The Art of Hearing Heartbeats (27 page)

He was supposed to open his eyes. As if it were that simple. After eight years.

He wanted to wait until Mi Mi was sitting before him. He wanted her, and only her, to be the first thing he saw. He granted them a crack. He peered through them as if out of a hiding place.

The veil was gone. Just like that, the milky gray fog had disappeared.

Everything he saw was sharp and clear. The acuity sent a pang from his eyeballs across his brow all the way to the back of his neck. Doctor McCrae and U Saw were standing in front of him. They were staring at him, proud and anxious, as though they had created the world afresh, just for him.

His uncle’s face. Yes, there it was. He saw it.

His eyes closed again. No, it didn’t hurt. No, he was not dizzy. No, he did not wish to lie down. It was just too much. Too much light. Too many eyes staring at him. Too many expectations. Too many colors. They irritated him. The creamy white of U Saw’s teeth with their brown edges. The silvery glint of the chrome lamp on the doctor’s desk. His reddish hair and eyebrows. The nurses’ dark-red lips. Tin Win had lived in a black-and-white world. Colors make no sound. They neither bubble, nor chirp, nor croak. His memory of them had faded over the years, like symbols written on a page.

Please open your eyes again. Tin Win shook his head.

“Something is wrong with him,” U Saw said.

“I don’t think so. It’s the shock. He’ll get used to it.”

Both were right.

T
in Win sat on a redbrick wall on the banks of the Rangoon River, the harbor spread out before him.

Open your eyes. He had to remind himself. Ten light-filled days. Ten days crammed with images. Needle sharp. Multicolored. He still wasn’t used to it.

Downstream stood leafless trees of steel rattling back and forth on rails. Their hooks vanished into the bellies of freighters to reemerge carrying dozens of bound sacks. Yesterday they hoisted an elephant on board. He was hanging from
ropes in a red tarpaulin, waving his legs about. Helpless, like a beetle on its back. In front of the warehouses were piles of crates and casks, destinations spelled out in black. Calcutta. Colombo. Liverpool. Marseilles. Port Said. New York.

Hundreds of boats cruised the harbor. Some under sail, others motorized. In many sat a lone rower. Several ships were so brimming with people, baskets, and bicycles that every swell brought water on board. Upstream, houseboats were homes to entire families. Between the masts the laundry hung to dry. Children scampered on deck. An old man napped in a hammock.

Tin Win watched seagulls glide without a wing beat through the air. He had never seen such elegant birds. It was damp and hot, despite the light breeze that flitted across the water.

Again he shut his eyes. He heard the piston beats of a ship’s motor. The wood worms in the wall of the warehouse next to him. The faltering heartbeats of the fish in a basket at his feet. The slap of waves against the hulls. He could tell by the tone whether a boat was built of metal or wood. He could even distinguish different types of wooden planks. These noises portrayed the harbor more vividly than anything his eyes might have taken in. Eyes registered images, a torrent of them. Every second, every movement of his pupils, every turn of his head resulted in new ones. He watched these images, but they did not engage him. He was a curious observer, nothing more.

For minutes at a time his eyes might fixate on the same spot, on a sail, an anchor, a cutter, or a blossom in his uncle’s garden. He would touch the object with his gaze, get the feel of it, every crook, every edge, every shadow, as if he could take it apart and put it back together in order to look behind the surfaces, the façade. Bring it to life. It did not work. Seeing something—a bird, a person, a fishing boat—neither made that object more real nor brought it any closer to him. The images before him would lapse into motion, yet images they remained. Tin Win felt an odd distance between himself and everything he saw. The glasses were a poor substitute for Mi Mi’s eyes.

He climbed off the wall and walked along the harbor. Was he an ingrate? What had he expected? His eyes were indeed practical in everyday life. He got around more easily, didn’t need to worry about running into chairs or walls, or about tripping over sleeping dogs or tree roots. They were tools he would soon master. They would make his life safer, simpler, and more comfortable.

Perhaps the distance they created was the price one had to pay. The essence of a thing is invisible to the eye, U May said. Learn to perceive the essence of a thing. Eyes are more likely to hinder you in that regard. They distract us. We love to be dazzled. Tin Win remembered every word.

He walked along the Rangoon River, past boats and cranes. Around him men carried sacks of rice from the pier into a warehouse. They walked bent, carrying their burdens on their backs. They had tied their longyis up above
their knees. The sweat made their eyes sticky. Their dark legs were slender as sticks and their muscles tensed with every step under the weight. Coolies at work. Only when Tin Win closed his eyes did the scene move him. They were groaning. Softly but woefully. Their stomachs growled with hunger. Their lungs were gasping for breath. Their hearts were spent and feeble.

So. He had retained the capacity to hear. He would think of vision as an auxiliary sense. It would do no harm, provided he took U May’s warning to heart.

He walked farther downstream, then turned into an alley. The air in it was nearly unbearable. No breeze from the harbor, none of the openness of the avenues where Europeans strolled. Most of the closely packed houses were of wood, with windows wide open. He felt he had descended into the cellar of the city. It was filthy, narrow, loud. It stank of sweat and urine. In the gutters lay rotten fruit, scraps of food, rags, and paper. On all sides people squatted on stools, and benches packed the far-too-slim sidewalk. Many edged into the street. The single-story shops were crammed to the ceiling with goods: bolts of cloth, tea, herbs, vegetables, noodles, and above all rice. Tin Win had not known there were so many varieties, each with its distinctive bouquet. The passersby laughed and chatted in a language he did not understand. Many stared at him as if he was an intruder.

Tin Win wondered if he ought to turn around. He closed his eyes. There was nothing threatening in the sounds he heard. Fat sizzled in the kitchens. Women kneaded dough
or chopped meat and vegetables. In the upper stories children were laughing and shrieking. The voices on the street were not hostile.

Nor the hearts.

He walked on, taking in the sounds, the scents, the sights, putting everything in its place, wrapping up the impressions and tucking them away to share them later with Mi Mi.

He wandered from a Chinese quarter into an Indian one. The people were taller, their skin darker, but the air was no better, the streets no less crowded. Another room in the cellar. The cooking smells were more familiar. Curry. Ginger. Lemongrass. Red pepper. The people he passed paid him no heed. Tin Win could not determine from the heartbeats whether he was walking down a Chinese or an Indian street, whether he was among the English or the Burmese. Hearts sounded different from person to person, betraying age or youth, joy, sorrow, fear, or courage, but that was all.

The driver was waiting for him, as agreed, in the early evening near the Sule Pagoda. They drove past lakes reflecting clouds of dusk in light pink.

A
t home U Saw was waiting for him. Uncle and nephew had dined together every evening since the operation. On that first occasion Tin Win had felt so ill at ease that he had touched neither his rice nor his curry. He had excused
himself, blaming the heat. U Saw did not notice his lack of appetite. He had wanted to know what his nephew had done that first day with his—U Saw’s—gift. What did you see? Where did you go?

The questions made Tin Win uncomfortable. He did not wish to share his experiences with U Saw. He was saving them for Mi Mi. At the same time, he did not wish to appear impolite or altogether unappreciative. He outlined skeletal impressions as succinctly as possible. On the fifth evening Tin Win noticed that his uncle did not react at all when he repeated the stories from the previous evening. U Saw was not listening. Or he was not interested. Probably both. That made things easier. Same questions, same answers. And thus arose evening after evening a conversation that his uncle invariably cut short in mid-sentence after exactly twenty minutes. Just as he was taking his last bite, he would stand up and explain that he still had work to do. Bidding Tin Win a good night and a pleasant morrow, he would disappear.

Today was different. U Saw was standing in the corridor, welcoming a visitor. They bowed repeatedly and spoke in a language Tin Win did not know. When his uncle saw him coming, he waved him through into his office. Tin Win sat waiting on the edge of a leather armchair. The room was dark. Against the walls books were piled up to the ceiling. On the leather-upholstered desk a fan was blowing hot air. U Saw came in a few minutes later. He sat down behind the desk and looked at Tin Win.

“You attended the monastery school in Kalaw, did you not?”

“I did.”

“You know how to count?”

“Yes.”

“And to read?”

“Yes. Braille. I used to …”

“And to write?”

“Before I went blind I could write.”

“It will come back quickly. I would like you to go to school in Rangoon.”

Tin Win had been hoping for the train ticket to Kalaw. Perhaps not tomorrow, but in the coming days. The prospect had given him the strength to weather those days and to explore the city. Now he was supposed to go to school. In Rangoon. Stay. U Saw did not make suggestions. He simply announced what was to be done. Tin Win’s respect for an older family member prevented him from doing anything but showing humility and gratitude. Only one person in this house asked questions.

“I am not worthy of your generosity, Uncle.”

“It’s nothing, really. I know the director of St. Paul’s High School. You will visit him first thing tomorrow morning. The driver will take you. Actually, you are too old, but he has agreed to test you. I am certain he can help us.”

U Saw rose. “Now I must attend to my guest. Tomorrow evening you will report to me about St. Paul’s.”

U Saw went into the parlor, where the Japanese consul sat waiting for him. He wondered briefly whether Tin Win’s gratitude was genuine. Did it matter? The astrologer had left him no choice, anyway. A generous donation to the hospital in Rangoon would not help. It had to be a relative, and it must be a long-term commitment. He had to take the boy under his wing. Besides, had not the astrologer’s warnings and U Saw’s generosity already borne fruit? Had he not, only two days after the operation, signed his name to the long-coveted contract for the sale of rice to the government? Would not all British garrisons in the capital soon be eating his rice? Even the negotiations for the purchase of the cotton fields on the banks of the Irrawaddy had shown surprising promise since Tin Win’s arrival.

Perhaps, U Saw thought, I have brought a lucky charm into the house. He ought to remain in Rangoon at least for the next two years. U Saw might even find a use for him in his expanding business. Why should Tin Win not make a valuable assistant? It was no imposition to keep him in the household. What’s more, he always told such novel and entertaining tales at table.

U Saw read no further. He shook his head, set the letter aside, and pulled a handful of new envelopes out of the stack in front of him.