Return to Mandalay (30 page)

Maya’s aunt began to weep and still the bombs were falling. When would it end? Maya thought of her father in Maymyo. Was he safe? Was he still talking of Japanese liberation? And if so, what would he say when he knew what had happened here on this day? He should know that the
people he was looking to for granting Burmese freedom were capable of such things.

After what seemed like an eternity, the planes finally flew off, leaving nothing but an eerie silence in their wake. And then they heard the moaning, coming from the street. The moaning, the wailing and the crying. Once again, Maya crawled out from behind the sideboard and held her hand out to her aunt, helping the poor woman to her feet. She was distraught, clearly suffering from shock. Gently, Maya led her to an up-ended chair, righted it and sat her down. Somehow, Maya’s aunt’s house had survived the blasts, though the windows had shattered and, as she stood in the doorway, Maya could see that most of the houses in the street had been destroyed. The air was full of the stench of blood, the acrid smell of the explosions and the scent of scorched flesh, the street was lined with the charred remains of burned-out houses.

Maya’s aunt came to stand by her side. ‘Now what?’ she whispered.

‘Now we help to pick up the pieces.’

They proceeded to do what they could for the injured nearby, fetching dressings and binding wounds, bringing water to those who were probably dying, in order to ease their final moments on earth. Buildings were still burning and smoking. There was next to nothing left of Main Street where the Indian food shops were situated, now, it was just a row of charred shells. The small cinema had been destroyed and the shop that her aunt had always called the bits-and-pieces shop,
because it sold everything you could need, was no more. The peaceful little town had, in a matter of hours, become one of mayhem and panic, noise and confusion, pain and bloody slaughter.

So many dead. And Lawrence? Was he still alive? ‘
Kador, kador …
’ she muttered. Please, please let it be so. Maya liked to believe that she would know, in her deepest soul, if he were not. Was he at this very moment involved in the act of killing a man – a Japanese? Or was he one of the wounded, one of the dying? It was this thought more than any other that persuaded her to take the path she next took. How could she not?

Maya and her aunt ignored the corpses lying in grotesque positions on the streets, and concentrated on the survivors, helping to take them by barrow or on foot to the local hospital, which, miraculously, was still standing. It was a simple one-storey building made of brick and stone with a sloping zinc roof and it had always served the village well. But how would the small building and the limited staff cope with this?

‘I would like to help,’ Maya told the Scottish matron, who was clearly rushed off her feet and desperate. And the streets were still full of people wandering around in a daze or moving from one place to another in blind panic, often injured themselves, desperately searching for their loved ones or for a glimpse of some previous sanity. How many more of them needed to be in this hospital?

‘It is dangerous,’ the Matron said. ‘Many people are leaving, if they are able. You should go too. The planes will
surely come back.’ She busied herself with the next patient, making her comfortable, preparing to tend to her wounds.

‘Yes, we will go upcountry,’ said Maya’s aunt. ‘We will be safe there.’

Maya turned to her. ‘You must go, Aunt,’ she said.

‘Your father …’ Maya could see the pain in her eyes. They both knew what he thought of this war, and what he thought of imperialism too.

‘Perhaps he will come here,’ Maya said. ‘Or perhaps things will calm down and I can go and fetch him from Maymyo. We should be able to join you soon.’ She had no idea though, if this were true.

Her aunt nodded. ‘Very well,’ she said.

Maya turned back to the matron. ‘I’d like to stay and help,’ she said. ‘If you’ll have me.’

‘Bless you,’ she said. ‘We need to boil lots of water. And to stop the spread of disease we must start burying the dead without delay.’

And so … Maya’s wartime nursing career had begun.

*

It was several days before she even had time to return to her aunt’s house. There was very little worth saving, but some things might be useful, and these she gathered up to take back with her to the hospital. And then there was the chinthe. It was, she knew, her legacy and her security too. She tore a long strip from one of her
longyis
in the clothes drawer, and wrapped it up carefully in the fabric. She found an old trowel of her aunt’s, went out to the red flowering
sein pan
tree and
dug a deep hole in the dusty earth. She gave the chinthe one last kiss and put him in the grave. ‘For safe-keeping,’ she whispered. ‘I will be back.’

*

And now, all these years later, the other had returned … Maya shook her head. The wonders of this world. And that was why she must do what she must do. It was a fair return.

It was a relief for Eva to escape the stuffy, threatening atmosphere of Li’s. How had she found the nerve to do it? There were beads of perspiration on her brow as she stood on the corner taking stock. She glanced back at the showroom, the furniture and the ‘older’ artefacts and she took a swig from her bottle of mineral water, as if she might rinse the feeling of the place away. She walked a couple of blocks to get her breathing back to normal and to think, dodging the broken paving slabs and avoiding looking at the sewer that ran, visibly, just below. She had taken a major risk with a dangerous man. She just hoped that Khan Li had written her off as deluded.

She stopped at an open-air bar on the corner for a quick coffee. It was sweet and milky as usual, but she appreciated the caffeine hit as she watched the traffic weave by, the metal on the cars and scooters shimmering in the heat haze that was downtown Mandalay. Outside the dingy shack next door, a public telephone was stationed rather bizarrely on a rickety table and beside this, on the pavement, some street vendors had set up shop under the shade of a tree and were squatting in a circle, eating their lunch from a tin. Perhaps it was
her state of mind, but the noise and humidity were overwhelming.

Eva flagged down a taxi, got in and gave them the address of Ramon’s factory. She sat back, relieved to feel the air-conditioning cool on her skin. But what would she say to him? Should she tell him where she had been? Confront him with what Klaus had told her? Eva sank further back into the leather seat. She would wait and see how things panned out, she decided.

Ramon’s company, ‘Handmade in Mandalay’, was situated on the edge of town and so, although it was a factory, it had escaped most of the city’s noise and pollution. The building was single-storey and made of wood and bamboo, and it was clear from the outset that it was mostly un-mechanised. Eva leaned forwards in the taxi as they approached. They might be having financial problems, but the place still seemed busy. A truck parked outside the building on the other side of the compound was being loaded with crates, presumably destined for shipping. A couple of men in flip-flops wearing
longyis
and loose shirts and carrying clipboards were talking by the factory entrance, another was taking some tools inside and several men were squatting as they worked on furniture on a wide terrace at the front.

Ramon was just coming outside. When he saw the taxi, he waved and came straight over.

‘Eva, you made it.’

‘Of course.’ He looked happy to see her and, despite everything, this thought gave her a bit of a glow. She took the hand
he offered to help her out of the taxi. And fervently hoped that Klaus had got it wrong.

Ramon spoke to the taxi driver and handed him two thousand kyatts.

‘It’s OK, I’ve got it.’ Eva was fumbling in her purse.

‘It is done.’ Ramon waved her money away much as he had done after dinner last night, took her arm and led her towards the factory. His enthusiasm was obvious from the spring in his step. He was back in a red-and-black checked
longyi
and grey shirt this afternoon and Eva had to admit that it suited him. ‘And now,’ he said, ‘I must show you what we produce.’

*

They began at the back of the factory. It was badly lit, the raw wood stacked on shelves up to the ceiling, the floor covered in shavings. ‘This is where the process begins,’ Ramon told her. ‘The decisions of design have been made, the planks have arrived from the saw mill, we can now select the timber for each item of furniture.’

After this, she learnt, each potential piece – chests, cabinets, chairs, tables, some simple in design, some ornate – went on a journey through the factory, moving from one pair of practised hands to the next. It was about as different to what she’d seen at Li’s as it could be.

It was a long process and everything was in a different stage of construction. ‘Each piece must be sawn and planed using only traditional methods,’ Ramon told her. Which explained the lack of mechanisation. Eva remembered what Ramon had said about his business ethics, about the importance of
retaining the hand-crafted element in quality furniture. This was what they stood for. And practically the only bit of modern technology she spotted was the electric router, though the man wielding it sat shirtless and cross-legged on a plank of wood. Others squatted or crouched at their work, their dark hair matted with wood-shavings, their arms and legs bare and dusty. The sound of tapping, sawing and the occasional drone of voices filled the air.

‘Some of our workers have been here for many years,’ Ramon said proudly as they watched a man wielding an ancient saw. He was barefoot and stood on a plank, using his toes like a vice to help support the wood as he worked it. There was a real connection, she realised, between the craftsman and his materials, between the human body and mind and what he was making. It was humbling. It was how things used to be in the rest of the world too, she thought. Before production speed became the driving force. Before time was money. But where something was gained, something was also lost …

They picked their way past the low stools, mats and items of half-made furniture, and moved on to the next stage of the process.

‘Who’s this?’ Eva paused by an old photograph in a frame on the wall. It was a black-and-white shot. A tall young man stood by an open topped British vintage car, one hand resting on it in a proprietorial gesture. He had longish dark hair, light eyes and Ramon’s smile.

‘My father,’ he said. He straightened the frame. ‘He began
this company in 1965. It was unusual in those days. A very brave step to take.’

Eva nodded. ‘How old was he?’

‘Only twenty-five.’

And Eva could hear the pride in his voice.

Ramon showed her how they used paper templates of most of their designs, which were then carved out with a chisel and a wooden pestle, working carefully with the grain of the wood. She watched his demonstration. Ramon worked with an easy confidence, his brown arms flecked with sawdust, his fingers applying the pressure, swift and sure. She could see the narrow blue veins on the inside of his wrist as he guided the chisel, in his hands the most delicate of tools. And she watched his face as he worked, observing his instant absorption in the job in hand, his eyes still and yet alert. A master craftsman, totally at one with his subject. An artist. Eva breathed in the scent of the wood, sweet and smoky, rich and mellow, sultry.

‘We still have some of the traditional British hand-tools my father insisted were shipped over,’ Ramon said. He pointed to the chisel. ‘There is one. Also hand planes and saws. He thought British construction methods were the best and he taught some of our workers his own father’s way.’ He laughed. ‘So now we have what you might call a fusion.’

East meets West, thought Eva. There were the hinges and the gluing and the cutting out for locks and handles. Sometimes there was delicate gilding work to be done. And then the final stages of staining, sanding and polishing. The final
polishing of each piece was usually done outside and in daylight.

Much of the furniture was highly glossed. Which meant that it was coated with several layers of lacquer, each one left to dry, sanded down and polished until the piece positively shone. ‘This is what most of our clients prefer,’ Ramon told her. ‘We cater mainly for the Oriental market, of course.’ He leaned closer. ‘Although, as I explained, we are hoping for that to change.’

Eva was aware that he had already begun shipping elsewhere. She just hoped that the little business wouldn’t lose sight of its original values.

‘What are these?’ She picked up a small packet of coloured powder wrapped in cellophane from a whole stack lined up on a shelf. They looked like spices; turmeric or paprika.

‘Dye.’ He indicated the finished products: a set of dining chairs with long narrow spindles and curved backs in rich burgundy with gilded carving on their arms; a glass cabinet with ornate handles in the shape of swans in a teak so dark it was almost chocolate and a lamp-stand of light yellow wood, a delicate carving of a woman wearing a crown and a necklace of flowers carved on its base. Some were made of mixtures that had been subtly blended, and although the stained wood was not to Eva’s taste – she preferred the natural shade of teak that was also very much in evidence – she had to admire the craftsmanship.

The golden teak wood was her favourite, a natural shade that had been hand rubbed until it shone. But there were also
contemporary finishes such as lime wash and teak oil. The range was considerable and the pieces that emerged were breath-taking in their quality, workmanship and lustre. And they were so solid. Eva ran her fingers over the shiny surface of a table that was smooth as a baby’s skin. But there the resemblance ended; these pieces were heavy. They were built to last.

‘And what’s the new development you mentioned?’ she asked him, thinking about what he’d said when they were on the way to Mandalay.

‘Ah.’ He led her over to a far corner of the factory. Here, a carpenter was working on a different looking wood. Old wood, she thought. ‘Recycling,’ he said proudly. ‘This is my new project. There will come a day when Myanmar must not destroy any more of its natural forest. And yet there are many neglected structures such as old cattle houses, derelict homes and bridges in our country that can provide old wood, good wood for the making of a different sort of furniture.’ He picked up some old, very wide planking. ‘We ensure that the wood is salvaged responsibly,’ he said. ‘And look at what we find. Its long seasoning time has given it good stability. It has weathered to show a richer heart within. Is it not beautiful, Eva? Look at the closeness and evenness of the grain. Does this piece not have a history?’