The Art of Hearing Heartbeats by Jan-Philipp Sendker Page B

scars on his knees.His hands were narrow, the fingers long and elegant. One would never have guessed his feet had never known shoes.
    In spite of his size, he seemed to her as vulnerable as a baby chick flitting terrified across the barnyard. The sight of him moved her, but she did not want to pity him. She wanted to help him—and pity made poor counsel.
    She found it hard to leave him behind, even if only for a few weeks, but U May had offered to look after him for a while. U May felt the company of the other boys would do him good. The communal meditation and the lessons, the peace and predictable routines of the monastery would strengthen his sense of security and confidence.
    The novices took him into their midst, pressed a black bowl into one hand and a bamboo staff into the other. The monk standing in front of him in the line clenched one end of this staff under his arm. This is how they intended to lead Tin Win around. In a matter of moments the line of monks was on its way, taking small, cautious steps so that the blind one, too, might easily follow along. The novices marched through the gate, then turned right, making slowly for the main thoroughfare. Though Tin Win would not have noticed it, they were accommodating themselves to his tempo, moving more quickly when he picked up the pace or easing up when uncertainty slowed his steps. In front of nearly every house stood a man or a woman with a pot of rice or vegetables they had cooked for the monks inthe wee hours of that morning. The procession halted again and again. The benefactors would fill the novices’ bowls and bow humbly.
    Tin Win clung to his thabeik and his staff. He was used to wandering across the fields with a long stick when he was out on his own. He would swing it back and forth in front of him like an extended arm scanning the ground for ruts, branches, or stones. The bamboo staff in his hand now was no substitute for his own. This one made him dependent on the monk in front of him. It upset him to be out and about without Su Kyi. He missed her hand, her voice, her laughter. The monks were so quiet. Apart from a modest “thank you” for anything put in their bowls, they said nothing, and their silence only agitated him further. After only an hour or so Tin Win noticed that his bare feet were gradually gaining confidence on the sandy ground. He had not stumbled. He had not fallen. Neither the bumps nor the holes in the street had thrown him off balance. His hands relaxed. His stride grew longer and quicker.
    Back at the monastery they helped him up the steps to the veranda. The staircase was steep and narrow, without a handrail, and Tin Win wished he could climb it himself. But two monks took him by the hands, a third held him firmly from behind, and Tin Win took one step after another, learning to walk.
    Crouching on the floor in the kitchen, they ate the rice and vegetables. Flames blazed in the fire pit, over which a sooty and dented kettle of water boiled. Tin Win sat intheir midst, not hungry but tired. He could not say which strain had been greater: the long march or having to rely on the monk in front of him. He was so exhausted that he could hardly follow U May’s lesson, and fell asleep while meditating in the afternoon. He was roused by the monks’ laughter.
    Only lying awake later that evening did he recall the marvelous sounds of the morning. Had that been a dream? If his ears had not deceived him, where were those sounds now? Why could he hear nothing but the snoring of the other monks, no matter how hard he concentrated? He longed to recover the intensity he had experienced only hours earlier, but the harder he tried, the less he heard, until in the end even the snuffling and snoring all around reached him only from a great distance.
    In the weeks that followed, Tin Win did his best to participate in the monastic routine. With each passing day his confidence in the bamboo staff increased, and he enjoyed walking around town without