The Piano Tuner (22 page)

Nok Lek spoke in Burmese. Khin Myo folded the cloth.
“Mr. Drake, we should go. They may come back with others. Your pony came
back. Can you ride?”

“I think so.” He struggled to
his feet, the warmth of her thigh still on the back of his neck. He took
several steps. He found himself shaking but he didn’t know if it was from
fear or his fall. He climbed back on the pony. Ahead of him, Khin Myo sat with
a rifle across her lap. She seemed strangely comfortable with it, the gleam of
its barrel resting against the silk of her
hta main.
Nok Lek pulled
another from his saddle, handed it to Edgar, and tucked the pistol into his
belt.

Hiss. The ponies moved into the darkness.

They rode through an interminable night, moving slowly down a steep slope
and then across empty rice fields. At last, when Edgar was certain it would
never arrive, the sun’s light spread out over the hill in front of him.
They stopped to sleep at the house of a farmer, and when Edgar awoke, it was
afternoon. Beside him, Khin Myo slept peacefully. Her hair had fallen over her
cheek. He watched it move with her breath.

He touched the wound on his
forehead. In daylight, the ambush seemed but a bad dream, and he rose quietly,
so as not to wake Khin Myo. Outside, he joined Nok Lek, who sat drinking green
tea with the farmer. The tea was bitter and hot, and Edgar felt beads of sweat
form on his face, cool in the light breeze. Soon there was stirring inside the
hut, and Khin Myo came out and walked to the back of the house to wash. She
returned with her hair wet and combed, and her face freshly painted.

They thanked the man, and returned to their ponies.

From the
farmer’s lonely house, they climbed a steep hillside. Edgar understood
the geography better now. The course of the rivers descending from the
Himalayas cut parallel north-south gorges in the Plateau, so that any trail
they followed was cursed with a long succession of ascents and descents. Over
the hillside lay another range of mountains, and these too they climbed, its
valleys unpeopled, and over the next range they passed a small market where
villagers clustered around mounds of fruit. They ascended again and reached the
ridge just as the sun was setting behind them.

Before them, the
mountain slope fell once again, but not to rise in another set of hills.
Instead the slope was long and steep and below it a river roared, cast in the
darkness of the hills.

“Salween,” said Nok Lek,
triumphantly, and hissed.

They rode down the steep
path, the ponies bucking with each uncertain step. At the banks of the river,
they saw a boat and a lantern and a sleeping man. Nok Lek whistled. The man
jumped up, startled. He wore only a pair of loose trousers. His left arm hung
limply at his side, twisted as if waiting to accept a bribe. He jumped to the
shore.

They dismounted and passed the bridles to the man with the
paralyzed arm. Nok Lek unloaded the packs and stowed them in the boats.
“The boatman will bring the ponies by land to Mae Lwin. But we go by
boat, it’s faster. Please, Ma Khin Myo.” He held out his hand and
she took it and jumped into the boat. “Now you, Mr. Drake.”

Edgar stepped toward the boat, but his boot slipped and caught in the mud.
With one foot in the boat, he tugged, but the mud only made fierce sucking
sounds. He grunted, cursed. The boat swung outward into the water and he fell.
Behind him, the two men laughed, and he looked up to see Khin Myo, her hand
covering a smile. Edgar cursed again, first at them, then at the mud. He tried
to push himself up, but his arm sunk deeper. He tried and failed again. The men
were laughing harder, and Khin Myo couldn’t hide a soft giggle. And then
Edgar too began to laugh, doubled over in that impossible position, one leg
thigh-deep in the mud, the other held above the water, both arms soaked and
dripping. I haven’t laughed like this in months, he thought, and tears
began to stream from his eyes. He stopped struggling with the mud and lay back,
looking up at a dark sky through branches illuminated by the lantern. Finally,
with effort, he pulled himself up and then into the boat, dripping. He
didn’t even bother to clean the mud from his body; it was too dark to
see, and Nok Lek had already boarded and was trying to push them off with a
pole.

Once into the current, they floated quickly downstream. They
left the lantern with the boatman, but the moon shone brightly through the
trees. Still, Nok Lek kept close to the riverbank. “Not enough light for
friends to see, but enemies can,” he whispered.

The river twisted
through tree branches and past fallen trunks. The boy negotiated the current
skillfully. The roar of insects was not as deafening as it had been in the
jungle, as if hushed now by the susurration of the river as it ran its fingers
through the shivering tree branches.

The banks were thick with foliage,
and occasionally Edgar thought he saw something, but each time he convinced
himself that they were only shifting shadows. An hour into their journey, they
passed a clearing and a house on stilts. “Don’t worry,” the
boy said. “Only a fisherman’s hut. Now there is no one
there.” The moon shimmered above the trees.

They floated for many
hours, and the river dropped swiftly through steep defiles, past overhanging
crags and cliffs. Finally, at a wide bend, Edgar saw a collection of flickering
lights. The river carried them toward it, quickly. He could discern buildings,
then movement on the bank. They pulled up next to a small jetty. There, three
men stood watching them, all in
pasos,
all shirtless. One was taller
than the rest, his skin pale, a thin cigar hanging from the edge of his mouth.
As the boat slowed, the man took the cigar and flicked it into the water. He
reached down and extended a hand to Khin Myo, who gathered up her
hta
main
and climbed onto the dock. There she bowed slightly and moved
forward, slipping into the brush with the ease of one who had been there
before.

Edgar climbed out of the boat.

The man looked at him
without speaking. The piano tuner’s clothes were still soaked with mud,
his hair matted against his forehead. He could feel the dried mud on his face
crack as he smiled. There was a long silence and then he slowly raised his
hand.

He had thought about this moment for weeks, and about what he
would say. The moment called for words fit for History, to be remembered and
recorded once the Shan States were finally won and the Empire secured.

“I am Edgar Drake,” he said. “I am here to repair a
piano.”

Book Two

                       I
am become a name;

For always roaming with a hungry heart

Much have I seen and known—cities of men

And
manners, climates, councils, governments,

Myself not least, but
honor’d of them all,—

And drunk delight of battle
with my peers,

Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.

I am a part of all that I have met;

Yet all experience is
an arch wherethro’

Gleams that untravel’d world whose
margin fades

For ever and for ever when I move.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson, “Ulysses”

Some say that
seven suns, and some that nine were created, and the world became like
whirlwinds; there was no solid part remaining.

Shan creation myth,
from Mrs. Leslie Milne,
Shans at Home
(1910)

12

E
dgar Drake was led
by a porter along a short path, past a sentry, and through a dense brush.
Ahead, lights danced, framed in the branches of scattered trees. The trail was
narrow, and the brush scraped his arms. It must be difficult to move a column
of troops through here, he thought. As if to answer him, Doctor Carroll spoke
from behind, his voice loud and confident, with an accent Edgar couldn’t
place. “Excuse the difficulty of the trail. It’s our first line of
defense from the river—with the brush, there’s no need to build
ramparts. You would probably appreciate how hellish it was to carry an Erard
through here.”

“It is trouble enough in the streets of
London.”

“I can imagine. The brush is beautiful too. We
had a little rain last week, rare for this time of drought, and it came alive
with flowers. Tomorrow you will see the color.” Edgar stopped to peer
more closely, but realizing that the porter was far ahead, he began to walk
again, quickening his gait. He did not look up again until the brush ended
abruptly and they entered a clearing.

Later he would try to remember
what he had dreamed Mae Lwin would look like, but the first vision overwhelmed
all past imaginings. The moonlight swept over his shoulder to a cluster of
bamboo structures that clung to the hillside. The fort had been built below a
steep mountain, cresting about a hundred yards beneath its precipitous face.
Many of the buildings were connected by stairs or hanging bridges. Lanterns
swung from roof beams, although with the light of the moon, they seemed almost
superfluous. There were perhaps twenty huts altogether. It was smaller than he
had expected, flanked on either side by thick forest. He knew from the reports
that there was a Shan village of several hundred people behind the mountain.

Doctor Carroll was standing at his side with the moon at his back, the
details of his face dark. “Impressive, isn’t it, Mr.
Drake?”

“They told me so, but I hadn’t thought it
would be like this … Captain Dalton tried to describe it to me once,
but—”

“Captain Dalton is a military man. The army
has yet to send a poet to Mae Lwin.”

Only a piano tuner, Edgar
thought, and turned back to look at the camp. A pair of birds flew across the
clearing, cooing. As if to answer their song, the porter who had carried
Edgar’s bags from the river called from the balcony on the second tier of
houses. The Doctor answered in a strange language, which sounded different from
Burmese, less nasal, with a different quality of tone. The man left the
balcony.

“You should go to bed,” said Carroll. “We
have much to discuss, but we can wait until morning.”

Edgar
started to say something, but the Doctor seemed intent on leaving. Instead he
bowed slightly, and bid the Doctor good night. He walked across the clearing
and climbed the steps to the porter. On the balcony, he paused to catch his
breath. It must be the altitude, he thought, It is high on the Plateau. He
looked out and caught his breath again.

Before him, the land sloped to
the river, a gentle descent through scattered trees and brush. On the sandy
bank, a cluster of dugouts rested side by side. The moonlight was almost
blinding, and Edgar looked for the rabbit, as he had on many nights since they
had passed through the Mediterranean. Now, for the first time, he saw it,
running at the side of the moon, as if half in dance, half in a scurried
attempt to escape. Below the rabbit, the forest was thick and dark, and the
Salween slipped by silently, the sky swimming almost imperceptibly through its
currents. The camp was quiet. He had not seen Khin Myo since they arrived.
Everyone must have left to sleep, he thought.

The air was cool, almost
cold, and he stood for several silent minutes until he caught his breath, and
he turned and ducked inside the doorway. He closed the door. There was a small
mattress, draped in a mosquito net. The porter had gone. Kicking off his boots,
he climbed beneath the netting.

He had forgotten to lock the door. A
small gust of wind blew it open. Moonlight danced in on the wings of tiny
moths.

The following morning Edgar awoke to the
sensation of closeness, a rustling at the mosquito net, hot breath near his
cheek, the muffled giggling of children. He opened his eyes to meet a half
dozen other whites, irises, pupils, before their little owners shrieked and ran
squealing out of the room.

It was light already, and much cooler than
in the lowlands. In the night, he had pulled the thin sheet over him, and he
was still in his clothes from the journey, still filthy. In his fatigue, he had
forgotten to wash. The sheets were soiled with mud. He cursed, and then smiled
and shook his head, thinking, It is hard to be angry when one has been wakened
by the laughter of children. Points of light shone through the cross-weaves of
the bamboo wall, speckling the room. They have brought the stars inside, he
thought and climbed out from under the mosquito net. As he walked to the door,
the percussion of his footsteps on the wooden floor was echoed by a scurrying
outside the door and more squeals. The door still hung open. He poked his head
out.

A small head at the end of the landing ducked back behind the
corner. More giggling. Smiling, he closed the door and slid a rough bolt of
wood through a socket across the doorjamb. He peeled off his shirt. Dried,
matted pieces of mud flaked off and broke on the floor. He looked for a
washbasin, but there was none. Not knowing what to do with the clothes, he
folded them roughly and set them by the door. He dressed in fresh clothes,
khaki trousers, a light cotton shirt and dark waistcoat. He combed his hair
hastily and collected the package he had brought for the Doctor from the War
Office.

The children were waiting by the door when he opened it.
Seeing him, they fled down the walkway. In their hurry, one boy tripped and the
others fell on top of him. Edgar reached down, picked up one of the boys, and,
tickling him, threw him over his shoulder, now surprised by his sudden
playfulness. The other children stayed at his side, emboldened by the
realization that the tall foreigner had only enough arms for one package and
one squirming child.

On the steps Edgar nearly collided with an older
Shan boy. “Mr. Drake, Doctor Carroll want you. He eat breakfast.”
He shifted his eyes to the child who stared at him upside down from
Edgar’s shoulder. He scolded him in Shan. The children laughed.

“Don’t be angry,” said Edgar. “It is my fault
entirely. We were wrestling …”

“Wrestling?”

“Never mind,” said Edgar, now
slightly embarrassed. He put the boy down and the group scattered like birds
released from a cage. Straightening his shirt and brushing his hair to the side
with his fingers, he followed the boy down the stairs.

When they
reached the clearing, he stopped. The dark blue shadows of last night’s
memory had become blossoming flowers, hanging orchids, roses, hibiscus.
Butterflies flew everywhere, flittering, tiny pieces of color that filled the
air like parade confetti. In the open space, children played with a ball made
of woven cane, shouting as it bounced whimsically over the rough ground.

They walked through the brush and onto the sandy bank, where Doctor Carroll
sat at a small table set for two. He was dressed in a crisp white linen shirt,
rolled up at the cuffs. His hair was combed neatly, and he smiled as the piano
tuner approached. In the sunlight, Edgar was immediately reminded of the photo
of the Doctor that he had seen back in London. It must have been taken twenty
years earlier, but he instantly recognized the broad shoulders, the strong nose
and jaw, the neatly combed hair and the dark mustache, now speckled with gray.
Something else was familiar from the photo as well, a movement, an elusiveness,
a sense of animation in the blue eyes. The Doctor held out his hand.
“Good morning, Mr. Drake.” His grip was strong and his hands rough.
“I trust you have slept well.”

“Like a baby, Doctor.
Until some of the children found my room.”

The Doctor laughed.
“Oh, you will get used to that.”

“I do hope so. It
has been a long time since I woke to the sound of children.”

“Do you have children yourself?”

“No, sadly,
never. I do have nieces and nephews.”

One of the boys pulled out
a chair for him. The river flowed by swiftly, brown and spotted with foam.
Edgar had expected to see Khin Myo, but the Doctor was alone. At first her
absence struck him as somewhat odd, as she had also been summoned from
Mandalay. He thought to ask the Doctor about this, but the question made him
uncomfortable. She had said nothing to him on their journey about why she was
coming, and she had disappeared so quickly when they arrived.

The
Doctor motioned to the package in Edgar’s hands. “Have you brought
something?”

“Of course. I am sorry. Music sheets. You have
admirable taste.”

“You opened the package?” The
Doctor arched an eyebrow.

Edgar blushed. “Yes, I’m sorry, I
suppose I shouldn’t have. But … well, I admit I was curious what
sort of music you had requested.” The Doctor said nothing, so Edgar
added, “Impressive choices … but then some others, unlabeled,
which I didn’t recognize, notes that didn’t seem to make much
musical sense …”

The Doctor laughed. “It is Shan
music. I am trying to put it to the piano. I transcribe it and send it home,
where a friend, a composer, makes some adaptations and sends it back. I always
wondered what someone who read them would think … Cheroot?” He
unwrapped a sardine tin from a handkerchief to reveal a line of rolled cigars
of the kind he was smoking the night before.

“No thank you. I
don’t smoke.”

“Pity. There is nothing better. A woman
in the village rolls these for me. She boils the tobacco in palm sugar and
lines it with vanilla and cinnamon and Lord knows what other nepenthe. They dry
in the sun. There is a Burmese story of a girl who dried the cheroots she made
for her sweetheart by keeping them warm against her body … Alas, I am
not so lucky.” He smiled. “Tea, perhaps?”

Edgar
thanked him and Carroll nodded to one of the boys, who brought a silver teapot
and filled his cup. Another boy set plates of food on the table: small cakes of
rice, a bowl of crushed peppers, and an unopened jar of marmalade that Edgar
suspected had been brought out only for him.

The Doctor took a cheroot
from the tin and lit it. He took several puffs. Even outside, the incense was
thick and pungent.

Edgar was tempted to ask the Doctor more about the
music, but decorum told him it might be improper to discuss this before they
became better acquainted. “Your fort is impressive,” he said.

“Thank you. We tried to build it in Shan style—it is more
beautiful, and I could use local craftsmen. Some of it—the double
stories, the bridges—are my own innovations, necessities of the site. I
needed to stay close to the river, and hidden below the ridge.”

Edgar looked out over the water. “The river is much larger than I had
thought.”

“It surprised me as well when I first came here.
It is one of the largest rivers in Asia, fed by the Himalayas—but you
must know this already.”

“I read your letter. I was curious
what the name meant.”

“Salween? Actually, the Burmese
pronounce the word ‘Thanlwin,’ whose meaning I have yet to
ascertain.
Than-lwin
are small Burmese cymbals. Although my friends
here insist that the river is not named for the instrument—perhaps the
tone of the words is different—I think it is rather poetic. The cymbals
make a light sound, like water over pebbles. ‘River of light
sound’—a fitting name, even if it is incorrect.”

“And the village … Mae Lwin?”

“Mae is a
Shan word for river. It is the same in Siamese.”

“Was that
Shan that you spoke last night?” Edgar asked.

“You
recognized it?”

“No … No, of course not. Only that
it sounded different from Burmese.”

“I am impressed, Mr.
Drake. Of course, I should have expected as much from a man who studies sound
… Wait … quiet …” The Doctor stared at the opposite
bank.

“What is it?”

“Shhh!” The Doctor
raised his hand. He furrowed his brow in concentration.

There was a
faint rustling in the bushes. Edgar sat up straight in his chair. “Is
someone there?” he whispered.

“Shhh. No sudden
moves.” The Doctor spoke quietly to the boy, who brought him a small
telescope.

“Doctor, is something wrong?”

Peering
through the telescope, Carroll lifted his hand to ask for silence. “No
… nothing … don’t worry, wait, there … Aha! Just as
I thought!” He turned and looked at Edgar, the telescope still
raised.

“What’s the matter?” Edgar whispered.
“Are we … are we being attacked?”

“Attacked?” The Doctor handed him the telescope.
“Hardly.… this is even better, Mr. Drake. Only one day here, and
already you get to see
Upupa epops,
the hoopoe. It is a lucky day
indeed. I must record this—it is the first time I have ever seen one here
at the river. We have them in Europe, but they usually prefer open, drier
country. It must have come here because of the drought. Wonderful! Look at the
beautiful crest on its head, it flies like a butterfly.”