Three Days In Yangon

This book is a work of fiction. While ‘real-world’ characters may appear, the nature of the divergent story means any depictions herein are fictionalised and in no way an indication of real events. Above all, characterisations have been developed with the primary aim of telling a compelling story.

Published by Sea Lion Press, 2020. All rights reserved.

Yangon Banking District, 04.20

It is said, primarily by visitors from the rural provinces, that Yangon is a city that never sleeps. Over the course of little less than a generation the city has expanded from being a quaint hamlet beloved of royalty to a sprawling industrial metropolis that hums with feverish activity, and compared to the tranquil villages of the hills it would appear a Stygian inferno. Prior to the age of the Chalk Empress the Imperial Banners enforced a curfew during the hours of darkness, but now the modern miracle of gas lighting means that no thoroughfare is ever truly unlit, and in many parts of Yangon business is carried on throughout the dead of night. One of the few locales where activity drops to a slow ebb is the banking district south of the Sule Temple. Here in the grid of streets surrounding the Tcho-classical edifice of the stock exchange, there is an astonishing diurnal migration that robs the area of its population with stupefying rapidity. As dusk falls and the trading floor closes for the day, the streets are congested for an hour as the hordes of brokers and securities traders, bond agents and venture capitalists fight for a place aboard the steam trams and atmospheric trains that will carry this weary army of calculators to the distant suburbs. There they recuperate in their leafy barrack-villas, only to repeat the cycle with the return of rosy-fingered dawn and enter the fray once more with their ledgers and abacuses. With their departure the lamps burn only for the benefit of the refuse-men and the night-soil collectors as they go about their odorous but indispensable duties. As the gongs in their distant stupas chime the witching hour, streets that throng at midday are eerily quiet, their slumber disturbed only by the occasional gust of wind between the abyssal office blocks. The guttering flame that leaps from the lamp mantles reflect on a silent gallery of windows that seem to leer across the empty avenues, hollowed eye-sockets devoid of life. All are deserted and darkened – except one.

Behind an opaque window, stenciled with the names of ‘Nguyen & Bhang, Chartered Accountants’, lay a scene of chaotic destruction. From the acres of paper strewn across the heavily carpeted floor and the ceiling-high filing cabinets that lay hanging open, it could be assumed that a bureaucratic bomb had been detonated to the detriment of the number crunchers. However, this was not the work of a malevolent spirit or an inconveniently confined typhoon; rather, the disorder was the work of a single man, a mild-looking creature that stood at the centre of the havoc he had wrought like an anemic whirlwind.

Unusually for a Tcho, Augustin Bhang was tall and rakishly thin, something that he attributed to his French mother. In all other respects he was the very model of an oriental salary man, complete with a cheap suit and a poorly-chosen neckerchief. With a ghostly pallor born of too many years spent indoors and a pair of pince-nez perched across his European nose, he could never be mistaken for anything else but an accountant. Even with streams of sweat pouring across his normally placid features, he looked as threatening as a mewling babe, and as conscious of his vulnerability. A juddering ripple of fear set his brush-mop hair askew and his hazel eyes darted hysterically around the room as he went about his mission, cramming volume after volume of leather-bound ledgers into a valise case as fast as his emaciated arms could manage.

In his haste he had scattered the carefully collated papers of a hundred clients to the wind, so focused was he on excising the tainted balance sheets that had brought about his downfall. Thrusting a last day-book into his luggage, he didn’t even bother to close the gold-plated clasps before racing from the study, and he paused only to upset the oil lamp that had been illuminating his packing. With a tinkle of glass and a rush of heat, the hungry flame took greedily to the forest of paper that had been left in the wake of the terrified bookkeeper, and even before he had made the street his office had become a fiery feast that roared unchecked into the night sky.

Pausing at the street corner, Bhang darted into the shadows to look back as his fortunes went up in flames. Why did that bastard Nguyen have to get greedy? They had a bursting portfolio of wealthy clients who valued their discretion and conscientious attention to detail; why had he insisted on getting involved with that loathsome tyrant who ruled over the PNR? Painlaalpyin nhaint raykaan had rather lost its appeal as a seaside resort since that corrupt character had taken up residence in its most exclusive pavilion. The very thought of the villain brought a new wave of revulsion and crippling fear washing over Bhang from head to toe, and it was all he could do to clutch the valise to his chest and stop his knees from shaking themselves into oblivion. With a lurch in his stomach, he saw movement amongst the kaleidoscopic blaze that surrounded his former place of work. Detaching themselves from a nearby doorway, Bhang’s heart stopped as the flickering shadows coalesced into the heavy-set figures of the very enforcers that he had been dodging all afternoon.

Dressed in the latest taikpon eingyi shirts, cut deliberately tight, the heavies seemed to have forsworn both mercy and the use of their necks, preferring instead to invest in rippling belts of muscle that gave them the appearance of brown sharks. Even from across the street, the whimpering money-man could perceive the bulge of thinly-concealed pistols tucked into the waistbands of their silk Longyi, as if their porcine fists couldn’t accomplish his destruction on their own. From beneath gold-embroidered guang baung head-wraps, beady eyes stared directly through Bhang, penetrating the curtain of falling ashes to bore through him like a hail of rifle bullets. The petrified milksop could feel the first trickle of warm fluid leak from his bladder as the menacing gang stepped into the gutter towards him. Suddenly, the sound of clanging fire-engine bells cut through the still night air, tearing asunder the spell that had locked predators and prey together. As the first firemen hurtled around the corner atop their steaming kettle of pressurized water, the shades silently rejoined the shadows, apparently bent on keeping their business private. Bhang did not take the time to thank any of the distant gods for his momentary deliverance, but instead used his newly-recovered mobility to run as fast as his legs could carry him. He had a train to catch.

Yangon Central Railway Station, 04.40

U-Tin yawned like a bored tiger, his jaw seeming to dislocate from sheer stupor. Behind him the pyatthat roof of the recently completed terminal stretched over a crowded vista of steamer trunks and portmanteaus awaiting collection or onwards shipping to one of the city’s many hotels and hostelries. At most times of day the left-luggage desk in Yangon’s busiest railway station was besieged by hurried travelers demanding accommodation for their luggage. In these dog-hours of the day, however, there was no demand for his services, and instead U-Tin rested his head in his arms, allowing the uniform cap to slip over his eyes. The first long-distance express from Naypyidaw was not due for another hour, and the first of the sardine-packed strap-hangers from the circular railway wouldn't arrive before the end of his shift. The only reason he did not sneak out back and find a nice bale of newspapers to nap on was that the deputy stationmaster had threatened to send him back to the slums if he caught him doing that again. Instead, he had resolved to master the art of sleeping standing up – and was halfway to achieving this goal when his reverie was abruptly burst by the sudden entry of Bhang, who slammed a valise down on the desk in front of U-Tin in a miasmic cloud of sweat and piss.

INEEDTOCHECKTHISINRIGHTNOWPLEASE! The runty man blurted out, his eyes aglow with fear. U-Tin eyed him suspiciously for a moment.

I’m sorry, finest sir, but we can only store baggage for honored passengers travelling on trains leaving today-

Turning out his pockets in such haste that he scattered his pocket-watch and handkerchief across the mosaic concourse, Bhang slid a slim yellow ticket stub across the counter, the cardboard absorbing a little of the sweat from his sodden hands.

I’m on the first train to Mandalay, now check the bloody bag! His desperation was at complete odds with the deserted waiting room, where only a handful of sleeping beggars served to populate the varnished wooden benches. With a sigh, U-Tin took the valise with outstretched arms and gingerly slid it onto a carousel that carried it into the depths of the baggage jungle before turning back to Bhat with a receipt.

Here you go sir, on behalf of Konbaung Imperial Railways I wish you... U-Tin didn't bother to finish his sentence, for Bhang had snatched the scrap of numbered paper from his fingers and was racing across the labyrinth of platforms, leaping like a gazelle over the prone form of a street urchin who was asleep under the ornate master clock.

"It’s customary to tip, you son of a whore!" U-Tin called after him, his vitriol resonating from the great iron train-shed that stretched above them.

***

In the echoing halls of the silent station, a careful listener could discern a gentle wheezing emanating from between the slumbering locomotives, an asthmatic gasping that seemed to pour from their polished brass domes and wood-lagged boilers. However, rather than a poorly-maintained vacuum brake, the gasping actually issued from the pigeon chest of Bhang, who had slid into the darkened space between two of the scarlet-painted carriages and was desperately trying to bring his labored breathing under control. Grasped tightly in his fingers was a hastily-scrawled letter that bore the last of his headed notepaper and the address of a little-known society for civil servants in Yian ho.

Dearest Koi

I am caught in a web, and soon the spiders will come for me. No time to explain. If anything happens to me, take this to the authorities. Look after my mother, and light a candle for me.

Lopan

With a parched tongue almost devoid of saliva he struggled to seal the missive and his newly-minted baggage receipt into a manila envelope and adhere the tiny black stamp that bore the Empress’ head. Rallying what little courage he could muster, Bhang peered from his hiding place and spotted the object of his desire, an imposing emerald-green postbox sitting like a cast-iron toad outside the shuttered post office. His eyes darting nervously, he dashed out into the torrid night air once more.

***

U-Tin didn’t notice the approach of the second unprecedented visitor to his desk. Though less than half-asleep, it took the sharp report of his counter bell to alert him to the fact that somebody was crouching mere inches from his face. The new visitor was a sharp contrast to his previous customer. Rather than being a picture of frenzied fear, the newcomer was the epitome of repressed rage. It would be difficult to describe him directly, for