Playing Lady Gaga, Being Nan Pau. Steve Tolbert

      To show her gratitude, Mya said, ‘The old nun will serve as my model. Every minute I’m wearing that robe I’ll be carrying her image inside me.’

      ‘A younger version of that image, I hope, with hardier legs and better eyesight. Her nephew is a monk and a close friend of mine. Her name was Nan Pau and her karma was good … Yours can be too.’

      ‘Did I kill him – the policeman?’

      ‘And was that policeman killing the construction worker he was attacking before you intervened? It is how wars start. I doubt you did; but whether you did or not, the law is simple. There is only one crime – an act against the government. It covers all offences and punishment is the same, whether for speaking out freely or beating someone to death.’

      ‘Or hiding people who’ve done those things. I shouldn’t be here.’

      ‘You can leave whenever you want, but if you stay two or three days, the authorities will have completed their house-to-house searches. Their interrogation cells will be full. As well, you can prepare yourself by studying the Tripitaka. Waiting will also give me time to organise your escape and find you something more effective than rat poison should your escape end unexpectedly.’

      Mya stared at him in disbelief.

      He went on. ‘The first Sacred Truth – life is sorrow and suffering, true. But the suffering that comes from interrogation and torture goes beyond the teachings. And when Buddhist principles clash, compassion takes priority.’ He stood up. ‘So absorb who you are: a novice nun whose only desire in life is to worship and serve … and just quietly, to find her mother.’

      Footsteps sounded on the staircase again. The door opened and the boy monk came in with a bucket of water. He set it down next to her and rushed out again.

      The abbot picked up the camera from the stack of tiles, explaining, ‘Your new identity starts with a photo.’ He then handed Mya the robe, under-dress and sash, asking her to put them around her shoulders. When she had done so, he looked through the viewfinder and took her photo using the flash. ‘I’m leaving for a little while. While I’m gone you can clean up, put on your novice clothes and rest.’ He nodded towards a cot next to the nearest wall.

      ‘If something happens and I’m not back in an hour …’ He raised his eyes and pointed to a square on the ceiling that had been cut away and replaced with a panel of dark wood. ‘A prayer hall is above us. It has an elevated floor. You can hoist yourself up through the panel then follow the light and crawl out.’ He turned and left.

      Mya washed and put on the novice clothes, then lay down on the cot. Nothing to do but mourn, feel numb, like her insides had been cut out. She picked up the Tripitaka and tried to read, but couldn’t. An hour, maybe more, before the sounds of scampering feet and thumping boots on the floor above startled her. Someone shouted, ‘OUTSIDE, OUTSIDE, NOW, NOW, NOW!’ There came a thud, like a bag of cement hitting the floor. Boots banged down the staircase. The padlock clattered; someone tried to wrench it off the latch. Then the boots went back up the stairs and moments later everything went still again.

      She waited. Maybe a quarter of an hour passed without another sound before she climbed awkwardly onto the cement bags and lifted the panel high enough to peer out between the false ceiling and raised floor above, a rectangle of grey light to her right. She grabbed her things, shoved them in her shoulder bag and lifted herself up.

      On her belly and forearms, Mya wriggled towards the light, emerging behind a large, glass-encased Buddha. She stood and peered around it. No one about, just the shrine-covered walls, and on the other side of the polished hall an altar laden with platters of hibiscus, jasmine and marigolds, smoking incense and dozens of flickering candles. Above the altar, a mammoth golden Buddha. On a cross beam above the Buddha, a swallows’ nest. Daytime still and Sule Pagoda was abandoned. Just something else she could never have imagined.

      She walked out into the hall and sat in front of the Buddha, curling her legs behind her and gazing up at him. She explained how much she ached, how much she feared leaving Yangon. A thought came: maybe she could just hide in the storeroom, somehow arrange to have food brought in until … until when? She was eventually discovered?

      The slap of flip-flops entered the hall. She jumped up, alarmed, about to run. ‘Police came and took the abbot away.’ The boy monk again, moving towards her. ‘I saw them from across the road.’

      Mya recalled the abbott’s warning about what would happen on being caught by the authorities: ‘… resistance will be ripped out of you and you will tell the interrogators everything they want to know.’

      The boy monk’s eyes were watery, his voice soft. ‘But there are no police now, so it is as safe as it will ever be for you to go.’

      Her choice: either she got herself to the train station or walked out to the pagoda steps and sat and mourned until the police came and took her away.

      The boy monk turned his back to Mya, bent over and lifted his robe. There came the sound of tape being ripped from flesh. He faced her again, a small, tattered book in his hand. ‘The abbot thought it would be better if I carried this, not him.’ He approached and handed Mya a guide book for English-speaking tourists.

      She took it and the book sprung open to a page with an identity card fixed in the binding. She stared at the photo of herself – hairless, in a pink robe, brown sash over her left shoulder, and below her photo, a name – Nan Pau. She took out the ID card and flipped through the book’s pages filled with bus and train schedules, colourful photos and descriptions of famous places.

      ‘The night train to Moulmein leaves in two hours,’ the boy monk said.

      Mya thanked him, knowing that in normal circumstances he wouldn’t have spoken to her, and her thoughts turned to the abbot. How long would he be able to hold out before telling his interrogators everything? ‘I must go now,’ Mya said, as much to herself as the boy. She dropped the book in her bag, left the hall and scampered down the steps, intent on getting to the train station as quickly as possible.

      Outside the rain had stopped and the sun was beating down, drawing vapour from the wet pavement. Sule Pagoda Road was close to deserted, shops and stalls looking as abandoned as the pagoda. Only a few people on bicycles, an occasional motorbike taxi or car moving slowly up the road as if a truck-load of vipers lay tipped over up ahead.

      The eerie quiet and lack of traffic weren’t all that surprised her. She thought she’d remain numb with grief, indifferent to being caught, and at first that was exactly how she felt. But as she walked, thoughts of her mother filled Mya’s mind. She needed Mya as much as Mya needed her. Mya’s feelings changed. She grew wary, conscious that Yangon was enemy territory now, that informers could be watching her from across the road, from windows and partially-hidden vehicles.

      As she quickened her pace, her vigilance grew. She doubted she’d ever been more aware of herself, her surroundings and the exact distance between her and her destination. Alert to every movement and sound, she studied the road, footpath, cross streets, laneways and dead ends. And what struck her was how clean and tidy everything was: nothing at all to indicate a peaceful march for democracy, followed by a massacre, had ever taken place. Not a single blood stain or bullet casing; no bits of banner, flag or clothing – not even any plastic bag rubbish. It was like the entire area had been soaped down and swept clean by a massive broom, or most likely dozens of smaller ones.

      She was approaching a boy and girl in school uniforms sitting on the low-walled border of a banyan tree, the boy eyeing its branches, his mouth pinched; the girl teary, slow to look away and keep her sorrow private. Mya recognised the girl from school, so lowered her eyes and faced the road as she passed them, half expecting her name to be called out at any moment. But the girl said nothing, and soon she and the boy rode past Mya on a bicycle, the girl side-on, head tilted into the boy’s back, her arms around his waist like he was all she had left in life. Mya watched them until they turned into a laneway and disappeared.

      Remaining unrecognised boosted Mya’s confidence. Her determination