“Phone system very bad in Myanmar,” he explained. “Almost never possible to call through to Mandalay. Other towns, forget it.”
“I wanted to call someone in Rangoon.”
He picked up the phone behind the desk, checked it a couple of times, shook his head. “Not possible now,” he said. “Maybe they fix it in an hour, maybe a few days.”
“If I tried another hotel-”
“Be same story. Is the whole system, not just hotel.” Whereupon the phone rang, and he picked it up, rattled off a conversation in Chinese too rapidly for me to follow, and hung up. “A guest,” he said. “Hotel system works fine. You want to talk to someone staying here, no problem. Anybody else, forget it.”
“I tried to call,” I told the young woman at Strand ’s registration desk. “From Delhi yesterday, and then from the airport just now. But I couldn’t get through.”
“It is a problem,” she said.
“So I don’t have a reservation. I hope you have room for me. I’ll be staying three nights, possibly longer.”
She had a nice room on the fifth floor, she told me, and gave me a card to fill out. I signed in as Gordon Edmonds and made up a street address in Toronto and a Canadian passport number. My luggage would be along later, I explained. It had missed one of the connecting flights, but I’d been assured the bags would catch up with me here in Yangon, and that the airlines would deliver it to the hotel.
She asked to see my passport, and a credit card. I patted the money belt beneath my clothes and explained I couldn’t get at either very easily but that I’d bring them to the desk as soon as I’d had a chance to wash up. She decided that would be fine.
I rode up alone in the elevator. It was a beautiful hotel, and I could see why Spurgeon was partial to it. I’d have been happy to stay there myself, but for the fact that a hotel room is largely wasted on a man who doesn’t sleep.
I’d only come here now because I wanted to use the phone.
And that was the first thing I did.
“Mr. Spurgeon,” I said, and spelled the name. After a long moment the phone rang, and after two and a half rings he picked it up.
“Mr. Spurgeon,” I said again.
“This is Harry Spurgeon.”
“And this is Evan Tanner,” I said. “I don’t know if you remember me, but we shared a taxi from the airport.”
“Of course I remember you, Tanner. I hope you’re enjoying Rangoon.”
“As much as possible,” I said.
“And you got to Shwe Dagon Pagoda all right?”
“I did.”
“And took your shoes off, I trust.”
“Yes, and put them back on again once I got out of there.”
“Wound up with the same ones you started with, did you?”
“I think so, yes.”
“That’s good,” he said. “One wouldn’t care to be walking around in another man’s shoes.”
“One wouldn’t,” I agreed.
“And you found a place to stay? Something modest but not too modest, I hope.”
“The first place I tried was a little too bare-bones for me,”
I said. “It turned out to be less private than I would have liked.”
“I daresay that was unpleasant.”
“It was,” I said, “so I moved to someplace a little more upscale.”
“A good idea, I’d say. What’s the name of it? I always want hotels to recommend to associates.”
“I’m in it right now,” I said, “and I’m damned if I can remember the name of it. It’s three or four one-syllable words strung together, and it sounds like a dish you’d order in a Chinese restaurant. Wan hung lo? Hu flung dung? I don’t know, something like that.”
He chuckled. “But you’re comfortable there,” he said. “That’s the main thing, isn’t it?”
“It is,” I agreed.
“And I’m glad you thought to call me.”
“I’ve been trying for hours,” I said. “I gather there’s been a problem with the phones.”
“Ah, well,” he said. “ Burma, you know.”
“I thought perhaps we could meet.”
“Talk things over.”
“Yes.”
“See where we stand.”
“Exactly.”
“Good idea,” he said. “Should we meet at your hotel, do you think?”
“I don’t even know the name of it.”
“I suppose you could always find out and ring back.”
“Of course I might not get through if I ring back,” I said. “ Burma, you know.”
“Quite. Would you want to come here?”
“The Strand, do you mean?”
“It’s better than trying to meet at a pagoda,” he said.
“At least we can wear shoes.”
“We can. I’d tell you to pop by right away, but I’m afraid I have an appointment. Do you want to come for lunch?”
“That would be fine.”
“Hang on,” he said. “I’ve a better idea. They do an English tea here better than you could get at home. Better than I could get at home, I should say. I’ve no idea what you could get at home.”
“Any number of things,” I said, “but not much in the way of a proper English tea.”
“Four o’clock, then,” he said. “Just say you’ve come for tea. They’ll show you where to go. Until then, Tanner.”
I can’t say my mouth started watering at the thought of a proper English tea, with watercress sandwiches with the crusts cut off and similar dubious delicacies. But the Strand also boasted a proper American bathroom, and as soon as I got off the phone with Spurgeon I went and drew myself a proper American bath.
I wasn’t sure whether I was going to stay put until tea time. That was the safest and simplest way. I could hang out in air-conditioned comfort, letting room service keep hunger at bay, and slipping downstairs when four o’clock rolled around.
But would the sweet young thing at the desk let me stay that long without showing her a passport and a credit card? I had both, but they were in my name, and not the one I’d signed at registration. I could come up with cash in lieu of a credit card, but how could I get around showing her Gordon Edmonds’s Canadian passport?
I lowered myself into the deep claw-footed tub and decided I could jump off that bridge when I came to it. The hot water was just what my shoulder needed, and wouldn’t do my sore ankle any harm, either. And, in combination with soap, it was just the ticket for the rest of me, or at least for the outside surface thereof.
I’d have gladly stayed in that tub until it was time to dry off and meet Spurgeon for tea, but I knew I couldn’t do that. I soaked for as long as I dared, hopped out, toweled dry, and had a quick shave. I looked a lot less grubby, and God knows I felt a lot less grubby. Insomnia, all things considered, doesn’t save the traveler as much money as it might. Even though you don’t need a bed to sleep in, you still have to have a place to wash up.
I got my backpack from the chair where I’d left it and dumped it out on the bed, picking out clean clothes to wear. Clean undershorts, clean socks, a clean shirt, clean khakis – I was going to be clean from head to toe, and God knew when I’d be able to make that claim again, since the chance I’d be able to wash anything out between now and my return home struck me as remote.
Well, what better venue for cleanliness than tea at the Strand?
I laid out what I was going to wear and put everything else back in my pack. Then I’d get dressed, and then-
Hello!
What had we here? It was a parcel about the size and shape of a brick, although it didn’t seem as heavy as a brick. It weighed, at a guess, a pound or two. I hefted it in my hand and decided it was closer to two pounds than one.
Maybe just a little more than that, I decided.
Maybe 2.2 pounds, say. One kilogram, if you’re feeling metric.
All wrapped in foil and neatly sealed with tape.
Now where had this come from? I certainly hadn’t brought it with me from New York. It was the sort of thing I’d remember packing.