The Burma Legacy (21 page)

‘Prison?’

‘You didn’t know …?’ He said it scoldingly. ‘It was because of my writing. I was an enemy of the state.’

‘How long?’

‘Six years. Three of them alone in a cell. Amnesty International campaigned for me. In
England
. Perry … How is it you didn’t know?’

Harrison shook his head, his wretchedness growing. ‘Solitary confinement,’ he murmured, flinching at his own memories. ‘You had books?’

‘Nothing. Reading and writing were not allowed.’

‘How did you survive?’

‘I walked. Around my cell. It was only a few paces. But I counted them. All day long. Every day when I wasn’t sick. Counted my footsteps until I reached ten thousand, then I knew the day was over and it was time to sleep again.’

Harrison bowed his head in admiration. He wondered about Than’s wife. There wasn’t even a photograph in the room. ‘May Kyi …?’ he asked.

‘She died two years ago. My daughter looks after me now. Because I cannot do anything by myself.’

Suddenly he spread his hands in a gesture of welcome.

‘I
am
happy to see you, Perry.’

Harrison’s eyes began to water again.

‘Now, please tell me
exactly
why you have come.’

‘To see Tin Su,’ he said, huskily. The main reason for his visit was one he could never reveal. ‘To ask for her forgiveness and to help her if I can. Perhaps some money …’

Than Swe drew in his cheeks as if preparing to spit venom.

‘Do you know
anything
about what happened to her after you went away?’

Harrison knew his shame was about to be immeasurably deepened.

‘No.’

‘Then I have a story to tell you. And I hope it breaks your heart.’

Insein Prison

The visit to her son was brief. It should have lasted an hour, but today it was less. No explanation why.

Tin Su felt a terrible emptiness as she climbed into the back of the pick-up for the journey home. There seemed so little hope. The political accommodations between the military regime and Aung San Suu Kyi’s National League for Democracy that would allow Khin Thein’s release looked as remote as ever. And as far as she could tell, the outside world had turned its back on her country just as resolutely as her husband had on her.

With a crunching of gears the truck drove off.

It was nearly thirty-eight years since she’d last seen Per-grin. No way of knowing if he was alive or dead. There were many days when she wished she’d never let her head be turned by him. If she’d settled with some dependable school-teacher in Mong Lai, she might have had children to care for
her
needs, instead of having to care for theirs.

The first years of their life in Rangoon had been happy. A fine house, with a gardener and cook, even
if the pair despised her for marrying outside her race. And beautiful children.

When the military ordered the foreigners out, she’d wanted to go with Per-grin to England, happy to uproot their children and start a new life in a land she only knew from books. But the authorities had refused them exit permits. Per-grin had promised to return as soon as he could and send money through the firm where he’d worked.

At first the arrangements had run smoothly and she’d convinced herself they’d be together again soon. There’d been letters saying he’d got work in the timber firm’s London offices and was making efforts through the Burmese Embassy to secure travel permits for her and the boys. Then the letters had stopped and after a few months it had dawned on her he might never write again. The money had come for another ten months. Then one day when she’d gone to collect it she’d been told the young man responsible for passing it to her had been arrested for stealing. His job had been taken by an older man with slicked hair and greasy skin called Myint Aung, who’d claimed there was no record of payments from abroad for her. In response to her pleadings he’d promised to look into it.

A few days later he’d come to her home. Admired her furniture and possessions and flattered her over her looks. Then he’d claimed he was having difficulty tracing the money, but it might help if she were to do something for him. From his awkward demeanour, she’d guessed immediately what he wanted and, horrified, had sent him away. But as the weeks passed
with no income she’d become desperate, resorting to selling treasured possessions to keep her family fed.

One evening, after the children were asleep, Myint Aung had returned, bringing money with him this time. He’d told her very pleasantly that it would be hers if she would perform some sexual favours for him. She’d burst into tears and sent him away once more. A week later however, she’d gone to the timber office to tell him to come and see her again.

For the next year her income had been restored. His demands upon her had not been excessive. Nor had they been as physically unpleasant as she’d expected. Once or twice a month he would come to see her late in the evening and leave before dawn. But the money he brought began to decrease. Exchange rates, he’d explained. Weeks later he’d told her the remittances from her husband had actually stopped some time ago and that he, Myint Aung, had been paying her out of his own pocket. True or not, she’d had no way of telling. But the money he offered no longer fed and clothed her children or paid for their lessons.

Myint Aung had been sympathetic to her plight. He’d mentioned other ‘gentlemen’ who would happily give her money for her favours. He’d brought them to visit one at a time, taking care to ensure their arrival would not be observed by neighbours. There’d been nothing unpleasant about them. Like Myint Aung himself, they were middle-ranking officials. One had never been married. The other had a wife who he claimed was cold.

And so she’d sunk into a discreet form of prostitution. Myint Aung had become her ‘manager’, vetting clients and handling the financial arrangements. He’d taken a percentage for himself, but she told herself he deserved it for making sure the clients he sent weren’t types who would do her harm. Over time she’d even grown fond of him.

For ten years she’d lived like that. And she’d even managed to retain her self-respect, telling herself she was only doing it in order to bring up her fatherless sons. Then gradually the customers had stopped coming. Age had caught up with her. Eventually Myint Aung himself had found some younger woman. Tin Su’s career and her income had petered out. By then her sons had been nineteen and twenty-one, both studying law. As a parting gift, one of her clients arranged a job in the government department where he was a manager. One that would suit her and provide a small income. Working with books again – in the censor’s office.

And so, for the next decade, she’d helped stifle her countrymen’s faint cries for freedom, in the interests of helping her own sons become lawyers, a profession that might one day help restore liberty to the country. The job had lasted until that dreadful day in 1988, when her younger boy had disappeared. For weeks afterwards she’d not felt strong enough to return to work. And as soon as she had she’d been sacked for being the mother of a man who’d dared defy the regime.

Now, today, as she rode that rattling truck back to the place where she lived, her whole life seemed so
pointless. She’d lost everything. Her home, her children, her standing and her happiness.

And all because of an Englishman she’d met when she was very, very young.

Market Street

Perry Harrison sat very still. It wasn’t just the story of what had happened to Tin Su that had shaken him. It was the realisation that he felt no responsibility for what had come to pass. Regret, yes. But no blame.

‘I have never loved another woman as much as I loved Tin Su,’ he confessed, mystified that after such a love he could have given so little thought to her fate.

‘Did you not ask yourself what happened to her?’ Than Swe pressed, peering at him as he would a creature that was not quite human. ‘When you stopped sending the money, what were you thinking? A wife and two children …’

Perry felt his face burning.

‘At the time I needed every penny I had for setting up the Bordhill Community.’ It was the excuse he’d given himself then. And at the time it had seemed justified – using his limited resources to help
hundreds
of people with problems rather than to support one small family in a faraway place, whose needs were very simple anyway.

‘I suppose I thought she would find someone else,’ he explained lamely.

As indeed she had. And the non-emotionally-engaging sex which circumstances had forced her into shouldn’t really have done her any harm, he told himself. It was, after all, precisely what he’d coached his Bordhill disciples in for the past thirty-five years.

He could see the disappointment in Than Swe’s eyes, but he’d come here for a purpose and was determined to fulfil it.

‘Look. They’ve been on my conscience recently, she and Khin Thein. I know it’s late, but it matters to
me
that I do something about it. So … tell me. Do you know where Tin Su is?’

‘Yes. But may I know what
exactly
it is you want from her?’

‘Forgiveness I suppose,’ he answered eventually.

‘Then I think you will be disappointed. She has tried very hard to forget you after so many years, but to forgive is a lot to ask. She told me once that everything she does
not
have in life is because of you, and all that she has – her fine man of a son – is in
spite
of you.’

Harrison dropped his gaze.

‘You’ve seen Tin Su recently?’ he asked humbly.

‘About six months ago. She came here to talk about Khin Thein. There is very little of you in him, you know,’ Than told him quickly. ‘His looks and his gentle character come from his mother. It was your other son who resembled you more. Mo Win was a wilder, less balanced person than Khin Thein, but he disappeared in 1988. The military killed him when
the people rose up. Did you know this? I wrote you a letter about it. Gave it to an Englishwoman who was here and asked her to try to find your address.’

‘I got your letter.’ It had troubled him so much he’d had to shut it from his mind. ‘You think they’d let me visit Khin Thein in the prison?’

‘
Why
do you want to see him?’

‘Because he’s my son.’

‘He’s been your son for forty-five years.’ Than Swe ruminated for a few moments, then made up his mind. ‘You can ask Tin Su about going to the prison. She will know the procedure.’

‘How will I find Tin Su?’

‘My grandson can take you to her. It’s an hour’s drive from Yangon. He will use his father’s car. You must pay him. He is a student, but since the SLORC closed the universities he has to do his study by correspondence. And that costs much money. So he drives tourists around. The few that come here. Twenty dollars a day.’

‘I’ll willingly pay double that.’

‘No. Twenty dollars is enough. It will spoil him if you give more. He will expect it from others.’

‘Whatever you say. When? When can he take me?’

‘This evening, maybe. I will call him on the telephone.’

‘Thank you. Thank you so very much.’

The road north of Yangon

The sun was getting low in the sky as the pick-up neared its next stop. Tin Su could smell the smoke of cooking fires. She saw a man walking in the dust beside the road, broken-necked chickens dangling from his hands.

The town where she lived sprawled along the main road. Two other passengers got down with her, gingerly easing the stiffness from their legs. Then with a cloud of blue exhaust the pick-up continued on its way.

Tin Su was taller than the local women, despite the bend to her back that had come with age. Many Shan people were that way. Her mother used to tell her it was the mountain air that made them grow more.

She walked along the main road for a minute or two, tempted by smells from a curry shop but knowing she couldn’t afford to buy anything. The line-bus had taken all she’d been able to save in the last month.

She turned into a side street, past a covered market and walked on towards a small temple with a
zedi
from which the gold leaf was peeling. Finally she reached the alley that led to the little house where she’d lived for nearly ten years. She stopped outside, slipped her feet from her sandals, and turned the handle. Nobody locked doors around here. Theft was unknown in the town, and in truth she had little for anybody to steal. Inside it was dark. The light didn’t work because the power was off. Cuts happened all
the time. She moved towards the little cupboard at the back of the room, groping for the matches she kept there. Then by the light of the spluttering flame, she lifted the glass of an oil lamp and touched the match to the wick.

She preferred its light to the electric. A kinder glow that revealed less of the shabbiness of where she lived. With a sigh she lowered herself onto one of the two rush-seated chairs that together with a small table were the only furnishings of the room.

Holding her hands to her stomach, the bones of her pelvis pressed hard against her wrists. She knew she should eat something but she had little inclination.

For more than an hour she sat there in the gloom, preoccupied with her thoughts. Then she stirred, telling herself this wouldn’t do. She liked to read, the same old books over and over again, but her eyes couldn’t see the print anymore in the feeble light from the oil lamp.

She decided to go to bed, taking off her clothes and carrying the lamp into the bathing room. She squatted over the toilet, before washing all over with cold water scooped from a cistern. Then she dried herself on a towel, extinguished the light and settled onto her sleeping mat. She checked there were no gaps in the mosquito net then lay down and covered herself with a thin cotton sheet.

Her hands went up to her breasts, remembering how those flat pouches had once been filled with milk. She remembered too how Per-grin had kissed them on that first night in Rangoon after the long journey
south. Kissed them and the rest of her firm innocent body until all of her fear and shyness had been blown aside by her overwhelming need for him to make her his own.