Elsewhere, p.4
Elsewhere, page 4
They arrived in Mawlamyine near midnight and checked in at the hotel at 2 a.m. The next morning, Declan woke her at eight, asking her to join him for breakfast.
‘I don’t feel well.’ She turned towards the wall.
He touched her forehead. ‘You don’t have a temperature. Some food would help you. You haven’t had anything since yesterday morning.’
‘I don’t feel like eating. Just thinking about the hotel breakfast makes me sick. I want to sleep.’ Shanshan closed her eyes. The pain in her stomach had cramped her whole lower abdomen.
‘Okay,’ Declan said and left.
He returned with a bowl of rice porridge and chicken wonton soup sprinkled with spring onions.
‘Where did you get these?’ She sat up, couldn’t believe her eyes.
‘I found a Chinese restaurant up an alley and I begged the cook to make some comfort food for my wife,’ he told her.
After she finished eating, they left the hotel and wandered along the strand into town. The dust rose as skinny Burmese people passed them on motorcycles. The sun was already up, bright and dull, high above the grey waters of the sea. Eventually shops appeared. Seafood wholesalers, ship repair and maintenance depots, ice cream and beer outlets. Vendors stood by the road in their shorts and sandals, crying their wares. Shanshan looked around. Contrary to the vibrant inhabitants, all the buildings were deteriorating, walls mottled and windows missing. A stench lingered. She held on to Declan’s hand, which was warm and moist.
‘There’s a lassi shop,’ he said, fine sweat beads dripping along his face. ‘You want to try some?’
They had one glass each, with ice. Later, in a different shop, they drank chilled Myanmar beer. Another stop for pancakes with small fried fish in them. And then they sat down in an air-conditioned restaurant in the town centre, ordered octopus curry and iced coffee.
‘After this we can walk down the road. Take a look at this old temple here. Then we’ll get a taxi to go to the mountain where the Kyaikthanlan Pagoda is,’ Declan said, tracing the route on the map with his finger. ‘Afterwards we can just sit there and relax, waiting for the sunset.’
‘Sounds good to me,’ Shanshan said, checking herself in a small cosmetic mirror, dabbing her sweaty forehead with a tissue.
‘Do you feel alright? Still a bit sick?’ he asked.
‘No, I’m fine now.’ She put down her mirror and swigged the iced coffee. ‘It’s just, I don’t think I like Mawlamyine.’
‘No?’
‘It looks so run-down. It’s messy, garbage everywhere. The food is salty and the weather is too hot.’
‘Well, this is why we travel,’ Declan said with a slight laugh. ‘We seek discomfort, as if it is only through misery that our experiences can be etched in our memories.’
She drank more iced coffee, feeling a sharp cooling sensation ripping through her abdomen.
Later, when they sat in a taxi, passing the slums, Shanshan was thrown back again to her childhood: the dilapidated houses, the garbage-heaped streets, the flies, mice and stray dogs, the smell of sweat and excrement. She thought of her mother, of the years when the two of them lived in the compound before her mother remarried for the first time. When the taxi stopped at the traffic lights, a small grey house by the road caught her eye. Through the front window, she saw a tattered doll sitting on the windowsill. It looked just like the one her mother had given her on her tenth birthday. Her doll had had two glassy blue eyes which were supposed to shut when it was put to bed, lying horizontal. However, hers was a second-hand doll, and one of its eyes would always remain open, no matter how hard she had thumped its head.
She felt lighter when they finally arrived at the foot of the mountain and started to ascend. The thick foliage of ancient trees cast shadows on the stone steps. She heard the birds.
‘The Kyaikthanlan is the highest pagoda in Mawlamyine. It was also visited by Kipling. Allegedly, his famous poem “Mandalay” was written here,’ Declan announced from a few steps ahead of her.
Shanshan smiled. ‘Then we must see it.’
It was just another golden pagoda, surrounded by walls painted with murals of Buddhist stories. They sat down beneath a wall, waiting for the sun to sink.
Declan unzipped his backpack and took out a book. It was old and its jade-green cover read: A Collection of Essays. ‘This is something I’ve been rehearsing in my head since college,’ Declan said. ‘Now bear with me.’
He opened the book at the dog-eared page, gave a weak cough and began to read. ‘Shooting an Elephant’ by George Orwell. It was written nearly a hundred years ago, when Orwell had lived in Mawlamyine as a police officer.
When Declan finished, the sun had almost disappeared. The last thread of light travelled through the dusk, the trees and the declining city underneath the hill, perched on the golden railing in front of them.
‘This is too beautiful,’ Shanshan said softly.
‘It is.’ Declan sighed.
She stared at the darkening sky. There were still lots of things she could see.
In the taxi back to the hotel, they sat in silence. Shanshan found herself in a weird state of lucidity. She could hear her blood rushing through her vessels and her heart expanding, shrinking.
Long after Declan had fallen asleep, she was still awake. Her heart palpitated with a strange and itching anticipation. She got up, put on her robe and went to the bathroom. Just as she sat on the toilet, an acute pain slit her lower abdomen. She nearly let out a scream.
Clutching the edge of the basin, Shanshan waited for it to pass. Had too many cold drinks today, she thought.
But the pain came again, sharper and deeper, gnawing her pelvis like a snake. She cried out. ‘Declan! Declan!’
Declan rushed in and found Shanshan collapsed on the bathroom floor, unconscious. He called the front desk. An ambulance came after twenty minutes.
They spent a long night at Mawlamyine General Hospital. When the light came into Shanshan’s eyes, a middle-aged Burmese doctor was standing before her and he told her two pieces of news:
That she had been pregnant but was not any more.
——
Shanshan woke up and realised that Declan was gone. Light peeked in through the blind of the bedroom window. It had been four months since they moved in, but still the house felt like a borrowed place. She heard a rubbish truck humming along the street, the bin being lifted by its mechanical arms and the waste thumped down, the thought of its smell stirring her stomach.
She pushed herself up from the bed and rushed into the shower. Meticulously, she applied shampoo, rubbing every inch of her scalp. Afterwards, with her sanitised self wrapped in a towel and a robe, she fished out a small disc from her toilet bag, shook a pill into her palm and swallowed it with tap water.
She had kept it secret that she had been taking birth-control pills since her period returned. She could not explain this to Declan, or anyone at all, including herself. As the medicine was being absorbed by her body, the heaviness in her stomach dissipated. Shanshan walked into the kitchen and turned on the radio. Fetching an egg from the fridge, she cracked it into the bowl and, with a pair of chopsticks, blended the yolk and the white.
On the radio, a young man was speaking enthusiastically. As Christmas shoppers flooded the Jervis Centre and Grafton Street, Thomas Burke, the director of Retail Ireland, predicted a staggering increase in total sales of more than one million euro by end of December.
Shanshan poured the egg into the sizzling pan and stirred the golden liquid with the spatula. Do we need to buy presents for everybody? she thought. Even if we might not be in the country?
She didn’t like the uncertainty of their travel plan, but Declan had insisted that they should not book any tickets until ‘Slab’ Murphy was convicted and he was guaranteed to get the Guardian money.
‘But shall we look into the tickets now?’ Shanshan had said. ‘They might get expensive soon. We can use my credit card.’
‘Relax. It’ll be my treat,’ Declan had told her.
Shanshan ate her breakfast. The man on the radio was now talking about the case. After last week’s twists and turns, during which ‘Slab’ Murphy’s lawyer applied to dismiss the case and the judges had rejected the motion on Friday, it is expected that, in the next couple of days, the judges will deliver a verdict, before the court closes on the 20th for the Christmas holidays. The gardaí had …
She turned it off. Chased by an inexplicable agitation, she pressed her palms together in front of her. ‘Please,’ she said quietly. ‘Please help us. Please help me.’
After cleaning the bathroom and the kitchen, Shanshan went for a walk. A large gathering of people stood outside the Special Criminal Court at the bottom of Infirmary Road. Men and women in grey or black coats. Blocks of cameras. Big microphones with signs for RTÉ and the BBC. In the ferocious wind, they looked undisturbed and solemn, as if they were waiting outside a church.
Shanshan made a fast turn to the quay, where, above the grey water of the Liffey, seagulls were flapping in the wind like torn plastic bags. Then she heard: ‘Hey!’
It was the cashier, standing at the entrance of a passageway beside Londis, smoking. He wore a T-shirt.
‘How about keeping yourself warm?’ Shanshan walked towards him, smiling.
‘Trust me, I’m sweating all the time,’ he said. ‘Where’re you heading?’
‘Nowhere,’ she said. ‘Can I have a cigarette please?’
He raised his eyebrows slightly. ‘Sure.’
He handed her a cigarette. She perched it between her lips. He leaned over and lit it. She inhaled.
‘I’ve been thinking about your brother from time to time,’ she said.
‘My brother?’
She puffed out a mouthful of smoke. ‘The one who had autism. You said he died five years ago.’
‘Ah, Oisín,’ he said. ‘Yes, it’ll be six years next year.’
‘It’ll be six years next year as well, since my mum died.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
Shanshan felt the smoke tingling the back of her nose. ‘It’s funny, because from time to time I’d forget that she’s gone, and then I remember again.’
‘I know that feeling,’ the cashier said.
Shanshan returned home around midday and was startled to hear a man talking in the study.
‘Hello?’ she called, gripping her keys.
‘It’s me,’ Declan said. ‘I’m on the phone.’ The study door was shut.
Realising the unexpected man was her husband didn’t ease Shanshan’s nerves. She could hear her heart beating in her chest, so strongly that her ribcage ached. She sat on the sofa. Through the hollow door of the rented house her husband’s voice sounded, with an unfamiliar concentration and cordiality.
‘Yes, it’s Declan McVey, Paul McVey’s son … Yes, right!’ He laughed. ‘Grand, I’m grand. I’m back to Dublin now, since September. Yeah still a journalist … My dad’s very well, enjoying his retirement … I’m writing an article on the “Slab” Murphy case for the Guardian and need to get a comment from northern Sinn Féin, so I thought maybe you’d give me something? … Of course, I understand, sure … Yup. No problem. Just one second, let me grab a pen … Now, zero two eight, nine seven, six six six three four one. Okay, thanks a million … Yeah. Take care yourself, Brendan. Bye.’
There was a loud sigh and the study door opened. Declan popped out his head. ‘The press room in the court has gone mad. Can you get me a coffee and a sandwich? I haven’t had lunch.’
‘Is everything okay?’
Declan grinned. ‘Did you not hear the news? ‘“Slab” has been convicted.’
‘Oh,’ Shanshan said. ‘That’s great.’
‘I need to finish up the Guardian piece now, they want it by the end of the day,’ he said and disappeared again behind the door.
She stared at the door for a while before remembering the task she’d been given. She hurried to the kitchen, put on the kettle and searched the fridge for tomato, bacon, cheese and lettuce. Declan had shown her, back when they lived in China, how to make a good sandwich. Rinse and dry the lettuce. Slice the tomato. Spread mayonnaise bountifully on both pieces of bread – ‘Always a bit more than you initially thought.’ Stack the ingredients in mirrored layers, with protein on both sides and veggies in the middle. ‘Think of thick skin and frail heart,’ Declan had said.
Shanshan pressed the sandwich, crushing the tomato slices in the middle. Some light red liquid seeped out and coloured her fingers. She wiped it off quickly before popping the sandwich on a white plate.
The next day, Declan didn’t get up until after nine. He had stayed up the night before to finish the story and had told his colleagues he’d come in late.
The couple ate breakfast together, during which Shanshan brought up the question that had been simmering in her guts since yesterday. ‘Shall we book the tickets today?’
‘Yeah,’ Declan said. ‘We can do it tonight. After the party.’
‘What party?’
Declan glanced at her. ‘I thought I told you. All the reporters in the court are going out to have a drink this evening. You know, it’s the last day of work.’
‘You never told me this.’
‘You’re invited too.’
‘I don’t want to go,’ Shanshan said, pushing the scrambled egg around her plate.
‘Come on!’ Declan said. ‘Don’t you want to go out a bit? Put on a nice dress and make-up – it would be fun.’
Shanshan couldn’t remember the last time she’d worn make-up. Perhaps it had been the first day they arrived in Burma. In the extreme heat and humidity, she had been suffocated by her foundation mixed with sweat and dirt and had packed away her make-up the day after.
After Declan had gone to work, she found her cosmetic bag in the chest of drawers and saw the blusher was crumbled and the mascara completely dry. She took the Luas to Jervis and, under rows after rows of glistening lights, walked into Arnotts to the tune of ‘Jingle Bells’.
The department store was packed and smelled of cinnamon. It took Shanshan a long while to find a window of opportunity to squeeze in front of a cosmetic counter. A short woman with dark hair and warm smile greeted her. ‘Hello, love, what can I do for you?’
‘I need a mascara and maybe a blusher,’ Shanshan said.
‘No problem,’ the woman replied and bounced her red and green fingernails along the tubes and packs on the counter, as if playing a piano. ‘Do you want the volumising one or the lengthening one?’
‘I don’t know. I haven’t done my make-up for ages. It’s just, I need to go to my husband’s workplace party this evening.’
‘That’s a big thing!’ The girl turned. ‘Oh, love, I am happy to do a full make-up session for you, if you want.’
Immediately, Shanshan wanted to say no but then she saw her face in the bright LED-lit mirror. ‘Sure,’ she said.
The woman dabbed foundation on Shanshan’s cheeks, forehead and chin, outlined her contours and brought forward her eyes, brows and nose. In the end, after she had brushed scarlet red on her lips, Shanshan looked at her reflection and was relieved that her face had been perfectly hidden.
She bought a mascara, a blusher and a lipstick and paid with her credit card. The saleswoman packed the products in a shiny silver bag and handed her a long receipt.
‘I’ve printed out the tax return for you and stamped it,’ she said cheerfully. ‘You just need to fill up the rest and drop it at the refund point at the airport when you leave.’
Shanshan wondered if there was anything else in her, other than being Chinese, that screamed to people here that she didn’t belong. At the party in the Dice Bar, when she finally arrived at the front of the queue and was about to place her order, the bartender, a young, curly-haired man, looked at her and said: ‘Hey, I’ve been to China!’
‘Enough is enough,’ Shanshan muttered.
‘What?’ the bartender shouted, leaning over. The music was blaring in the background.
‘Can I get two pints of Guinness and a gin and tonic,’ she said.
She held the glasses in the tray and, step by step, made a way through the crowd to Declan and his co-worker Conor.
‘Thank you, Shanshan!’ Conor said, lifting a pint.
‘Thanks, wife, you’re a legend.’ Declan took his drink and kissed Shanshan quickly.
‘Bu yong xie,’ Shanshan said and downed her G&T.
The two men carried on talking. ‘I don’t know much about Ballymount. It’s on the Red Line, right?’
‘Yeah, it’s well connected. And much better value for money. But Fiona’s still reluctant to put down the deposit. You know that shooting there earlier this year.’
‘That’s hardly in Ballymount, I thought it was in Tallaght, no?’
‘That’s what I told her. But the lady’s stubborn as a mule.’
Shanshan examined the slice of lime in her glass and the slowly swinging ice cubes. Just when she was about to step away, she was nudged by a woman. ‘Sorry!’ the woman cried. It was Maeve. She wore a sapphire-blue V-neck dress and the same thin golden necklace.
‘Oh my god, you look gorgeous,’ Maeve said to Shanshan, stabilising herself. She turned to Declan: ‘Isn’t she just gorgeous?’
‘She is,’ Declan said tolerantly.
‘Shanshan, this is Maeve,’ Conor introduced. ‘Our junior reporter.’
‘We have met,’ Shanshan said.
‘We have met each other, Conor,’ Maeve repeated. ‘And Shanshan told me what her name meant. And it was really funny – and what is it? Urgh, my brain’s not working. Can you tell us again, Shanshan?’
Shanshan looked at Declan who seemed embarrassed. ‘You should sit down, Maeve,’ he said.
Conor grabbed Maeve’s arm. ‘Come with me. Let’s find a seat for you.’ He ushered her away.
The couple was left alone. The music and chattering roared like tidal waves, ready to swallow them from behind. Shanshan faced Declan and put on a smile. ‘You don’t want to go to Burma again, do you?’
