Missing In Rangoon

The MI agent spit on the ground. Health appeared to be an alien concept to him as he scribbled in his notebook.

“He’s an American,” said Ohn Myint.

“And who are you?”

“His translator.”

“Why do you run?”

The MI agent seemed to be caught in first gear, repeating the same question.

“Good for the heart and lungs,” she said in English, and repeated it again in Burmese when it appeared the MI agent hadn’t understood.

A small crowd of villagers watched in the distance from the safety of their houses along the narrow, winding road, smiling and whispering to one another.

“How many Americans are running with you?”

Calvino thought of the two ultra-fit marines from the American embassy who had the bodies of whippets and ran like cheetahs.

“A platoon of battle hardened snipers,” he said.

It wasn’t a word the MI agent understood. Calvino spelled out word “platoon” for him.

“P-l-a-t-o-o-n.” He looked at the notebook. “Two O’s,” he said. “Toon as in cartoon.”

The MI agent scribbled “Plato”underneath.

Calvino nodded. “That’s it, Plato. The quarterback who played football for Florida State against Henry Miller.”

“What is the purpose of running?”

Calvino had already answered the question, and so had Ohn Myint. But the technique was to keep asking the questions until the MI agent received an answer that would fit into his report. That was all that mattered. His job was to produce an answer that he could show his superiors without getting in trouble or being laughed at.

“What do you want to hear?” he asked the MI agent.

“Purpose.”

“To lose weight.”

The MI agent, slightly overweight, looked at the lines of sweat rolling down Calvino’s face.

“But you’re not fat.”

“My heart is fat.”

The MI agent wrote that down.

“I’ll talk with you again.”

He turned away and walked to his motorcycle.

Ohn Myint nodded. “He’ll be back, for sure.”

“Jack said you made arrangements for the trial tomorrow.”

“It’s been arranged,” she said.

Hands on her hips, she looked at a runner in the distance ahead.