Saving Fish From Drowning (28 page)

As Harry leaned forward to see, he saw the money palmed by the man in charge. The discussions became more animated: “To judge by the foreigner’s clothes, he’s probably staying at the best, the Golden Land Guesthouse. In any case, we’ll do a recon on that and investigate.”

As one man refolded the map, another offered Harry a cheroot to smoke along the way, and although Harry did not smoke, he deemed it unwise to refuse and thus compromise the level of camaraderie achieved so far. Ten minutes later, a small white police car was blazing down the road with its light spinning, sending fear into the hearts of all who heard its siren.

One of the fearful was the bus driver. He saw the police car approaching. It was white, white like the horse that the Nat rides on, bad luck. What calamity had happened? Was it before him or behind him? The police car flew by.

Twenty seconds later, Mr. Joe saw a flashing light in his rearview mirror. Walter looked back. The police car was right on their tail, like a butt-sniffing dog. Mr. Joe looked at Walter, and Walter, whose heart was pounding in his neck, forced himself to act calm and told him to pull over. As the bus eased to a stop, Walter gathered his composure, swept his hand into his pocket, extricated his identity card with the grace of one who had done it thousands of times, and then stepped out. Mr. Joe opened his glove compartment and tossed in three more cigarettes to the Nat shrine.

“Shitheads!” he heard Harry cry fondly as he leapt out of the 1 9 1

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backseat of the police car. Harry was pointing to them, grinning like a madman. The police, who moments before were laughing, now resumed their demeanor of morose rectitude. One held out his hand and twitched his fingers ever so slightly to command that Walter place his identity card in his palm. Walter also handed him documents, including the manifest with Harry’s name. The policeman gave everything a stern going-over. He threw down the stack of documents and said in gruff tones: “Why do you let your customers wander around on their own? This is against the rules for tourism.”

Walter did what he learned was best when dealing with the police.

“Yes,” he said. “A mistake.”

“What if this foreigner had wandered into a restricted zone? Very bad business.”

“Yes,” Walter answered. “We’re fortunate he didn’t.”

The police snorted. “The next time, you may not meet people as forgiving.”

Once on board the bus, Harry waved merrily to his police comrades from the window as Mr. Joe pulled around to head back to Lashio. When they were a safe distance away, Harry hooted in victory.

Walter turned around to face Harry. “I apologize for leaving you behind. It was all such a rush, you see. . . .”

“No need to explain.” Harry said merrily. He was still exhilarated, high on adrenaline. He had done it! He had used his expertise and fast reflexes to save his skin. It was amazing, when he thought about it. There they were, ready to fire, their fingers taut on the triggers, and he had deftly analyzed the situation, sent out calming signals, interpreted correctly when their hackles were no longer raised. It worked. Incredibly, it worked. Not since the early days of his career had he felt such excitement. Bing, bing, bing, it had all fallen into place. He sighed. That’s what he had been missing in his work these past few years—the risks, the highs that come from taking a huge chance and then succeeding beyond your wildest imagination. He 1 9 2

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had to recover that sensation, give up the old routine that had grown so comfortable, predictable, lucrative, and dull.

Harry took in a big breath of resolve. And then he sniffed. “Good God, what’s that smell? It’s hideous.”

Walter turned around again. “Some of the others have taken ill, I’m afraid. I suspect it’s a touch of traveler’s malady. We’ve done our best to make them comfortable.”

“Who?” Harry asked. “Who’s ill?”

“Mr. Moff and his boy. Mr. Bennie as well, and Miss Marlena. But her daughter is fine, not at all sick.”

Marlena! Poor girl, no wonder she snapped at him. She was feeling dreadful. Well, then! The explanation cheered him. The situation between them was not as bad as he thought. So, what could he do to make her feel better? All the usual methods—the florist, big cozy hydrangeas, bubble bath ingredients—were clearly unavailable. A cup of tea with honey, perhaps? Offers of a massage. Suddenly he knew. The endorphins still surging through his brain allowed the miraculous answer to come wafting over him.

Words. He knew the power of words. He merely had to select the right ones that she needed to hear precisely this instant. If it succeeded with a bunch of bloodthirsty soldiers, it would be easy as pie with Marlena.

“Marlena, darling,” he would say. “I’m back for you.” He pictured her face, slightly feverish, damp with sensuality. Should he act doctorly, knowledgeable and assuring? Or should he take the role of lover, pledging that love was the antidote to whatever ailed her?

Harry could be truly awful at romance when he tried.

Luckily, he lost all thought of Marlena as he gawked at the hotel.

“What’s a bloody menorah doing in a place like this?” Once shown to his room, he could hear through the thin walls that Marlena was in no condition whatsoever to have a visit from him, doctorly or amorous. Poor girl, she sounded wretched. So did the person in the 1 9 3

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room on the other side. It was like a symphony for the plague, all tubas, bassoons, and a repetitious refrain of squeaky flutes.

At midnight, Marlena finally ceased her visits to the bathroom.

But then, one floor below, a rowdy group of Burmese men took over.

They were smoking and shouting, stamping their feet and clanking bottles. The fumes of cheroots and cheap liquor rose to the rooms above. Marlena pounded the floor and shouted: “Shut up!” After a while, Harry spoke to her through the paper-thin wall. “Marlena, dearest, try to rest. I’ll take care of this.”

He went downstairs and knocked on the door of the offending

group. A red-eyed man answered, his upper body weaving in circles as if he had just been punched. Fetid alcohol blasted from his slack mouth. Harry saw there were five men. They were gambling. Their blood alcohol must have been pure palm toddy, their brains saturated.

What could he say that would possibly bring these men to reason?

A few minutes later, Harry was back in his room. He could hear the drunken men trying to be quiet as they exited downstairs. They tripped on a lamp cord, broke a windowpane, cleared their throats of mucus with motorcycle-throttle intensity, and lobbed spittle onto whatever stood in their way. In their hands were a total of fifty American dollars, their surprise winnings, courtesy of Harry Bailley.

They were not leaving as a favor to Harry. He had suggested only that they be quiet. On their own accord, they decided to sneak out before they had to pay their hotel and liquor bill. It was a very bad decision on their part. Theft in the military-run Myanmar is a serious matter. You would be extremely lucky to get away with it, foolish to try. And weaving down the road does not improve your chances of avoiding bad luck.

Ten miles down the road, they ran their car into a shallow ditch to avoid a Nat on a white horse. It sprang into the middle of the road from a clump of jacaranda trees.

Shortly after that, two military policemen, one tall, one stout, 1 9 4

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arrived with rifles aimed at the men’s heads. “It was a Nat,” the men kept saying. The police examined documents, confiscated fifty American dollars, two hotel blankets and five towels, and pushed the hotel thieves onto a truck bed. The truck sped away, taking them down a black ribbon of road that soon disappeared.

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• 8•

IT WAS NOT JUST

A CARD TRICK

The waters of Inle Lake are blue and so shallow you can see the bottom on a cloudless day. This is where ladies bathe their

newborn babies. This is where the dead float with their eyes toward the sky. This was where my friends came the morning of Christmas Eve.

They were relieved to have left Lashio, where they had spent time recovering from illness. To their delight, Walter had found an opening at a resort on Inle Lake. There they could bide their time in luxury until they picked up on their original itinerary in Burma. A bus from Helo airport brought them to the busy dock in Nyaung Shwe Town. While waiting for their luggage to be unloaded, Rupert tucked his paperback under his arm, fetched out his newly acquired

caneball, and shuttled it back and forth between his knees. When he tired of this, he bounced the basketball, leaping up and pretending A M Y T A N

he was aiming for a hoop. Next, restless as usual, he fished out from his backpack a deck of cards, which he shuffled in midair, creating a flapping-pigeon sound.

A circle of people formed and grew by the second. “Pick a card, any card,” Rupert told Dwight and Roxanne. The locals watched closely as Roxanne reached in and pulled out the king of clubs.

“Show everyone your card,” Rupert said. “You know what it is? . . .

Good, don’t forget it. We’re going to put it back in the deck. Now pick another card, any of them. . . . Good, the two of diamonds . . .

Show it to everyone. . . . That one, put it behind your back. . . . You have it there, right? You’re sure? Okay, we’re going to shuffle the cards.” The cards flew with the beating of wings.

“Things are not always what they seem.”
Rupert intoned.
“And
what you choose is not always what you get. Others may choose for
you.”
The timbre of his voice had changed completely. It was deeper, more resonant, that of a much older man. He had been reading a classic tome for magicians,
The Expert at the Card Table
, and he knew that with illusions, the skill is in the hands, the eye, and the showmanship.

Rupert held the deck facedown and with one sweep fanned the

cards out in an arc.

“In magical lands, magic can happen. But only if we believe
.
”
He looked at Roxanne with a face that was no longer that of a boy but that of someone many years older, a knowledgeable man of the ages.

His eyes were fixed on hers, not breaking away for even a second.

“And if we believe, the impossible can happen. What we wish to
have will manifest. What we wish to hide turns invisible. . . .”
The way he spoke gave her an eerie feeling, but she passed it off as too much sun.

“I believe,” Rupert said, like a boy again. “Do you?”

Roxanne laughed. “Sure,” she said, and rolled her eyes at Dwight standing next to her.

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“Touch one,” Rupert said. She did so, a card near the middle. Rupert flipped it. “Is this your card?”

“No,” Dwight answered for Roxanne.

“Are you sure?” Rupert said.

“Wrong card,” Dwight said. “You’re busted.”

Roxanne was staring at the card and shaking her head. “I don’t believe it,” she said. Dwight looked. It was the two of diamonds. She whipped out the card that she had held behind her back.
The king of
clubs
. People roared. Dwight grabbed the card and felt it.

Three boatmen had been in the crowd, watching. They saw the

young man manifest the card. He could make things invisible and make them come back. And he had the Black Book. They knew that book, the Important Writings that the Older Brother had lost, and thereby caused their downfall. They had been waiting for a hundred years to get it back. And finally he had come, the young man with the cards. He was the Reincarnated One, the Younger White Brother, Lord of Nats.

The boatmen quietly discussed the matter. The Younger White

Brother gave no indication he had seen them. They would approach him soon. And what about the others he was with? Were they his retinue? A few moments later, they approached Walter with a fare low enough to beat out other boatmen who had water taxis waiting to be filled with tourists.

At first, I was confused. So many thoughts and so much excitement was exchanged among these boatmen. Reincarnated One? I have received many new minds since my change, but I don’t yet possess the Mind of Eternity. I sensed only this. They believed Rupert was a deity who could save them. He could manifest miracles. He could make troubles disappear. Soon, three longboats carrying my twelve colleagues, their guide, and excessive amounts of luggage sliced through the waters of Inle Lake. I was the invisible bowsprit on the lead boat. The ride would have been idyllic if not for the chill 1 9 9

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air and the rat-a-tat drone of the outboard motors. But my friends were happy, their teeth gritted against the wind.

The pilot in the lead boat was a handsome young man in a checked longyi the colors of assorted mushrooms. He was the one who had led the discussion on the dock, insisting what they must do. He was called Black Spot by his friends and family, a nickname given for the birthmark on his hand. As in China, such nicknames were meant to be unflattering, a ruse to discourage the gods from snatching babies away. But in Burma one could get stuck with a new nickname to reflect a change in circumstances or reputation. Black Spot’s two companions, Fishbones, who was rather skinny, and Salt, who had a salty tongue for being a gossip, piloted the other two longboats.