We had to accompany ten soldiers who were chasing down a rumor that the rebels had built a bridge over a nearby river. They had retaken large stretches of our territory in recent months, and they had more than once managed to cut off our supplies for days at a time. The commandant was anticipating a major offensive against our camp. Anxiety was growing among the soldiers, and there were even plans to abandon the camp. We porters were hoping the rumors would prove true. A rebel victory over our camp, should we survive it, was our only chance of ever getting away.
As on many other missions, Thar Thar and Ko Bo Bo willingly took the lead. I was walking maybe ten yards behind them. A good omen, I thought. In this formation we had so far always come back alive. The march through the forest passed peacefully, and when we came out of the trees the river lay right in front of us. It had swollen with the seasonal rains to a mighty current.
And there was a bridge.
The soldiers ordered Ko Bo Bo to investigate whether there were any explosives underneath it or we could get safely across the river. He was our best climber. Gracefully and skillfully he climbed a few yards down the bank, balancing on stones and pieces of wood without holding fast. He had nearly gotten under the bridge when he suddenly straightened up, threw his arms into the air, swayed, lost his balance, and fell.
In the roar of the river I had not heard the gunshot.
He rolled down the steep slope. The other porters and soldiers took cover. I stood there unable to move. Thar Thar let out a cry and sprang down the embankment, tumbled over, slammed into a boulder, righted himself, took flying leaps over tree trunks and stones, fell again, struggled to his feet.
Ko Bo Bo slid toward the river. Curiously there was no second shot, as if both sides were engrossed in the drama that was unfolding before their eyes. Seconds before Thar Thar reached his friend his body slipped into the water and went under at the first eddy. Thar Thar dove headlong after him and likewise disappeared in the surge.
A few yards farther on I saw Ko Bo Bo’s head resurface briefly in the white froth, then Thar Thar’s. The water flung them into an outcropping of rock, they went under, Thar Thar’s arm jutted for one moment above the water and then disappeared again. I felt a dread come over me like none I had known since those first missions. I couldn’t take my eyes off the waves and eddies. Fifteen, maybe twenty yards farther downstream the trunk of a fallen tree rose out of the water. It was their only hope. Beyond it the river became a raging sea of white. Seconds passed without any sign of them.
The colonel crawled through the tall grass to me and cast a wary eye down the embankment.
A hand. An arm. I could see them clearly on one of the branches. Thar Thar’s head. A second one, both above water. Underwater. Above. Under.
The colonel barked at me to rush to their aid. I finally overcame my paralysis and started to clamber my way down the slope, keeping a sharp eye on Thar Thar the whole time. I saw him making his way toward the bank. Where was Ko Bo Bo? Thar Thar had solid ground beneath his feet by now. He straightened up, and in his arms I saw a limp body emerge out of the waves. He dragged him ashore and collapsed in exhaustion beside him.
The second shot was meant for the colonel. I have only vague memories of what followed. I know that I turned immediately about face. Where Thar Thar and Ko Bo Bo lay there was no protection. I scrambled back up the bank and took cover behind a boulder. I lay there between the fronts. After a grenade exploded near me I passed out.
When I came to again I found two rebels squatting beside me. My ears were still ringing, I had a dreadful headache, and I could hardly understand what they were saying. They helped me to my feet. I had abrasions on my head and arms, and I was so stunned that I was dizzy. They took me with them, and at the edge of the forest I could see the bodies of porters and soldiers, could not imagine that any of us had survived this battle, and lost consciousness a second time.
I came to in a rebel camp. They treated my wounds, gave me plenty of rice and water, asked me a few questions about our encampment’s weaponry, troop strength, and layout, but otherwise left me in peace. After two weeks it was for me to decide whether to fight with them or have them drop me off in the nearest city.
MAUNG TUN LIT a cigarette and looked at me, sizing me up. A waiter set melon seeds and a thermos of fresh Chinese tea on the table.
I waited for my brother to pose the last, most important question, but he said nothing.
I was finding it difficult to think clearly. What I had just heard was too monstrous. At the same time I felt disappointment, fear, that Maung Tun would not be able to tell us who or what killed Thar Thar.
“Can you tell us,” I raised my voice, “where and how Thar Thar died?”
U Ba glanced at me, hesitated briefly, then leaned far over the table and translated.
“How Thar Thar died?” asked Maung Tun, as if trying to make sure he had understood correctly.
I nodded.
He shook his head. Said something.
My brother’s eyes opened wide. “He’s not dead. Thar Thar is alive.”
Chapter 1
MY BROTHER HAD fallen asleep next to me. His head lay lightly against my neck, his mouth half open, a quiet rattle in his throat with every exhalation. I took a towel and wiped the sweat from my face. I laid my hand carefully on his forehead to feel whether he had a fever. It was very warm. He had had a severe bout of coughing before falling asleep. I was worried. In Thazi, too, he had refused to go with me to a doctor, insisting that his cough was an allergic reaction that would soon pass. It affected him every year at this time, no reason for concern. I didn’t believe a word of it.
Now we were sitting on a train to Mandalay. The carriages rocked and rumbled. Reading was out of the question. Through the open windows a gentle draft provided a bit of refreshment, but it was too hot for that to make much difference. It smelled of food, sweat, and a pungent deodorant that a Chinese traveler in the row in front of us applied repeatedly.
U Ba had somehow managed to arrange seats for us in the “upper class.” We sat in two wide armchairs with adjustable footrests and seat backs that were nevertheless dreadfully uncomfortable. I could feel every spring, but I knew better than to complain: most of the passengers in the rear cars were sleeping on wooden benches between crates and boxes full of fruit, vegetables, and chickens. Or on the floor. Compared with the pickup truck, this was pure luxury.
Men and women kept passing up and down the aisle with buckets and baskets, hawking their wares. Boiled eggs. Peanuts, rice cakes, bananas, mangoes, betel nuts. Little plastic bags filled with a brown liquid. Hand-rolled cigarillos. Cigarettes. One merchant thrust a bowl under my nose. Deep-fried chicken legs swimming in a greasy sauce and surrounded by dozens of flies. I shook my head in disgust.
Outside, the sun set slowly. The train rolled through a town at walking pace. Two young boys drove a water buffalo along between the rails. Behind them a woman balanced a half dozen clay jugs in a tower on her head. There were fires burning in some of the yards. Naked children splashing in a pool.
I thought of Maung Tun. He’s not dead. Thar Thar is alive.
It had taken a moment for the meaning of those two sentences to sink in. Neither my brother nor I had considered that possibility for a second. We had assumed we were on the trail of a dead man. Nu Nu had imagined her son was dead. As had Khin Khin and Ko Gyi.
Maung Tun had not learned anything from the rebels about the whereabouts of Thar Thar and Ko Bo Bo. They had left them in peace. The powerful man had eventually stood up, taken the limp body lying next to him in his arms, and headed off downstream.
Years later Maung Tun heard reports from a number of truck drivers of a monk who lived with several children and dozens of chickens in an old monastery in the vicinity of Hsipaw. An utterly extraordinary man who looked after the children. He was missing a finger on his right hand. Under his chin was a birthmark, and on his right upper arm a long scar. The result of a gunshot wound. Apparently he had lived fo
r years as a soldier in the jungle. Supposedly he had been a dauntless warrior.
Two bus drivers later confirmed the tale. Maung Tun was convinced that it must be Thar Thar. U Ba, too. I was skeptical.
Now we were on the way to Mandalay. We planned to sleep there and then continue on to Hsipaw the next morning.
The train stopped with a jolt. My brother woke up. He looked around quickly, licking his dry lips. I gave him my water. He drank in small sips and exchanged a few words with a neighbor across the aisle. “We arrive in Mandalay in two hours,” he said, turning to me. “Are you hungry?”
I nodded.
“Me, too. Shall we go for a bite to eat?”
“In the train?”
“There’s a dining car.”
I looked doubtfully at my armchair’s grimy upholstery, the sticky floor. “I’m not sure it’s a good idea.”
“We’ll have just a bit of fried rice and coffee. The water is boiled. Don’t worry.”
U Ba rose, and I followed him reluctantly.
The train was rocking violently. I staggered along the aisle, bumping my head twice.
There were still two seats free in the dining car. My brother made for them single-mindedly and sat down. I hesitated at the entrance. A group of soldiers were eating their dinner at the next table. I saw their green uniforms. I saw their shiny black boots. Their bloodred teeth.
U Ba indicated with a glance that I should sit down with him. I couldn’t decide. My hesitation aroused attention. Curious looks. Abandoned conversations.
It was too late to turn back. I didn’t want to leave my brother alone, so I walked over to him.
“They won’t bother us,” he said quietly. “They can’t even understand what we’re saying.”
The soldiers looked at us with interest. U Ba responded with a smile that they returned. I stared out the window.
When the waiter came U Ba ordered coffee and rice with chicken and vegetables. In the kitchen I could see several men in filthy, sweaty T-shirts working over an open fire spooning something out of a trough.
“May I ask you something?”
“Anything,” he replied with a wink.
“Why do people always laugh here, even when they don’t really feel like it?”
He tilted his head to one side and looked as if he had long been expecting this question. “Laughter has many meanings here. We laugh when something is unpleasant. When we are afraid. When we are angry.”
“Is it a kind of mask?”
“You could call it that. If you look closely you will quickly recognize what lies behind it, what kind of laugh it is.”
The waiter brought two glasses of hot water and packets of instant coffee. The rice followed shortly. It looked more appetizing than expected. U Ba dove in hungrily, burned his tongue, and laughed at himself. “How can someone my age still be so greedy?”
The rice was nicely seasoned, dusted with coriander and other herbs. Delicious.
“Do you think we’re going to find Thar Thar?” I asked him after burning my own mouth.
He nodded.
“Maybe this monk with the missing finger is someone else.”
“Maybe.”
“Or Thar Thar has died in the meantime. The story with the truck drivers is already a few years old.”
“It’s possible.”
“You still think we’re going to find him?”
He nodded confidently.
“Why?”
“Intuition.”
“Intuition can be misleading.”
He shook his head. “You should never doubt intuition.”
I had to laugh. “Unless you’re me. My intuition is not very reliable. It’s always letting me down.”
“I don’t believe it. Intuition is the incorruptible memory of our experiences. We have only to listen closely to what it tells us.” With a smile he added: “It does not always speak plainly. Or it tells us things we don’t want to hear. That does not make them untrue.”
I ate my rice thoughtfully.
U Ba was finished long before me and ordered a second coffee. He looked tired, more haggard than usual. His face seemed to have grown leaner in the past few days.
At first I thought he had choked on the coffee. I stood up and whacked him between the shoulder blades, but he waved me off. Another severe coughing fit. He could hardly breathe, was turning red in the face, gripping the table tightly. Even the soldiers looked at us with concern. I got scared and took his hand, rubbed his back. When it was over, he looked even more exhausted.
“I’m taking you to a hospital as soon as we get to Mandalay,” I told him authoritatively.
He tried to calm me. “It’s not so bad.”
“U Ba, stop it,” I answered, annoyed. “The whole time I’ve been here it just keeps getting worse. That’s no allergic reaction.”
“It is,” he contradicted weakly.
“To what?”
“I don’t know.”
“You need to be examined.”
“And if they find something, what then?”
“Then we’ll see that you get treatment.”
“They can’t treat it. I’ve already told you. What good is a diagnosis?”
“If they find something they can’t treat we’ll take the next flight to Bangkok,” I declared with certainty. “They’ve got top-notch hospitals there.”
He smiled. “Julia, my dear, I don’t even have a passport.”
“Then we’ll get you one,” I said, unimpressed by his objections.
“That’s kind of you. We’ll have to go to Rangoon for that. Processing an application for a passport can take months here, sometimes years. And I’m not even sure I would get one in the end.”
“Months? For a passport? I can’t believe it. I’m sure there’s some way to expedite it for urgent cases.”
“Maybe so. But not for people like me.”
“What do you mean, people like you?”
“People without connections to the military.”
“We’ll find a way. First of all we need to get you examined.”
“I don’t know …”
“U Ba! In Mandalay we’re going to step right into a taxi and take you straight to the best hospital. Until then I’m not going to any hotel or boarding any trains for Hsipaw or anywhere else.”
“But we have to …”
“I’m serious. I’ll just stand there in front of the train station.”
My decisiveness apparently made an impression on him. He sighed and gazed off into the evening. The streets were getting broader. There were more people on the roads, more houses, more lights. We were approaching Mandalay.
“So why don’t you have a passport?” I wanted to know.
“Why would I need a passport?” he challenged.
“To visit me, for instance.”
“You are right.”
“Will you try to get one when we get back?”
“We’ll see.”
I was disappointed. “Wouldn’t you like to visit me in New York sometime?”
“Of course.” After a long pause he added, “But it is a long, arduous journey.”
When we got back to our seats, U Ba took another short nap. Looking at him, I was filled with tenderness.
There were few people I felt so close to, so comfortable with. He was so utterly without guile, without ulterior motives. What would I do if it turned out his cough was a symptom of something serious? Fear for his well-being was taking hold of me. The thought of losing him was unbearable to me just now.
Chapter 2
THE MANDALAY GENERAL Hospital was only a few blocks from the main train station. A betel nut monger pointed out the way. I cinched up my backpack and relieved my brother of his bag. To my surprise he made no objection.
The entrance to the hospital was bustling like a market. Several stands offered bananas, pineapples, coconuts, and mangoes. You could get drinks, magazines, and books. Pedestrians stood and read by the light of bare bulbs.
Between them rickshaw drivers and taxis waited for customers. A young man approached me, hands loaded with freshly woven wreaths of jasmine blossoms. He handed me one, and its intense fragrance immediately filled my nostrils.
“You like the scent of jasmine?” asked my brother.
“I love it,” I answered, looking for some money, but the young man just smiled and disappeared into the throng.
On the street in front of two fully equipped food stands a dozen folding tables and plastic chairs had been arranged. Curries simmered over blazing fires; skewers of meat, mushrooms, and peppers roasted on a grill.
U Ba stopped abruptly to look at a group of men playing a kind of checkers with bottle caps on a homemade board. One of them had tattoos over his legs, arms, hands, even his neck.
“What’s that about?” I whispered.
“The tattoos protect him from evil spirits,” U Ba answered.
I pulled him along. We crossed the hospital forecourt and entered a biggish hall, a kind of emergency room, and for a first long moment I doubted whether it had been a good idea to bring my brother to a hospital.
It was hot and humid, and it stank. Two sluggish fans turned on the ceiling. Lurid neon lighting illuminated the crowded space. People huddled on chairs, sometimes two to a seat. Others leaned against the wall, sat on the tiled floor, or lay on blankets they had spread out. Mothers clutched infants in their arms. One child cried softly. Some of them gave us a once-over; most were too exhausted or sick to pay us any mind.
I could see that my brother felt ill. He dropped back, leaning against a column by the entrance, not even pretending to have some other purpose. I set about finding a doctor, stepping right over patients, treading unintentionally on a leg. Someone groaned; I apologized immediately and profusely, went on, spoke to a nurse who listened attentively, smiled, nodded, and then disappeared again without a word. I had no confidence that she had understood a word I had said.