Читать книгу Playing Lady Gaga, Being Nan Pau - Steve Tolbert - Страница 11

Mya stood in front of him, listening to the rain on the roof, eyeing framed portraits of generals on the wall, spots of peeling paint, warped floorboards – anything but his face.

‘This girl could not invent the amount of trouble she is in,’ Mister MI said from behind his desk.

Finally Mya looked at him as he studied her shoulder bag, writing pad, dictionary, rat poison, Nan Pau’s ID card and a folder, its contents unknown to her. ‘Would you agree, Aung Min?’

‘I do,’ the whiskey drinker answered from the open doorway, a cheroot pressed between thumb and forefinger.

Mister MI stood. Hands on the desk, he leaned forward, eyes challenging Mya. ‘I’ve been told by the old nun you shared a ride with in Moulmein and by the abbot of Thein Tan Gyi Monastery, before he was hospitalised, that you are a bright girl. So, that being—’

‘Why was the abbot hospitalised?’ she interrupted, her fear turning to surprise.

‘Only speak when I am not,’ Mister MI snapped. ‘Otherwise learn silence. As a wearer of that robe, I should not have to tell you that.’ His face softened a little. ‘The abbot, I believe, had a heart attack. Most likely he’s joined his ancestors. But maybe not. Either way, you’ll never see him again.’ He paused to let her absorb that. ‘So, Mya Paw Wah, as a bright student, you must know what a proverb is.’

She gazed, dumbfounded. What sort of a comment was that?

‘Well? Do you or not?’

‘Like an aphorism, it’s a short sentence that expresses something true in life.’

‘A worthy answer from someone so young.’ He sounded so superior, like he knew everything there was to know about the world. ‘Now, as a student who has been top of her class and been reading the Tripitaka the past few days, I hear, perhaps you can give me an example.’

It took a while to think of one. ‘When people show compassion for all living things, only then are they noble.’

A smile crept across his face. ‘Bright as paint, aren’t you? The abbot and old nun were right … about your knowledge anyway, as opposed to your actions. I have a proverb for you, Mya. Tell me if you’ve heard it before. Endings can be read in beginnings.’

She shook her head.

‘I’ll change the wording but keep the essence of the proverb intact. Actions result from thoughts. Or, decisions have consequences that a decision-maker must take full responsibility for. Appropriate to remember, don’t you think, for someone who beat a policman unconscious, posed as a novice nun in an effort to escape and had to be chased down an hour ago only spitting distance from her destination?’

Mya vowed not to break eye contact until he did.

He picked up the folder and took out some enlarged photos. ‘We’ll start from the beginning.’ He pointed to the first photo. ‘Recognise it?’

‘A protest march.’

‘The protest march. Don’t be coy with me. Next one.’

The photographer had to have been up a tree. She wanted to say something defiant, but nothing came. ‘Me, my dead brother and a nun he was helping. She’s dead now too.’

‘Thant was his name, hers Nan Pau. Correct?’ He tapped the ID card with his index finger.

Mya nodded and clasped her hands together to keep them from trembling.

‘I take your nod to mean yes.’ He pointed to the next photo.

‘Me, a construction worker and the policeman who killed my brother.’

‘How your brother and the nun died are anybody’s guess. Wrong place at the wrong time in an illegal protest march they should never have taken part in. What is verifiable from this photo is the identity of the person holding a brick over the head of a collapsed policeman. Agreed? … I take your silence to mean yes. Next.’ He tapped.

‘Me … and a monk.’

‘That monk being the abbot of Thein Tan Gyi Monastery. Next.’ He pointed.

Mya felt sick. ‘A nun getting off a bus at a market place.’

‘The Hpa-an market place to be exact, the same spot you got off. Try again. Get the imposter nun’s identity right and I’ll tell you where she is.’

She drove her fingernails into her palms. ‘You already know who she is.’

‘Your mother, am I right?’

Mya glared.

‘I take your silence to mean yes. Right now she is occupying a room at the back of the Soe Guesthouse, not far from here. Last photo, Mya.’ He pointed. ‘Who is this running towards the market place?’

‘You know who.’

‘With two policemen chasing after you, am I right?’

She nodded.

‘Good. That was easy, wasn’t it?’ He sat, put his hand in a drawer, clicked a button and brought out a cassette tape and placed it on the desk. ‘Endings can be read in beginnings. Decisions have their consequences. Your future is dependent on your past. In your case, a future as a long-term prisoner for crimes committed against the state: namely, involvement in an illegal march, vicious assault on a policeman, carrying a forged ID card and impersonating a novice nun while heading towards a war zone to join the Karen rebel movement.’ He held up the cassette and photos. ‘All here as passports to your and your mother’s future inside Insein Prison, better known as the Iron Bar Hotel, as I’m sure you know.’ He leaned back in his chair, looking satisfied, like he’d just finished a big meal. ‘Happy with that?’

She felt numb, like a block of concrete.

‘You’re not smiling.’ He continued to watch her, perhaps reading the fear in her face. ‘Feeling overwhelmed and abandoned, are you? And I haven’t even mentioned your father, currently serving a long sentence in a northern labour camp. You’re from a family that refuses to learn the consequences of disobeying the law, of doing your utmost to destroy the country’s peace and harmony.’ He glared. ‘As to your future …’ He started picking his way through her things, letting her stew. ‘Thirty years inside the Iron Bar Hotel sounds right to me. Two rice gruel meals a day, one bucket-wash a week, a rat stick to catch your meat with.’

Her eyes moistened. She clenched her teeth, held her breath. She would not cry – not one tear.

‘Unless.’ Mister MI gestured to the whiskey drinker, who tossed away his cheroot and came up to the desk. ‘Are you a compassionate man, Aung Min?’ he asked.

Aung Min seemed puzzled at first, then he grinned. ‘I am.’

‘Do you try to perform at least one merciful act a day?’

‘I do.’

‘When you look at me, Aung Min, what sort of a man do you see?’

‘A man of great mercy and Buddha-like compassion.’

‘Fine words. Thank you. Having established that, maybe we should perform today’s merciful act together.’

The whiskey drinker nodded, understanding and grinning now. ‘She is fit,’ he said, ‘her legs strong.’

Mister MI leaned forward and gazed almost tenderly at Mya. ‘I have a proposal, one that will give you an opportunity to redeem yourself. And if you accept it, there will be no need to disturb your mother at the Soe Guesthouse.’

Seconds passed. ‘What?’

‘Perform a noble act, for the good of the country this time.’

‘Doing what?’

He crossed his arms, heaved a sigh. ‘You show no appreciation, no trust. You’ve taken up too much of my time the past few days. Forget the offer. We’ll collect your mother and go back to Yangon together.’ He picked up a mobile phone.

‘No, wait. I’ll … I’ll do what you want me to.’

That smile again. ‘Good,’ he crooned, as though encouraging a child. He put the phone down, turned to the whiskey drinker and said, ‘She’s yours.’