Read Online A Well-tempered Heart by Jan-Philipp Sendker - Free Book Online
Authors: Jan-Philipp Sendker
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is there are ghosts there.”
I might have known. “What kind of ghosts?” I asked, sighing slightly.
“Oh, it is a very sad story. The hotel served as a hospital during the war. Unfortunately several English died there. Their ghosts still roam about the house, it is said.”
“I don’t believe in ghosts. Have you ever seen one?”
“No, of course not.”
“You see?”
“But I do not stay in the Kalaw Hotel.” He wagged his head again and smiled.
“Have you ever spoken with anyone who has seen one?”
“No, Miss. My passengers do not sleep there.”
“I have already stayed once at that hotel, for two weeks, and I did not meet a single ghost.”
I suspected he was getting a higher kickback from other hotels and left it at that.
We drove through a hilly landscape where farming could not have been easy. Not far from the road a man with a water buffalo was plowing a field. It must have rained not long before. The ground was slippery; man and beast were covered with mud. The emaciated buffalo plodded through the mire; the farmer, clad only in a drenched longyi, drove the plow with all his strength. Both looked as if they might collapse at any moment.
A couple of hundred yards away a golden stupa sparkled in the sun. Hidden among the hills and fields, between the trees or in bamboo groves, I glimpsed pagodas, monasteries, and temples.
On one occasion we stopped abruptly for two stubborn oxen whose cart was blocking the way.
A good hour later we pulled into the driveway of the Kalaw Hotel. The driver stopped before the entrance, fetched my backpack from the trunk, gave me a card with his name and address, in case I reconsidered and wanted other accommodations, wished me a pleasant stay in Kalaw, and went on his way. Hotel employees were so far nowhere to be seen.
The door stood wide open, so I climbed the few steps and entered the building with a pounding heart. One glance at the reception area was all it took for the memories to come flooding back. The clocks on the wall showing the local times in Bangkok, Paris, Tokyo, New York, and Myanmar, all of them incorrect. The plaster flaking off the walls like skin after a sunburn. The key cabinets, in which I had never seen a single key. Not during my previous stay, and not now, either. The cold neon light. Highly polished floors. Yellow drapes billowing sedately in the breeze.
A sense of returning home. As if I had spent years of my life in this hotel.
“Hello,” I called, but got no answer.
In an adjacent room a television was playing, a young man sleeping on the bench in front of it.
“Hello,” I called again loudly, knocking on the door frame. The young man woke and looked at me in surprise. A guest was apparently the last thing he had been expecting.
My room, 101, had not changed.
Large with a high ceiling, whitewashed walls, two beds, a little nightstand between them, a table and two armchairs in front of the window, even the Korean mini-fridge still occupied its former location. Still out of order.
The young woman at the reception desk was very friendly. She knew a few English phrases. She did not know U Ba.
I set out to find the teahouse where I had met my brother for the first time. Someone there would certainly know where he lived. I walked down the street that led from the hotel to the middle of the town. It was bordered by poinsettia, oleander, and elder bushes, and it was in better condition than what I remembered. Leisurely pedestrians ambled along, most hand in hand or arm in arm. Almost everyone greeted me with a smile. A young boy on a bike that was much too big for him rode toward me and called out: “How are you?”
Before I could answer he had disappeared around the next corner.
I came to a fork in the road. I stopped and tried to get my bearings. On the right was a park populated by the overgrown remains of a mini-golf course. At the entrance two horse-drawn carriages waited in the shadow of a pine. On the left the main artery
I might have known. “What kind of ghosts?” I asked, sighing slightly.
“Oh, it is a very sad story. The hotel served as a hospital during the war. Unfortunately several English died there. Their ghosts still roam about the house, it is said.”
“I don’t believe in ghosts. Have you ever seen one?”
“No, of course not.”
“You see?”
“But I do not stay in the Kalaw Hotel.” He wagged his head again and smiled.
“Have you ever spoken with anyone who has seen one?”
“No, Miss. My passengers do not sleep there.”
“I have already stayed once at that hotel, for two weeks, and I did not meet a single ghost.”
I suspected he was getting a higher kickback from other hotels and left it at that.
We drove through a hilly landscape where farming could not have been easy. Not far from the road a man with a water buffalo was plowing a field. It must have rained not long before. The ground was slippery; man and beast were covered with mud. The emaciated buffalo plodded through the mire; the farmer, clad only in a drenched longyi, drove the plow with all his strength. Both looked as if they might collapse at any moment.
A couple of hundred yards away a golden stupa sparkled in the sun. Hidden among the hills and fields, between the trees or in bamboo groves, I glimpsed pagodas, monasteries, and temples.
On one occasion we stopped abruptly for two stubborn oxen whose cart was blocking the way.
A good hour later we pulled into the driveway of the Kalaw Hotel. The driver stopped before the entrance, fetched my backpack from the trunk, gave me a card with his name and address, in case I reconsidered and wanted other accommodations, wished me a pleasant stay in Kalaw, and went on his way. Hotel employees were so far nowhere to be seen.
The door stood wide open, so I climbed the few steps and entered the building with a pounding heart. One glance at the reception area was all it took for the memories to come flooding back. The clocks on the wall showing the local times in Bangkok, Paris, Tokyo, New York, and Myanmar, all of them incorrect. The plaster flaking off the walls like skin after a sunburn. The key cabinets, in which I had never seen a single key. Not during my previous stay, and not now, either. The cold neon light. Highly polished floors. Yellow drapes billowing sedately in the breeze.
A sense of returning home. As if I had spent years of my life in this hotel.
“Hello,” I called, but got no answer.
In an adjacent room a television was playing, a young man sleeping on the bench in front of it.
“Hello,” I called again loudly, knocking on the door frame. The young man woke and looked at me in surprise. A guest was apparently the last thing he had been expecting.
My room, 101, had not changed.
Large with a high ceiling, whitewashed walls, two beds, a little nightstand between them, a table and two armchairs in front of the window, even the Korean mini-fridge still occupied its former location. Still out of order.
The young woman at the reception desk was very friendly. She knew a few English phrases. She did not know U Ba.
I set out to find the teahouse where I had met my brother for the first time. Someone there would certainly know where he lived. I walked down the street that led from the hotel to the middle of the town. It was bordered by poinsettia, oleander, and elder bushes, and it was in better condition than what I remembered. Leisurely pedestrians ambled along, most hand in hand or arm in arm. Almost everyone greeted me with a smile. A young boy on a bike that was much too big for him rode toward me and called out: “How are you?”
Before I could answer he had disappeared around the next corner.
I came to a fork in the road. I stopped and tried to get my bearings. On the right was a park populated by the overgrown remains of a mini-golf course. At the entrance two horse-drawn carriages waited in the shadow of a pine. On the left the main artery
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