A Well-tempered Heart (36 page)

The letter caught me completely off guard. I scanned it a second time, bit my lip, and turned away. What a coward! was the first thought that shot through my head. What a miserable coward! How could he leave me sitting here with these lines? Not even give me a chance to respond? Not
even to ask once how I was feeling? Whether there might not be some other solution than simply to cut out? I was too hurt to formulate a clear thought. What did he mean by the captivity in which he still lived? What was penning him in? His love for Ko Bo Bo? Why had he not told me about that at once? Was he just trying to get me in the sack?

Forgive me that error. Forgive me for this letter, if my behavior causes you pain.
What else did he expect? To amuse me? I could have screamed with rage. Where was he? Did Moe Moe know where he was hiding? Would she reveal it to me? Was there any chance of finding him a second time? Did I even want that?

My brother was awake now and sitting up. He drank a sip of water and looked at me over the rim of the cup.

I felt myself starting to cry.

“Did you know what he was planning to do?” I asked, and was startled by my own brusque tone.

“Who?”

“Thar Thar, of course. Who else?” I barked at him.

U Ba shook his head slowly, keeping an eye on me the whole time.

“Did you suspect it? Be honest.”

“No. He told me nothing. What’s wrong with him?”

I shrugged helplessly and thrust the letter at him.

He read it carefully, shaking his head slightly now and then as if he could not believe what he was reading. When he was done he folded the letter and gave it back to me.

“We’re leaving,” I announced abruptly.

“When?”

“Today. Now.”

“Wouldn’t you like to …”

“No. You said yourself that the longer we stay, the harder it will be to leave.”

He nodded.

“So we’re going to leave as quickly as possible.”

I stood up, pulled on my jeans and jacket, and hastily stuffed my few things into my backpack. Thar Thar’s letter could not have been more clear: He did not wish to see me again. He couldn’t stand to be near me. He would return to the monastery only after we had left it. The sooner we left, the better. I quickly folded blankets, rolled up the mats and sleeping bags. When my brother tried to help, I waved him off.

Moe Moe sat in the kitchen, poking at the embers of the fire with a stick. She looked up, frightened, when I entered. “You? Go?”

“Yes, we leave.”

“Leave?” she repeated.

“Go. Yes, we go!” I replied sternly.

Her eyes. They locked onto me and expressed such sorrow that I felt embarrassed.

“I am very sorry,” I explained more calmly now. “I … we …” How could I explain to her in a language she barely understood something that I myself could hardly put into words?

“I
must
go!” I said, enunciated each word carefully. “Understand?”

A ghost of a nod. “Why?”

My brother joined us, and I asked him to tell her that my holiday was coming to an end, that I had to go back to work, that I had really enjoyed my visit, that I would miss her tea in the mornings, and that I would be sure to come again. While U Ba spoke to her, her eyes flitted from one of us to the other. Suddenly she interrupted him with a question. He answered something. She repeated, insistently, what she had said.

“Moe Moe would like to know when you will return,” he said, turning to me.

“When?” I laughed uncomfortably. “Oh … soon. Very soon.”

U Ba translated, and I could see in her eyes that that answer was not good enough for her.

“Stay,” she said suddenly in a grave voice. It sounded almost like a decree. Where had she learned that word? Not from me.

“That’s impossible. I’d love to and all … but work … the office … is waiting …” I never finished the sentence. It left too bad a taste to sell her a line like that.

We stood for a long time silently next to each other.

She whispered something, and U Ba hesitated a moment before translating it.

“She asks whether you would like to leave any message for Thar Thar.”

Our eyes met, and I sensed that she knew much more than I had suspected.

I swallowed. Hesitated. “No.”

“No?” The incredulity in her voice. “No?” she repeated slowly, and in a tone that made me realize that it had not been the whole truth. She had understood more than I had.

“No,” I repeated in a thin voice.

“Yes,” whispered Moe Moe back. “Please.”

I lowered my eyes. “That I am thinking of him. That I will miss him.”

U Ba translated. Her smile.

I shouldered my pack, and Moe Moe followed us to the door. We bade farewell with our eyes, and climbed down the steps. In the courtyard the chickens were running around more excitedly than usual. I turned around. She stood on the top step waving. I waved back, went along, turned around again. She was still waving. And she was still waving as we turned onto the road and I lost sight of her behind the bushes.

THERE ARE MEMORIES
we cannot escape. We take them with us wherever we go, however far, like it or not. They pursue us or accompany us in good times and in bad. We smell their scents. We hear their sounds. We delight in them or dread them. By day and by night.

My memories of the monastery were so intense, filled me with such longing, that I could hardly bear it. I missed Moe Moe’s smile in the morning. Her bottomless joy. The pride in Ko Lwin’s eyes every time a new English word unveiled itself to him. The patience with which they took it in turns to feed the quivering Toe Toe.

Nor could I put Maw Maw out of my mind. The thought of her brought tears to my eyes. My initial jealousy had given way to gratitude. And admiration. She had saved not only her brother, but also Thar Thar. If not for her he would sooner or later have fulfilled his death wish. He would have stumbled onto a mine. Or have gotten himself shot by the rebels. Or a soldier.

Maw Maw had soothed his troubled spirit, made of him a loving and lovable soul. Maung Tun’s account replayed itself in my mind. I pictured Thar Thar being washed down the raging river, Maw Maw’s lifeless body in his arms. Had she drowned, or had she succumbed to the gunshot wound, died in his arms? Where might she be buried? I wondered what kind of person she must have been. Where had she drawn her courage, her strength? By the end of Thar Thar’s tale I had come to understand how her example, her love, had given him the capacity to tune his heart.

And still there were so many questions. I had not dared to ask Thar Thar a single one.

In my thoughts I was ever with him. I could not comprehend what had passed between us. He had touched me like no man before him. We had spent ten days together, ten days and two nights, half nights. What happened to me during those hours was utterly out of proportion to the short time we had spent together.

Not since my childhood had I experienced the separation from another person so physically. I had no appetite, hardly ate, slept fitfully, and woke up with pain in my back. I had shortness of breath, suffered from a vague pressure in my chest. Sat for hours exhausted in U Ba’s armchair while he restored books. Again and again I turned to Thar Thar’s letter.

Never before have I written lines as difficult as these … Never have words occasioned such pain as the ones I must now set to paper.

My outrage, my disappointment had lessened with each reading. At a few days’ distance I could better appreciate why he had departed so suddenly.

I had not known there was a place where fear has no more power. Where we are so free.

Nor had I, I wanted always to interject at that point. Nor had I.

I had dismissed the idea of writing back to him, only to take it up again and then dismiss it afresh. What would I have written? That I was sick with longing? That I would relocate to Hsipaw?

It was touching the way my brother looked after me. He was convinced I was lovesick. According to him I had succumbed to a virus that we all carry, though my own case was especially severe. A virus for which there was no medical treatment. Body and soul would heal themselves. Or not, as the case may be.

A diversion might alleviate the symptoms, but only for a limited time. To that end we hiked to some of the neighboring mountain villages; made an excursion to Inle Lake, where we visited floating gardens and markets and a monastery where we marveled at jumping cats; sat often in our teahouse. Not that it helped me feel better or turned my mind to other thoughts. Try as we might, the memory of the monastery would not leave me.

One afternoon U Ba took me on a long walk. We walked straight across Kalaw and up onto a hill. The road was
spottily paved and turned quickly to sand and then to an uneven path. I thought I recognized it. Amid bushes and dried grasses I found the first graves. Gray concrete slabs in the dust, without ornament or inscription, overgrown with brush. There were no fresh flowers, not a single well-tended site.

Here on a windless day the bodies of Mi Mi and Tin Win had been cremated. Two columns of smoke, so my brother told me, had risen straight into the sky, where suddenly they had moved together, blending into one.

Not all truths are explicable. Not all explicable things are true.

I wondered why he had brought me back to this cemetery. “What are you trying to say?” I asked. It sounded more hostile than I had meant it.

“I’m not trying to say anything,” he retorted. “I’m only bringing you back to the place where our father …” He stopped short and started again. “I merely thought that you might like to come here again, that it might”—he searched for the right word—“help.”

I nodded. “Forgive me, U Ba. It’s just that I’m so on edge … I don’t know myself what’s wrong with me …”

He sat on the ground, took my hand, and drew me down. We sat a long time in silence. My eyes wandered aimlessly through the hilly landscape with its rice fields, forests, bamboo groves, and white pagodas.

“Tell me what to do.”

“Who am I to advise you?”

“You’re my brother. Besides, I’m asking you.”

He gazed at me intently. Something was weighing on his heart. His expression gave him away, the way he pulled his shoulders up and lowered his head. “Perhaps,” he began and lingered on the word, “the time has come to return.”

“Return to where?” I asked, astonished.

“To your world.”

“Isn’t this my world?” I made no attempt to hide my irritation. The distance implicit in his wording had offended me.

“Of course,” he admitted.

“Are you trying to get rid of me?” I asked half in jest.

U Ba sighed deeply. “Julia, as far as I’m concerned you can stay forever. Only I fear that you will not find what you are looking for.”

“What am I looking for?”

“Clarity.”

“About what?”

“About yourself.”

“And you think I’ll find it in New York?”

“I don’t know. But sooner there than here, perhaps.”

“What makes you think so?”

“Sometimes we must search afar to find what’s close at hand.”

I was not sure what he meant.

“Sometimes we have to try one thing in order to discover that we want something else.”

“And then it’s too late …”

“Sometimes …”

I took a deep breath, in and out, then sank back until I was stretched out next to him.

“What would the Buddha say?”

U Ba laughed. “That a person’s truth is in her soul. That is where you will find the answer.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then you have not looked thoroughly enough.”

I stared at the sky and observed the scattered clouds. Perhaps they, with their flowing forms, would give me a sign, but I saw nothing beyond the misshapen white figures that occasionally blocked my sun.

“Do you think Thar Thar is right that ‘a person, once abandoned, bears that loss forever’? And that ‘a person never loved bears an unquenchable longing for love’?”

“Yes.”

“But then we’re all prisoners, aren’t we?”

U Ba thought long before answering. “Not so. Whatever we carry within us, each person is responsible for himself, for his deeds, and for his fate. There is no captivity from which we cannot release ourselves.”

“I disagree,” I contradicted him. “Some shadows are just too long.”

“To step out of?”

“Yes.”

He shook his head. “We need not always agree,” he replied, smiling and lying down beside me.

The question Nu Nu posed to her husband came to mind: Do you think that a person can shed? Can we strip away a part of ourselves once something else has grown in to replace it? Or, I could hear her asking, are we stuck with who we are?

What happens if we try to strip away the old when there is nothing to replace it?

I thought about Amy. It would do me so much good to be able to discuss it all with her. We would sit together on her sofa, drinking wine, eating cheese, analyzing every detail of the situation, carefully weighing all the pros and cons and discussing their every nuance until late into the night. Was it really plausible for me to stay longer in Burma? What would I do here? Set up shop as a lawyer in Rangoon? Open a teahouse in Kalaw? Live in a monastery in Hsipaw? What were the benefits, what the costs? She would give me no peace with her questions, and I imagine that I would quickly discover in talking to her what an absurd idea it was. And yet I was finding it equally difficult to imagine going back to America and back to my office as if nothing had happened.