The Rebel and the Thief, page 4
The woman with twins, who lived next door to the widow, was no friendlier. What was I expecting in return? When I told her I wasn’t expecting anything, her skepticism only grew, and even her children stared at me as if I were evil incarnate. Reluctantly, she handed me a dented saucepan and I decanted another measure of rice.
By the time I came to the old drunk’s shanty, I was surrounded by a dozen children. They stared at me, wide-eyed and curious; most of them stretched out their hands to me in silence, their arms as thin as Thida’s.
The drunk was asleep on the floor, on some old newspapers. I pulled out a sheet from under him, rolled it into a cone, filled it with rice, and left it at his side. By the time he came around, I thought, the rats would probably have eaten most of it.
When I emerged from the shanty, the alleyway was heaving with women and children. How was I to decide who got food and who didn’t? They crowded in, pushing and shoving. I called out to them, telling them they’d all get some. But they must have known it wasn’t true. I had only enough to feed a handful of them. They began to snatch at the bag of rice and packets of noodles. I pushed them away and shouted at them. Directly in front of me, a child started to cry. Another called out anxiously for his mother; the others ignored him. They pulled and tugged at my longyi and at the food in my arms. The bag of rice split open and the contents spilled out onto the ground. The kids pounced on it, egged on by their mothers, scrabbling to gather up as much as they could.
In a last attempt to establish order, I let out a yell of fury. But it was no use. The children continued to scuffle in the dirt over the rice. Suddenly desperate to get away, I dropped the noodles too, and elbowed a path through the crowd back to our shack. The noise of the fight and the cries of disappointment followed me all the way.
That evening we were visited by Bagura and his sons. With his big belly and broad shoulders, Bagura almost filled the door. Strands of sweaty hair hung in his face. He huffed and blew, angry and making no attempt to hide it. A pretty mess I’d made in the settlement with my charity efforts, sowing discord among people. Now, as well as being hungry, they were envious and resentful of one another. The rumors were oozing out of the woodwork like foul-smelling, poisonous fumes, fogging people’s senses. Women suspected one another of providing “services” for us; respectable men had been planning to raid our shack, thinking we had a whole stockpile of rice. It hadn’t been easy, Bagura said, to stop them. If ever I got it into my head to hand out alms again, it was absolutely crucial that I go through him and his family. I just had to leave the food with them and they’d see to it that it was fairly distributed.
When this tirade was over, my father was silent for so long that Bagura and his sons began to fidget.
“It won’t happen again,” I said at length.
Looking at the faces of Bagura’s sons, I could tell they’d been hoping for a different answer.
* * *
—
Although we rationed the rice and noodles carefully, and although my mother ate practically nothing, and my father and I only enough to ease the worst hunger pangs, the food was gone in three days. After five days, Thida was as weak and hungry as ever.
My father turned increasingly to meditation. The hour I spent sitting beside him every morning was torture. I tried to focus on my breathing and ignore my hunger and my thoughts of Mary, but it was no use. I could think of nothing else. The hole in my stomach grew with every breath I took—and my longing to see Mary grew with it.
* * *
—
At night I lay awake, thinking of the promise I had made to my father.
I didn’t want to disappoint him.
I thought of the kids who came to our door every day now, hoping for another handful of rice or noodles. I thought of their mothers.
I heard my sister whimpering.
Just once more.
FIVE
The hole looked just the way I’d left it. I cleared away the leaves, twigs, and branches, and was about to climb in when I noticed a small yellow bag embroidered with red elephants hanging on the wall. It felt as if it were filled with gravel or coarse sand. Curious, I opened it. Inside there really was a handful of gravel. There was also a note from Mary:
Hi Niri,
Our alarm is now up and running, so don’t come too close to the house. If you throw gravel at my window and wait three minutes, that will give me time to disarm the system. If the alarm goes off anyway, do not make a run for it—they’ll shoot you dead on the spot. The key’s in a new hiding place: under the stone next to the stairs.
Good luck!
Mary
I slipped into the tunnel and slithered under the wall. On the other side, I carefully pushed aside the dry palm fronds and poked out my head. Something rustled in the leaves beside me—probably a snake. Not far off, a dog barked. Otherwise, all was quiet. I crawled through the bushes on all fours until I was level with Mary’s window. I was just about to throw a first smattering of gravel, when a light went on briefly in her room, and I saw her wave to me.
Slowly I counted to three hundred, and then to fifty. Better safe than sorry. Even so, I was scared to venture onto the lawn. I scuttled bug-like across the grass toward the cellar, expecting at any moment to hear screeching sirens.
Mary was waiting for me in the passage. I followed her into the storeroom, and she closed the door and switched on the light.
“Hello,” she said.
She smiled awkwardly, but I had the feeling she was pleased to see me. She was wearing a white nightdress embroidered at the collar, and a dressing gown with two big pockets. She didn’t look tired at all.
“Hello,” I replied. “Thanks for the warning.”
“I didn’t want you waking my parents,” she said, smiling again. “They wouldn’t appreciate the disturbance.”
“Do you sit at the window every night?”
“Most nights. I have trouble sleeping.”
“Why?”
“I have pain in my back and hips since the riding accident. Especially at night.”
“Every night?”
“Most nights,” she said again.
I would have liked to say something comforting, but I didn’t know what. “Can’t the doctors do anything?”
“My father sent for specialists from Singapore and America, and they operated four times, but nothing’s made a difference. They say the pain will go away eventually, my body needs time, but I know that’s not true. I’ll stay a cripple.”
“You’re not a—”
“Stop it,” she said curtly, and I did.
“I hadn’t expected you back so soon,” she said, after a pause.
“The food’s all gone. I gave most of it to our neighbors.”
“Your neighbors? Are you some kind of Robin Hood?”
“Who’s that?”
“You don’t know Robin Hood?”
“No.”
“He’s an English folk hero. Said to have lived in the thirteenth century. He’s famous for robbing the rich to give to the poor.”
“I only did as my father told me. He was mad at me and didn’t want us to keep the stuff.”
“He was mad at you because you got food for your sister?”
“Because I stole.”
“From people who have more than enough…”
“Theft is theft.”
“Says who?”
“My father. And the Buddha.”
“Jesus, too, but that doesn’t make it true. What you’re doing is different. You’re stealing because you have to. Take as much as you can carry.”
Once again, I crammed the backpack with rice and noodles, flour and oil and sauces.
Mary watched me. “What will your father say this time?”
“He mustn’t find out. He’d make me bring everything back. I’ll have to hide it somewhere.”
Just then, we heard noises overhead. Mary switched off the light and we listened.
“Where are you?” she whispered.
“Here.”
“Come to me.”
I reached out for her and stepped gingerly in her direction, one arm outstretched. My fingers touched her shoulders, her hair. I couldn’t see a thing, it was so dark—as if someone were holding my eyes shut.
“Here.”
We stood very close; I could feel her breath on my skin. She was breathing fast, like when we used to run races in the garden. Our arms touched. Then our fingers. Very timidly, we took each other’s hands. I’d never touched a girl before. Not like this.
There was a magic to the darkness. In the black of the cellar, I could forget the shameful contrast between my grubby longyi and Mary’s clean, white nightdress. With the lights off, we were just Mary and Niri. Like when we were little. Why couldn’t it stay dark forever? At least for the rest of the night.
“You believe in reincarnation, don’t you?” she said, her voice low.
“Yes. Don’t you?”
“I shouldn’t, I’m a Christian. We believe that when you die, you go to heaven or hell. Somehow, though, I have the feeling that you and I must have met in a previous life. It’s as if we’ve always known each other.”
“Haven’t we?”
“Not like that.”
“What do you mean?”
“Not the way little kids know each other.”
“Then how?”
She let go of my hand. Her fingers brushed my cheeks, mouth, lips. I was so excited I had to turn aside.
Overhead, the footsteps moved away.
We were silent. The darkness was suddenly too much for me, and I switched the light back on. Mary looked as if she’d been crying.
When we were little, I had sometimes cheered her up by making faces, or made her laugh by walking on my hands. I used to be good at it.
Those days were over.
“Is there anything else you need?”
“I could do with some old newspapers.”
“Newspapers?” She looked perplexed, as if trying to remember what the word meant. “No one here reads newspapers.”
“I just need some paper, for wrapping.”
Mary thought for a moment. “My mother reads Vogue and Marie Claire, stuff like that. There might be some old issues in one of the lumber rooms.”
We found a shelf with several stacks of magazines, and I put some in my backpack.
Back in the settlement, I spent the rest of the night rolling glossy ads for cars, perfume, and watches into cones, filling them with rice, and leaving the packets on people’s doorsteps. There wasn’t enough for everyone, but I hoped there would be a little less fighting than last time. At least this time I could claim I had nothing to do with it.
* * *
—
My father saw through my ruse immediately. As soon as he heard that some mystery person had distributed packets of rice, he demanded to speak to me. This is it, I thought. He’s going to ask me to explain myself. We were sitting in our shack. He had sent Thida out to play with her friends; my mother was asleep. I felt hot and kept my head bowed, waiting for him to rant at me for breaking my promise, to tell me how disappointed he was in me—that he had trusted me and I had abused his trust. I waited for him to remind me sternly of the Buddha’s teachings.
I would ask him to forgive me, I thought—but again, I wouldn’t feel that I’d done wrong. I would assure him it would be the last time, while stubbornly thinking: here’s another promise I’m going to break. The Buddha’s teachings, I told myself, cannot fill the bellies of hungry children.
But none of that happened.
My father didn’t rant at me. He sat there in silence and closed his eyes. This was something he often did, and it drove my mother crazy. She said it was disrespectful. He said it helped him to concentrate—to escape the distraction of all the images, colors, and movements he saw when his eyes were open.
Geckos scuttled across the wall behind him. Flies crawled over his forehead, nose, and mouth. He didn’t stir. The longer he said nothing, the louder the silence between us grew, and the worse I felt. My sense of righteousness melted away like ice in the sun. What right did I have to defy him? After all my father had done for me, how could I be presumptuous enough to think I could follow my own rules? I was ungrateful. You didn’t have to believe in karma to know that no good could come of my actions.
Minutes passed before he finally broke the silence. “Did I ever tell you the story of the little novice Dada?” he asked. His eyes were still closed. “I fear I didn’t,” he went on, answering his own question.
“No, I don’t think you did,” I said, glad that he was speaking to me again.
“Dada was an orphan who lived in a monastery in the mountains around Lake Minle. His parents had died when he was very young, and the village monks had taken him in. He was a shy boy who spent a lot of time alone, spoke little, and was quick to learn. The monks were impressed by his intelligence, modesty, and helpfulness, and for his devoted obedience to the Buddha’s teachings. Dada was particularly close to animals. He took great care to make sure that no one in the monastery did harm to any living creature. Even the pesky mosquitoes mustn’t be killed, but only driven away with vile-smelling substances.
“One day he heard that the villagers had caught a tiger and were keeping it shut up in a bamboo cage. Since none of them dared kill the creature, they had decided to wait until it died of hunger and thirst. Dada went to see the poor tiger for himself.
“ ‘Let me out,’ it called to Dada, ‘or I’ll starve or die of thirst.’ Dada wanted to help, but he knew, of course, what a dangerous beast the tiger is. ‘I can’t,’ he said, ‘you’re wild and bloodthirsty.’ ‘Don’t be afraid,’ the tiger said. ‘If you set me free, I’ll run off into the jungle and you’ll never see me again.’
“Could he believe the tiger?
“Dada didn’t know what to do, so he went to the abbot of the monastery to seek his advice.
“The old monk didn’t hesitate for a moment. The tiger, he said, was a wild and bloodthirsty beast. It had already eaten several of the farmers’ cows, and the people had a right to protect themselves and their livestock. They were acting in self-defense.
“Dada wasn’t convinced. The tiger may have eaten a cow or two, but the villagers weren’t starving, the rice harvests were abundant; people were well-off; they had more than enough.
“He thought of the Buddha’s teachings. The first was: You must not kill a living being. And that was precisely what the villagers were doing. Dada was a good Buddhist; he couldn’t just stand by and let them get on with it.
“So the next day Dada went to the cage. He reminded the tiger of its promise not to harm anyone, but to disappear into the jungle forever. Then he opened the cage door. The tiger leapt out. Almost crazed with hunger, it pounced on Dada and swallowed him whole. On its way across the fields, it gobbled up another couple of children who were out playing. Then it disappeared into the jungle and was never seen again.”
My father opened his eyes, but he didn’t look at me; he stared straight ahead at the plank wall. After a few seconds he turned to me. “I’m worried about you, Niri.”
I was about to say that he had no need to be, but thought better of it. It wasn’t up to me to tell him what to worry about and what not. Instead I asked, “Why?”
“Because what you’re doing is misguided. You’re deluding yourself.”
SIX
Life in the settlement grew tougher every day. A young man, barely older than me, tried to hang himself. The roof beam wouldn’t take his weight, and he ended up bringing down not only the shack where he lived, but also the building next door. People said he’d been driven by shame. He had lost his job and was no longer able to send money home to his family.
More and more shanties were wracked by the familiar sounds of coughing and wheezing. Most people recovered—some didn’t. On Bagura’s initiative, a makeshift cemetery was created on another disused site next to the settlement.
* * *
—
One morning after our daily meditation session, my father asked me to fetch him a bucket of clean water from the canal. He washed more thoroughly than usual and shaved himself.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said as he scrubbed stains from his longyi. “I’m afraid I’m unlikely to find work in the current situation.” There was a meaningful pause before he went on. “So I’ve decided to borrow some money.”
I asked myself who would lend my father money, but nobody came to mind.
“I’m going to ask Mr. Benz for a loan,” he said firmly. “I’m sure he’ll give me one.”
I doubted that was a good idea. “Why Mr. Benz? He threw us out. It’s his fault that we’re in this situation in the first place.”
“They were scared. Auntie Bora was sick. Mrs. Benz is asthmatic. Everyone’s scared these days.”
“And why do you think he’ll help us now?”
“We worked for him for almost eighteen years and I wasn’t sick once in all that time—nor was your mother. We were always hardworking, and the Benzes were always good to us. Mr. Benz knows he can rely on me. He knows I’ll pay him back every cent. When I tell him how tough things are right now, he won’t hesitate—he can’t.”
“Do you want me to come with you?”
He shook his head.
I walked to the fence with him. He seemed cheerful, but I felt uneasy and didn’t like him going alone.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to come?” I asked, though I didn’t know what possible use I could be to him.
“Quite sure.”
I watched him go with a spring in his step. He grew smaller and smaller, until eventually he disappeared altogether.
