Читать книгу Playing Lady Gaga, Being Nan Pau - Steve Tolbert - Страница 13

She woke to a blinding glare, itchy skin, ringing ears, a low throbbing noise coming closer and closer. Then WHUMP, WHUMP, WHUMP … Dirt and bits of plant life flying around. A helicopter beating away all other sounds.

There came an image of grey limestone cliffs, stupas and their spires perched on the most inaccessible knolls and outcrops. Now she understood: helicopter, yes, that’s how the stupa builders got up there, by helicopter.

Stupas and spires faded; so too the whump, whump, whump …

***

Hot pain, like she’d been stabbed in the head, leg and arm. Grit inside her mouth that she tried to push out with her tongue. Mya opened her eyes, wondering why they had been closed, why she was on her back, the sun blazing down, the ground rippling in the heat. She raised her head until she couldn’t.

Vague figures nearby.

Buzz of talk.

She lifted an arm and as she stared at the matted blood and red ants running up and down it, a shadow spread over her. A boot jabbed her in the ribs. A man shouted, ‘This one’s come to life.’

She tried to talk, but nothing came out.

Two figures, now like paper cut-outs against the sun, rifle barrels peering over their backs. Behind them a familiar voice, ‘Unchain her. Get a stretcher made. She goes back with us.’

Her head lolled to the side. Below the two figures, a crumpled body, its backside and legs ripped open, bits of longyi and singlet scattered about. She stared, memory of Thant’s body tunnelling her back. ‘This is for Thant!’ she screamed, belting the policeman below the ear.

Her head grew heavy, like it was being buried under bricks.

Death: let it happen.

Her vision faded, the figures over her melting into the sun.

***

In a stretcher, bumping along, rocking side to side. Overhanging branches, patches of sky moving backwards. Smell of earth and sweat. Pain in her head, leg and arm. Ringing ears. Someone’s laboured breathing. ‘I am Kho Noc.’ She lay there, adjusting to being alive, then tried to lift herself up, but couldn’t. She was strapped down, porters on each end, supply baskets fastened to their shoulders.

In her mind random images and sounds: screaming, explosions, shackles and locks. She tried to order them, fill in the gaps, before looking down the stretcher at her legs and feet still attached, left leg wrapped in cloth. Arms by her sides, the left one wrapped also. She clenched and unclenched her hands; thankfully they worked. Her bag was next to her, a section of robe sticking out. ‘We’re almost there, Kho Noc.’ Her head fell back. ‘Are soldiers close by?’ she asked the porter at her head.

‘No. You can talk quietly. I’ll tell you when to stop.’

‘Where are we?’

‘We left the combat zone hours ago. We’re returning to the trucks. The great Burmese army has had another glorious victory, destroying another Karen village, killing more blood-sucking revolutionaries and leaving four porters behind for the vultures to watch over. Television interviews, photographs and front page newspaper headlines are sure to follow in Yangon and Mandalay reporting the number of medals pinned to our beloved officer’s chest.’

More memory gaps filled. ‘Medals for men who behave like monsters,’ Mya added. There seemed nothing wrong with her ability to use words. She must have been born with a metal skull.

They crossed a creek, went up a rise.

‘And me?’ she asked.

‘You, novice nun turned porter and mine sweeper? Sorry, only your compassionate self and our heroic officer would know the answer to that. What did you do, murder a general?’

‘No … Not a general.’

He’d misunderstood her. As well, he’d spotted her robe. She thought about telling him why she had it, but decided not to. Her head wasn’t up to it. ‘What I mean is – why am I in this stretcher? I should be walking.’

‘Landmine explosion. You suffered concussion, a gash or two, some lacerations. But nothing is missing, and you’re thinking, talking and hearing alright. You’ll recover because the officer wants you to. Maybe you’re lucky, maybe you’re not.’

The track flattened. The bushes thickened. ‘In the clearing there was an old porter next to me.’ Mya braced herself for the answer.

‘He stepped on the mine that put you on the ground.’

‘Dead?’

‘Yes.’

They slowed to veer around low-lying branches then continued on.

She asked, ‘Did you know him well?’

‘No. He kept to himself.’

‘His name was Kho Noc and he was a good man.’

‘He told you his name?

‘Yes.’

‘Then feel complimented. He chose you to remember him … Soldier coming.’

***

Morning.

Mya’s head slumped against a wall, her legs stretched out on another strange bed in another strange room. Yet, even with the sun streaming through the open doorway, it seemed marginally cooler here than in Yangon or Moulmein, so she still had to be in Karen State. That was something positive anyway.

A Chinese doctor was examining her; he moved quickly, his eyes darting about like time spent with Mya was costing him money. ‘Cuts and bumps and bruising. But no broken bones. Your eyes are clear. There don’t appear to be any after-effects from concussion. You’re a very lucky girl.’

Lucky? Crossing a minefield? Witnessing people being shot and blown up? Privileged and well-dressed – would you even know what a bush track looked like, doctor?

‘A few small scars as a reminder, nothing more.’ He finished and quickly packed up his things. ‘I’ll leave the crutch on the floor next to you,’ he said. ‘Use it when you have to go to the toilet, which is out the door and to the right.’ He placed a capsule of tablets and rolls of gauze and tape next to the crutch. ‘Replace the bandages when they get dirty. I’ll return in a week to take the stitches out.’

Mya could have worked all that out for herself. She asked, ‘Where am I?’

He turned away as though deaf and walked towards the doorway.

‘Anaesthetic, stitches, clean bandages and pain tablets. Who’s paying for this?’

He stopped, scanned the corners where the roof met the walls. He returned, bent down and said quietly, ‘The military. You’re at a military police compound on the edge of Hpa-an. If you get the chance, get away.’

Mya had misjudged him. By the time she finished thanking him, he was out the door.

Her arm and leg were still anaesthetised, so she felt no discomfort in reaching for the crutch. She hoisted herself up, put the crutch under her arm and moved to the doorway. A soldier was sitting on a plastic chair, legs outstretched, head propped against the wall. In the distance a steel-mesh fence separated the compound from the town. A soccer pitch was just metres away; beyond that all things military. The guard turned and Mya told him where she was going. He sprang up and followed her anyway. ‘Do we go in together?’ she asked when they arrived at the toilet.

‘Be quick.’

She wasn’t.

Back in the room, Mya tried to read her Tripitaka, then her English guide book, but kept reading the same passages over and over again.

Midday, and in came the whiskey drinker and a neatly-dressed, paunchy man with pitted skin and thinning hair. They stood over Mya, gawking.

‘What do you want?’ she asked finally, her nerves raw and stretched.

The whiskey drinker’s mouth lifted into the thick-lipped smile she’d learned to hate. ‘To settle your future, Mya.’

‘You can do that by going away, taking the guard with you and leaving the door unlocked.’

‘Sorry – not on the option list. Listen carefully and I’ll tell you what is. Option one: as you’ve obviously impressed someone, consider this. Military Intelligence is looking for young people with your strengths and skills. The training is short and the pay is good, and you’ll have a choice of where you’d like to work: Yangon, Moulmein or here in Hpa-an.’

Mya imagined a full-velocity roof fan dropping on him, his body parts flying. ‘Doing what, working as an MI stooge, spying and informing on people I know?’

‘Maybe observing and reporting deviant behaviour would be a better choice of words.’

‘Go break a leg.’

‘As I thought. Your future is settled then. Option two it is, as there is no option three.’ The whiskey drinker turned to the man. ‘Her wounds will heal with little scarring, if any. The bruises will be gone in a few days.’

‘When do the—’ the man pointed to Mya’s stitches ‘—come out?’ His Burmese was poor. Mya picked him for a Thai.

‘In a week or two. Anyone with one eye working, tweezers and half a brain can take them out.’

‘Is she a …’

‘A virgin?’

‘That’s what I mean, yes.’

The whiskey drinker turned to Mya. ‘Answer him.’

She pulled the sheet up to her chin, closed her eyes and wished them to go away.

‘Mya’s mother is staying at the Soe Guesthouse. Whether she is still there in a week, a month, a year, depends on her daughter. Could you repeat the question?’

The man did.

‘He’s waiting, Mya.’

‘Not since I was four.’ Mya looked at the man, the thin smile stretching his lips.

‘A sense of humour as well as good looks, which will only improve once her hair and eyebrows grow back. I’ll take her.’

‘Fine,’ Aung Min crooned, showing his pleasure. ‘One opportunity leads to another, Mya. And this time you’ll earn money and be able to send it to your mother. So you’ll not only be helping her, but the Burmese economy as well. What a good girl you are.’

The man took a wad of money from his pocket and handed it to the whiskey drinker. Then he eyed Mya again, eyebrows raised. ‘Can you swim?’ he asked her.

She shook her head, thinking nothing could ever match the horror of the Yangon massacre or the minefield crossing. Or at least that’s what she’d thought earlier. Now she wasn’t so sure.

‘Don’t worry,’ the man said. ‘As pretty as you are, there’ll be no shortage of men prepared to rescue you should you fall in the river crossing into Thailand.’