Saving Fish From Drowning

  When Heidi was settled in, Marlena borrowed her headlamp, saying that Esmé was scared of the dark. Actually, Esmé was already asleep.

  “Don’t put the blanket fringe near your face,” Heidi warned. “The fashion cops will get you. And you can keep the headlamp. I have another one that’s smaller.”

  Marlena aimed the light at the interior of the tree she shared with her daughter. The more gnarled portions looked like arthritic gnomes in agony, a bas relief created as a Lamaist version of an Ars Moriendi.

  And so they settled in for their first night, what they believed would be the only one. Moff told Rupert to sleep with his shoes on, in case he had to get up in the middle of the night. Esmé had Pup-pup tucked under her arm. Bennie lay wide awake for hours, worried because he was without his medications and the CPAP machine.

  Marlena was trying to remember whether snakes were attracted to body heat at night. But soon these thoughts gave way to reptilian fantasies about Harry. She pictured his undulating tongue, snaking along her neck, her breasts, her belly. Suddenly, she had pangs of longing, of sadness, of fear that the two of them had missed their opportunity. She knew what was meant by “star-crossed lovers.” The black sky was filled with a billion stars, and some of them made an eternal pattern for each destined set of lovers, a constellation for them, which thus far she had failed to see. She had been too busy looking down at the ground, searching for pitfalls. She fretted over the years already gone by without great passion, the possibility that what she had had with her ex-husband—those meager moments of rapture, which she preferred to forget—would be all that she could lay claim to as an approximation of ecstatic love for the rest of her life. How sad that would be! And with those thoughts, she drifted into fretful sleep.

  Hours later, she jolted awake with a pounding heart. She had dreamed she was a monkey living in a tree. She was crawling up its trunk to get away from dangerous creatures below, but soon she tired and dug in her fingernails. Were all trees this warm? When she placed her face against the trunk, she saw that it was Harry, and soon she and the tree began to make love. But in doing so, she let go of her grip and fell, jerking herself awake.

  Why had she dreamed that she was a monkey and Harry a tree? And why had she dug in her fingernails so deep? Was she too clingy? Before she could ponder any further, she saw that someone was moving outside. It was not yet dawn. Were people making breakfast already? The figure was hunched over, eating furiously while glancing about. The figure froze, eyes fixed on Marlena’s. She was confused, for it was as if her simian dream-self had escaped and was just ten feet away, a hoolock gibbon with a white-rimmed eye mask, stuffing its mouth with the candy bars left out by the new intruders at No Name Place.

  IN THE MORNING, over coffee, Harry and Heinrich were discussing who should be sent out with the search party, when a huge clatter and whine broke the air. A longboat with four military policemen came swooping up with an impressive backwash. Most boats slowed to a soft putter well before they reached the resort. But these men were beyond such rules, because they had made them.

  They jumped onto the dock, and with important strides went directly to Heinrich and spoke rapidly in Burmese. Harry strained to understand what they were saying from the tone of voice, gestures, and reactions. Heinrich seemed astonished, and the police looked stern. Heinrich pointed out toward the lake. The police pointed in a slightly different direction. More exchanges, and Heinrich shook his head vehemently. The police pointed to Harry, and Heinrich made a dismissive motion.

  “What is it?” Harry’s heart was racing. “Did they find them?”

  Heinrich excused himself with the police and turned to Harry. “They found the guide, the young fellow named Maung Wa Sao.”

  “Walter?”

  “Yes. Walter, exactly. He was lying inside a pagoda on the other side of the lake. Some monks found him early this morning.”

  “Good Lord! He’s been killed?”

  “Calm down, my friend. It seems he was climbing about inside the pagoda and a bit of holy carving crumbled and fell on his head. Knocked him out cold. Those pagodas—ach!—they’re all in a terrible state of disrepair, and even a thousand Burmese receiving merit for their donations wouldn’t be enough to fix them up properly. It’s a wonder the entire structure didn’t fall in a dusty heap on top of him. Anyway, the poor fellow’s in hospital now, a bit dehydrated, a nasty bump on the head, but otherwise doing perfectly fine.”

  Harry exhaled in relief. So that’s what had happened. “And the others are with him?”

  “Well, that’s the thing. They’re not, I’m afraid to say, and they haven’t been seen. What’s more, this fellow Walter can’t tell where they’ve gone.”

  Harry’s heart quickened again. “Can’t tell? Why not?”

  “Can’t remember. Not a thing . . .”

  “I thought you said he was perfectly fine.”

  “Well, he’s not terribly injured. But his mind—” Heinrich tapped his temple. “He can’t recall his name or his occupation, not the foggiest notion, and certainly not a clue as to what he was doing just before the accident. That’s why the police are here. Checking to see if your group had returned.”

  “Well, they must have gone to get help,” Harry surmised. He used a professional tone that suggested authority, to quell his own panic. He pictured Marlena taking charge. She was nurturing in that way. They had gone off to find a village, yes, that was it, and a doctor, aspirin. . . . But then Harry thought again. Why wouldn’t someone have stayed with Walter? Not all of them would have needed to go. This did not make sense. “We must ask the police to do a search and find them immediately.”

  Heinrich spoke in a low, even voice: “Patience, my friend.”

  “Patience, my foot!”

  Heinrich raised his hand as both benediction and warning. “Do you really want the military involved? They’re already asking why your friends are missing yet you are here.”

  “Good God, they can’t possibly think I’ve had anything to do with this! That’s outrageous.”

  “I won’t second-guess what they might think, outrageous or not. In the meantime, the best thing you and I can do, my friend, is to act calm, to not make any sort of fuss or demand. And now I’m going to my office to get everyone’s passports from the safe. The police have asked for them. I suggest you use this opportunity to view the beauty of the lake. Let me handle this. . . .”

  It is amazing, isn’t it, how easily people hand over the reins to those who presume power. Against their own intuition, they allow themselves to trust those who they feel should not be trusted. I include myself as one who once did this. But then again, I was only a child, whereas Harry was a grown man with a doctorate in behavioral psychology. He dutifully went to the edge of the water. Gazing out, he tried to imagine where Marlena and the others were. The mist on the lake had long evaporated, yet he could see nothing but the uncertain future.

  12

  DARWIN’S FITTEST

  The only thing certain in times of great uncertainty is that people will behave with great strength or weakness, and with very little else in between. I know from experience. In fact, I am reminded all too clearly of a time when my family faced mortal danger and a perilous future. I tell it to you now as example of how one incident can be instructive for life.

  It was 1949, and we were leaving our family home in Shanghai on the eve of the Communist takeover. I have already mentioned what madness it was, determining what to take and arranging for our passage. There was room for only our family, so we weren’t able to take any of our servants with us, which was terribly sad for all of us, but we also realized we were shockingly ignorant as to how to manage on our own. Cook and my brothers’ nursemaid wailed unceasingly to have lost their place in the world. Others—the least industrious of our servants, I noted—were already making plans to become powerful proletarians under the new regime, and in trying their hand at being blowhards, they let it be known to our faces that they were eager to be rid
of us, “the bourgeois parasites of China,” as they called us. A rather nasty farewell.

  But the one servant I most vividly remember that night was the gatekeeper, Luo. He, his father, and his grandfather had all been with our family.

  Tradition or not, Luo was a disagreeable sort who liked to gamble and sleep and visit certain teahouses, pastimes that led to his disappearance at regular intervals. My stepmother also said he was disrespectful to her, but then again, she said that of nearly everyone, especially me.

  During those last hours, we were confused, every one of us. My father was mumbling to himself, unable to decide which of his books to take, and in the end he took none of them. My brothers acted bored to mask their terror. My stepmother, as I have already told, had a tantrum. As for myself, well, it is hard to be objective about oneself, but I would say that I moved as if in a trance, without emotions. Only the gatekeeper seemed to keep his wits about him. You can imagine our surprise when in those frantic hours of our leaving, this gatekeeper worked kindly and efficiently to get us packed and supplied with foodstuffs for our perilous journey. In what appeared to be a last-minute fit of loyalty, he had comforting words for everyone, expressions of concern, assurances that the gods would protect us, and so on and so forth. Oh, how we had misjudged him! He was also the only one who cleverly thought to take our family’s jewels, gold, and foreign monies from the inadequate sacks that we had secreted in our luggage, and to sew the valuables into my dolls, the linings of our jackets, and the hems of our skirts and trousers so they would not be found. In my coat lining I had my mother’s jade hairpin, which I had stolen from Sweet Ma’s dresser.

  It was not thieves that concerned us, but the Kuomintang, for under pain of being deemed unpatriotic and then shot, we had been ordered to turn in all gold bars and any foreign monies for the new currency. We had exchanged a bit for show, but kept most of our gold and U.S. dollars. Good thing, too, for the new currency soon became worthless. Now we were trying to leave with evidence of unpatriotic wealth, and that could turn into an instant death sentence. What a good man Gatekeeper Luo was for helping us evade detection and begin our new life with comfort.

  But our worst fears came to be, and we were stopped at the first checkpoint on our way to the waterfront. Kuomintang police surrounded our automobile and said they had to perform a search. They flung open our valises and steamer trunks, and we silently praised our gatekeeper to the heavens for his wisdom in removing our valuables. They returned our luggage to the trunk. And then they felt along the cuffs and lining of our clothing, pulled and yanked at the hems. All at once, one of them shouted he had found something, and as the police slashed at our clothes, I began trembling so hard my teeth were tap-dancing. My brothers looked like senseless, bloodless ghosts. My father gazed at us with farewell eyes. The police held up what they had found in my coat. I held my breath.

  And then I heard the police laughing. Only then did we learn the truth—how the gatekeeper had saved our lives, although clearly he had not intended to. He had substituted lead weights for the gold, cut-up pages of Father’s books for the currency, and gravel for the loose diamonds. Upon realizing we had been both tricked and saved, I was so overjoyed my legs shook and collapsed, and I fell into a happy heap. It was one of the few times I have lost my senses.

  As I said before, in moments of great danger, many people show their deficiencies. They turn stupid with trust, as did we, or they turn stupid with greed, as did the gatekeeper. Six months later, a cousin who still lived on Rue Massenet wrote us that Luo had been shot for being too rich. We were neither happy nor sad to hear that. It was simply the new order, and you had to adjust your fate accordingly.

  It was a lesson my friends would soon learn as well.

  THE NEXT MORNING, Marlena was the last to rise. Her vision of the hoolock gibbon the night before had left her heart pounding, her nerves frayed. She felt she was sweeping thick clouds from her mind, as she tried to make sense of a conversation between Bennie and Vera. “... It was a centipede, not a millipede,” she heard Vera say. They continued their exchange of insect stories.

  Upon entering the clearing, Marlena saw no evidence of the previous night’s simian gourmand, but there was this bizarre sight: a man from the tribe riding a stationary bicycle, pedaling as diligently as one might in a fitness center.

  Heidi had slept later than the others as well. When coming back from the jungle latrine, she too noticed the Lajamee riding the bike. As she drew closer, she saw that the bicycle was attached to the contraption with the battery, what had been used to power the television.

  “Get a load of that,” Moff said from behind, causing her to jump. He nodded in greeting to the bicyclist and stepped up closer to inspect. “Lookie here. Stationary axle. It holds the back of the frame in place, so the rear wheel can spin against the rollers and create friction. You got your flywheel, your centrifugal clutch, basic but competent, and this, a common series-wound motor. Nifty. Haven’t seen one of those since seventh-grade science class. Follow the connection wire to the twelve-volt car battery. Spare battery off to the side.” He walked to the front of the bike. “Cool.” The man on the bicycle smiled to hear these admiring tones.

  “Why don’t they hook it directly to the TV,” Heidi said, “and pedal as long as they want to watch?”

  “Bad idea,” Moff said. “Any increase in speed and friction and you’d blow up the TV’s electronic innards. TVs are fussy that way. Recharging the battery is a much better idea, batteries being more tolerant of variation. Besides, you can power up all kinds of things with a car battery as a storage source—TV, lights, radios.”

  “How do you know these things?” she said, and smiled.

  He shrugged but was secretly flattered. “I’m a farm boy, a simple rube.” I noticed that his eyes intentionally locked on hers, lingering until Heidi gave out an embarrassed giggle. It was the man on the bicycle who broke the spell. He slid off the seat and invited Moff to take his place. “Missed going to the gym last night,” Moff told Heidi as he got on. “Might as well get a workout this morning.” And he began pumping heartily, as men do when they are surging with machismo.

  In the middle of the clearing and toward the front of the camp, a fire crackled in the rock pit, and a pot of broth simmered atop a metal plate fashioned out of a wrecked car door. Close by, on a platter, were a heap of cooked rice and a smaller pile of forest vegetation. This was to be breakfast. Esmé and Rupert stood watching hungrily with unwashed faces. The cooks, an older woman and two pretty, young ones, smiled at them and said in their own dialect: “Yes, yes, we know you’re hungry. Almost ready now.”

  “Know what?” Esmé said to Rupert with cool reserve. “My mom and I saw a monkey last night. It was huge.” She held her arms above her head and stood on tiptoes to make herself as tall as possible.

  “No way,” said Rupert.

  “Way-ay,” Esmé retorted, and shrank back to earth. She had not actually seen the monkey herself, but when her mother had described it to her a few minutes before, she had such a sense of horror and fascination knowing it had been close to her that she felt she had experienced it firsthand.

  “Well, I saw a bat last night,” Rupert said. He had not actually seen a bat, but he heard a fluttery sound that made him think one was hovering about.

  “No way,” said Esmé.

  The rest of my friends were meandering about, taking care of morning rituals, lining up for breakfast. Their clothes were rumpled, their hair mashed into peaks and dells. The cooks passed out wooden bowls of rice, with gravy made of ground rice, peas, peanut powder, dried shrimp, chili, and lemongrass that Black Spot had just brought. First served were the esteemed guests, while the residents of No Name Place queued up behind them. Several of the younger women giggled when they saw Rupert, then looked away when he turned. An elderly woman grabbed his elbow and tried to lead him to a seat that was cut into a fallen log. Rupert shook his head and broke from her clutches, saying through clenched teeth, “This
is getting really annoying.” In truth, he was pleased and embarrassed by the attention.

  Bennie assumed his role as tour leader. While the rest ate their breakfast, he walked over to Black Spot. “We need your help,” he said, “so we can leave this morning as soon as possible.”

  Black Spot shook his head. “You cannot be leaving.”

  “You don’t understand,” Bennie said. “We can’t stay any longer. Now that it’s daylight, we need to make our way down, even if our guide isn’t here.”

  Black Spot was apologetic. “Bridge is not fixed. We cannot be leaving. So you cannot be leaving. This is same problem for you, me, everybody.”

  Bennie launched into a convoluted and hopeless conversation over who might fix the bridge and what they might try now that it was daytime. Black Spot kept shaking his head, and Bennie wanted to grab him by the shoulders and shake his whole body. He was so passive. He had no initiative. Hell, if there was a TV here, there had to be a way out of here.

  “Can you make a new bridge? Who made the other one?”

  If the tribe had needed a new bridge, they could have created one in a few hours. But Black Spot only shook his head. “No way making this.”

  “Did anyone go down yet to see if Walter’s come back? You know, our guide Walter?”

  Black Spot looked uncomfortable, for he was going to suggest what was untrue. “I think he not coming. Bridge go down. Guide ... I think guide go down, too....”

  Bennie clutched his chest. “God! No! Oh God! Oh God! Shit! . . .” When he could catch his breath, he said weakly, “Did you look?”

  Black Spot nodded and said in a flat voice: “We looking. Nothing we can do.” Which in a way was true, if you have seen nothing.