“What’s with them?” Moff said. On the dock were a dozen soldiers in camo-gear with AK-47 rifles slung over their shoulders. Heidi immediately felt nervous. She was not the only one. It was an ominous sight. The group noticed that the locals paid no attention to the soldiers, as if they were as invisible as I was. Or were the local people watching as cats do?
“They are soldiers,” Walter said. “Nothing to be concerned about. I can assure you there has not been any trouble with insurgents in quite some time. This area—much of southern Shan State, actually—was once known as a red zone, a hot spot for rebel warfare, and no tourists were allowed then. Now it’s been downgraded to white, which means all is perfectly safe. The insurgents have fled high into the hills. There aren’t many left, and those who are hiding are harmless. They’re afraid to come out.”
For good reason, Black Spot said to himself.
“Then why all the rifles?” Moff asked.
Walter laughed slightly. “To remind people to pay their taxes. That’s what everyone fears now, new taxes.”
“What are insurgents?” Esmé asked Marlena in the nearby boat.
I noticed that Black Spot was listening intently, his eyes darting toward the daughter, then the mother.
“Rebels,” Marlena explained. “People against the government.”
“Is that good or bad?”
Marlena hesitated. She had read sympathetic reports of rebels who were fighting for democracy. They claimed that their family members had been slaughtered, the daughters raped, the sons enslaved, their homes burned. But what could she say so she would not alarm her daughter?
Esmé read her mother’s face. “Oh, I know. It depends.” She sniffed knowingly. “With everything, it depends.” She stroked the puppy in her lap. “Except you, Puppy-luppy. You’re always good.”
“Hey, Walter,” Wendy called loudly. “So what do you feel about the military dictatorship?”
Walter knew questions like this were inevitable. The tourists, Americans especially, wanted to know where he stood on political issues, whether he was adversely affected, and if he supported “The Lady”—he was not supposed to say her name out loud, but he did from time to time when he was with tourists. In former days, anyone who said her name with praise could be taken away, as his father had been. After The Lady won the Nobel Peace Prize, the camera flashes shone on Burma. The world asked, Where is Myanmar? For once, a few people knew. Walter nurtured a secret hope that Aung San Suu Kyi and her supporters in other countries could actually drive out the regime. But the years went by, and sometimes the junta released her from house arrest only to put her back soon after. They made overtures to talk about a transition to democracy. And everyone would be heartened that the bully had finally softened. But then they would say: Talks of democracy? What talks are those? It was a sport, that’s what Walter finally realized. Let the democracy lovers score a point, then take it back. Let them have another point, then take it back. Let them think they are in the game, and watch them spin in circles. He now knew there would be no change. The children born after 1989 would never know a country named Burma, would never know a government other than SLORC. His future children would grow up with an obeisance to fear. Or would they sense there was another kind of life that they could be living? Was there an innate knowledge that would tell them that?
He looked at Wendy and took a deep breath. “The poor,” Walter began, measuring each word, “especially those who are not well educated, feel things are better now than in years past. What I mean is, while Myanmar is among the poorest countries in the world, the situation is, shall we say, more stable, or so the people feel. You see, they don’t want any more trouble. And perhaps they are grateful that the government has given them little gifts from time to time. At one school near here, an important military officer bought the head teacher a tape player. That was enough to make people happy. And we now have paved roads from one end of the country to the other. To most people, this is great and good progress, something they can see and touch. And there is also less bloodshed, because the rebels, most of them, have been contained—”
“You mean killed,” Wendy inserted.
Walter did not flinch. “Some died, some are in prison, others have gone to Thailand or are in hiding.”
“And how do you see it?” Harry asked. “Is Myanmar better off than old Burma?”
“There are many factors. . . .”
“It depends,” Esmé said.
Walter nodded. “Let me think how to put this. . . .” He thought about his father, the journalist and university professor who had been taken away and presumably killed. He considered his job, a desirable one that supported his grandfather and his mother, who never spoke to each other. He thought about his sisters, who needed a clear record to attend university. Yet he was a man of morals who despised the regime for what had happened to his father. He would never accept it. On occasion, he met secretly with former schoolmates whose families had suffered similar fates, and they talked of small personal rebellions, and what would happen to their country if no one ever again spoke out in opposition. He had once wanted to study to become a journalist, but was told that such studies would lead only to a degree in death—death of the mind if not the body. You could not write about any bad news, so what was left to write?
The girl was correct. It depends. But how could he tell these Americans that? They were here so briefly. They would never be affected. What would they gain by his telling the truth? What did he risk losing if he did? And as he gazed out on the lake, he saw a way to answer.
“Look there.” He pointed. “There—the man standing in the boat.”
The travelers craned their necks and uttered cries of delight upon seeing one of the famous Intha fishermen of Inle Lake. My friends retrieved their cameras, making ripping sounds as they pulled open the Velcroed cases. They cooed happily as they looked through the viewfinders.
Walter continued: “See how he stands on one leg while the other is curled around a paddle? This allows him to glide as he uses his hands to fish. It seems impossible. Yet he does this effortlessly.”
“Niche adaptation!” Roxanne and Dwight simultaneously called to each other from their separate boats.
“I’d fall into the lake,” Bennie said.
Walter went on: “That, in essence, is how my friends and I sometimes feel. We have adapted so that we can effect this one-legged stance and not fall over. We can dream of fish and propel ourselves forward, but sometimes our nets are empty, our rowing leg tires, and we are just drifting with the current, along with the weeds. . . .”
My friends had already forgotten the question. They were contorting their heads so that they were best positioned for capturing this oddly beautiful scene. Only Black Spot heard Walter’s answer.
FLOATING ISLAND RESORT was only a year old, modeled after its competition, the highly successful Golden Island Cottages and its sister hotels. It was the subsidiary of a large tribe, which had agreed to a cease-fire with the Myanmar military junta in exchange for a stake in the hospitality industry. This latest resort had the additional advantage of Western management and expertise in comfort, decor, and service, or so the brochures proclaimed.
This management came in the robust form of a Swiss German expatriate named Heinrich Glick, who knew what amenities appealed to foreign tastes. As the longboats drew to the dock, uniformed boys in matching green-checked longyis welcomed the passengers and speedily unloaded their luggage. Names were called out, cottage numbers quickly assigned, and the designated bellhops grabbed keys attached to small floats. The bellhops earned their keep solely from the generous tips that Western tourists gave, and each tried to outdo the others in carrying the greatest amount of luggage.
Heinrich appeared on the dock. When I first met him years ago, he had been a handsome man, with thick, wavy blond locks combed back, a smooth voice, a sophisticated air, and a Teutonic jawline. Now he was portly, with a pouchlike neck, thin legs, sparse hair, pink peekaboo scal
p, and Windex-blue eyes rimmed in red. He wore a collarless white shirt of loose-weave linen over yellow washed-silk trousers.
“Welcome, welcome,” he saluted his guests. “Welcome to paradise. You’ve had a pleasant trip, I trust. A bit brisk, ja? Brrrrr. All right, then, go admire your rooms, and after you are settled in, please join me in the Great Hall for a toast with bubbles.” He gestured behind him, toward a tall wooden building with many windows. He looked at his watch. “Let us say noon-ish, with scrumptious lunch to follow. Run along now and freshen up.” He shooed them away with his hands as if they were a flock of pigeons. “Ta-ta! See you soon.”
My friends and their bellhops scattered toward the various oiled teak walkways that fanned out from the dock like the legs of an insect. Cries of delight echoed as they approached their accommodations: “This is more like it.” “Just like tiki huts.” “How cute is that?” The bungalows were indeed rustically charming.
Bennie stepped into his. The interior was of pleated rattan, the floors covered with hemp mats, the low twin beds adorned with simple white linens and enveloped by gauzy mosquito netting. Oh, he loved that last touch, so tropically romantic, reminiscent of former nights of sweaty tangled limbs. On the walls were painted renditions of celestial creatures and carvings on bone, the sort of mass-produced native art that passed as chicly primitive. The bathroom was a nice surprise, spacious and free of mildew, the floor covered with a plain white tile, and the shower built a step lower and separated by a half-wall.
In Heidi’s room, the bellhop opened the windows. They lacked screens, and nearby were coils of insecticidal incense and pots of citronella, all signs that alerted her to the fact that the stagnant waters beneath the walkways were mosquito breeding grounds. One door over, Marlena and Esmé were all oohs and ahs over the views of the lake, marveling that this place truly was paradise, a Shangri-La.
Harry was even more pleased than the others. His bungalow was at the far end of pier five, and its secluded location made for a perfect love nest. Oh, look. The resort had thoughtfully provided lemon-scented candles, a romantic touch. He went outside to the small porch. It held a couple of teak chairs with adjustable reclining backs—fantastic, ideal for lying together to do a bit of moon gazing and set the mood for an exquisite night of lovemaking.
Marlena and Esmé had stepped out of their bungalow just two piers away from him. A porter who looked to be about the size of Esmé had arrived, dragging two mammoth suitcases, a duffel slung from each shoulder. Harry waved to catch Marlena’s eye, and she eagerly waved back. They were like two lovebirds flapping their wings. The message was clear: Tonight was the night.
A half-hour later in the Great Hall, Heinrich poured champagne into plastic tumblers. “To pleasure and beauty, to new friends and lasting memories,” he said warmly. Soon he would bestow on them pet names—Our Great Leader, Our Lovely Lady, Our Nature Lover, Our Scientist, Our Doctor, Our Resident Genius, Our Roving Photographer, and the like—the same stock descriptions he assigned to all guests to make them feel special. He never remembered actual names.
Heinrich had managed a five-star beach resort in Thailand for a number of years—I went there twice myself—but then it was discovered that three tourists over the previous six months had died not of misadventure, heart attack, and drowning, respectively, as the death certificates had indicated, but of jellyfish stings. The place was closed down after the demise of the third victim, the son of an American congresswoman. After that, Heinrich surfaced in some directorial capacity for a luxury hotel in Mandalay. I ran into him there, and he acted as if I were his long-lost friend. He called me “Our Dear Art Professor.” And then he wrote down the name of a restaurant he described as the “utmost.” His moist palm encircled my elbow, rubbing it as he might a lover’s, as he told me in confidential tones that he would inform the maître d’ that my companions and I were coming. “How many of you are there? Six? Perfect! The best table with the best view shall be reserved, and I shall join you and would be honored to have you as my guests.”
How could we refuse? How bad could a free lunch be? We went. He was unctuous and jovial as we perused the menu. He called out the specialties we should order, and to hell with the bloody cost, it was his treat. By the second course, he was blustery and loudly sentimental about Grindelwald, his birthplace, it seemed. He began singing a Swiss German yodeling song, “Mei Biber Hendel,” that sounded like a chicken clucking. A table full of Thai businessmen seated nearby cast sideways glances and made “tut-tut” comments in low voices. The end was signaled by his head lowering until his forehead rested on the table, and that was where it remained until waiters arrived and lifted him by his armpits, then dragged him to his waiting car and driver. The waiter and maître d’ shrugged regretfully when I informed them that Mr. Glick had said he would pay. Thus, I was stuck with the bill, a rather costly one, given the number of people, and the quantity and caliber of alcohol that he ordered for all and which he largely consumed. But at the hotel the next day, Heinrich apologized profusely for his “sudden illness” and hasty departure. He said he would make up for the lunch bill by deducting an equivalent amount from our hotel charges. “How much was it?” he asked, and I rounded the number down a bit and he rounded it up with a sweep of his pen. In this manner, he ingratiated himself to his clients, dined lavishly free of charge, and pilfered from his employer.
As you can see, he was a slippery charmer and a thoroughly dishonest man. He once told me he had managed the Mandarin Oriental in Hong Kong, a claim I found hard to believe, given that he knew not a whit of Cantonese. “What’s good to eat there?” I asked, baiting him. And he said, “Sweet-and-sour pork,” the favorite of those who know nothing of Chinese food and are unwilling to try anything else. So I knew he was full of poppycock, and it was maddening that he showed absolutely no shame about his lies. He never lost the gleaming smile.
Some of the other tour leaders told me he was not really a hotelier at all. He worked for the CIA, they said. He was one of their best operatives. The accent was faked, the Swiss nationality a sham. He was an American, Henry Glick, from Los Angeles, the land of actors. In the early days, when he first came to Asia, he listed his occupation as “waste management consultant.” On other visas, he said he was a “water purification engineer.” “Waste” was code for CIA targets, don’t you see, people they wanted to get rid of. “Purification” was code for filtering information through sources. For a spy, a position in the hospitality industry was ideal, since in this capacity, or rather as the incapacitated host, he wined and dined all sorts of government officials in Thailand, China, and Burma, and gave off the impression he was merely a bumbling drunkard, too soused to be of any threat as they spoke of under-the-table deals when he was under the table himself.
All this I heard. But I found it too incredible. If I knew of the story, then wouldn’t the people he was supposedly spying on have caught wind of it as well? He would have been ousted by the Myanmar government long before now. No, no, he could not possibly be a spy. Besides, I had smelled the alcohol on his breath. How do you fake that? I watched him drink the “bubbles” until he nearly burst of carbonated blood. Then again, he had to be up to something to have managed all these years to hang on to a job. Granted, his career had taken him to the backwaters of Asia. For a hotel executive, this was clearly a demotion.
Strangely enough, only Esmé detected early on that Heinrich was a phony. The child was innocent yet astute beyond her years, as I had been when I was her age. She saw how easily her mother was duped into liking him. “Our Ravishing Beauty,” he called her. Harry became “Our English Gentleman,” and a bit later, when someone informed Heinrich that Harry had a popular television show on dogs, he dubbed Harry “Our Famous TV Star,” which pleased him a great deal.
Heinrich, however, was not skilled at beguiling children. He smiled too broadly and spoke as many adults do to infants. “Is your tummy hungry?” Esmé watched him suspiciously and saw the pattern: how he always had some
excuse to touch the women lightly on their arms, press a palm on the men’s backs, compliment each person in private with, “You look like a seasoned traveler, different from the others, a person who seeks more deeply when in another’s land. Am I right?”
Esmé was carrying Pup-pup in a nylon sack. A light scarf was draped over the top, and the puppy was content to curl up in this improvised womb, that is, until she needed to relieve herself and tried to climb out. Then she let forth a yelp. When Heinrich glanced toward Esmé, she pretended to sneeze. The pup squeaked again, and again Esmé pretended to sneeze. She headed for the restroom, where she pulled out a few pages of the teen fashion magazine she had brought, and laid these on the tile floor. She put Pup-pup on top and urged her to “go potty,” and soon enough the puppy squatted and the pages darkened. Pup-pup was very smart for being just a baby.
When Esmé returned, Heinrich greeted her with glazed eyes: “Ah, so Our Little Pipsqueak has come back to the fold.” She gave him her best blank face, then hurried to find her mother seated at a table. Lunch was about to be served, tout compris, except for the wine and beer, and, as they would learn later, the overpriced “welcome” champagne they had downed with their gracious host.
Over lunch, Heinrich joked that they had better not gripe about the food and service here. “’Tis all owned by a formerly fierce tribe that once settled disagreements by having you over for a tête-à-tête and carrying off your tête. What’s more, they receive protection from their friends, the SLORC soldiers. So you see, your satisfaction is guaranteed, no complaints. Ha, ha, ha.”
“No complaints here,” Bennie said. “Food’s great.”
“What do you mean, protection?” Moff said. “Like the Mafia kind?”