海角大神

鈥淟ook at my treasures!鈥� cried Mr. Book, emptying a bag of insect-damaged paperbacks onto the table. 鈥淪ee, they found Dostoyevsky delicious.鈥� He picked up a copy of 鈥淭he Brothers Karamazov,鈥� chewed into a misshapen 鈥淟鈥� by termites.

We couldn鈥檛 blame them 鈥� good books are rare in Myanmar (Burma), and even more so in rural Shan State. After two weeks, my husband and I were running out of reading material.

In Yangon and Mandalay we鈥檇 browsed bookstalls but, apart from Orwell鈥檚 鈥淏urmese Days,鈥� had failed to turn up any books in English. Termite-ridden titles aside, Mr. Book鈥檚 stall on the main street of Hsipaw was a library by comparison.

We had arrived here by railway, bouncing past blue-tinged mountains and fields of sunflowers. Like most travelers to this remote town, we planned to depart later that day for a trek to the surrounding tribal villages, where farmers tilled electric-green rice terraces. Instead, we found ourselves sitting down to a pot of grainy black coffee behind Mr. Book鈥檚 shop.

鈥淗ave you read 鈥楽idd颅hartha鈥�?鈥� he asked. 鈥淥h, that is a very good book.鈥�

I hadn鈥檛 read Hesse since high school and confessed that I remembered little of 鈥淪iddhartha.鈥� When I revisited the tale much later, I recalled the stages of Siddhartha鈥檚 search for knowledge 鈥� and the ferryman who leads him to the source.

Mr. Book pointed to the phrase 鈥淭hink, Wait, and Fast鈥� scrawled in chalk above his doorway. 鈥淚 leave the quote unfinished so that people will read the book,鈥� he said, winking through his bifocals.

The next day we left our guesthouse early, planning to squeeze in a hike before catching the daily bus to Inle Lake. On our way through town we stopped at Mr. Book鈥檚 stall to say goodbye.

鈥淗ello!鈥� he said. 鈥淎re you busy? There鈥檚 someone I want you to meet.鈥�

鈥淯m ...鈥� I hesitated, imagining the tribesmen we wouldn鈥檛 get to see. I looked at my husband, who was already shoving the trekking map back in his bag. 鈥淣o, we鈥檙e not busy.鈥�

Mr. Book grabbed his walking stick and led us outside, past the mosque with bearded men milling about it and the market with its piles of curry and cheroots. Stopping at a wooden gate, he indicated for us to step inside and said, 鈥淭his is my teacher鈥檚 home. She鈥檚 expecting you.鈥�

A nonagenarian in a paisley dress sat in the dark in the stilt house.

鈥淎ren鈥檛 you going to sit down?鈥� said a voice in clear, unaccented English. It belonged to the woman, who looked about four feet tall. As our eyes adjusted to the shade, we saw that beside her was a textbook and a boy who had disabilities. She looked us over with steady gray eyes, her face lighting up beneath a thousand tiny wrinkles.

鈥淪o,鈥� she laughed good-naturedly, 鈥渨hat do you want to talk about?鈥�

She introduced herself as Sao Myo Cit, a 30-year primary school English teacher, and 30-year retiree on a pension of $1 a month, continuing to teach free of charge.

鈥淚f people want broken English, I tell them not to come to me. But if they want to learn the real thing, well, I鈥檓 still living,鈥� she said.

While she was speaking, a group of children, faces smeared with yellow thanaka paint, had crept into the yard, clutching shiny packages and giggling.

鈥淓xcuse me,鈥� she told us. 鈥淚 have to bless these kids.鈥� She turned and spoke to them gently, her mouth curved into a childlike half smile. The preschoolers bowed in the grass and handed her chocolates. I felt sudden veneration.

Noticing our faces, she closed her eyes and said, 鈥淎 Spanish woman was visiting Hsipaw years ago. One morning she brought me flowers she had purchased at the market, and I asked her to join me for breakfast. As we were eating, she jumped up and exclaimed, 鈥楾his place is so full of love!鈥� 鈥�

She opened her eyes. 鈥淚 don鈥檛 know why she said that. These days the town is so big I can get lost in it.鈥�

Eventually we apologized to her student for interrupting and bid farewell. Mr. Book was waiting to show us to the bus stop. We retraced our steps past the market, where a line of prepubescent nuns in carnation-pink robes was collecting alms. A girl stood at the intersection flinging holy water from a cut tree branch; the droplets hit me in the face and rolled down my cheeks.

At the bus stop, sunburned Frenchmen fanned themselves in the shade. Mr. Book took our hands and beamed.

鈥淣ext time you come, we鈥檒l go trekking,鈥� he said.

I laughed. 鈥淣ext time.鈥�

He turned, and we watched him make his way back toward the town, propelling himself with his staff as if it were an oar in the dust.