“Ohn Myint.”
“You’ll get used to the names,” said Saxon. “The weird thing about Burmese names is how confusing they are for outsiders. The Burmese don’t have family names like in the West. It makes it almost impossible to tell who’s related to who. It’s like a secret naming society. If you’re not a member, you can’t follow the membership roster. It confused the hell out of the British when they ran the place. They were always hanging the wrong person. But it’s not that difficult to get a feel for. After a few years here, if you pay attention, the names start to sound normal.”
“Anything I should know about Yadanar Khin? ”
“His mother is Daw Kyaw. If she had a running club name, it would be Fire Dragon Bitch. She is said to have an encyclopedic knowledge of poisons. The rumor is that she used it to clear away her husband’s enemies. I let the word drift Yadanar’s way that Colonel Pratt is a famous saxophone player and if invited might jam with his band.”
The Colonel nodded. “That explains the email I received this morning.”
It was the first time Calvino had heard of the email.
“Did he invite you to play with his band?”
“He asked if I’d brought my saxophone. I told him that I had.”
Pratt always traveled with his saxophone.
It seemed that even before lunch had arrived, Saxon had squared everything, including getting him a pass to the Black Cat’s brother’s trial.
“I can’t promise a Get out of Jail Free card,” said Saxon. “I’m afraid that’s a tough one to deliver.”
The table fell into silence. Saxon was thinking of his brother in Toronto. Colonel Pratt was wondering whether the invitation to play had really come from Saxon’s efforts or another source. Calvino, on the other hand, sat staring at his hands as he thought about running beside Swamp Bitch and tried to guess which part of his body would start screaming first on the 10K run.
A few minutes later Saxon had finished his pile of boiled shrimp and pushed back his plate.
“When I first arrived in Rangoon, an editor at the newspaper gave me a small book of proverbs. He marked one that he said I should pay particular attention to. Calvino, before you go to the courthouse, you might have a look at some old Burmese proverbs. Truth is often found in simple stories.”
Reaching into his backpack, he pulled out the book and slid it across the table to Calvino.
“The book has sentimental value. Before you return to Bangkok, I’d like you to return it. I marked the one I like the best. Good luck finding Rob. Find Mya Kyaw Thein, and that’ll be where you’ll find him.”
As Calvino examined the book, Saxon turned to the Colonel.
“Colonel Pratt, I never did get a chance to thank you properly for what you did for my brother. You need anything while you’re in Rangoon, let me know.”
“Do you know the 50th Street Bar?” asked Colonel Pratt. “I’ll be sitting in with Yadanar Khin’s band. I hope you’ll come along.”
A smile started on the right side of Saxon’s face and rippled like a racing river until his whole face lit up.
“I play pool at the 50th Street Bar. I’ve heard Yadanar Khin’s band a couple of times. They’re not too bad. But Yadanar Khin takes after his dragon lady mother, and that’s not a particularly good genetic history to follow.”
“What’s the name of the band?” asked Calvino.
For some reason the Colonel hadn’t asked, or if he knew, he hadn’t mentioned it.
“Night Raiders.”
Sitting on the balcony of his hotel room, Calvino opened the book Jack Saxon had given him at lunch and took out the bookmark. The secondhand book, old and discolored with a fragile spine, opened to the story that Saxon apparently wanted him to read. Calvino began reading as he eased himself into the chair. The plan had been to meet Pratt in the lobby in half an hour.
It was a Burmese proverb about a weary traveler who stops along the road to eat his lunch. The traveler is a poor man, and his meal is a meager helping of rice and vegetables. Nearby a food vendor is selling fried fish and fish cakes.
Calvino noticed that the food in the proverb was the same that Saxon had ordered.
The stall owner watches the traveler eating as she fries fish over a small grill. The smell of the fish drifts toward the traveler, who squats alone on the side of the road, lost in his own thoughts.
As the traveler finishes his meal and is about to leave, the woman from the food stall looks up from her fish frying and shouts at him, stopping him in his tracks.
“You owe me a silver quarter for the price of one fried fish.”