The Art of Hearing Heartbeats (28 page)

U Saw refolded the letters. He had read enough. Where does love end and madness begin, he asked himself while tucking the papers back into their envelopes.

Why did Tin Win continue to write of the gratitude and admiration he felt for this woman? Even after long reflection U Saw could not think of a single person he particularly admired. To be sure, he respected a few of the rice barons. Especially those more successful than he. He had respect, too, for a number of the English, though recently it had been on the wane. And gratitude? He knew no one to whom he owed gratitude. He had been grateful to his wife whenever she held her tongue long enough for him to eat his dinner in peace.

He looked at the stack of letters sitting on the desk in front of him. His nephew had written a letter to this Mi Mi in Kalaw every day for the past year. A whole year. Every day. Without fail. And all in spite of the fact that he had never yet received a single response. Of course, he also sorted out the letters that came from Mi Mi every day with the afternoon post. They hear and read nothing of each other, and still they never fail to write. U Saw had to laugh out loud at so much lunacy. He tried to contain himself, but snorted, choked, coughed, and gasped for breath. When he had calmed himself, he put the envelopes back in the top drawer and opened the bottom one, where he had been keeping Mi Mi’s letters, unread until now. He selected a few at random.

U Saw dropped the letter. He stood up and went to the window. It was raining. On the puddles the drops formed fat bubbles that quickly popped.

Tin Win and Mi Mi were out of their minds. Not one bitter word, not even after a year of silence. No hint of an accusation. Why aren’t you writing to me? Where are your responses? I’m writing every day, what about you? Don’t you love me anymore? Is there someone else?

He was happy that love was not a contagious disease. Otherwise he would have had to fire all his servants and thoroughly sanitize the villa and the garden. He might even have already contracted it himself, might have fallen for one of his female servants—a notion that he refused to entertain further.

U Saw considered whether the letters changed his plans in any way. He was convinced the infatuation would pass. There was no emotion strong enough to withstand the corrosive power of time. Given distance and the passage of years, this love, too, would eventually fall to pieces.

In all other ways Tin Win proved to be extraordinarily competent and useful. He seemed to have deflected the catastrophe foretold by the astrologer. Business was running more smoothly than ever, and that even while the general business climate was deteriorating. On top of everything else, the teachers at St. Paul’s High School—far and away the most prestigious school in Burma, incidentally—regarded Tin Win as extraordinarily talented. Everyone was predicting an illustrious future for him. After his graduation in one year he would be accepted at any university in England and would certainly be offered a scholarship, the director thought. The country would need native talent down the road.

U Saw had been flattered, but the war in Europe had him worried. It was going to escalate. The Japanese were advancing in Asia, and it could be only a matter of months, perhaps weeks, before they would be attacking the British colonial government. How long would the English then be able to resist the Germans in Europe? For him it was only a question of time before the German flag was fluttering atop Big Ben. The era of London as the capital of the world was coming to its inevitable close.

U Saw had other plans.

TIN WIN HAD
imagined the departure of a passenger steamer as something quite festive. The crew on board in white uniforms. Music. Pennants and banners in the wind. A few words from the captain perhaps. Instead, the sailors walked past him in oil-smeared uniforms. There was no band. No streamers, no confetti. He leaned on the railing, looking down at the quay. In the shadow of a warehouse stood a horse cart and several rickshaws whose drivers lay sleeping in their vehicles. The gangplank had long since been drawn up. In front of the ship a few uniformed men from the port authority were still waiting around. Some passengers’ relatives were gazing at the black hull of the ship and waving, craning their necks like baby birds. Tin Win did not see anyone he knew. At U Saw’s behest, Hla Taw had remained at home. A driver brought Tin Win
to the harbor. Two porters took his trunk and lugged it on board for him. They were long gone now.

He and U Saw had dined together the night before, after which U Saw had given him the travel documents. The passport with the visa for the United States of America. One ticket for the journey to Liverpool, a second for the Atlantic crossing. A letter to his business partner, an Indian rice importer in New York who was supposed to look after Tin Win for the first few months. An envelope with money. Once more he had explained what he was expecting of him. At least six letters a year with detailed reports. A college degree. With honors. He had spelled out once again the future that awaited him on his return. He would make him into a manager, then into a partner. He would be among the most influential men in the city. He would want for nothing.

U Saw wished him every success. On his journey, with his studies. Then he turned and walked into his study. There was no physical contact between them. They never saw each other again.

Watching him go, Tin Win wondered how long it took a young tree to establish roots after being transplanted. A few months? A year? Two? Three? He had lived in Rangoon for two years now and had felt out of place the entire time. He had remained a stranger in the city. A tree that might be lifted and carried off by a gust of wind.

At school the teachers respected him for his accomplishments. His fellow students appreciated his readiness to help.
Friends he had none. There was no one keeping Tin Win in Rangoon.

He looked out over the harbor and the city. The golden spire of the Shwedagon Pagoda glinted far off in the late-afternoon sun. The sky was blue, without a cloud. In the weeks preceding his departure, Tin Win had spent many evenings wandering through the city. Along the way he had picked up on the rumors that were sweeping the city like a swarm of locusts in a paddy field. Every lowered voice at every soup stand offered a new one. As if people were living off nothing else. In the Bay of Bengal, the typhoon of the century was brewing, ran one theory. A tiger had swum across the harbor basin and helped himself to a family of five, along with the pet pig. Which, on top of everything else—as if it were not tragic enough in and of itself—was a clear sign of an impending earthquake, as anyone with even a modest confidence in fortune-tellers knew. German warships were blockading English ports, it was said, and, worse yet, the Japanese were preparing to attack Burma. The stars were not favorable for the British, neither in Europe nor in Asia. Burma was as good as lost if the invasion were to fall on a Wednesday or a Sunday.

Tin Win noticed these rumors and in a humble way even contributed to their dissemination. Not because he lent them any credence, but rather out of a sense of civic duty. The prattle meant nothing to him. True, his journey would take him through the Bay of Bengal and into English ports, but he was not afraid. Not of earthquakes,
and not of the Japanese. Not of typhoons. Not of German U-boats.

His fear had dissipated gradually. Tin Win did not know when or how it had started. It was a lengthy process. A mango does not ripen overnight. He first noticed it on one of those unbearably hot summer days. He sat bathed in sweat in the park at the Royal Lake. A pair of doves perched in front of him, their heads drawn in, too exhausted to bill and coo. He gazed at the water and dreamt of Mi Mi. For the first time, the thought of her did not evoke in him that crippling, all-consuming longing that would sap him of all vigor. No fear. Not even sorrow. He loved Mi Mi more than ever, but his love was not devouring him. It no longer chained him. Not to his bed, not to a tree stump.

When it started to pour, he closed his eyes. A brief but intense shower. When he opened his eyes again, dusk had fallen. He straightened, walked a few paces, and felt with his whole body that something had changed. A burden had fallen away from him. He was free. He expected nothing more from life. Not because he was disappointed or embittered. He expected nothing because there was nothing of importance he had not already experienced. He possessed all the happiness a person could find. He loved and was loved. Unconditionally. He spoke a sentence aloud, softly, barely moving his lips.

As long as he breathed, he would love her and be loved by her. Even if she lived two days’ journey away. Even if she did not answer his letters and he had given up all hope of seeing her again anytime in the next few years. He would
live every day as if he had woken up next to Mi Mi and would fall asleep beside her.

“Cast off.” The voice of a young officer on the bridge wrenched Tin Win out of his reverie.

“Cast off,” repeated two men on the pier. With a splash the lines fell into the water. Black smoke billowed from the stacks. The ship vibrated. The blast of the horn was loud and deep. Tin Win turned around. An old man beside him gazed at Rangoon and briefly tipped his hat, a curious melancholy in his eyes. As if he was taking leave of more than just a city full of people. Beyond him two young Englishwomen waved white handkerchiefs and wept.