The Jewel Trader Of Pegu (5 page)

come spices, fragrant woods, and colorful cloth that are traded in another no less exotic place for precious stones or rice or glazed jars that themselves bear wine or other spices held dear. From some creature slinking through the jungles comes the musk for the scent a courtesan dabs behind her ears and between her breasts to lure her besotted lover. Where do all those who push themselves away from the table with full bellies think the pepper, cinnamon, and cloves come from to make meat fit for their mouths? Do those Franciscans that bedevil us with their sharp tongues and sulfurous minds believe the incense they inhale with rapturous chants comes from some peasant’s field outside Assisi? Do the Charons who transport us to the other shore think the lotions with which they embalm our flesh bubbles from Veneto springs? We are part of the world—unless we live like stylites in the desert, surviving on air, faith, and rainwater.

We cannot escape this net of exchange that binds us without our choosing. How strange that I feel so much more a part of the world so far from the world that I have known.

The rough stones we buy are mined northeast of Pegu in a place called Capelan, a journey of several weeks, and no one can go there without royal permission. Brigands roam the countryside, and it is a long and dangerous trip into territory hostile to the Peguans.

So we wait for the rubies, sapphires, and spinels to be transported here for our examination. Win has in safer times been to the hills of Capelan, which are, from his telling, Dante’s words made flesh and stone. At the edge of the Seventh Circle, you look down into pits as far as the eye can behold at bent, brown backs scurrying like beetles across the gray, ravaged earth. These poor brutes burrow through mud and gravel, their picks and shovels striking stone outcroppings with a low, mournful echo.

What if these echoes were heard in the princely halls where our stones, cut and polished, finally find jeweled homes on fingers, wrists, and necks? Would it make a difference if our rich and noble patrons witnessed these scenes of woe outside their leaded windows? I think not. This is the way of the world.

Though at times, in the quiet of the night with the palms rustling outside my window, I wonder if this way is forever set, if we cannot make ourselves more than we were born to be. The words I write are not in the pen before I pick it up. Who is to say that the path is in my feet before I take a step? Forgive these late-night meanderings.

Perhaps my journey taken reluctantly may lead me as far inward as it has outward across oceans and desert. Perhaps I may return to Venice a better cartographer of my soul than if I had remained.

Your cousin,

Abraham

When the rice field turns from green to the gold of early-morning sunlight and then to the pale yellow of dry straw, it is ready.

I can see that it is ready. If I close my eyes and rub the kernels between my fingers, I can feel that it is ready. I see it. I feel it. I know it.

When the day approached for my ears to be bored, I knew it. I prayed to the Buddha to hurry the day. I was ready. I sat on the mat in front of my father and felt like a princess. The needle caused me no more pain than the bite of a mosquito. With each blade of grass my aunt slivered into my ear day by day, the more a woman I became. I stopped chewing sugarcane like a child (or at least stopped chewing where I could be seen). When the leaf in my ear uncurled more and more until I could almost poke my little finger in the hole, I knew that someday I would marry.

And now I am ready. It has been many years since I stopped playing games with the boys and touching them on their right shoulder, many years since they ran without fear under my sarong drying on the line. I am ready to be a wife and to bear, I pray, a son.

But the village is quiet. There are no young men for the girls to tease with songs at harvest time. We pound the rice alone. The young men drift away into the jungle to avoid the king’s men, who want to make them soldiers. They would rather live on wild fruit and roots than die a slave in Arakan or Toungoo.

Old Min-Tun, who with a short arm and twisted foot could make no match when he was young, is now every young girl’s favorite.

He is uncle to us all, and with his long Buddha ears he hears what we say and what we want to say but don’t. I can talk to him and when my mind confuses my tongue, he doesn’t scold me or turn away like my father.

Yesterday he scuffled into the edge of the forest to hunt for medicine, while I looked for wild fruit. Whatever he may have done in a previous life to deserve his twisted and stunted body, his eyes are sharp as a hawk’s. There is not a plant to cure our ninety-six af-flictions that he can’t spy twined around a tree or matted beneath his crooked foot.

Nu-Nyunt had lain too close for too many days by the fire to cool her body from the heat of childbirth, and one side of her body was blistered and almost black. Old Min-Tun gathered the leaves to make an ointment to soothe her scorched skin. It had pained me to see her blistered body. How better to be born a man, I told him, and live without the pain women must bear. He told me, as he has told me many times since I was old enough to listen, that if I followed the right path I might be reborn a man. Min-Tun is a good worldling and a wise man. All of us, men and women, suffer, he said. It is in our nature, and if I thought blindly I could escape suffering, then my suffering would be even greater.

“Don’t go crashing through life like the silly hog deer. Listen to the Buddha and you will leap over the fallen trees life puts in your path.” He cupped his good hand, and he offered me an invisible bowl of rice to give me strength and patience. Min-Tun’s body chose his path for him, but he knows that I am ready.

I will stay if my father says I should stay. I will leave if he says I should leave. I am ready to let go. I am ready to take root in a new field.

6 November 1598

Dear Joseph,

Tell Uncle I am tending to my health with extra attention, since Win told me today that if I die in Pegu, all I possess would go to the king. I have paid for these jewels in absence and longing, and I do not intend to finance the king’s foreign adventures that many complain have put the kingdom in peril. Maybe if news of the kingdom’s troubles had traveled as fast as talk of profit to be made, I would not have undertaken this journey at all. Or perhaps Uncle felt that in times of unrest, jewels could be gotten at a bargain price. We may feast on others’ troubles—I only hope we can get up from the table in time.

Win owes his position to Nandabayin, the king, and will speak only in his house or mine, and even then in hushed tones, of the king’s folly, his hard-heartedness, and the fear and suspicion he harbors for his closest lords. The king’s line is not from this place. He is a Burman from Toungoo and not much admired by the Mon people of Pegu. He sees enmity in their eyes when, under sword and gun, they are conscripted to subdue the rebellious vassal regions that no longer pay tribute in money and soldiers. Imagine if we Venetians ruled Florence, the Florentines would find that a heavy yoke to bear.

They would not step forward willingly to bear arms to preserve our power. They might even seek refuge in other cities not under our sway. Win, who seems to have eyes and ears throughout the kingdom, hears that more and more paddy fields lie fallow and villages grow quiet—the only sound the shuffle of those too old and infirm to survive in the forest or on the exodus to neighboring lands.

Win reads omens not in the stars but in the bellow and tromp of the kingdom’s fighting elephants. These wondrous beasts are the heart of the kingdom’s power, like galleys are to the Republic. I have seen but a few on parade in the city streets, and they are frightening creatures when bedecked for battle, with wooden castles, large enough for four men, atop their backs. With streamers flying, bejeweled collars and harnesses, and swords swinging from their trunks, they would strike fear in the stoutest heart. A Portuguese filibuster turned merchant told me that before going into battle they drink specially prepared spirits to fortify their martial spirit. He swears that after the surrender of one city, he saw with his own eyes the king’s soldiers gather up the slain children lying in the streets and feed them to the elephants. The soldiers, swords dripping blood, dismembered and cut these innocents into small pieces, rolled them in rice chaff and grass, and fed them to the elephants in front of the rebellious ruler, whose doom soon followed. I have seen thieves begging in the market who, undeterred by searing brands on chest and cheeks for their first offense, have lost both hands for their second.

But I find hard to believe this act of barbarity, even for these infidels in time of war. Under the last king, who all say was a great warrior and a devout man—much the opposite of his pitiless successor—

the kingdom had an army of four thousand fighting elephants. Now Win says the number is less than a thousand, and this bodes ill for the kingdom’s future.

My time here is governed more by seasonal winds than even our desire for profit. I can only do our business and pray for the best.

Tell Uncle to pray for his faithful nephew and this benighted king.

This evening I rearranged things in the chest where I keep the heavy dark pants and jacket not fit for this climate. I found my yellow hat had turned moldy and rotten in the thick, humid air. I looked at it with a stranger’s eyes: it wasn’t my hat anymore. It looked much too small to ever have fit. It seemed a costume kept by a troupe of traveling players—something an actor wears to play a role. I had Khaing throw it out with the fish bones and coconut husks.

Your cousin,

Abraham

12 November 1598

Dear Joseph,

This letter will be brief. I am wearied by what my eyes witnessed today. If I do not share my grief, I am afraid my heart will burst with sadness.

The king commanded the citizens of the city and the foreigners to witness the public execution in the central square of a dozen lords whom he accused of conspiring with the king of Ava. They and their wives and children—there must have been close to one hundred poor souls—were led from the Prome Gate through the city streets to their death. The lords, stripped bare from the waist up, their clothes in tatters, rode backward on sway-backed nags.

They wore straw crowns hung with mussel shells and strings of onions. What all that meant I do not know, but no one could be blind to the humiliation intended—as if the death that awaited them was not enough. Their wives, hands bound behind them by rough rope, and their children, some so young they could barely walk, shuffled and stumbled and were dragged in pitiful parade through the dirt on either side of their husbands and fathers. Their wailing rent my heart. Attendants and old retainers followed their masters through the crowd, raising dreadful cries and lamentations to their deaf gods. Many of these souls, slave and freemen, struck their foreheads and cheeks with rocks until blood bathed their faces. Even the royal guards were moved to tears by this cascading woe and wailing. When they reached the place of death, the soldiers pulled the lords from their horses and threw them to the ground, their wives crying and fainting. One lord, who did not stumble and stood like a nobleman to all eyes, heathen and European, bent over his fallen wife to console her with words, for he could not touch her, as his hands too were bound behind him. I do not know which “Lord” he cried out to—whether his god or king—but Win said his words were—
Lord, my Lord, remember who thou art and not who I am
. I did not understand at the time the meaning of his words, but I felt the power of his feelings, the nobility of his bearing. An old attendant broke through the crowd and poured water from a pouch into his mouth. He did not swallow, though his lips were dry and cracked.

Instead, he bent over his fallen wife and spit water into her mouth.

The chambers of my heart moaned for him. No kiss could have borne better witness to his love. I felt shamed by this infidel. He bore for his wife more love than I ever did for mine. More love than I fear I can ever feel.

The women and children were hung by their feet until they choked on their own blood. The men were impaled like sheep and burned. These people talk of their Buddha’s compassion. I can say no more.

Abraham

19 November 1598

Dear Joseph,

I now know why those old women smiled. I have seen and heard much on my travels, but these Peguans, for all their incense and prayers and bowing before their golden gods, rank highest for their disregard of all that is sacred before the Holy One, blessed be He.

Because what was asked of me was so foreign to what any moral man, Israelite or Gentile, could imagine, I have been blind to hints and clues that only now I understand—the old women selling fruit across the way, their smiles and laughter muffled by wrinkled hands, and the sly smiles of traders telling me that the Genoese was a gentle man and his house a happy one. And to think I had come to hold this fellow in good repute and was pleased to walk in his footsteps. I thought it could bring only advantage to our business. When Win told me more than once that he knew I, like the Genoese, would do what was expected of me, I said of course.

I thought Win, in his imperfect Italian, spoken slowly like water dripping from a gutter spout, meant only that I would meet my obligations as a trader. Words, I am learning, may not always be the best way to speak.

I do not mean to tease you by circling slowly around what happened. I am not a man who blushes easily, especially for all the nakedness I have seen since leaving Venice, but these are matters not easily spoken of. After sundown on the Sabbath, Win arrived at my house—this in itself was unusual, for the entire day was one of rest for him as well as me. Behind him on the verandah stood a man and two women. All were dressed in fine cloth, not their everyday cotton. The younger woman, who I soon learned was the daughter of the man and older woman, sparkled with rings on her fingers, gold bangles on her arms.

Her hair, pulled back into the bun women wear here, was freshly oiled and smelled of jasmine flowers. Two bejeweled gold orna-ments, the shape of cranes, peeked from either side of the bun.