The Piano Tuner (12 page)

The lane
widened and the carriage picked up speed. Soon the images spun past the window
too fast to be seen.

They drove for half an hour and
then stopped on a cobbled road outside a two-story house. Ducking their heads,
the soldiers climbed out of the carriage one by one, while the porters
scrambled onto the roof to pass the trunks down from above. Edgar stood and
took a deep breath. Despite the intensity of the sun, which had now begun its
descent, the air was cool compared to the stuffiness of the carriage.

The Captain beckoned Edgar toward the house. At the entrance they passed
two stone-faced guards, swords hanging at their sides. The Captain disappeared
down a hallway and reappeared with a stack of papers.

“Mr.
Drake,” he said, “it seems we have several changes in our plans. It
was our original intention that you would be met here in Rangoon by Captain
Nash-Burnham, from Mandalay, who is familiar with Doctor Carroll’s
projects. Nash-Burnham was here only yesterday for a meeting on efforts to
control
dacoits
in the Shan States, but I am afraid the boat you were
scheduled to take up the river is under repair, and he was in a hurry to return
to Mandalay. So he left on an earlier ship.” Dalton paused to look
through the papers. “Don’t worry. You will have plenty of time to
be briefed in Mandalay. But it does mean that you will be departing later than
expected, as the first steamer we could find you a berth on was with the
Irrawaddy Flotilla Company, which leaves at the end of the week. I trust this
is not too much of an inconvenience?”

“No, that
shouldn’t be a problem. I wouldn’t mind a few days to wander
about.”

“Of course. In fact, I was going to invite you
myself to join us on a tiger hunt tomorrow. I mentioned the idea to Captain
Nash-Burnham, who said it might be a fine way to pass the time as well as
become familiar with the surrounding countryside.”

Edgar
protested, “But I’ve never hunted.”

“Then this
is an excellent way to start. Always a jolly good time. Anyway, you must be
tired now. I will call on you later this evening.”

“Is
there anything else planned now?”

“No schedule for this
afternoon. Again, Captain Nash-Burnham had hoped to be here with you. I would
recommend that you rest in your quarters. The porter can show you where they
are.” He nodded to an Indian who was waiting.

Edgar thanked the
Captain and followed the porter out the door. They collected his trunks and
walked to the end of the lane, where they reached a larger road. A large group
of young monks walked past in saffron robes. The porter seemed not to
notice.

“Where are they coming from?” Edgar asked,
entranced by the beauty of the shifting cloth.

“Who, sir?”
asked the porter.

“The monks.”

They were standing
on the corner of the road, and the porter turned and pointed in the direction
from which the monks had come. “Why, the Shwedagon, sir. Anyone who is
not a soldier in these quarters has come to see the Shwedagon.”

Edgar found himself standing at the base of a slope lined with dozens of
small pagodas, rising to the golden pyramid that had winked at him from the
river, now massive, towering. A row of pilgrims milled about the foot of the
stairs. Edgar had read that the British army had established itself around the
pagoda, but he had never imagined it was this close. Reluctantly, he hurried
after the porter, who had already crossed the road and was continuing along the
small street. They reached a room at the end of a long barrack. The porter set
down the trunks and opened the door.

It was a simple space, used by
visiting officers, and the porter told him that the surrounding buildings were
also living quarters for the garrison, “So should you need anything, sir,
you can just knock on any door.” He bowed and took his leave. Edgar
waited only long enough for the sound of the man’s steps to disappear,
before he opened the door and walked back down the lane, and stood at the base
of the long flight of stairs leading to the temple. A sign read “No shoes
or umbrella carrying,” and he recalled what he had read of the beginnings
of the Third Anglo-Burmese War, when the British emissaries refused to remove
their shoes in the presence of Burmese royalty. He knelt and untied his boots,
and, carrying them in his hand, began the long walk up the steps.

The
tiles were moist and cool on his feet. The climb was lined with vendors selling
a riot of religious goods: paintings and statues of the Buddha, garlands of
jasmine, books and fans, baskets filled with offerings of food, stacks of
scented joss sticks, gold leaf and lotus flowers made of fine silver foil. The
merchants languished in the shade. Everywhere, pilgrims climbed the
steps—monks and beggars and elegant Burmese women dressed in their
finery. At the top, he passed beneath an intricate portico and onto a vast
platform of white marble and gilded domes of smaller pagodas. The crowd of
supplicants swirled in clockwise fashion, staring at the tall Englishman as
they passed. He stepped into the current of bodies, following it past rows of
smaller shrines and kneeling worshipers, who fingered rosaries of large seeds.
As he walked, he stared up at the pagoda, its bell-like swell tapering to a
fine tip capped with a cylindrical umbrella. He was blinded by the glint of
gold, the reflection of the sun on the white tiles, the pulsing mass of
worshipers. Halfway around the pagoda, he stopped to rest in the shade, and was
wiping his face with his handkerchief when the faint chime of music caught his
attention.

At first he couldn’t tell where it came from, the
notes reflecting off the corridors of shrines and mixing with the chants. He
followed a small path behind a vast platform where a monk led a group in
prayer, hypnotic words he would later learn were not Burmese but Pali. The
music became louder. Beneath the hanging branches of a banyan tree, he saw the
musicians.

There were four of them, and they looked up to acknowledge
his presence. He smiled and studied the instruments: a drum and a
xylophone-like board, a long goosenecked horn and a harp. The last was the
instrument that most caught his attention, for he knew the harpsichord well, of
course, as the grandfather of the piano. This was a beautiful harp, carved in a
form that looked like both a ship and a swan; the strings were strung close
together, which he noted was possible because of the harp’s unique shape.
A clever design, he thought. The man’s fingers worked slowly over it; the
melody was eerily discordant, and Edgar found it difficult to pick out a
pattern. He noted the haphazard way it danced along the scale. He listened more
closely, yet still the melody eluded him.

Soon another observer came,
an elegantly dressed Burmese man holding the hand of a child. Edgar nodded to
the man and the boy and they listened to the song together. The presence of the
other man reminded him that Captain Dalton would be calling on him that evening
and that he had to bathe and dress. Reluctantly, he left the musicians. He
finished circling the pagoda, joining the crowd once again where it pooled up
against the entrance and poured over the stairs. He followed it back down to
the street and sat on the bottom steps to tie his shoes. Around him, men and
women slipped easily in and out of sandals. Fumbling with his laces, he began
to whistle, trying to recapture the piece he had just heard. He rose to his
feet. It was then he saw her.

She was standing about five feet away, a
baby perched on her hip, her clothes in rags, her hand outstretched, her body
painted a deep yellow. At first he blinked, thinking she was an apparition, the
color of her skin a ghost image of the gold of the pagoda, like the floating
illusion one gets from staring too long at the sun. She caught his eye and
stepped closer, and he saw that she was gold not from paint but from a yellow
dust, which covered her face and arms and her bare feet. As he stared, she
extended the baby toward him, her yellow hands clasped tightly around the tiny
sleeping person. He looked at her face and the dark pleading eyes outlined with
yellow; only later would he learn that the dust was turmeric, which the Burmese
call
sa-nwin,
and which women spread over their bodies after
childbirth to protect against spirits, but which this woman wore to beg, for by
tradition, a woman who still wears the
sa-nwin
should not leave her
home for days after childbirth, and if she did, it could only mean that the
child was sick. But standing at the base of the Shwedagon, he did not know
this, he could only stare at the gilded woman, until she took a step closer and
he could see flies at the mouth of the child and a widening sore on its tiny
head. He stepped back, horrified, and rummaged through his pocket for coins,
and without counting dropped them into her hands.

He backed away, his
heart racing. Around him, the pilgrims continued their procession, oblivious to
the gilded girl who counted the coins in surprise and to the tall, lanky
Englishman who looked one last time at the temple and the girl beneath its
soaring spire, thrust his hands into his pockets, and hurried down the
street.

Later that evening, he received a visit from
Captain Dalton, who invited him to join some of the officers for billiards at
the Pegu Club. He declined, feigning fatigue. It had been several days since he
had written to his wife, he said. He did not tell Dalton of the image that
still stayed with him, that it felt wrong to drink sherry over war gossip while
he thought of the girl and her child.

“Well, there will be
plenty of time for billiards,” said Dalton. “But I do insist that
you join us for the hunt tomorrow. Only last week an infantryman reported
seeing a tiger near Dabein. I have made plans to travel there with Captain
Witherspoon and Captain Fogg, both of whom recently arrived from Bengal. Would
you care to join us?” He stood silhouetted in the doorway.

“But I have never hunted before, and I don’t think
I’m—”

“Please! I will not hear of it. This is
a matter of duty. This tiger has been terrorizing the local villagers. We leave
early tomorrow. Meet us at the cavalry stables, Do you know where they are? No,
you do not need to bring anything. Your hat perhaps, We have plenty of riding
boots, and of course, rifles. A man with such skilled fingers as yourself will
be a fine shot.” And at this flattery, and because he had already turned
down one invitation, Edgar accepted.

7

T
he following morning, Edgar found the
Captain saddling a horse outside the stables. Five other men were gathered
around him, two Englishmen and three Burmans. Seeing the piano tuner approach,
Dalton came out from under the horse, where he had been cinching the saddle. He
wiped his hand on his breeches and extended it. “Mr. Drake, beautiful
morning, isn’t it? Wonderful when a breeze comes this far inland. So
refreshing. It means the rains may be earlier this year.” He stood and
looked up at the sky, as if to confirm his meteorology. Edgar was struck by how
handsome and athletic he looked: his face ruddy and tanned, his hair combed
back, his shirtsleeves rolled up over his dusty forearms.

“Mr. Drake, let me introduce you to Captains Witherspoon and Fogg.
Gentlemen, this is Mr. Drake, London’s finest piano tuner.” He
pounded Edgar on the back. “A good man, family’s from
Hereford.”

The two men extended their hands amiably. “Good
to meet you, Mr. Drake,” said Witherspoon. Fogg nodded.

“I
will be finished saddling this horse in a moment,” said Dalton, ducking
back under its belly. “She can be very naughty, this one, and I
don’t want to fall off when a tiger is in my sights.” He looked up
and winked at the tuner. The men laughed. Ten feet away, the Burmans squatted
on their heels in loose
pasos.

They mounted the horses. Edgar
struggled to get his leg over the saddle and had to be helped by the Captain.
Outside the stables, one of the Burmans rode ahead, and soon disappeared.
Dalton led their small group, chatting with the two other captains. Edgar
followed them. Behind, the other two Burmans rode together on the same horse.

It was still early, and the sun hadn’t yet burned the mist off
the lagoons. Edgar was surprised at how quickly Rangoon became farmland. They
passed several oxcarts traveling into the city, whose drivers pulled over to
the side of the road to let them pass, but otherwise scarcely acknowledged
their presence. In the distance, fishermen poled thin boats through the
marshes, materializing in and out of the mist. Egrets hunted in the marsh,
close to the road, lifting and placing their feet with precision. Ahead,
Witherspoon asked if they could stop to shoot them.

“Not
here,” answered Dalton. “Last time we shot birds, the villagers
made a huge fuss. The egrets are part of the founding myths of Pegu. Bad luck
to shoot them, my friend.”

“Superstitious
nonsense,” huffed Witherspoon. “I thought we were educating them to
abandon such beliefs.”

“Indeed, indeed. But I, for one,
would rather hunt a tiger than spend my morning quarreling with some local
chieftain.”

“Humph,” said Witherspoon, enunciating
the noise as though it were a word. But this answer seemed to satisfy him. They
rode on. In the distance, the men threw spirals of fishing nets, blurs of rope
that spun out water droplets in illuminated arcades.

They rode for an
hour. The marshes began to give way to a thin brush. The sun was already quite
warm, and Edgar felt sweat trickling down his chest. He was relieved when the
trail turned and entered a thick forest. The dry burn of the sun was replaced
by a sticky humidity. They had ridden only a few minutes into the forest when
they were met by the lead Burman. While the man conferred with the others,
Edgar looked around him. As a boy, he had read many tales of jungle explorers,
and spent hours imagining the chaos of dripping flowers, the teeming legions of
ferocious animals. This must be a different type of jungle, he thought, It is
too quiet and too dark. He peered into the depths of the forest, but he could
only see five yards into the tangle of hanging vines.