Speak No Evil

I woke up very early that morning, too excited to sleep. I went downstairs to find my father. I knew he would be getting ready for work.

"Dad."

"Yes, son?"

"I want to know more about your work."

He looked up, surprised. "I thought you'd never ask. Come on. Sit."

I sat down with a smile on my face. I rarely smile. But that morning I did, and I meant it with my whole heart.

"Dad, how can I have power?"

"Well, son." He leaned back in his chair. "The people of this country depend on us. We decide their future. You let no one stand up to you. If someone does, you cut them down. And you do it with bravery and courage. Keep that in mind."

"Yes, Father."

"Next time, I'll take you to work with me."

He walked to the front door and waved goodbye to me. I wanted to know more. I wanted to know everything.

I had forgotten my phone, so I went back upstairs to get it. On the way, I passed my sister's room. Her door was locked. That was strange. She used to leave it open all day. She had been staying away from me ever since I met Moe. Did she know something?

I wanted to talk to her. I hadn't really talked to her in a long time. I wanted to know my sister, just a little.

I knocked.

"Yes?" she said, before opening the door.

"It's me. I want to talk to you."

"Why? Are you being weird?"

"No. I'm serious."

She opened the door, but only halfway, and she kept one hand on the handle. "Huh? What?"

"What are you doing?"

"Just planning my future. I want to travel."

"Really? Where?"

"You know I like traveling. I want to go around and see Myanmar. There are so many cool places to visit here."

"If you want, I can take you."

"Haha, no. I'm fine for now." She laughed, but she took a small step back, and her eyes went to my hands.

She had been very careful with me lately. She was avoiding me.

"Okay. See you."

"Wathone, wait. Can you start the generator in the basement? I'm scared to go down there. Please help me. The power's been cut off again, and the internet too."

"What? No. I need Father's permission for that."

"Now you say that? After you broke three bottles of his wine and Father didn't even say anything?"

"Fine. Just this one time."

"Thank you!"

"Whatever."

I went down to the basement. Then, for the first time in my life, I called my father to ask his permission for something.

"Hello? Son?"

"Dad, my sister wants me to start the generator. What should I do?"

"No, no. Stop. Don't touch it. You can't do that. I'll do it myself when I get home."

"Okay, Dad."

I hung up.

"Well," I said to the empty basement. "That's her problem."

I went out to the front garden and called Thura.

"Thura, where are you?"

"Yo! Dude! Come over to my place!"

"No, not now. I'll come over later."

"Aww, dude."

"You want to meet up somewhere?"

"Nah, man. I have to go to church."

"Ah. Okay."

I've known Thura since we were kids. He's rebellious, and he acts smart. If he thinks he's right, he'll fight for it, even when he's wrong. A guy who sleeps with half the girls in town, and church is the one place where he draws the line. He has never missed a single service.

"Yo, why are you so quiet? Something happen?"

"No, man. Why don't you come to my ceremony at the Buddhist temple next week?"

"What? I have nothing to do with your religion, man. Sorry. Bro, I can't be there."

I knew he would say that. A man who confuses religion with heritage. After all these years, he's still an insecure little bitch.

"Okay, man. See you."

"Wait. I have an idea. Why don't you come to church with me? Maybe it'll change you. Today. Right now."

I'm open to new ideas.

"Okay. I'll try."

"Hell yeah! Come on, bro, I'm waiting!"

Maybe his god could satisfy my needs and my desires. I would give him a chance.

I got into my car and drove to his place.

When I got out of the car, I saw the church. It was huge. I went inside, and there was their god at the front, standing with his arms spread wide, as if he were welcoming me.

"Hey, man! Come on, come here. Sit with me. The pastor will be here soon." Thura leaned closer. "So, my guy. You see, Jesus is a god who will save your soul."

"Wow. Really?"

"Yes. He forgives you, and he welcomes you with open arms."

"Don't tell me you only come here because you want to be forgiven for what you've done to those girls."

"Ay, ay, shhh! What are you talking about? You can't say things like that in here. This is a church!"

Then someone walked in who was shaped just like my father. A bloated belly, slick hair, gold glasses, an expensive watch.

"Who's that guy?"

"Shh. That's the pastor."

Well. He was extremely rich for a pastor. I know a rich man when I see one.

"Get up," Thura whispered.

I stood up, the way he told me to. I thought I could get the pastor's attention and make a friend, right here and now.

"Today!" the pastor began. "We gather for our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ—"

"Hello? Pastor?"

The whole church went silent. Hundreds of heads turned to look at me.

"Huh?"

"What the fu—" Thura hissed, pulling at my sleeve.

A man in a white shirt was already walking down the aisle toward me, his face hard.

"I have something to tell you."

The pastor's smile stayed on, but his eyes went cold. "Oh? What is it, my son?"

"I want to donate this."

I held up a thick stack of cash, the money I had taken out of the ATM for the trip, still in the bag I had carried in from the car.

The man in the white shirt stopped where he was. Somebody gasped. And the pastor's eyes changed, so fast that I don't think anyone else saw it.

"Oh! Haha." The pastor coughed. "Son, what's your name?"

He nodded to a man who seemed to work there, and the man came over, took the money from my hand and put it in the donation box.

"Wathone."

"What a beautiful name. I haven't seen you here before. Where are you from? Are you a believer?"

"I'm from around here. What's a believer?"

Everybody laughed.

"Haha! We've got ourselves a non-believer!"

Everybody cheered.

"Son, we will make you a believer. A real one. My son—"

"Can I be forgiven?"

"Oh, a very good question. No sin is beyond God's power to forgive, when a person turns to Him, the one true God, Jesus Christ."

"Amen!" everybody shouted.

"Luke, chapter twenty-three, verse thirty-four. Jesus forgave the men who crucified Him. He said it while He was nailed to the cross: 'Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do!'" He pointed at me. "So, my son, reach out to Him. And I will see you personally, in my office. Come and meet me there."

"Damn," Thura whispered. "You got the attention of the famous pastor here."

"Ah. I see."

The pastor preached whatever was in the Bible to move these people, and they held their arms up in the air and shouted "Amen!" again and again. A power that can move people. Control people.

I didn't sing. I watched. An old woman in the row in front of me cried the whole time, her hands shaking in the air. When the donation box came down our row, a man in a faded shirt folded his last few notes in half and pushed them in, then sat back down with nothing in his hands and a smile on his face. The box passed me twice. I watched it all the way to the front, to the pastor.

Finally, after three hours of shouting and singing, it was over.

"Hey, man, don't forget to talk to the pastor. I'm going home now. See you later."

He seemed jealous.

As soon as Thura left, girls and women from the church started coming up to me.

"Oh, are you from around here?"

"Welcome to the church!"

They crowded around me, more and more of them, until I was overwhelmed. For the first time in my life, I felt appreciated. Their smiles reminded me of the smile I gave KoMg that night.

Outside, I saw the pastor saying goodbye to everyone one by one, standing next to his shiny car. The people in his church seemed like normal folks. How could he be this rich, when they were not?

I was starting to love it. I would try it out later.

"Well, there he is," the pastor said when he saw me. "Come to my office, son."

I followed him into his office, to his big luxurious desk.

"Sit, son."

His office was cool and quiet, with a soft carpet and a framed photo on the wall of him shaking hands with men in suits. One of them, I was almost sure, was a colonel I had seen at our house.

"Quite a lot you've got in your church. People, I mean."

"Ha. Yes." He sighed and shook his head, and his face became sad, the way a face becomes sad in a drama. "Well, the country is in a bad way, and prices keep going up. They need somebody to save them."

He said it so gently. He had said it many times before.

He poured me a glass of expensive whisky.

"Go ahead, son."

"You don't drink?"

"Son, look at me. I'm a messenger of God. I don't drink. Hahaha!"

He laughed as if it were an old joke he told every guest. Then why did he even have a bottle?

"Look, son. I like you. You have faith. I want you to come here every Sunday. The Lord will take care of you."

"Sir, this month I've done a lot of things I've never done before. I'm not sure if they're okay or not. I don't know if they're good or bad. But I like them."

"Son, the Lord can forgive you if you do bad things. You just need to accept Him. And if you like doing them, why think twice? It's just like me. I like being here, so I do it. And I've succeeded."

Why think twice? I noted those words, more than anything else he said that day.

"Why do you want me to come back here?"

He put his hand on my shoulder, warm and heavy, the way my father does when he wants something. "Son, can't you see? I like you, and I want to give you a better life. You're a nice young man. I can tell." He leaned forward. "You said you've done things. What did you do?"

"Just going to bars and clubs."

"Oh, boy. From now on, accept Him, and you will find peace here."

He seemed desperate for me.

"Okay. I'll come back. If you tell me how to control these people."

"Ha! Son, why would you say that? That's not control. That's called guidance. Guiding them to reach paradise. A comfort, and relief from their pain."

I saw what he meant. He was entertainment for people who were suffering and needed relief. Motivation. The people keep him alive just so they can convince themselves they're okay. I liked the idea of it. It was simple. And yet the truth is very hard to learn.

"What are you thinking, son?"

"Thank you, Pastor. Today you really shed light on things for me."

"That's what we do here. We save people. Everyone who reaches out to our Lord, we save."

"I'll be back tomorrow."

"Tomorrow? Ha! For you, son, my office is always open." He smiled. "See? I told you. You're a smart young boy."

It was dark by the time I got home. The whole street was dark. The power was still out.

Nobody had started the generator. My father's car wasn't in the garage. He hadn't come home.

I let myself in. The house was silent, no TV, no fan, no music from my sister's room. Only one small light, flickering on the stairs.

My sister was sitting there with a candle in her hands, her knees pulled up to her chest. Her phone was dead beside her. She looked up when I came in.

"Dad didn't come home," she said. "He said he would do it."

"He's busy."

"It's so dark, Wathone. Please. Just this once."

I looked at her for a moment, at the little flame shaking in her hands.

Then I walked past her, up the stairs, and into my room, and closed the door.

That's her problem.

I lay down on my bed in the dark and thought about the pastor, his soft voice and his gold glasses, and the man in the faded shirt smiling with nothing in his hands.

A smart young boy, he had called me.

I am more than that.

To be continued...