corner where the two walls meet, below and to the left of the air vent. The spider often rebuilds his web in a different place. When Teza wakes each day, he checks to see if his companion has chosen to abandon the darkness of the cell and build his new home outside. The singer thinks he’s the sort of spider who should have green leaves around him. But the spider stays.

  The Chief Warden thinks Teza cannot see out of this narrowest of windows. In a m
anner of speaking, he is correct. The vent is too high. Even when Teza jumps he sees nothing save another fraction of the very high outer wall and a corrugated tin overhang. But the spider sees. He crawls the outer wall, up and up. From the top, the spider witnesses the whole city, the gold stupas, the green trees, the streets, millions of men and women, the lakes Inya and Kandawgyi, Daw Aung San Suu Kyi’s famous house on University Avenue, and his mother’s two-story flat, surrounded by laundry and orchids. Daw Sanda loves her orchids dearly.

  The spider perceives all this and more, much more: the sky with its white-backed, blue-bottomed clouds full of rain, the horizon curving like a belly. The spider sees.

  And Teza watches the spider.

  The fabulous copper-pot spider.

  Is it male or female?

  The singer has decided the spider is male: it’s too depressing to imagine a woman here. He would hate to have a woman see him now.

  The singer feeds his male comrade-spider secret messages, just a few words at a time, all his body can hold. Soundlessly, the spider takes in the messages and spins them out when he crawls into the world. The glimmering threads are Teza’s words.

  I love you. I think of you and send wishes of health.

  We have dared everything; we must win.

  I take strength from the knowledge that you keep fighting.

  I am still alive. Teza.

  Remember the meaning of my name.

  • • •

  Forbidden to write or receive letters, he has devised dozens of ways to send a message. Every political prisoner has an elaborate fantasy of messages. Sometimes the right moment never comes, or the message gets trapped in the cell with the man who wrote it, incriminating him as only words can. But sometimes the messages escape, slip through to the other halls, where friends live. Sometimes the words pass through the first brick wall surrounding the prison, and the second one. They move secretly through the great iron gates. Hands take the place of the prisoner’s legs; messages walk out into the world and speak.