He stops abruptly, kicks off his right slipper, and squats to pinch a brick chip out of the rubber sole. The singer comes to mind. He must squat just like this, and pick away not at a stone in the shoe but at his cheroots. Sein Yun sees the newsprint filters sometimes, when he dumps the singer’s bucket. Not to mention the bones. It’s hideous. Poor little Songbird, he doesn’t shit enough to hide a thing!
He stands up, spits his betel juice. It’s pathetic, really—all the politicals are obsessed with words. And food. Though he’s walking very quickly now, a smile slowly infects his mouth. Why shouldn’t he involve Teza in his little plan? Surely he would want to join his beloved comrades.
Arms swinging, Sein Yun nonchalantly brushes his hand against his hip. The vial is safe and sound in his secret pocket, ready for Tan-see Tiger, the big criminal in Hall Four. Sein Yun does a lot of this sort of thing, but carrying heroin is still nerve-racking. More inmates than ever before are junkies—thanks to the generals’ hard work in the poppy business—and a lot of them know Sein Yun works for Tiger. A few would happily knife a man to get their hands on the drug.
Sein Yun coughs. Without moving his head, he glances to the left, the right. He also helps in Handsome’s vegetable racket. Every week the junior jailer takes about a dozen boxes of food from each of the prison gardens and sells them to high-ranking prisoners. Before delivering Tan-see Tiger’s vial, Sein Yun has to pass by one of the gardens and check on the jailer’s portion of cauliflowers and tomatoes; a detail of men is harvesting today.
After making the rounds of the gardens—two boxes of cauliflowers and a bag of tomatoes have been set aside for Handsome—the palm-reader lifts his head to survey the sky. The clouds have gathered again. When the rain crashes down hard on the roof, it’s hard to hear a man talk to you from across your cell. Not that the men usually talk. Sein Yun feels himself surrounded by bellowers, small men with big mouths. He pauses in his walk, lets his shoulders drop. The crows are flying back, cawing and arguing, settling down to roost on the high outer ramparts.
Approaching Hall Four, the biggest of the five prisoner halls, the palm-reader walks more slowly, to prepare himself. Two thousand souls live in this one massive brick building. Some of the cells contain twelve to fifteen men. He is lucky; he shares with four others, though he has the dirtiest spot, close to the latrine pail. The head prisoner and his right-hand man have bench beds to sleep on, the jerks.
Every cell has an akhan-lu-gyi, a leader, just as each big hall has a powerful tan-see. These hierarchies within hierarchies are the way of the world, both in the cage and out of it, but they secretly disgust Sein Yun. Take Saw Maung, the leader of his cell. He’s a quiet, gray-haired man with a rough-hewn face as brutish and inexpressive as an unfinished carving. Is he taciturn because he’s a deep thinker or because he’s been punched in the head one too many times? Sein Yun has lived with the man for months, but he’s still not sure. Saw Maung’s nose is misshapen from violence. A proverbial criminal’s scar cuts a pale jag across his forehead (though he got it in a car accident, not a knife fight, Sein Yun was amused to learn). The small eyes are often half closed, which leads the palm-reader to wonder if the murderer needs glasses or if he is busy plotting how to kill someone else. And who might the lucky one be?
Soon after being transferred to his cell, Sein Yun discovered that Saw Maung had won his position by killing the previous akhan-lu-gyi. After prying a brick away from the base of one of the latrines, he pounded the man to death as he slept. For this show of ruthlessness—apparently he had nothing against the man he killed—he not only won the highest position of power in the cell but gained a certain amount of notoriety in the hall. That’s how it works in the cage: pound a sleeping man to death and everyone’s impressed.
Sein Yun plays his part, bowing and scraping and doing Saw Maung extravagant favors. Though it was his idea to set up a betting racket on Aung San Suu Kyi, he let Saw Maung take it over. And he brings him free vegetables too. Murderers always get too much respect; that’s why they rise to the top. But what does it take to kill a man? A lousy brick and a few minutes of savagery, nothing more. Then the other prisoners take you seriously or fear you. Fear is better, of course. If you make a man afraid, you’ve got a useful piece of him.
Far enough away not to insult the warder on guard duty, who has already met his eye, Sein Yun spits his betel juice. Yes, he needs his betel. But at least it isn’t opium oil, or heroin. The junkies pass the needles around like cigarettes, the fools. Once again Sein Yun brushes his hand against his secret pocket. The little vial is still there. In a few minutes he’ll hand it over to Tan-see Tiger and be done with it.
Nodding once, the warder pulls open the heavy iron door of Hall Four. The only time Sein Yun fears the cage is during these first moments of return, when his tasks for the day are done and he must go back to the hall, rows of cells on either side and around each corner, cages behind and in front, cages of dark eyes and hands and tattooed arms infected with sores. Rather than walking to the fourth row, where he lives, he takes a quick left into Tan-see Tiger’s row, through the immense din.
Voices rise up around him, invading his ears, pushing against his face. The noise takes on a physical quality, a hundred times worse than any crowded market or busy street or night festival. Tiny points of sweat appear on his forehead. Supper is late again, so everyone’s in a foul mood, shouting and arguing about nothing in particular.
Some men greet him as he passes, or give him a look of rivalrous disgust. Approaching Tan-see Tiger’s cell, he cranes his neck, looking for the man’s broad, dark face. The tan-see got his name from the big-cat tattoos that adorn his entire body—back, chest, legs, and arms—but there is something of the tiger about him too, with those languid, droopy eyes, that big head covered in a thick bristle of fur. He is a smooth-moving man, graceful and strong, given to performing elaborate exercises in the yard. He’s certainly healthy and agile like a jungle cat; he can’t be a junkie himself. Sein Yun has watched the muscles in his chest and back rippling, so that the cats lounging on his skin seem to stretch awake. As tan-see, Tiger is the highest-ranking prisoner in the hall as well as the head of his own cell, surrounded by a group of men who are fiercely loyal.
Sein Yun can’t see him, though. He clenches his teeth. Could Tiger be out? He wills the tan-see to come right up to the bars and take away the heroin with a polite handshake. Sein Yun has instructions: he cannot give the vial to anyone but Tiger. If for some unexpected reason the tan-see isn’t in his cell, Sein Yun will have to safeguard the vial all night, until he has another chance, in the morning, to visit the first row. This prospect dismays him. It’s possible that Saw Maung would be more than happy to bash his head with a brick—or even the fucking latrine pail—and steal the heroin.
A thousand voices hammer their way into the very bones of his head. It’s hard to think straight. His nostrils flare as he breathes the humid, human-filled air. A few more steps take him to the front grille of Tan-see Tiger’s cell. The palm-reader’s eyes flicker around the room, over several men’s arms, white undershirts. Only the old basket-maker looks up at Sein Yun, his blind eye a swirl of bluish white.
There he is! Sein Yun is so relieved that a genuine smile opens on his sallow face. Tiger is lying on his belly on a mat, getting a massage. The little masseur—also the cage’s resident rat-killer—is walking up and down the man’s purple cat-filled back. The kid casts the palm-reader a suspicious glance as he leans down and taps Tiger on the shoulder, whispers something under his breath. The palm-reader bares his teeth at the masseur. Jealous brat. The tan-see turns his head, slowly, slowly, groaning with pleasure as the masseur walks up and down once more, then lightly steps off his back. Tiger rolls over on his side and smiles. He sighs. “Rough life, here in the cage.”
“I can see that. You like them young.”
The tan-see laughs. “No. I like hard heels and strong hands.” He nods to the little masseur, who approaches the bars with his head down,
his hand out. Sein Yun frowns at the tan-see, who says, “Go ahead, give it over. He doesn’t bite.”
It’s bloody insulting, to smuggle something valuable into the hall just to hand it over to a pretty boy. Look at that: the tan-see has just rolled over on his belly again. He’s not a tiger, he’s a sloth. Grudgingly, Sein Yun reaches into his secret pocket and resists the impulse to toss the vial into the cell. He slips it into the rat-killer’s outstretched, oiled hand. The kid steps back to Tiger and hands him the vial.
“Someone will bring you your gift tomorrow,” Tiger announces in a leisurely drawl, face still turned away. Sein Yun has half a mind to demand his payment right there and then, but of course, in the interest of further work, he says nothing, just glares at the pretty boy again, who is cleaning his feet, getting ready to step up onto the tan-see’s back. Sein Yun turns on his heel and retreats the way he’s come, through the cave of men’s voices.
To reach the fourth row, where he lives, he must carry on to the end of the first row, turn left, and pass the openings of two more rows. The long tunnels of bars make him feel as though he is looking into a trick mirror. Cage after cage is replicated, reflected through the one beside it, and all the eyes looking out are cage eyes, like his own but not so yellow, circled with the bruised purple-brown of bad sleep and bad food.
By the time he gets to his place, he has almost always regained his balance, a biting observation ready on his stained lips.
Entering, he crushes his fear, squashes it without hesitation, the same way he kills the cockroaches that come to his cell in search of food.
. 10 .
Small white cup in hand, Chit Naing stands at the door of the warders’ quarters and stares out into the floodlit compound. Close to his face, moths batter the screen, trying to get to the light beyond him, two naked bulbs and one tube of fluorescence hanging over the wooden tables.
When the senior jailer finally takes a sip of his tea, he’s disappointed to find how cold it is. Behind him, a dozen warders and guards waiting for their shift changes chat over card games and teapots. He angles his watch into the harsh light. No one needs a watch here, not really. An iron-beater is always there, marking their hours, their routines. Soon he will strike eight o’clock.
A swarm of annoyance follows the jailer around tonight like a fresh hatch of mosquitoes; he can’t get away from it. The woman’s voice singing on the dust-covered tape recorder is sentimental and twangy. He looks over his shoulder. “Whose tape is that, anyway? My ears are bleeding!” A few men laugh, but no one gets up to change the music. He sees Handsome out of the corner of his eye, watching. He is always watching, that guy. Instead of turning away, Chit Naing steps back into the room and meets his gaze. The intensity of Handsome’s dislike for him is well known. They have worked the same number of years, but Chit Naing is superior in rank. The fact that his wife is from a military family has helped Chit Naing’s prison career, which alternately disgusts and pleases him. In a petulant mood, he forces the junior jailer to engage in small talk, knowing Handsome is obliged to respond. “Your shift over?”
Handsome nods.
“I’m on my way out too. Do you want to leave together?”
The junior jailer replies slowly and carefully, “I’m not leaving just yet.”
“See you tomorrow, then.” Chit Naing steps out into the night, even more annoyed with himself. He’s as petty as any of them. But it’s necessary to show Handsome that he is not afraid, that he wields enough power to feign a sort of friendliness.
The Chief Warden has been using Handsome for various unsavory jobs. There’s no doubt he’s an active informer, telling the Chief who’s doing what, where, when, how. And he’s got that palm-reader working for him too. Dirt always attracts more dirt. But how could the Chief Warden have put such a violent man in charge of the singer?
Away from the cheroot smoke of the warders’ quarters, Chit Naing can smell the rain and wet brick chips. When he passes under the windows of the main office, he glances up at the lit windows on the second floor. No figure passes, no figure leans out. Perhaps the Chief Warden is taking his evening bath.
Chit Naing has never liked him much, but now his dislike of the balding, bulldoggish man makes him angry. The Chief always wears trousers, even off-duty. Chit Naing has never seen him wearing a longyi or smoking a cheroot. The Thai cigarettes he smokes are becoming favorites among the young warders, who can barely afford to buy them. The Chief’s son has gone to study at a school in Singapore. These details awe the younger men under his command, who mistake money for style and foreign luxuries for power. And why does he have to stay on the grounds all the time? He owns a big house in the city, but he usually prefers to stay in the suite on the second floor. It’s a common perversion, the way the prison makes prisoners of men who believe they are free.
What such people hate most are those who are free. That’s why the Chief can’t stand the politicals. Asked what he thought of Daw Suu Kyi’s release, he replied without hesitation that she should have been shot before she became so famous. He takes her freedom from house arrest as a personal insult, and his extreme views on the matter, loudly expounded in his office, are repeated by some of the higher-ranking warders: Why was this traitorous, foreigner-marrying bitch never locked up in a real prison? And isn’t it likely that her husband, an Englishman, works for the British secret service? Eventually, through Daw Suu Kyi, Britain could come to rule Burma again.
The theory is laughable at best, paranoid at worst, but some of the warders are influenced by the Chief Warden’s persuasive, know-it-all way of speaking. His charming, almost nonchalant authority makes weaker people want to believe him.
Chit Naing leaves the shadow of the office wall to cross the compound. He masks his contempt for his boss from others, but not from himself. He can’t hide anything from himself anymore. Only a year ago—just before he started to oversee the teak coffin—he was sure that the substance of his life would never change.
A man has to swallow his revulsion and get the job done, even if it means living a farce. But the cage, so riddled with deceit, never lies: every broken thing in the country comes in through its iron doors and proclaims itself. Every goodhearted and idealistic thing comes in too. Since Daw Suu Kyi’s release, they’ve rounded up a new group of politicals, her party members, some young, some as old as seventy. They’ve already arrived, shackled like animals. Last night Chit Naing dreamed of a student alone in a cell, his face bruised purple and bloody. He was crying, begging with a cracked voice for a cup of water. Chit Naing knew that he must not give him anything to drink. If he did, MI agents would find out about it and punish him, Chit Naing, by beating the boy to death. He started awake, heart pounding, to the cries of the baby, nestled beside his wife, who nursed their daughter back to sleep. But that was it for him; he was awake for the rest of the night. He lay in bed thinking about ’88, when hundreds of students were dumped in the prison, traumatized and bloody, and, true to his dream, often severely dehydrated after days of interrogation. Chit Naing knew—everyone knew—that thousands more had died in the streets because of two unpardonable crimes: knowing they deserved a decent life and having the nerve to demand one.
He has begun to think seriously about doing something else, anything else, for a living. But the only real prospects—a transfer to a northern work camp, or those depressing offers from his in-laws—are snares, tricks to deepen the pit he already lives inside.
Just last year his wife’s uncle, a senior officer at Interrogation Center Twelve, offered him another MI job. It was the third or fourth time that her well-connected family had tried to help them by improving Chit Naing’s status. He politely turned down the offer, explaining that he had a duty to continue his work at the prison. When his wife found out about his meeting with her uncle, she screamed at him, “Loyalties to the prison? What about me? What about your children? There is so much more money in military work! And you insult my family once more by not accepting my uncle’s offer.
I don’t understand you!”
He tried to explain what MI work meant. It wouldn’t be like the cage, where he could protect certain inmates. (Failing that, he could protect himself by finding someone else to do the dirty work. But he never said this out loud, not to his wife, not to anyone.) An MI officer at an interrogation center, he told her, has to hurt people.
“But only people who are enemies of the state.”
“How can I, as a Buddhist, torture helpless men, terrorize young women?”
She had no reply to that, but he saw from the cold, closed look on her face that she thought he was cowardly—and stupid, tossing away this opportunity when opportunities were so rare. After that argument, she refused to sleep with him.
His insomnia became a nightly rule. Four o’clock in the morning would find him beside his wife’s warm body, gazing at the curve of her hip, wondering who she was. For that matter, who was he? And how could he escape going to work in the morning? Night after night he wandered around in the maze of these and a dozen other questions. During the days, only his three children gave him any pleasure. They loved simple, good things: eating, playing with their toys, watching one of the neighbor’s goats escape from the yard and wander into the city street, causing a ruckus among the car drivers and rickshaw pedalers. The children clapped, they laughed. Sometimes their pureness of heart made him more frustrated with himself.
Then, as if by magic, everything changed.
Of course, it wasn’t magic, was it? It was just Teza, talking. It was just a visit to a laundry.
Chit Naing smiles to himself and takes a deep breath through his nose. He loves the damp smell of the rainy season. It doesn’t matter that they’ve cut down all the big trees in the compound. He can still smell growing things.
The Lizard Cage Page 9
