The Piano Tuner (19 page)

“He
said there is one near the market, in its third night. They are playing the
Wethandaya Zat.
”

“Hmmm,” murmured the
Captain approvingly.

They walked silently through the
night. Compared to the raucous scene of the
pwè,
the streets
were quiet, empty except for the stray mongrels that the Captain chased away
with his cane. Lighted cheroots bobbed in darkened doorsteps like fireflies.
Once Edgar thought he could hear Khin Myo singing. He looked down at her. Her
white blouse trembled lightly in the wind, and sensing his stare she turned to
him. “What are you singing?” he asked.

“Sorry?” A small smile flickered over her mouth.

“Nothing, nothing,” he said. “It must have been the
wind.”

The moon was high in the sky when they reached the
yôkthe pwè,
their shadows had retreated beneath their
feet. The play was well under way; beyond a raised bamboo platform nearly
thirty feet long, a pair of marionettes danced. Behind them a song rose up from
a hidden singer. The audience sat in various states of attention, many children
were curled up asleep, some of the adults talked among themselves. They were
greeted by a fat man who motioned for a pair of chairs to be brought out, as
before. And as before, the Captain requested a third.

The man and Khin
Myo talked at length, and Edgar’s attention shifted to the play. At one
end of the stage stood a model of a city, an elegant palace, a pagoda. It was
there that the two elaborately dressed puppets danced. At the other end of the
stage, where there were no lights, he could make out a small collection of
twigs and branches, like a miniature forest. By his side, the Captain was
nodding approvingly. Finally Khin Myo stopped speaking to the host, and they
sat down.

“You are very lucky tonight, Mr. Drake,” she
said. “Maung Tha Zan is playing the princess. He is perhaps the most
famous princess puppeteer in all of Mandalay and has played alongside the great
Maung Tha Byaw, the greatest puppeteer ever—one sometimes even hears men
from Mergui say ‘Tha Byaw Hé’ whenever something wonderful
happens … Oh, Maung Tha Zan is not as skilled as Maung Tha Byaw, but he
sings so wonderfully. Listen, soon he will start to sing the
ngo-gyin.
”

Edgar didn’t have time to ask what this
was, for at that instant, from behind the stage rose a plaintive wail. He
caught his breath. It was the same tune he had heard that night when the
steamer had stopped on the river. He had forgotten it until now. “The
ngo-gyin,
the song of mourning,” said Nash-Burnham at his side.
“Her prince is soon to abandon her, and she sings of her sad fortunes. I
can never believe that a man can sing like this.”

But it
wasn’t a woman’s voice either. Soprano, yes, but not feminine, not
even, Edgar thought, human. He could not understand the Burmese words, but he
knew of what the man sang. Songs of loss are universal, he thought, and with
the man’s voice something else rose into the night air, twisted, danced
with the smoke from the fire, and drifted into the sky. The sequins on the body
of the princess marionette shimmered, starlike, and he thought that the song
must be coming from her, the puppet, and not the puppeteer. At the base of the
stage, a little boy who had been holding the candles to light the puppets moved
them away from the princess and her city, walking slowly to the other end of
the stage until the forest emerged from the darkness.

It was a long
time after the song finished before any of them spoke. Another scene began, but
Edgar was no longer watching. He looked up at the sky.

“In
Gautama’s final incarnation before Siddhartha,” said Captain
Nash-Burnham, “he gives up everything he possesses, even his wife and his
children, and leaves for the forest.”

“Do you find yourself
in that story as well, Captain?” Edgar asked, turning toward him.

The Captain shook his head. “No, I have not abandoned
everything,” he said, and paused. “But there are those who
have.”

“Anthony Carroll,” said the piano tuner
softly.

“Or others, perhaps,” said Khin Myo.

11

I
n the dry season,
the quickest route to Mae Lwin would have been by elephant, along a trail that
had been cut by Shan troops during the Second Anglo-Burmese War and was now
used sporadically by opium smugglers. But recently the road had fallen under
attack, and Captain Nash-Burnham suggested that they travel by elephant to a
small tributary of the Salween east of Loilem, and from there by dugout to
Carroll’s camp. Nash-Burnham couldn’t accompany them, he had work
to attend to in Mandalay. “But please give my regards to the
Doctor,” he said. “Tell him that we miss him in Mandalay.” It
seemed an odd moment for such simple pleasantries, and Edgar expected him to
say something else, but the Captain only touched his helmet in
farewell.

On the morning of his departure, Edgar was awakened by
Khin Myo, who told him through his bedroom door that there was a man to see
him. When he went to the entrance, he was disappointed not to see any elephants
as planned, but only a young Burman he recognized from the staff at the
Administrator’s residence. The man was breathless. “On behalf of
the Administrator, I apologetically announce that your departure will be
subject to a certain delay.” Edgar tried to hide his smile at the stilted
English, afraid it would convey approval of the news. “When does the
Administrator expect that I may leave?” he asked.

“Oh sir!
I have no knowledge of that! You may inquire of His Respectfulness
yourself.”

“Can you at least tell me if we will be leaving
later today?”

“Oh no! Not today, sir!”

The
emphasis of the reply silenced Edgar, who meant to say something, but only
nodded and closed the door. He shrugged to Khin Myo, who said “British
efficiency?” and he went back to sleep. Later in the afternoon, he
finished a long letter to Katherine that he had been writing for several days,
describing his visit to the puppet theater. He had begun to grow accustomed to
the bureaucratic delays. The following day he wrote more letters, one about the
much discussed looting of Mandalay Palace by British soldiers, the second
describing the current craze over “the Hairy Lady of Mandalay,” a
distant relative of the royal family whose entire body was covered with long
smooth hair. And the day after that he took a long walk through the bazaar. And
waited.

Yet by the fourth day after the scheduled departure,
restlessness overcame the natural sense of respect and patience of a man who
had spent his career repairing strings and tiny hammers. He walked to the
Administrator’s residence to inquire when they would be departing. He was
greeted at the door by the same Burman who had visited his quarters. “Oh,
Mr. Drake!” he exclaimed. “But the Administrator is in
Rangoon!”

At army headquarters, he inquired about Captain
Nash-Burnham. The young subaltern at the entrance looked puzzled. “I
thought you had been informed, Captain Nash-Burnham is in Rangoon, with the
Administrator.”

“May I ask what his business is? I was
supposed to leave for Mae Lwin four days ago. I have come a long way and so
much effort has been devoted to bringing me here. It would be a shame were I to
waste any more time.”

The subaltern’s face turned red.
“I thought they had told you. It … excuse me, wait one
moment.” He rose quickly and entered a back office. Edgar could hear
hushed whispering. The man returned. “Please follow me, Mr.
Drake.”

The subaltern showed him into a small room, empty except
for a desk piled high with stacks of papers, held down by roughly carved
figurines used locally to weigh opium. The weights were unnecessary; there was
no breeze. The subaltern closed the door behind him. “Please sit
down.

“Mae Lwin has been attacked,” he said.

The details of the story were unclear, as was the identity
of the attackers. The night before Edgar was due to depart, a messenger on
horseback had arrived at the Administrator’s residence. He reported that
two days before, Mae Lwin had been raided by a group of masked riders, who had
set fire to one of the storage depots and killed a guard. In the confusion that
followed, a brief battle had broken out, and another Shan sentry had been shot.
Carroll was safe, but concerned. It was suspected that Twet Nga Lu, the bandit
chief who was fighting his own war for the state of Mongnai, was behind the
attack. Most of the supplies in the storage depot had been rescued, but several
of the Surgeon-Major’s jars of elixir had been damaged. “Apparently
a stray bullet also struck”—but then the subaltern stopped himself,
and chose his words more carefully—“other supplies important to the
Doctor’s current work.”

“Not the Erard?”

The subaltern leaned back in his chair. “Mr. Drake, I understand the
importance of your mission, and I understand the severe conditions you have
endured to arrive here in a most impressive show of respect for and dedication
to the Crown.” He let the final word hang. “This attack comes at a
very precarious time. As you may know, we have been directly engaged in
military activities in the Shan States since November last year. A column led
by Colonel Stedman left Mandalay earlier this month. Then, only six days ago,
we received reports that they had been attacked. Because of the concentration
of Limbin Confederacy forces in that region, the attack on our troops was not a
surprise. The attack on Mae Lwin, however,
was
a surprise, and it is
unclear who the masked riders were, or where they obtained their rifles. There
is speculation that they may even be supplied by French forces, whose
whereabouts are unknown. For security reasons, unfortunately I cannot tell you
much more.”

Edgar stared at the subaltern.

“I
don’t mean to disappoint you, Mr. Drake. Indeed, I am speaking without
authorization, as ultimately these decisions will be made in Rangoon. But I do
want you to understand the reality of our situation. When Captain Nash-Burnham
returns, he will be able to discuss if you are to remain in Mandalay or return
by steamship to Rangoon. Until then I suggest you enjoy the amenities here and
not worry yourself too much.” The subaltern leaned forward on the desk.
“Mr. Drake?”

The piano tuner said nothing.

“Mae Lwin is a foul place, Mr. Drake, despite whatever they have told
you to bring you here. It is swampy and malarial, hardly a climate befitting an
Englishman. And to add to that, the danger of these most recent attacks
… perhaps it will be best to abandon the site entirely. I would not be
disappointed. Indeed, I think you are fortunate already to have seen the finest
cities of Burma.”

Edgar waited. The room was stiflingly hot.
Finally, he stood. “Well, thank you then. I guess I must be going
now.”

The subaltern extended his hand. “And Mr. Drake,
please do not share this conversation with our superiors. Although your mission
is minor, generally it is Captain Nash-Burnham who deals with civilian
affairs.”

“It is minor, isn’t it? No, don’t
worry, I won’t tell anyone. Thank you.”

The subaltern
smiled. “Think nothing of it.”

Dear Katherine,

I do not know which will reach you first, this letter or myself. One week
has passed since the scheduled date of my departure, and still I remain in
Mandalay. I have already written many descriptions of this city to you, but I
apologize that I no longer have the enthusiasm for more. Indeed, all this has
become very confusing, and developments now cast doubt over whether I will ever
even meet Dr. Carroll or his Erard.

Mae Lwin has been attacked. I
learned this from a subaltern at army headquarters. But I have learned little
else. Whenever I ask anyone what is happening, I am answered only by blank
stares or evasion. “A major strategy meeting is being held in
Rangoon,” they say. Or “This incident can not be taken
lightly.” Yet it puzzles me that Dr. Carroll has not been summoned to the
meeting; by all accounts he is still in Mae Lwin. They say this is because of
the military importance of maintaining the fort, a good enough explanation, it
seems, except something about the way they say it bothers me. At first I was
somewhat thrilled by the possibility of intrigue or scandal—after all,
what would be more fitting in a country where everything else is so elusive?
But even this has begun to exhaust me. The most scandalous option I can think
of, that Dr. Carroll is being kept from a critical decision, doesn’t seem
so scandalous any longer. They say a man with an obsession for a piano could
hardly be immune to other eccentricities, that this man should not be trusted
with such an important post. What is most painful for me is that, in some ways,
I find myself agreeing. A piano means nothing if the French are planning to
invade across the Mekong. What makes this so difficult to accept is that if I
question the Doctor, I question myself.

My darling Katherine, when I
first left England, part of me doubted that I would ever reach Mae Lwin. It
seemed too distant, its path beset with too many contingencies. Yet now, now
that the cancellation of my mission seems more likely, I cannot believe I will
not go there. For the past six weeks, I have thought about little but Mae Lwin.
I have resketched the fort in my mind from maps and others’ accounts. I
have made lists of things I will do when I arrive, of the mountains and streams
described in Dr. Carroll’s reports which I wish to see. It is strange,
Katherine, but I had already begun to think of the stories I would tell you
when I return home. Of what it was like to meet the famous Doctor. Of how I
mended and tuned the Erard, rescuing such a precious instrument. Of fulfilling
my “duty” to England. Indeed it is perhaps this idea of
“duty” that has become the most elusive goal of all. I know we
spoke often of this at home, and I still don’t doubt a piano’s
role. But I have come to think that “bringing music and culture
here” is more subtle—there are art and music here
already—their own art, their own music. This is not to say that we should
not bring such things to Burma; perhaps only that it should be done with more
humility. Indeed, if we
are
to make these people our subjects, must we
not present the
best
of European civilization? No one was ever harmed
by Bach; songs are not like armies.