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Colonel Pratt did a double take.
“Remember? It’s her running club handle,” said Saxon, seeing the Colonel’s embarrassed look. “I’m called Pistol Penis.”
“And Vincent, remind me of your handle, again,” the Colonel said.
“Kiss my Trash,” said Ohn Myint. “Though Jack said he wanted Alien Warrior instead. It was already taken by one of the US marines.”
“How could I forget?”asked the Colonel, smiling as he started to relax. It was good to see Jack Saxon among the faces, and the translator who had managed to get Calvino into the courtroom.
“Yadanar’s busy at the moment,” said Saxon. “Let me take you on a little tour of the house.”
Saxon ushered them into a large sitting room, where a saxophonist was playing some Dexter Gordon variations to piano accompaniment. Couples sat on the floor, chairs and sofas, lost in the music or talking and drinking. A large joint passed from hand to hand as clouds of smoke gathered above the partiers’ heads. The walls were covered with paintings. More paintings were stacked in the corners or leaned against furniture and walls.
“Family dreams,” said Saxon, as he saw Calvino studying one of the artworks.
“There was a painter in my family,” said Calvino. “My grandfather was from Florence.”
“As far as I know, Yadanar hasn’t ever been out of Burma, and he’s certainly not related to any of the painters whose work you’ll find in this house. Some of them are quite famous. His maternal grandfather was a famous bookseller in Rangoon. He had a shop on 42nd Street, not far from the Strand Hotel. Orwell used to go there to buy books. There’s a rumor he wrote one or more short stories in the room in the back.”
“Didn’t Orwell write about an elephant?” asked Calvino.
Saxon smiled. “You Americans really should read more. Did Orwell write about elephants? Does the American president have a helicopter?”
The landscapes in the paintings were jammed with images of temples, wandering monks, flying bearded beings—half-human, half-horse or lion—white elephants, unicorns, flying fish, lush gardens, children playing games, old people, dead people, warriors in ancient uniforms, stupas and market stalls heaped with precious jewels. Most of the paintings were dreamy, surreal visions—the stuff that Rob had described as he stared out the window. The painters had borrowed from Salvador Dalí, lifting his melting-clock faces, seconds dripping onto the backs of exotic animals. Abstract figures, some with horns or wings or tails, floated among the clouds and stupas.
“Wild, crazy shit, eh?” Saxon asked.
“And yet there’s a sameness to them,” said Colonel Pratt.
“Like temple artwork,” said Calvino.
“I’m no art expert. Yadanar says every painting in this mansion came from somebody’s dream.”
Saxon peeled off to whisper something to Ohn Myint.
Returning a couple of minutes later, he said, “Follow me. There’s more. A lot more to see.”
Saxon led them past a series of rooms, unused bedrooms warehousing hundreds of paintings. Flipping on the light, Saxon stepped into one of the rooms. No one was inside. There was a bed with paintings stacked on it. Empty closets had been used to store more paintings, leaning them one against the other like folders in a filing cabinet.
“Every room is like this. Filled with paintings. Or musical instruments or books. Sometimes all three are mixed together. Yadanar’s grandfather was a bookstore owner.”
“You already told us that, Jack,” said Calvino.
“I repeat myself when I’m stoned. What I was trying to say is the grandfather wanted all of his children to love the arts with a passion.”
“Looks like he got his wish,” said Colonel Pratt.
“The grandfather should have been careful what he wished for,” said Saxon, “because getting your wish granted can be a curse.”
“The same with dreams,” said Calvino.
“Same, same,” said Saxon. “You haven’t heard the story?”
Calvino shook his head.
“Ohn Myint, tell them the story about the paintings. The one you told me.”
There was nothing shy about Ohn Myint. She was direct and looked them straight in the eye, the way she’d looked in the eye of the MI agent on the 10K run.
