Free A Well-tempered Heart by Jan-Philipp Sendker

roofs were woven out of dried palm leaves, bamboo, and grasses. In many yards there was a fire; white columns of smoke rose unswerving into the evening sky. There were children playing everywhere who fell silent and watched us curiously as soon as they spotted us.
    My brother’s house lay hidden behind a gigantic bougainvillea hedge covered completely with red blossoms that had laid claim even to the gate. We forged our way with difficulty through his garden. His house stood on stiltsfive feet off the ground. Black teak with a corrugated tin roof and a small porch. A pig wallowed below. True to my memory.
    We climbed the steps to the porch. At first glance, the interior had not changed much, either. The brown leather chair was still there, the two couches with their tattered upholstery, a little coffee table, the dark cabinet, even the oil painting of the Tower of London. The red altar on the wall was new, with a picture of Mi Mi and another of Tin Win in New York that I had sent to U Ba. In front of the photos lay red hibiscus blossoms and some rice. Unless I was mistaken, a Buddha had occupied this location on my last visit. I wondered in which unopened moving carton my own framed picture of our father might lie hidden.
    I noticed several plastic buckets distributed without a discernible pattern around the house. I looked in vain for the beehive.
    “Where are the bees?”
    “Alas, they have flown on and taken up residence elsewhere,” my brother explained as he set my pack down.
    I sighed with relief.
    “In their stead two snakes moved in.”
    I froze. “Two what?”
    “Two cobras.”
    “You’re not serious.”
    He looked at me, surprised. “We divvied up the house.”
    “U Ba! Cobras are extremely poisonous snakes. One bite and you’re dead.”
    “They have done me no harm,” he replied calmly, apparently surprised that I was so upset.
    “Where are they now?” I wanted to jump onto the table in front of the couch.
    “I don’t know.”
    “You don’t know?” I was on the verge of hysteria.
    “One day they just disappeared.”
    “Disappeared? What does that mean? When did you see them last? Last week? A month ago?”
    U Ba thought hard. “I’m not sure. As you know, time does not play much of a role in my life. It must have been a year ago. Maybe two.”
    “So you mean they’re not here anymore?” I wanted to confirm.
    He was visibly baffled by my questions. “Yes, that’s what I mean. What else?”
    I breathed a little easier. “Weren’t you afraid?”
    “Of what?”
    My brother was not teasing me. He truly did not understand my fear. I saw it in his eyes. Small, brown, I-wish-I-knew-what-she-was-talking-about eyes.
    “Of what? Of being bitten. Of dying.”
    He gave his answer long and careful consideration. “No,” he said at last. “No, I was not afraid of that.”
    I believe I envied him.
    “Of course you will sleep in my bed.” He drew a faded green curtain aside to reveal a small room with a wooden shelf, a nightstand, a chair. From the ceiling hung a flickeringbare lightbulb. “I even have a mattress,” he declared proudly. “My greatest luxury.”
    He let the curtain fall back into place. “Now I shall make us some tea.”
    He went into the kitchen; I followed. In an open cupboard stood a pair of white enameled tin bowls and plates. On the bottom shelf were eggs, a few moldy tomatoes, garlic, ginger, and potatoes. In one corner some smoldering logs. Above them hung a sooty kettle. U Ba knelt down, piled a bit of kindling on the embers, and blew forcefully a couple of times until the dry wood ignited. The smoke exited through a hole in the roof.
    What had I gotten myself into? Was I really going to manage living in this hut? Using a latrine, bathing at the well in the yard. I was wondering what excuse I could offer my brother for the move back to the Kalaw Hotel.
    On a tray he set a thermos of tea, two mugs, and a plate of roasted sunflower seeds, and then we went together into