A Well-tempered Heart (34 page)

“Not anymore,” he interrupted me. “If you had asked me in the camp that would have been a different story.”

He propped himself up on one elbow. “I was consumed by hatred back then. I was so angry, so bitter, that if you could have licked my heart, you would have poisoned yourself. We were all prisoners in the camp. Even the soldiers and officers. All of us. Except one.”

Thar Thar eyed me keenly as if to see whether I could follow him.

“Except one?”

“We were prisoners of our hatred,” he continued without addressing my question. “Prisoners of our desperation. Our embitterment. Our sorrow.

“We would have remained prisoners even if they had set us free. Anyone who has been in a camp carries that camp around inside himself for the rest of his life. Anyone who has been the victim of violence carries that violence inside himself. Anyone who has been betrayed carries that betrayal inside himself. How often I quarreled with my mother! Cursed her. Asked her why she kept Ko Gyi and not me. What I had done to her to deserve her coldness already as a child. I wanted answers to questions that have no answer. I would march through the jungle, hoping finally to tread on a mine. To be torn into a thousand pieces. I had no
desire to spend the rest of my life in the dungeon of my rage and embitterment. It is a cold, dark, and dreadfully lonely place. Death was the only way out. At least that was what I thought until someone showed me the light.

“In a dream I would often see my brother and mother standing before me. So close that I could feel their breath on my skin. Suddenly they turn and leave. Hand in hand. Without a word. I try to run after them but cannot move. I want to cry out to them to wait for me, but cannot make a sound. They walk along a road, getting smaller and smaller. I want so desperately to follow them, but I am crippled. I think I’m about to die. It’s terrible. Then a soldier steps up to me and strikes me in the face with the butt of his rifle. That always woke me up. All of my thoughts and feelings revolved inexorably around the same questions: What had I done to deserve this misery? Why was I cast aside?”

He lay back, arms folded behind his head, staring at the ceiling of the shed. I watched him for a while, traced his lips gently with my fingers.

“And that faded away with time?” I asked in a low voice.

“No, not with time.”

“How, then?”

Thar Thar said nothing.

“Today you are no longer a prisoner?” I insisted.

“No. Do I seem like one?”

“Not in the least. How did you free yourself?”

“I resolved to love.”

“Is that something you can just up and decide?” I asked skeptically.

“Not just like that.”

“Is it up to you at all?”

“No, apparently not,” he replied thoughtfully, turning to me. His eyes gleamed as they had those first few days. I wrapped one leg around his hips and pressed him closer to me. “You are right. Let’s just say that Love came to me. One day she was standing at the door asking to come in. She had traveled a long way, and I did not refuse her. I felt certain she would not make the effort a second time.”

“What does love have to do with your imprisonment?”

“To forgive, one must love and be loved. Only those who forgive can be free. Whoever forgives is a prisoner no more.”

HE HAD TOUCHED
me. Where I was most sensitive. He had penetrated into me. Not only physically.

Some part of him would remain in me.

The next morning I found a cup of lukewarm tea beside my bed. Beside it a large bouquet of red hibiscus awaited me, and a wreath of jasmine exuding its wonderful fragrance. My brother’s sleeping bag was empty. I had overslept.

In the hall, too, the mats had been cleared. Everyone but Thar Thar and U Ba was already working in the field. The two of them sat at the top of the staircase in front of the house, drinking tea. My heart pounded at the sight.

Thar Thar rose the moment he saw me. He greeted me with a shy, bashful look. For a moment we stood there mute, embarrassed like two teenagers.

“Thank you for the flowers,” I whispered. “It’s very sweet of you.”

Him beaming. How I envied him those eyes.

“Good morning, Julia,” said my brother. “Did you have a good night?”

I searched his expression for any trace of a double entendre. But it seemed that he was utterly incapable of anything like that.

“Lovely,” I answered, smiling furtively at Thar Thar. “Very, very lovely.”

Thar Thar could hardly stand still for embarrassment.

“Why didn’t Moe Moe wake me?”

“We had the feeling that you needed the sleep,” said U Ba.

“I’ll get you a cup and something to eat,” said Thar Thar, hurrying into the house.

With a wave of his hand U Ba invited me to sit down beside him. He was watching me almost as intently as on that day in the teahouse in Kalaw where we first set eyes on each other.

“Is something wrong?” I asked hesitantly.

“You look”—he tilted his head to one side, apparently searching for the right words—“somehow different this morning.”

“In what way?”

“Enchanting. Enchanted. More beautiful than usual!”

“Ah, my sweet brother,” I sighed, and put a hand on his knee. I longed to embrace him for joy. “I feel just great. It’s beautiful here.”

Thar Thar returned with a bowl of rice, vegetables, and two eggs. I was so excited that I could hardly eat. We sat in
silence on the steps. Chickens cackled in the courtyard. A dog dozed in the shadow of the staircase. It was warm, and it smelled like fresh flowers.

Thar Thar fidgeted with his fingers and breathed unevenly. He wanted to tell me something, but didn’t quite dare. At some point U Ba rose and went into the house.

I shot Thar Thar a tender look. “What should we do now? Sweep? Cook? Laundry?”

“Would you care to accompany me on a short hike? We would be back in time for the afternoon English lesson.”

“I’d love to. Where are we going?”

“I want to show you something.”

WE WALKED ALONG
a path that led past brown, newly harvested rice fields, banana plants, palm trees, and bamboo stands. We crossed a narrow valley, balanced our way across a stream, and marched up a wooded hillside. Above us the arch of a deep-blue cloudless sky. We communicated with our eyes and spoke little. Between us was a silence that felt more comfortable with every step.

I wandered in thought back to the night before. I was not sure what to make of what had happened, only that it bore no resemblance to an ephemeral New York affair. Something about this night was different, and I was beginning to sense what it was. He had opened a door in me. He had taken me by the hand and shown me the hiding places of joy. He had relieved me of the fear of my own desire.

I felt an intimacy with him that needed no words. A familiarity that I could not explain. He was a soul mate like no man before him had been.

I felt the desire to take his hand, to stop right where we were, to touch him, to kiss him, but I didn’t dare.

Just before the crest of the hill we came to a stupa that had caught my eye even from a distance. The trees had been cleared from a small area around it so that it commanded a broad view of the valley below. There were several little temples and altars on which lay offerings of rice, flowers, and fruits. Devotees had placed dozens of Buddha figures in the recesses of the masonry.

The top of the pagoda was gilded. A few tiny bells tinkled in the wind. The side facing the valley was painted white, but the backside was bare stonework split by a large crack. Out of the crevices grasses and various plants had sprouted. In places they had overgrown the stone, and the rear part leaned so drastically that it ought to have fallen in years ago.

Looking at it from the side, it appeared that the laws of gravity had ceased to operate in this place.

“It looks like it could collapse any minute now,” I remarked, regarding it skeptically.

“It does make that impression,” replied Thar Thar. “Legend has it that this stupa was destroyed by earthquakes many times over the centuries, and that it was always rebuilt. Some decades ago a new quake left it in the damaged condition you now observe. Since then people have believed it would fall in, but apparently there is some force fending
off collapse. That’s what all the altars are about. People come here and leave an offering in the hope that this power, this spirit, will also protect them.”

He pulled a thermos out of a bag and poured hot water into the cap, dug out a packet of instant coffee and a packet of crackers. He took out one of the crackers and set it in front of an altar. Then he pressed his palms together in front of his chest, closed his eyes, and bowed.

“What did you pray for?” I asked.

“I didn’t pray for anything. We merely had a brief conversation.”

“Who?”

“The spirit of the stupa and I.”

“What about?”

“About the fragility of joy. How it is impossible to preserve it. And crackers. He loves crackers.”

“Where did you get those?”

“I was in Hsipaw earlier this morning,” he said in a way that suggested it had not been pleasant for him.

We sat down in the shadow of the stupa. It was quiet. A gentle rustling of leaves was the only sound. “Tell me about yourself,” he asked.

“Again? About my important battle against patent infringement?” Thar Thar ignored my self-mockery. Smiling, he said, “Whatever is important to you …”

I reflected and took a sip of coffee. Looked down into the valley and at some point started my tale: of a young woman who set out on a quest.

Who thought she might be going crazy. Even though madness did not run in her family. Not that kind.

Who had forgotten how fragile love was. How precious. How much light it needs. How much trust. How dark it got when Deceit spread her wings.

Who had forgotten what love thrives on. How much attention it requires.

Who had in recent days rediscovered these things, and who was very grateful for that.

Thar Thar listened attentively. At times I wished he would embrace me or at least touch my hand, but he did not move.

When I was done, I looked at him. Uncertain and with a galloping heart.

I stood up and faced him, took his head in my hands. “Thar Thar.” His expression set my whole body aquiver. “I …”

He put a finger to my lips, stood up, and kissed me like I had never been kissed before. Why did I have to be thirty-eight before being able to lose myself in a kiss that way?

“Tell me about the heart tuner you knew.”

“That was long ago,” he answered, hesitating and sitting back down. “Why do you ask?”

“Because I want to know more about you.”

“More still? You know so much. More than I do.”

“But I don’t know the most important thing: What is your secret?” I crouched down beside him.

“What makes you think I have a secret?”

“Why are you not a troubled spirit?”

“I used to be. Most of my life.”

“I know, and now you are one no more. Why not? Who taught you to forgive? Father Angelo?”

He shook his head without a word.

“Ko Bo Bo?” I asked.

His eyes fell. The ghost of a nod.

Had he and Ko Bo Bo been lovers? They had shared some kind of secret, according to Maung Tun. I was too surprised to pursue it. And not only about that plot twist: I felt Jealousy swelling up inside me, quickly casting her deep black shadow.

“What exactly did Maung Tun tell you about him?” Thar Thar wanted suddenly to know.

“Not much. That he was the youngest of the porters. Small and wispy, but very brave.” As casually as possible I added: “That you two had been good friends.”

Thar Thar swallowed several times. “That’s all?”

“Pretty much.”

“Did he not speculate about the two of us?”

“Well, he said that you really liked each other,” I replied evasively.

“That’s all?”

“That’s all.”

Thar Thar nodded as if he had not expected anything else. “Ko Bo Bo had a secret.”

I bit my tongue and waited for him to go on.

“I was by chance in the yard when the truck brought him in. We had just hastily buried three corpses from the
Death House and were on the way back to our huts. Most of the new porters already stood nervously in a circle around the vehicle. Ko Bo Bo had curled up in the farthest corner of the payload and did not want to get out. Only when the soldiers kicked at him did he get up and slowly climb out of the truck, a bundle with his things in his hands. I saw at a glance that he was different from the others. The way he moved. The way he looked at the soldiers. In his expression was the same dreadful fear we all shared, but there was also something else. I took it for pride, or a gratuitous defiance, and it was a long time before I learned what it really was.

“He spent the first few days huddled in the darkest corner of our hut, refusing to eat, or even to say a word. Again and again one of us would sit down with him and try to talk to him, but he kept his mouth shut. I was afraid he was trying to starve himself, and one evening, when he was already asleep, I carried him over to sleep beside me. He was so light. At some point he suddenly clasped my hand and refused to let go. He was awake and wanted to know how long I thought it would take a person to die. A second? An hour? A day? A lifetime? I didn’t understand his question, and we fell into a long conversation. I liked his voice, especially when he whispered. It sounded so soft and melodic, almost as if he were singing.