The Lizard Cage Page 21

  Thus he goes about his business with great care while looking unconcerned. He moves through the cage knowing exactly how it works and who rules whom, while his thin arms swing lightly, swiftly, showing the world that he is just a child rushing along under the eaves to keep out of the rain. Without a word he delivers drugs, weapons, alcohol, little slips of paper tucked in the folded waist of his longyi. He works often, and with great loyalty, for the tan-see of Hall Four, the one who gives him history lessons about the great general. Besides running errands for him, the boy gives Tiger a massage twice, sometimes three times a week. It’s just a massage—he walks on the big man’s tattooed legs, kneads his tattooed back—Tiger doesn’t like screwing boys, big or little. More than once he has said, “You just let me know, Nyi Lay, if one of these faggots tries to fuck around with you, and old Tiger will bite off his dirty head,” and then he lets go a mighty, theatrical roar, grabs the laughing boy, and lifts him up over his tattooed shoulder.

  The boy has his share of pleasure. In the hot season there are occasional water fights with Tiger’s cronies, and now, during the rains, he enjoys long, meandering walks along the stream that runs under the cage walls and out into the world. Sometimes he listens in on jokes he can’t understand, and he laughs with the men, who laugh at him for laughing. He spends some of his time with the Thai prisoners, a few of whom have become his friends, for lack of a better word. The Burmese inmates make fun of the Thais, getting back at them for wars of long ago and saying things like “Who is the economic miracle of Asia now, big guy?” The boy doesn’t care about all that. He’s more interested in the weird, ever-present fact of their language. If the men are in a decent mood, their chatter is like listening to birds tell stories. Before he started visiting the Thai cells, he took it for granted that everyone in the world spoke Burmese. The Thais taught him otherwise, and he hungrily learns words from their singing speech. In turn he provides them with important Burmese phrases that few others are willing to share. And because the Thai teak and drug smugglers are shocked to see a child roaming around in the cage, they always scrape together something for him to eat.

  This place of brick buildings and high walls is his school and his playground and his home. He does not think of it as strange. He remembers-forgets playing with other children in the village, a long, long time ago—when he was very small. In their kindly misguided way, the Thais are right, and the boy agrees: the prison is no place for little children. Fortunately, he is not a little child. The screams in the middle of the night, the sounds of torture, the growls and stifled cries of fighting, of men raping, being raped, the stench of human shit in the dog cells, the clear evidence of men going mad or becoming cruel, the sight of men sobbing, of men dying: he is old enough to know about these things.

  He trades his labor and extra cheroots for food, for treasure, for the gray, fingerprinted books he adores. Once he found a praying mantis. He fed it flies and little leafhoppers. The green mantis escaped him, though. It flew away. Now he has his beetle in a box. If the beetle leaves, he will always have the lizard, because the lizard is free but chooses to stay with him. The lizard walks up and down the walls, waits above the candle flame for his dinner. Sometimes the lizard chirps a little song. Like so many of the men here, who call the boy Nyi Lay, Little Brother, the boy has taken to calling the tiny reptile by the same name. One of his greatest pleasures is feeding his little brother flies and moths.

  Far from the Outside, an hour-long bus ride away from Rangoon, forgetting-remembering as much as he can, the boy grows into his own life, sharp and choiceless as a thorn. He is twelve years old.

  . 27 .

  Because only old or unlucky men have limps, Handsome makes his sore knee carry its full weight. He walks one two three four, one two three four, as in police officer training, years before he came to work in the prison. He turned eighteen just before his stepfather got him a job at the local police station in their township. His future was clear early on, because the job was perfect for him: order, precision, strength, obedience. One two three four. He’s on his way to the warders’ quarters, at lunchtime; it’s good to eat with the men, it builds camaraderie, a shared sense of purpose. He walks tall and winces only once, when he turns around suddenly to see who’s behind him. Just that brat, the rat-killer; little bugger, he’s always sneaking around. The boy keeps his head down and rushes like a small dog into his doghouse.

  Handsome swears under his breath and pivots again, careful to take the weight on his good leg. The knee will get better on its own. One two three four. When he was a kid at the police station, it was just paperwork at first, running around for the sergeants and filling out forms and picking up supplies, but he was so good at getting the job done that they put him on guard duty the second year, and then sent him through officer training. One two three four, military march, it’s not so different from being a military man. That’s really what he should have done, gone into the army, like anyone with a brain; that was and still is the best way to rise. But his mother wouldn’t let him go; the job at the police station was already there, waiting for him. Never mind, it’s not too late. All he needs is a good recommendation from the Chief Warden, and that’ll be that—he’ll have a new job and a different life.

  That’s one crucial measure of Chit Naing’s lack of loyalty. The MI have wanted him for years, but he won’t go. At least that’s the rumor, but it has the smell of plain truth about it. Jerk. It would be such a relief to find some proof that he’s not merely a sympathizer but a traitor, helping those political pricks directly. If Handsome had more money, he would put someone on him, get a man to follow him night and day, find out what’s he up to. The Chief says he’s taking care of it, but so what if someone’s watching him in the cage, it’s outside that really counts, it’s outside where he’ll fuck up, thinking he’s safe.

  Handsome pulls open the door and the men lift their heads, fearfully or obediently, or with that dull look in their eyes that means they are tired, tired of this room with its metal chairs and wooden benches and the wall calendars of the pretty singers wearing traditional dress and smiling with glossy lips, tired of the rain too, and the shit food from the kitchen every day. The warders eat what the prisoners eat.

  The men turn back to their plates and begin to chew hurriedly, afraid that Handsome will call them to order before they’ve finished—it’s happened before—and they’ll have to begin the stupid search without lunch. A moment ago Handsome was hungry, ready to sit and eat and talk, but it’s never like that. Whenever he walks in here, he feels the coldness, the turning away. He knows they’re just afraid of him, or jealous of his status, though he tries to be the same as they are. He is the same, isn’t he? He is also a man. But there is an invisible wall between them.

  He is ready to forgo lunch and start bellowing instructions when lowly Warder Tint Lwin, umbrella-carrier, saves the meal. He is brave enough to say, “Here, sir, please sit with us, there’s a lot of food left at our table.” The jailer casts a disgusted glance at the men and sits down to the communal plates of food, cheap rice and cheap fish paste. At least they are served the best vegetables, properly cleaned. There is dried fish too. “Here, go ahead,” says Tint Lwin, pushing the plate with the fish toward the jailer. “Please eat it.”

  Twenty minutes later the meal is done and fresh tea rings are sinking into the deeply stained wood of the tables. The warders who are not in on the search have already left for their hall duties, and the others are fighting the urge to close their eyes and lie down for a nap. Each of them will fit the work in around their regular duties and also work overtime for two hours without pay in the evenings. All of them are paying off debts or favors or punishments of some kind. Pretty Tint Lwin is here to prevent an insubordination charge—for not following orders during Teza’s cell search—from being added to his file. Two men owe Handsome money. Another was nabbed months ago for stealing from the infirmary, and rather than disciplining him, Handsome let him keep the medicine, saying, �
�You will pay me for this later, you asshole.” So it goes.

  Handsome stands at the table, obliging everyone to look up to him as he reads the names from a sheet of paper. “Ko Tint Lwin, you will work with Ko Ohn Kyaw.” He reads out the rest of the list. “U Soe Thein, your partner is Ko Win Win Gyi. The first three pairs will work in Hall Three. The second three in Hall Five. The last three go to Hall Four.”

  Much older than Handsome, Soe Thein is not too intimidated to speak. “But there are no politicals there.”

  “No, but criminals know how to write too. This is a general search for all writing materials, pens, pencils, paper, books, everything.”

  “We’re collecting all that stuff? From the criminals too?” His voice is quiet, but the disbelief is audible to everyone.

  “Yes.”

  “Even from the tan-see and the akhan-lu-gyi?” Hall and cell leaders are allowed unusual leniency in certain things. It’s not uncommon for them to have pens, paper, books. Some of them have short tempers too, and poke bars, and razor blades.

  “Yes, we’re doing a full search, and any contraband items are going to be confiscated.”

  “But aren’t we looking for a particular letter, and a pen? A white pen?”

  “It is not just a letter and a pen. They are important pieces of evidence, though the letter has probably been destroyed.”

  “Forgive me, sir, but if we’re looking for those two items, then why are we doing a full-scale raid? Why get the men all riled up about losing their love letters and their pencils for word games?” The other men laugh at their colleague’s lighthearted tone.

  Handsome cuts in. “If you think this work is a joke, I ask you to visit the Chief Warden and explain to him why you are so amused. We will collect all writing materials in Halls Three, Four, and Five. If we don’t find what we’re looking for there, we will also search the sentencing halls, the workshops, the kitchen, and the hospital and infirmary. Report back to me at the end of every day.”

  When the junior jailer begins to spout vitriol about political prisoners and their wily ways, Soe Thein breaks in. “Sir, I’m sorry to interrupt you, but one o’clock was just struck and we have other duties to attend to before we begin the search.”

  Handsome glares at him. Soe Thein holds his gaze for a few seconds, then looks down. There is a communal sigh of relief when Handsome says, “I hope all of you are as keen to get to work as U Soe Thein. Just one last thing. If anyone finds the evidence we’re looking for, it’s better not to talk about it, even to your partner. Report to me immediately with the item in question and leave the inmate who had it to me. I will do the interrogating.”

  After the jailer dismisses them, they file out in twos. As they pass through the doors, their voices return in the form of light conversation about the weather; they wait until they are past the central guardhouse to begin complaining about the ridiculousness of the search.

  “We’ll never find it.”

  “Of course not, any fool could see that.”

  Soe Thein speaks for the first time since they left the warders’ quarters. “We just have to do this job as best we can. If you’re not going to follow orders to the letter, then keep quiet about it so that the rest of us won’t get shit if he finds out. And keep in mind that if we find this magical white pen, it might be the thing to make Junior Jailer Handsome disappear.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Tint Lwin interjects, “He’s doing this for a promotion.”

  “No, that’s wrong. He doesn’t want a promotion. He wants to leave the cage.”

  “How’s he going to do that?”

  Soe Thein lowers his voice. “He wants a recommendation from the Chief for the military. He wants to become an MI. In interrogation.”

  Like a pair of shackles clamped on a convict’s ankles, these words silence the men and make them look down. An MI? A torturer.

  “So be careful,” Soe Thein warns, glancing around the small cluster of men. He adds, “But if you do manage to confiscate a bra and maybe some fancy underwear, I’ll buy them off you and take them home to the wife.” There are hoots of laughter before the men walk off in pairs to begin the search.

  . 28 .

  Sitting at the table, drinking one last cup of tea, Handsome swears when he hears the distant laughter. Pricks. The bloody warders can laugh at him as much as they want, providing they do the job. He takes out a cheroot, thinks better of it, puts it back in his shirt pocket. In a few minutes he has another meeting with that yellow rat. Besides making his regular rounds with open ears, the palm-reader says he’s employing ancient techniques of divination, trying to find the pen with fortune-telling and a swinging amulet. Sein Yun can burn incense and pull magical herbs from his asshole for all the jailer cares, as long as he keeps plying people for information. Handsome gets up to leave, pulling shut the double doors behind him. Thirty paces away, he hears the faint squeal of one of those doors opening again. He looks back automatically, checking to see who’s on break, but whoever it was has already slipped into the small building. This piques the jailer’s curiosity. It’s rare for any warder to move so quickly unless he’s under orders.

  He turns on his heel, leaning forgetfully into his bad knee. Exhaling a curse, he strides back to the warders’ quarters and pushes open one of the doors. The boy, scraping leftover rice into a plastic bag, looks up, openmouthed. The enameled rice bowl slips from his hands and drops with a hollow clatter onto the table. “Kala-lay, what the fuck are you doing in here? Get out, you little thief. Get out! Leave the plastic bag.”

  Kala-lay. Sometimes the men say it offhandedly, even with affection, little Indian, but in Handsome’s mouth it’s a slight. The boy is frozen, wondering how he can slide past Handsome without getting a whack to the side of the head. Very slowly, he places the plastic bag of rice and vegetables on the table. He makes his voice small. “I’m very sorry, sir. I missed breakfast this morning, and I’m hungry, and I knew that everyone had finished lunch, sir. I’m very sorry, sir.” He has taken a few paces forward, his fingers running lightly along the edge of the table. “I didn’t think of it as stealing, sir.”

  “You didn’t think of it as stealing, eh? Think again, you little brat. If you want the leftovers, you have to ask for them, not just walk in here and take whatever you want. Understand?”

  The boy does not say, I understand, sir, I have asked permission from Jailer Chit Naing, who always lets me have the leftovers. Instead he moves with small, shuffling steps toward the door, head down, bent over in obeisance and asking-for-pity. It’s working. Handsome, though still grumbling, has softened. He pulls open the door and the boy passes through it into the daylight of the compound, his neck tensed slightly, ready to receive the blow. Another moment passes; it doesn’t come. He feels Handsome walking behind him, and now he’s in front of his shack, which he tries to pass by nonchalantly. Standing between the shack and the jailer makes him nervous, because the treasure is in there, wrapped up and buried in a pink plastic bag, and they’re looking for it now. He heard the whole thing, the big talk in the warders’ quarters.

  Unfortunately the jailer doesn’t just swear at him again and let him off the hook. He stops right in front of the small lopsided shack. Unable to stand it, the boy looks down and closes his eyes very tightly. As if Handsome can see through corrugated metal walls and rag blankets and earth and plastic, he angrily demands, “What the fuck is this?”

  To steady himself against the blast of Handsome’s voice, the boy puts his hand out and grips the ragged metal edge of the low roof. Thinking that Handsome knows, the boy forces himself to open his eyes. And almost pees himself with relief. Of course the junior jailer can’t see through the walls and under the ground. The boy solemnly answers the question at hand. “It’s a stick, sir.” Head still down, his voice comes lizard-quick.

  “I know it’s a fucking stick. What do you use it for?” The long stick is leaning against the boy’s house. Handsome picks it up and swings it back and
forth, fast, so it sings as it cuts through the air.

  The boy stares at the jailer’s boots.

  “Are you really fucking deaf, then? I asked what you use this stick for.”

  “To kill rats, sir.”

  Indeed, there is a scab and splatter of dried blood at the bottom, and many gray hairs stuck in a tiny split in the wood. “How do you kill them?” Handsome’s voice has shrunk.

  Why is the jailer asking him these questions? Handsome has seen him hunting out back, near the stream, carrying that very stick. “I hit them on the head, or the back, or the neck, to break it.” If they don’t die, I stab them with my nail in the back of the neck, but the boy doesn’t mention the nail because he knows that, like the convicts, he’s not supposed to have anything made of metal.

  “That would be a shitty way to go, wouldn’t it?”

  The boy is surprised. The jailer’s voice is quiet and thoughtful. “Yes, sir. But at least it’s fast, sir. They die really fast.” The boy allows himself the speediest glance at the jailer’s face, which looks very peculiar.

  “I fucking hate rats. Hate ’em.” Handsome talks from far away, though he’s still here. He asks slowly and seriously, “Do you know why?”

  Is it a trick? Will the jailer hit him now, when he least expects it? The man still has the stick in his hand. The boy tenses his neck up again to whisper “Why, sir?” though he doesn’t really want to know why the jailer hates rats.