Return to Mandalay (15 page)

‘You’d like to travel then?’ she asked him.

‘It is what I have always dreamed of.’ His words were simple. But they said so much.

‘Then you will,’ Eva assured him.

He shrugged. ‘I am one of the more fortunate ones,’ he said. ‘I come from a privileged family. For others …’ He let this thought trail.

‘But we should not talk of such things,’ Eva murmured. Klaus had warned her about talking politics to the Burmese. They could get into trouble if anyone were to find out; the government still did all they could to limit what they called unnecessary contact between foreigners and the Burmese people. And apparently everyone was watched at some time while they were in Myanmar. Could that be true? It was hard to believe, here in these lush and well-manicured gardens. But the journalist she’d met on the plane coming over had told her he’d called himself a teacher on his visa application. Writers, he had said with a wry smile, are considered rather dangerous. So maybe it was true after all.

Ramon said nothing, just looked away towards the distant trees. They walked on beside the lake.

‘And my grandfather?’ Eva asked him.

‘What about him?’ But she could see that she’d touched a raw nerve.

‘You think that he just left your grandmother after the war, don’t you? You think he just went back to England without a second thought. That he didn’t care.’

Ramon seemed about to say something. But he stopped himself. ‘It was a long time ago,’ he said instead.

‘But he did care.’ It was important to Eva that he believed her. ‘There were repercussions for both our families. But whatever happened between them, he did care.’

Ramon held her gaze for a long moment before finally he looked away. ‘We must find a place to watch the sunset,’ he said. ‘Or my grandmother will never forgive me.’

As the sun dipped lower in the sky, he led the way to a stylish café made entirely from teak, where they sat on the open terrace with a view of the lake and gardens. To their left, a group of students lounged under a broad leafed horse-chestnut tree and one of them started strumming his guitar. A couple of the girls sang softly as he accompanied them. It was a Bob Dylan song, ‘Most Likely You Go Your Way’, Eva recognised it; her mother had often played it and, for a second, she was transported from this landscape and back to Dorset, England and her mother’s grief. ‘Most Likely You Go Your Way’. Despite the heat, Eva shivered.

Ramon ordered soft drinks, which turned out to be a delicious cocktail of pineapple, ginger and lime, and they sat, more amicably now, watching the sky deepen from pale blue into dark grey and orange as the sun dropped laconically behind the distant forest of silver oaks. In the distance, a peacock strutted proudly towards his mate and some golden pheasants flew up into the trees.

‘Where is it that you want to go?’ Eva asked him, thinking of the lyrics of the Dylan song and of what he’d already told her.

‘Many places.’ He sipped his drink. ‘I intend to expand my
business and increase my exports. It is not just a question of survival. I want to be successful.’ He looked at her suddenly, sharply. ‘Many of my countrymen, they are not ambitious. But me, I want to travel and I want to experience my father’s world.’

Eva thought of her own father, the man she had hardly known. She had inherited his dark hair and eyes. But not the shape of his face, according to Maya. Eva sipped her fruit cocktail. She had a photograph of him taken by her grandfather when she was a child. He was sitting on a wooden bench in the garden. It was late springtime, the yellow forsythia was in bloom behind him and the roses on the trellis were tight orange buds. But what Eva loved about the photo was his expression, he was clearly unaware the photo was being taken and he was staring towards the lawn with such a look of contentment. That told Eva a lot about him and his life. Their life. Because her grandfather had told her what he was looking at – his wife and daughter sitting on the lawn making a daisy chain, and Eva had that photograph too. They were a pair. Whatever else had happened in her world, those photographs said it all.

With some effort, Eva brought herself back to the present. ‘And what is your business?’ she asked Ramon. She could see why he had been a little hostile at first. He had been through a lot and he felt protective towards his grandmother; there was nothing wrong with that. She had seen another side of him at Maya’s house and the lakeside and she felt a bond with him because they had both, in different ways, lost their parents. And she liked the fact that he wanted more.

‘I make furniture.’ He sat up straighter, with pride. ‘Quality furniture. From teak wood. The business was begun by my father when he first came to Myanmar. Everything is handcrafted. We are very proud of that.’

‘Teak?’ Eva’s senses tingled. Could that be just a coincidence? Although she supposed it wasn’t so strange. Her grandfather had come here to Burma to work in the teak industry because teak was something the country was rich in. And Ramon’s father had no doubt come here for the same reasons. Both men had met a Burmese woman and fallen in love. But Eva’s grandfather had left and Ramon’s father had stayed.

As they finished their drinks, they watched the sun reddening, strands of pink and amber threading the sky around. Sunset in Asia. What could be more stunning?

‘There she goes.’ Ramon turned to her as the sun finally dipped behind the trees. ‘Shall we leave, too?’

She smiled and took the hand he offered to help her to her feet. A craftsman’s hand, she thought. Well shaped, slightly calloused from working with wood. ‘Thanks for bringing me here,’ she said. ‘I don’t have long to look around. Tomorrow, I have to get back to Mandalay.’

‘Tomorrow is another day,’ he said. And again, he gave her such a straightforward and thoughtful look that she struggled to understand. ‘Do you think you were right to come here, Eva?’

She stared back at him. Right? What did he mean, right? Of course, he knew nothing about her job here. He hadn’t
asked. He had assumed, no doubt that she was just another tourist. ‘Are you worried about me upsetting your grandmother?’ she asked. Though she had the feeling that despite appearances, Maya was mentally very strong.

‘It is not just my grandmother to think of.’

‘Then who?’ she asked. Or what?

But he just shook his dark head. ‘The past is long gone,’ he said. ‘And is it right to open the box? That is what you must ask yourself.’

‘The box is already open, Ramon,’ Eva said. ‘It’s too late.’

Lawrence replaced the telephone receiver. He was rather confused, what with all this coming and going. He wasn’t sure what was happening. But it would all come clear. It usually did.

Had Eva found her, his Maya? Was she still alive, as he hoped? He had just wanted her to know. It was all such a long time ago and of course there was no need to send any of those letters. There never had been any need, they were for Lawrence and his peace of mind. But he wanted her to know what he still felt for her, what he had never stopped feeling for her, and the chinthe would tell her that more than words. Maya and Burma. They were entwined in his heart, always had been. He’d never been able to separate the two.

Mandalay, 1937
.

Lawrence tried to tell Maya something of what he felt for Burma when they met again the following afternoon. They were walking along the downtown streets of Mandalay to her father’s house. She had invited him there for dinner and he appreciated that this was an honour. He didn’t tell anyone at the club where he was going, though Scottie probably suspected.
He didn’t want to hear any of the jokes about native tarts and all the rest of it. It was commonplace to have a Burmese mistress, whether a man was married or no; Burma still wasn’t as comfortable for colonial wives as India, with its longstanding
Memsahib
tradition. But Lawrence didn’t care about all that. All he knew was that he didn’t have long. Tomorrow, he must return to camp.

‘You think we are a very simple race,’ she teased. ‘Living so much of our time outside and close to nature. Lacking many material things.’

‘Is that so bad?’ He did think that. But he’d tried to express it in a positive way. Spiritual contentment, people with smiles on their faces, with warmth. And now, once again, she was laughing at him.

She gave him a look. ‘Wait till you meet my father,’ she said.

Lawrence had been expecting their house to be quite basic – nearly all the houses he’d seen here had been quite basic – but in fact it was not. It was simple in construction, yes, but made of wood and bamboo with a wide verandah and a charming carved wooden frieze dividing ground and first floor to the eye from the outside. It was beautifully furnished too with cushions, embroidered tapestries and silk hangings, cane furniture and vibrant rugs strewn on the floor. The windows and doors, shaded with bamboo blinds and wooden shutters, which led into the front living room had all been flung open and a man in his mid-forties, or thereabouts, was lounging on a bamboo reclining chair, his dark head resting
on a red satin pillow. There was, surprisingly, a black piano by the far wall. And the scent of burning incense oil wafted through the room.

Maya addressed him in Burmese. Then she turned back towards Lawrence. ‘This is my father,’ she said. ‘And this is Lawrence.’ And then she disappeared to prepare the food.

Her father got to his feet and nodded. ‘How are you?’ he asked. ‘I can offer you a drink, perhaps?’ He was polite, but not warm.

Lawrence accepted a beer but then felt embarrassed when his host only drank the tea Maya brought out for him a few minutes later. Of course, Buddhists didn’t drink and Lawrence had already noted the shrine, the image of the Buddha, the fresh flowers in the room. Somehow, drinking when they weren’t similarly indulging, made him feel a bit of a fool. It was that sense, again, that the Burmese always knew more and felt more than they’d let on. What did they really think about it all? He had a feeling he was about to find out.

But it wasn’t until after they had eaten a simple meal of river fish, rice and a thin but spicy consommé that Maya’s father finally opened up.

‘Why did you come to Burma?’ he asked Lawrence. And then before he could reply, ‘I am not talking about the business you are in, I know about that. What I want to know is: do you mean to make it your home?’

‘I don’t know, sir.’ Lawrence decided honesty was the best policy with this man. ‘I wanted to see something of the
world, I suppose. And I love your country, you can be sure of that.’

‘You love the country?’ he asked. His black eyes shone. ‘Or you love being a master in our country?’

Lawrence considered this. Once again, Maya had disappeared, leaving them to talk. He guessed that she’d known what would be said. Maybe it was even a test. She had said it wouldn’t be easy and talking to her yesterday about the last King and Queen of Burma had at least given him a taste of what might be to come. ‘I see your point,’ he said. ‘Though in every job there’s at least one master and at least one worker, isn’t that so?’ Maya had told him that her father worked as a broker in the rice business, and that his business was successful. Lawrence knew too that he had dealings with the British from time to time.

Maya’s father nodded. ‘This is true,’ he said. ‘But do not underestimate us. We know who is really in charge. And there is an old Burmese proverb: wise man’s anger never comes out.’

Lawrence shrugged. Of course there must be resentment. But the situation in this country was hardly his fault. ‘The legacy of the British Empire is not my responsibility,’ he said. It sounded more pompous than he’d intended. He wanted the man to like him, but he had to be honest.

‘But you are part of it,’ the other man shot in.

‘I am.’ And proud to be British, Lawrence thought, despite everything he’d seen here. He’d talked to Scottie last night
about the imperialist rout and now he knew that although the row had to all intents and purposes been about teak, the facts were more complicated. For many years the Burmese dynasty had simply been unable to keep control over its warring factions. Some might say (and Scottie did, rather loudly after several whiskies) that the British had been compelled to step in. That it had been almost a favour for them to take control out of the hands of those who simply couldn’t cut the mustard. ‘And then, of course,’ he’d said to Scottie, ‘there was the wealth we were taking from Burma – the jewels, the teak …’ ‘Ah yes,’ Scottie had replied. ‘Well, no man will do something for nothing, old chap. Fair dos.’

‘The work’s hard,’ Lawrence told Maya’s father. He hadn’t signed up for this job to get rich quick. It was not a job for an ambitious man, far from it. ‘And believe me, I’m not afraid to get my hands dirty.’

Maya’s father smiled for the first time. ‘I believe that you are not,’ he conceded. ‘And you must excuse me for speaking my mind.’

He continued speaking his mind for the next hour and a half. He talked of what he wanted for Burma: independence and personal freedom for the people. Yes, he knew that there had been considerable unrest between the hill tribes for centuries; yes, he understood that the British Empire was not a tyrannical master. But it was still a master.

‘The British have brought some progress to your country, surely?’ Lawrence asked. He was thinking of the law and
order, the schools, the roads, the hospitals. It wasn’t all bad. Even Maya had admitted that before the British came, the Burmese had had no idea of how to manage the elephants and the logging industry.

Maya’s father took a cigarette from a lacquered box on the table and offered the box to Lawrence. ‘Perhaps they have,’ he conceded. ‘But did we ask for such modern progress? Did we want it? Or was the giver thinking more of the people from your country who now live here? They would insist, I am sure, on not living in a slum. They are, I believe, the ones who benefit most from the progress you mention.’ His lip curled. ‘When you give without being asked,’ he added, ‘should you always expect gratitude and thanks? Should you expect some sort of payment too? Change is not always a good thing.’

Lawrence couldn’t answer this question. He had never looked at it that way before.