Read Online The Art of Hearing Heartbeats by Jan-Philipp Sendker - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jan-Philipp Sendker
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oriented himself to objects and their details. Instead he lived in a world that now consisted primarily of colors. Green meant the wood, red meant the house, blue the sky, brown the earth, purple the bougainvillea, and black the fence around the yard. Nor were colors themselves entirely reliable. They, too, faded away, until eventually a milky white cloth settled over him, obscuring everything outside a radius of a few yards. Thus the world vanished before his eyes, dying like a spent fire that gives neither warmth nor light.
Tin Win privately had to confess that it did not particularly bother him. He had no fear of the everlastingdarkness—or of whatever might replace the pictures his eyes had once seen. Even if he had been born blind, he told himself, he would not have missed out on much. Nor could he imagine he would miss much now should his blindness become complete, as indeed came to pass. Upon his waking and opening his eyes three days after his tenth birthday, the mist had entirely engulfed the world.
Tin Win lay still in his bed that morning, breathing quietly. In and out. He closed his eyes and opened them again. Nothing. He looked up to where until recently the ceiling had been and saw nothing but a white hole. He sat up and turned his head this way and that. Where was the wooden wall with the rusty nails? The window? The old table where he kept the tiger bone his father had found in the woods all those years ago? Everywhere he looked was a featureless white vault with neither foreground nor background. Without limit. As if he was looking upon infinity.
Next to him, he knew, lay Su Kyi. She was sleeping but would soon stir. He could hear it in her breath.
Outside it was already light—the birdsong told him that. He rose cautiously, feeling with his toes for the edge of the straw mat. He felt Su Kyi’s legs and stepped over them, then stood in the room and considered briefly where the kitchen ought to be. He took a few steps and found the door without collision. He walked into the kitchen, around the fire pit, past the cupboard with the tin bowls, and out into the courtyard. He had not stumbled once nor even stretched out his hands to feel his way. Outside the door he paused,sensing the sun on his face, bemused by the confidence with which he moved about in this mist, in this no-man’s-land.
Except that he’d forgotten about the wooden stool. His face hit the hard earth, and the pain in his shin made him cry out briefly. Something tore up his face, which was now a mess of saliva mixed with blood.
He lay still and unmoving. Something crept along his cheek, over his nose, and onto his forehead before disappearing into his hair. It was too quick to be a caterpillar. An ant perhaps? A beetle? He didn’t know and he started to cry, softly, without tears. Like the animals. He didn’t want anyone ever to see him crying again.
He groped with his hand across the ground, noted the irregularities, reached with his fingers through the little dips and rises as if exploring uncharted terrain. How rough the ground was, how ridden with stones and ruts. How had he failed to notice them before? He rolled a twig between his thumb and forefinger and felt as though he could see it. Would that image, and all the visual impressions in his memory, eventually fade? Or in the future would he see the world only through a window of recollection and imagination?
He listened hard. The ground was humming, singing softly, barely audibly.
S u Kyi lifted him up.
“The stool was right in front of you,” she said. It was an observation, not an accusation.
She fetched water and a cloth. He rinsed out his mouth, and she washed his face. Her heavy breathing betrayed how frightened she had been.
“Does it hurt much?” she asked.
He nodded. He had the sour taste of blood in his saliva.
“Come into the kitchen,” she said, standing up and leading the way.
Tin Win sat unmoving, uncertain of the direction. A few seconds later, Su Kyi
Tin Win privately had to confess that it did not particularly bother him. He had no fear of the everlastingdarkness—or of whatever might replace the pictures his eyes had once seen. Even if he had been born blind, he told himself, he would not have missed out on much. Nor could he imagine he would miss much now should his blindness become complete, as indeed came to pass. Upon his waking and opening his eyes three days after his tenth birthday, the mist had entirely engulfed the world.
Tin Win lay still in his bed that morning, breathing quietly. In and out. He closed his eyes and opened them again. Nothing. He looked up to where until recently the ceiling had been and saw nothing but a white hole. He sat up and turned his head this way and that. Where was the wooden wall with the rusty nails? The window? The old table where he kept the tiger bone his father had found in the woods all those years ago? Everywhere he looked was a featureless white vault with neither foreground nor background. Without limit. As if he was looking upon infinity.
Next to him, he knew, lay Su Kyi. She was sleeping but would soon stir. He could hear it in her breath.
Outside it was already light—the birdsong told him that. He rose cautiously, feeling with his toes for the edge of the straw mat. He felt Su Kyi’s legs and stepped over them, then stood in the room and considered briefly where the kitchen ought to be. He took a few steps and found the door without collision. He walked into the kitchen, around the fire pit, past the cupboard with the tin bowls, and out into the courtyard. He had not stumbled once nor even stretched out his hands to feel his way. Outside the door he paused,sensing the sun on his face, bemused by the confidence with which he moved about in this mist, in this no-man’s-land.
Except that he’d forgotten about the wooden stool. His face hit the hard earth, and the pain in his shin made him cry out briefly. Something tore up his face, which was now a mess of saliva mixed with blood.
He lay still and unmoving. Something crept along his cheek, over his nose, and onto his forehead before disappearing into his hair. It was too quick to be a caterpillar. An ant perhaps? A beetle? He didn’t know and he started to cry, softly, without tears. Like the animals. He didn’t want anyone ever to see him crying again.
He groped with his hand across the ground, noted the irregularities, reached with his fingers through the little dips and rises as if exploring uncharted terrain. How rough the ground was, how ridden with stones and ruts. How had he failed to notice them before? He rolled a twig between his thumb and forefinger and felt as though he could see it. Would that image, and all the visual impressions in his memory, eventually fade? Or in the future would he see the world only through a window of recollection and imagination?
He listened hard. The ground was humming, singing softly, barely audibly.
S u Kyi lifted him up.
“The stool was right in front of you,” she said. It was an observation, not an accusation.
She fetched water and a cloth. He rinsed out his mouth, and she washed his face. Her heavy breathing betrayed how frightened she had been.
“Does it hurt much?” she asked.
He nodded. He had the sour taste of blood in his saliva.
“Come into the kitchen,” she said, standing up and leading the way.
Tin Win sat unmoving, uncertain of the direction. A few seconds later, Su Kyi
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