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She explained how Yadanar’s mother, father, aunts, uncles and cousins exchanged dreams, the images jumping along the family tree like wood lice. The dreams were written down in a book kept at the 42nd Street bookshop for years. Dreams were written out and given to painters, some of the most celebrated of Burmese artists, who took very little in exchange for their work for Yadanar’s family. Yadanar’s mansion housed paintings that went back more than sixty years. The grandfather was obsessed with finding a family member to become the curator of the paintin
gs. He wanted to skip a generation, and that meant Mya or Yadanar’s generation, his grandchildren.
Looking around the mansion, it was clear that the family tradition of curating dream art had passed to Yadanar when he was a small boy. Dates of the passage of the art to his side of the family had some curious features. In 1988 the grandfather had died, and the bookshop deed had been passed by Mya’s mother to Mya’s aunt—Yadanar’s mother. Also in 1988 Yadanar’s father’s advancement up the ranks in the military stalled. He felt that the grandfather’s bookshop had been a curse on his career. He wanted it shut down. He also wanted the paintings. Once he had succeeded in acquiring all of the paintings from his wife’s family, his career took off in the army, and he became a high-ranking official in the military government. The rumor was this good fortune had come about after he had gained possession of all of the paintings.
The grandfather had expressed to his wife that Mya, his granddaughter, should inherit the paintings. She could sing like an angel. She loved books and hanging out in the bookshop. But his dream hadn’t come to pass. Why had Yadanar’s family gone to the trouble of taking the bookshop and the artwork, and preventing Mya’s return from Thailand?
Marrying a soldier had disappointed the grandfather, who had banished Yadanar’s mother from the family. If only he’d lived long enough to see that his grandson would be artistic, a lover of art and music.
The paintings had long enjoyed a legendary reputation for foretelling. The owner of them had a portal into the future. According to Mya’s aunt, her husband, the general, used the paintings to make his plans. He gave information as favors to his superiors. They won lotteries, promotions, beautiful women and business deals. He never publicly admitted to what others would call black magic, but he never denied the use of the paintings for fortune-telling, either.
When Ohn Myint had finished her story, Saxon said, “The Burmese are big on dreams. Carl Jung was Burmese in a prior life.”
Ohn Myint drifted off for a drink. The three men stood around looking at the paintings. Neither Colonel Pratt nor Calvino could see how the future unfolded in the images.
“Let’s go meet the curator,” said Saxon.
On the way upstairs they passed Khin Myat. Calvino stopped on the stairs at eye level with him.
“Didn’t expect to see you here,” Calvino said. “You remember Colonel Pratt.”
The last time they’d seen Khin Myat, he’d been on the balcony watching them go through the gate of Pha Yar Lan train station.
“I didn’t expect to be here. Yadanar’s birthday party is also his going-away party. He invited old school friends, people he’d lost touch with.”
Su Su, the woman from the covered market, came down the stairs and stood behind Khin Myat.
“There you are,” she said.
“Catch you later,” Khin Myat said in perfect idiomatic American English.
Saxon raised an eyebrow. “I’m impressed.”
“How so?” asked Calvino, assuming he was referring to Khin Myat’s linguistic skill.
That wasn’t the case. Saxon was accustomed to hearing returnees speak in perfect English.
“Vinny, you know more people here than I do. And I live in Rangoon.”
“You need to get out of the office more often, Jack,” said Calvino.
Before Saxon replied, the Colonel, who’d been watching the faces come and go, gestured to Saxon, who leaned in closer.
“Have you seen Yadanar?” he asked.
Saxon held up a finger, signaling to wait one minute. He disappeared up the staircase, and when he came back he had Yadanar at his side.
“Pratt,” said Yadanar, “I hope you had a drink and some food. A little later, I thought we might play a set. If you have time.”
“I didn’t bring my saxophone.”
“I have one you can use.”
Yadanar grabbed the arm of a passerby, saying, “Take my friend to find a saxophone.”
“And I’ll catch up with you in a couple of minutes,” Yadanar said to the Colonel.
Calvino and Colonel Pratt exchanged a look of two men trying to read the mind of the other.
