Charmaine Craig - Miss Burma

She almost called to him, but he said it again: “Whom to trust?”

It wasn’t until her third year at university, in October 1961, that she was finally granted a reprieve from her own isolation and distrust.

One minute she was moving down a corridor to class, enshrouded in the solitude she kept when not in front of the cameras or her fans, and the next she heard someone whistling something melodramatic that could have been composed by Henry Mancini. Then there he was — a boy striding to keep pace with her, whistling in time with his step (or walking and whistling in time with hers ?).

And what an attitude, what a swagger he had, this undeniably good-looking, tall young man — if you could call him a man (when she glanced at him, she saw that, appealing as he was in that way, he hardly had a hair of stubble on his chin). He smiled, as if in return for a smile she hadn’t offered, and then kept on with his exuberantly whistled song, which he occasionally interrupted with a tuba-like blast from his lips. Was he making fun of her, suggesting that she had the plodding walk of a — of a farting, fumbling creature from the Black Lagoon? She felt herself flush with shame and immediately feigned irritated indifference. But he cast her another unabashed grin and loped off, whistling his way into one of the lecture halls.

Only then, with him out of view (but hardly out of her mind’s eye), did she recall where she’d seen him — with one of Gracie’s closest friends, called Myee, a kid whose father was a Shan leader and an important political figure. Myee had even introduced her to this boy at one of Gracie’s parties — but what was his name?

That afternoon — after she boarded the bus, stopped in the aisle to sign several autographs, tucked herself into an empty bench, and hid her face in a book — he abruptly reappeared, plopping himself down beside her and causing her to yelp, which caused him, in turn, to laugh.

“You don’t recognize me?” he said with a huge grin.

She meant to tell him that she did , but was so aware of the inquisitive eyes staring at them from up and down the now lurching bus that she said, “We’re being watched.”

“I know,” he whispered in response. “Should I speak more loudly so they don’t have to strain to hear?”

Involuntarily, she smiled — though she was sure he was teasing her, and she generally despised sarcasm (she had too much of it everywhere!).

“Yes,” she found herself replying, as sincerely as she could. “That would be considerate.”

His look of astonishment told her he hadn’t been prepared for that. But a moment later, he dusted off his lap and stood, turning on unsteady legs to face their onlookers.

“My name is Kenneth!” he announced to the old ladies and the toothless men, to the mothers and kids and university students now watching him with smiling interest. “I’m sure you know Naw Louisa—”

“Don’t—” she whispered, pulling on his trousers, and feeling a jolt of excitement at the intimacy of the gesture.

But he was already having too much fun. Motioning down to her, he continued: “She and I are actually old friends, though she doesn’t seem to remember we’ve met several times. You see, her sister”—and he said this with a punishing glance down at her—“happens to be pals with a kid who’s like my brother.”

From the bus, there came comically sober exclamations of “I see” and “Aha,” then all fell silent, waiting, it seemed, for him to go on. But he appeared to have grown self-conscious. He faced the stony stares, flashing the riders a gracious, flustered smile before concluding, “Just wanted you to know, because Naw Louisa was very worried about you feeling left out of our conversation.”

He gave a nervous bow, and when he sank back down, it was to look bashfully at her. “Did I go a little too far?” There was a blush on his cheeks and also something like familiarity in his stare.

What was it with this boy — this Kenneth — who made her unwillingly smile even though he seemed only to elicit and take pleasure in her embarrassment? “A little,” she said. “We’ll probably read about it tomorrow in the papers.”

“You read what they write about you?”

Now she felt herself color with humiliation. “I try not to.”

Her honesty surprised her, and she was suddenly so disconcerted she found herself opening her book again and pretending to read a line, though she knew she was obviously failing to be convincing at that. And even as she tried to assume a look of concentration, the heat of her blush intensifying, she felt him watching her — as if to see how long she could endure pretending not to notice that her play-acting was pathetically unpersuasive. From the corner of her eye, she saw him finally reach into the sack at his feet and pull out a heavy textbook, which, when she glanced over (she couldn’t help it), she saw had the words “ Probability Theory ” in its title, and which he flipped open, finally landing on a page of equations that she (also unwillingly) stole peeks at.

This was ridiculous.

She closed her book, looking squarely at him, but now he was mocking her pretense of indifference, alternately scowling at his page of problems and gazing up at the flaking ceiling of the bus, squinting and nodding.

At last, looking pleased with himself, he turned to her and said, “You have something to write with?”

“What?”

“A pencil. A pen. Something to write down an answer.”

“There’s no need to show off. If you want to have a conversation, we can.”

But just then the bus passed into shadow, throwing them into a darkness that made her feel exposed, and she looked away to the reflective window at her side — and caught him glancing at himself and (vainly, adorably) running a hand through his longish hair. Their eyes met in the window, and then they were thrust into the light again.

“Why are you so miserable?” he said, almost shyly, as if avowing his own miserable crush on her.

“Excuse me?”

“You go around, your eyes downcast, like the saddest girl in the world. It’s very romantic, but—”

“There’s a difference between being miserable and. ”

“And what?”

“Wanting a bit of seclusion.”

“Is there?”

“In fact, I’m very happy.”

But her words made him look at her with sadness. He didn’t believe them, and suddenly neither did she.

She felt an inward surge of grief overtaking her — and another of anger. And, dizzied by the vacillating tides of her emotions — and of his cockiness and self-abasement, joshing and sincerity, put-downs and praise — she steadied herself with the view of her book, mentally reciting a litany of complaints against him.

“Do you eat?” he interrupted her.

“Don’t I look like I eat?” she said to the book.

“I wasn’t sure. You seem—”

“What?” This was said with coldness and directly at his earnest eyes.

“Never mind — let’s get off.”

“I have another six stops—”

“I know, but there’s a Chinese café on the next corner. You look like you could use some noodles.”

Over noodles, then, and Chinese tea — both remarkably delicious — in the humid café and the presence of still more pressing onlookers, they sat sweating and slurping and falling into increasingly relaxed conversation, only occasionally lapsing into silences more intimate than awkward, in which she seemed to feel him assuring her that imperfection was what he yearned for: the imperfection of her wit, the imperfection of her composure, the imperfection of her beauty, and even the imperfection of their uncannily easy and evolving rapport.

They spoke sparingly and tenderly of their families. His father, a Chinese prince, had passed away when Kenneth was a child; like Myee’s elders, his were based in Shan State, and had been pressured two years before by Ne Win to abdicate their sovereign rights to their people in favor of an elected administration (despite their having no confidence that such an “elected” government would represent those people’s interests). Yes, it seemed that Ne Win had cooperatively handed the reins back to U Nu, and even that U Nu was beginning to consider eventually sharing governmental power with ethnic states in some sort of genuine federalist system. But Ne Win and his army loomed in the shadows, and there was no need to discuss that continued threat.