The Art of Hearing Heartbeats (20 page)

But it was not dying that frightened him. It was everything else. Every touch. Every word. Every thought. Every heartbeat. His next breath.

He couldn’t move. He couldn’t eat. He spat out the tea that Su Kyi poured into him. He heard her voice, but she was far away. He felt her hand and yet was not certain she was really touching him.

Again and again, the words of U May went through his head. “There is only one power that mitigates fear, Tin Win.” But what power can mitigate the fear of love, U May?

Three days later he still showed no sign of improvement. Su Kyi massaged him for hours. She rubbed him down with herbs. She hadn’t left his side in seventy-two hours. He
complained of no pain, was not coughing, and his body seemed to her rather too cold than too hot. She had no idea what was ailing him, but she was sure of this: It was grave, and it seemed to want his life. She wondered whom to turn to for advice. She was as wary of the nurses and doctors at the little hospital as of the astrologers and medicine men of the Danus, Paos, and Palongs. If anyone could help, it was U May. Perhaps, she thought, Tin Win was not suffering from any illness at all. Perhaps ghosts and demons had been wakened, who—as far as Su Kyi knew—dwelt in all of us, waiting only to emerge from hiding or to unmask themselves. So she set some tea beside the sleeping Tin Win and hurried to the monastery.

She painted the past three days and nights for U May in all their detail, but the story did not seem to trouble him particularly. He mumbled something about a virus, the virus of love, the infection which, if she had understood him correctly, everyone carried, but which only ever afflicted a few. When it was triggered, however, it was accompanied in the beginning by considerable fear, by tumultuous states that would confound both body and soul. In most cases, these symptoms would subside in due course.

In most cases, he had said. And Su Kyi could not help but think of an old story—this of her great uncle who had not left his bed for thirty-seven years, who for years at a time lay motionless on his mat, staring at the ceiling, making not a sound, refusing to eat on his own and surviving only because his relatives, with the patience of angels, fed
him daily. And all of this because the neighbors’ daughter, whom he had desired in his youth, had been married off by her parents to another man.

And there was another such story—this of Su Kyi’s nephew who lost his heart to a girl in the village and who sat singing love songs in front of her family’s house every evening at dusk. That in itself was nothing unusual, a custom practiced by most young couples in Kalaw. But her nephew never stopped singing, even when it became unmistakably apparent that the girl’s family did not welcome his overtures. After a while he would sing not only in the evening hours but throughout the day, and when he started singing at night as well his brothers had to come and—since he refused to go—carry him off. At home he climbed into an avocado tree and did not stop singing until his voice failed him for a good three weeks and six days later. From then on he moved his mouth in time with the melody, his lips forming the words of the song that told of his eternal love. The longer she thought about it, the more stories she remembered of peasants and monks, of merchants and traders, goldsmiths and wagon drivers—indeed, even of certain Englishmen—who had similarly lost their minds.

Perhaps it had something to do with Kalaw. Perhaps it was home to an extraordinarily virulent strain. Perhaps it was the mountain air or the climate. Something in this unassuming corner of Southeast Asia that made it particularly severe.

U May himself saw no reason for concern.

Upon her return, Tin Win lay still unmoved in his bed. Su Kyi ground eucalyptus leaves in her mortar and held them under Tin Win’s nose, hoping they would stimulate his sense of smell. She tried the same with a bunch of hibiscus blossoms and jasmine. She massaged his feet and head, but Tin Win did not respond. His heart was beating, and he was breathing, but he exhibited no other signs of life. He had withdrawn into a world where she could not reach him.

On the morning of the seventh day a young man appeared at her door. On his back was Mi Mi. Su Kyi recognized her from the market and knew that Tin Win spent afternoons and weekends with her.

“Is Tin Win at home?” asked Mi Mi.

“He’s sick,” answered Su Kyi.

“What’s wrong with him?”

“I don’t know. He’s not speaking. He’s not eating. He’s unconscious.”

“May I see him?”

Su Kyi showed her the way through the kitchen into the bedroom. Tin Win lay there motionless, his face haggard, his nose angular, and his skin ashen and lifeless despite its brown color. The tea and rice had not been touched. Mi Mi slid from her brother’s back and crawled to Tin Win. Su Kyi could not take her eyes off her. This girl moved with a grace Su Kyi had never before seen. As if her oddly formed feet had given her a different, heightened sense of her limbs and movements.

Mi Mi took Tin Win’s head in her hands and laid it in her lap. She bent over him, and his face disappeared under her long black hair. She whispered in his ear. Her brother turned and went out. Su Kyi followed him. She made tea for the guests and scrounged up roasted melon and sunflower seeds from an old tin, then stepped into the garden and sat down in the shadow of the avocado tree. She gazed across the yard at the firewood chopped and piled neatly against the wall of the house, the tree stump on which from time to time she slaughtered a chicken, their vegetable garden, the slowly crumbling bench that Tin Win’s father must have built. Their six chickens ran about picking at the ground. She recognized the onset of sorrow growing within her. Su Kyi knew this mood. She abhorred it and always fought hard to stave it off—in most cases successfully. But now she felt the emotion gaining weight and strength. She could see no cause, and groundless sadness was for her nothing but self-pity, a thing she had resisted her whole life long. Was it Tin Win’s mysterious illness that troubled her so? The fear of losing him? Or the recognition, returning at long intervals, of how solitary, lost, and lonesome she was? Tin Win, too. Her sister. Everyone, really. Some felt it; some did not.

At that moment she heard the song. It came from the house, faint as if from across the valley. An elegant and gentle girl’s voice singing a melody that Su Kyi did not know. Nor could she make out the lyrics—at least no more
than isolated words. It was the melody and the passion that moved her so.

This is a song that can tame ghosts and demons, thought Su Kyi. She sat transfixed under the tree. As if the slightest movement might spoil the moment. Mi Mi’s voice permeated the house and yard like a fragrance penetrating into every nook and cranny. To Su Kyi it seemed as if all other sounds—the singing of the birds, the chirping of the cicadas, the croaking of the frogs—were slowly ebbing away until only the song remained. It had the power of a drug. It opened every cell, every sense in her body. She thought of Tin Win. She need have no more fear on his account. This kind of song would always find him, even in the remotest hiding place.

Su Kyi sat motionless under the avocado tree until her eyelids fell shut.

The cool of the evening woke her. It was dark, and she had caught a chill. The voice sang on, just as gently, just as beautifully. Su Kyi rose and went into the house. A candle was burning in the kitchen, another in the bedroom. Mi Mi still sat beside Tin Win, his head in her lap. His face seemed fuller, his skin less pale. Her brother had left. Su Kyi asked whether she was hungry or wished to lie down. Mi Mi shook her head briefly.

Su Kyi ate a bit of cold rice and an avocado. She was tired and didn’t feel there was much she could do. She returned to the bedroom, arranged a sleeping mat for Mi Mi, gave her a jacket and a blanket, then lay down herself.

When Su Kyi woke the next morning it was quiet. She looked around to make sure she was no longer dreaming. Tin Win and Mi Mi lay sleeping beside her. She rose and noticed—without understanding why—how hale and light she felt. Almost too light, she thought, walking into the kitchen. She made a fire and some tea, washed scallions and tomatoes, and cooked the rice for breakfast.

Tin Win and Mi Mi woke late that morning. It was warm but not too hot, and Su Kyi was working in the vegetable garden when she caught sight of Tin Win in the doorway, Mi Mi on his back. He looked older. Or maybe the exhaustion and the strain had left a mark on him. Mi Mi appeared to be giving him directions, for he walked around the firewood, a stool, and the ax as if he could see everything. They sat down on the bench along the kitchen wall. Su Kyi dropped her rake and rushed to them.

“Are you hungry?” she asked.

“Yes, rather,” said Tin Win. His voice sounded somewhat deeper than usual, almost a bit unfamiliar. “And thirsty.”

Su Kyi brought rice and curry and tea. They ate slowly, and he seemed to grow livelier and stronger with every bite.

After the meal, Tin Win announced that he would go for a walk with Mi Mi before bringing her home. He felt good, no longer tired at all. Su Kyi need not worry. His legs would support him, and he would be back before nightfall. He promised.

T
in Win and Mi Mi took the rough path up to the crest and then along the mountain ridge. He focused entirely on walking, wondering whether he would ever again be able to put himself entirely in her hands, whether she would still pilot him so artfully past all obstacles.

“Do you remember the past few days?” asked Mi Mi after they had been quiet for some time.

“Barely,” he said. “I must have slept a lot. I never knew whether I was sleeping or awake. I heard nothing but whooshing and a dull cooing and gurgling.”

“What was wrong with you?”

“I don’t know. I was possessed.”

“By what?”

“Fear.”

“What were you afraid of?”

“When I got to your farm and no one was there and the neighbors didn’t know where you were, I thought I would never see you again. Where were you?”

“We were visiting relatives up in the mountains. An aunt died, and we had to set out before daybreak.” She put her mouth very close to his ear. “You don’t need to be afraid. You can’t lose me. I am a part of you, just as you’re a part of me.”

Tin Win was about to respond when his left foot stepped into nothingness. The hole in the ground was grown over with grass, and Mi Mi would presumably not have seen it
even if she had been paying attention. Tin Win felt frozen in mid-stride, watching himself in slow motion. His foot groped for the ground, and it seemed an eternity before he found it. He tumbled, lost his balance, and noticed while falling how he suppressed the instinct to cover his own face with his hands, how instead he held Mi Mi closer. He did not know how far he would fall, when or where he would hit, whether he would land in the grass or on a stone or a bush that would scrape his face. His fall seemed endless, and the worst part was the uncertainty about what awaited him. He turned his head to the side and tucked his chin into his chest. Mi Mi clung tightly to him. They tumbled nearly headfirst. Tin Win sensed how he buried Mi Mi beneath him and how they then rolled sideways like a log down the grassy slope.

He had fallen, but he had landed. They came to a stop in a hollow.

Mi Mi was lying on top of him. Only now did Tin Win notice how tightly they clung to each other. He did not want to let go. Her heart was beating rapidly. He not only heard it; he felt it against his chest. Mi Mi felt very different lying on top of him. She was lighter than she was on his back, and he felt more than her arms around his neck. Her breast lay on his, her belly against his. Their longyis were disordered, their bare legs intertwined. An unfamiliar emotion took hold of him, a desire for more. He wanted to possess Mi Mi and to give himself to her. He wanted to be one with her, to belong to her. Tin Win turned aside, startled by his own desire.

“Are you hurt?” she asked.

“Not particularly. You?”

“No.”

Mi Mi brushed the dirt from his face. She wiped his forehead and cleared the dust from the corners of his mouth. Their lips touched for a fraction of a second. Tin Win shuddered.

“Can you walk?” she asked. “I think we’re in for some rain.”

Tin Win stood up and lifted Mi Mi onto his back again. They crossed the field. A short time later they heard the rushing of the river, wild and full from all the rain in recent weeks. It had cut a little ravine into the land. Farther downstream was a bridge, but it wouldn’t be easy to reach from here. Tin Win attempted to gauge the depth from the noise of the waters raging beneath them. It had to be about ten feet. “How wide is it here?” he asked.

“Six, seven feet, maybe more.”

“How will we get across?”

Mi Mi looked around. “There’s a tree trunk lying across the river over there.” She guided Tin Win past a small boulder. It was a pine, thinner than Mi Mi had thought, no thicker than her thigh. The bark had been stripped, and someone had trimmed the branches close to the trunk. Mi Mi hesitated.

“What is it?” he asked.

“It’s a long way down,” she said.