The Piano Tuner (24 page)

Soon rocky outcrop began to appear, pushing out of the
earth like worn molars. Edgar was mindful of the comparison, for the broad open
landscape narrowed quickly, and they followed a ravine down between high
pinnacles, as if descending into the earth’s intestines.

“This track would be completely flooded in the rain,” said
Carroll at his side. “But we are experiencing one of our worst droughts
in history.”

“I remember reading about it in a letter you
wrote, and everyone I have spoken to has mentioned it.”

“Whole villages are dying of starvation because of the meager crops.
If only the army understood how much we could accomplish with food. With food
alone, we wouldn’t have to worry about the war.”

“They said they can’t bring in food because of the
dacoits,
because of a Shan Bandit Chief named Twet Nga Lu—”

“I see you have read that history too,” the Doctor said. His
voice echoed off the cliffs. “There is some truth to that, although Twet
Nga Lu’s legend is exaggerated in all the boisterous conversations in the
officers’ messes. They just want a face to put on the danger. That is not
to say he isn’t a danger—he is. But the situation is more
complicated, and if we are to hope for peace, it requires more than the defeat
of one man … But I am philosophizing, and I promised you I
wouldn’t. How much of the story do you know?”

“Only a
little. To be honest, I am still confused by all the names.”

“We are all confused. I don’t know which report you read or
when it was written—I hope they gave you something I wrote. Although
officially we annexed Upper Burma last year, the Shan States have been
impossible to control, and thus it is almost impossible to station troops here.
In our effort to pacify the region—‘peaceful penetration,’ in
the parlance of the War Office, a term I find vile—we have been engaged
in fighting a federation of Shan princes calling itself the Limbin Confederacy,
an alliance of Shan
sawbwas—
the Shan word for their
princes—who want to overthrow British rule. Twet Nga Lu is not part of
the Confederacy, but an illegitimate chief operating across the Salween. We
would call him a
dacoit,
but he has too many followers. His name is
perhaps more legendary because he works alone. The Limbin Confederacy is less
easily vilified because they are organized, and even send their own
delegations. In other words, they seem like a real government. But Twet Nga Lu
refuses to cooperate with anyone.”

Edgar began to ask about the
rumors of the Bandit Chief that he had heard on the river steamship, but there
was a rattling from above. The men looked up to see a large bird lifting off
from the crags.

“What was that?” asked Edgar.

“Raptor, although I didn’t get a good look at it. What we need
to beware of here are the snakes. They often come out at this time of day to
get warm in the sun. Last year I had a pony bitten by a viper, leaving her with
a terrible wound. The bite can cause humans to go into rapid shock.”

“You know much about snakebites?”

“I have made a
collection of poisons and have tried to study them. I have been helped by a
medicine man, a hermit who lives in the hills, who, the villagers say, sells
the poisons to assassins.”

“That’s horrid.
I—”

“Perhaps, although death by poison could be quite
peaceful, compared to the other methods one sees … Don’t worry,
Mr. Drake, he has no interest in English piano tuners.”

They
continued their descent. Carroll pointed down the ravine. “Listen,”
he said. “Soon you will hear the river.” The clip-clop of hooves
was answered by a distant, deeper rumbling. The trail continued to drop, and
the ponies struggled to keep their footing over the stones. At last Carroll
stopped. “We should dismount,” he said. “This is too
precarious for the ponies.” He swung himself off with a single, graceful
movement. Nok Lek followed, and then Edgar, still thinking about the snakes.
The sound of the river grew louder. The ravine narrowed sharply, and now there
was scarcely enough room for the ponies to pass. Above him, Edgar could see
branches, logs, wedged into the narrow chasm, testament to past flooding. Soon
the ravine took a sharp turn, and the floor seemed to disappear beneath them.
Carroll handed the reins of his pony to Nok Lek and walked carefully to the
edge. “Come and look, Mr. Drake,” he shouted over the roar.

Edgar walked gingerly to join the Doctor where the trail dropped steeply
away to a river that flowed twenty feet below them. The stones were silver,
polished by the flow of water. Edgar looked up. The sun winked down through a
sliver of sky. He could feel spray on his face, the thunder of the rapids
shaking the ground.

“In the rainy season this is a waterfall. The
river is twice as high. This water comes all the way from Yunnan, in China. It
is all from melted snow. There is more. Come.”

“What?”

“Come here, come and look.”

Edgar picked his way uneasily over the stones, wet with the spray of the
river. The Doctor was standing at the edge of the precipice, looking up the
rock.

“What is it?” asked Edgar.

“Look
closely,” said the Doctor. “At the rock. Do you see them? The
flowers.”

The entire face of the ravine was covered by a dull
moss, sprinkled with thousands of tiny flowers, so small that he had mistaken
them for beads of water.

Carroll motioned to a smooth surface on the
wall. “Now put your ear there.”

“What?”

“Go ahead, put your ear up against the wall, listen.”

Edgar looked at him skeptically. He crouched and put his head to the stone.

From deep within the rock came a singing, strange and haunting. He
pulled his head away. The sound stopped. He leaned back. Again he could hear
it. It sounded familiar, like thousands of soprano voices warming up to sing.
“Where is it coming from?” he shouted.

“The rock is
hollow, they are vibrations from the river, a high-pitched resonance. That is
one explanation. The other is Shan, that it is an oracle. Those who seek advice
come here to listen. Look up there.” He pointed to a pile of rocks on
which a small wreath of flowers had been placed. “A shrine to the spirits
that sing. I thought you would like it here. Scenery fit for a man of
music.”

Edgar rose and smiled and wiped off his glasses once
again. While they talked, Nok Lek unpacked several baskets filled with stuffed
banana leaves, which he laid out on the rocks away from the precipice, where it
was dry. They sat and ate and listened to the river. The food was different
from the rich curries Edgar had eaten in the lowlands. Each banana leaf
contained something different, sliced and seared pieces of chicken, fried
squash, a pungent paste that smelled strongly of fish but tasted sweet with the
rice, which too was different, sticky balls of grains that were almost
translucent.

When they had finished, they rose and led their ponies up
the little path until it became flat enough to ride. The trail climbed slowly
out of the coolness of the ravine and into the heat of the Plateau.

Carroll chose a different route back to the camp, one that took them back
through a burnt forest. In contrast to the first trail, the land was hot and
flat, and the vegetation dry, but the Doctor stopped several times to show
Edgar more plants, tiny orchids that were hidden in the shade,
innocuous-looking pitcher plants whose carnivory Carroll explained in macabre
detail, trees that held water, rubber, medicine.

On the lonely road,
they passed through an old temple complex where dozens of pagodas were aligned
in rows. The structures were of various sizes and ages and shapes, some freshly
painted and capped with ornaments, others pale and crumbling. On one, the body
of the pagoda had been crafted into the shape of a coiled serpent. It was
eerily silent. Birds flitted over the ground. The only person they saw was a
monk who looked as old as the temples themselves, his skin dark and wrinkled,
his body tinted with dust. He was sweeping the path as they approached, and
Edgar saw Carroll press his hands together and bow slightly to the man. The old
monk said nothing, but kept sweeping, the grass broomstick swaying with the
hypnotic rhythm of his chant.

The trail was long, and at last Edgar
grew weary. He thought how much the Doctor must have traveled through the
Plateau to know each stream, each hill, and how, if they were separated, he
would not know how to find his way back. For a brief moment, the thought
frightened him. But I have trusted him by deciding to come here, he thought,
there is no reason I shouldn’t now. The path narrowed and the Doctor rode
ahead. Edgar watched him as he rode, his back straight, one hand on his waist,
alert, watching.

They passed from the forest onto a wide ridge and back
into the valley from which they had come. The sun was setting when, from the
rise of one of the hills, Edgar saw the Salween. It was dark when they reached
Mae Lwin.

13

T
he
following morning, Edgar awoke before the children came, and wandered down to
the river. He expected to find the Doctor eating breakfast or perhaps even see
Khin Myo, but the bank was empty. The Salween lapped against the sand. He
looked briefly across the river for birds. There was a fluttering. Another
crested kingfisher, he thought, and smiled to himself, I am already beginning
to learn. He walked back up to the clearing. Nok Lek was walking down from the
path that led up to the houses.

“Good morning, Mr.
Drake,” said the boy.

“Good morning, I was looking for the
Doctor. Can you kindly tell me where he is?”

“Once a week
the Doctor is in his … how do you say?”

“The Doctor
is in his surgery?”

“Yes, his surgery. He told me to get
you.”

Nok Lek led Edgar up the small path to the camp
headquarters. As they were entering, an older woman passed inside carrying a
crying baby in her arms, swaddled tightly in a checkered cloth. Nok Lek and
Edgar followed.

The room was full of people, dozens of men and women in
colorful coats and turbans, crouching or standing, holding children, peering
over shoulders to watch the Doctor, who sat at the far end of the room. Nok Lek
led the piano tuner through the crowd, speaking softly to part it.

They
found the Doctor at a broad desk, listening to a baby’s chest with a
stethoscope. He raised his eyebrows in welcome and continued to listen. The
baby lay limp and passive on the lap of a young woman Edgar guessed was its
mother. She was very young, a girl of perhaps fifteen or sixteen, but her eyes
looked swollen and tired. Like most of the other women, her hair was tied up in
a wide turban that seemed to rest precariously on her head. She wore a dress
tied over her bosom, a hand-woven cloth patterned with interlaced geometric
designs. Though there was an elegance in the way she wore it, when Edgar looked
closer, he saw that it was tattered at the edges. He thought of the
Doctor’s stories of the drought.

At long last, Carroll removed
the stethoscope. He spoke to the woman for a moment in Shan, and then turned to
rummage through a cabinet behind him. Edgar peered over his shoulder at the
rows of apothecary vials.

The Doctor saw him stare. “Much the
same as any English chemist,” he said as he handed the woman a small
bottle of a dark elixir. “Warburg’s tincture and arsenic for fever,
Cockle’s pills and Chlorodyne, Goa powder for ringworm, Vaseline,
Holloway’s ointment, Dover’s powder, laudanum for dysentery. And
then these.” He pointed to a row of unlabeled bottles filled with leaves
and dirty liquids, crushed bugs, and lizards floating in solution. “Local
medicine.”

Carroll reached back into the cabinet and took out a
larger flask filled with herbs and a smoky liquid. He pulled the stopper, and
the room filled with a deep, sweet scent. He dipped his fingers into the bottle
and pulled out a wet mass of leaves and placed them on the baby’s chest.
Water pooled around the leaves and ran over the baby’s sides. He began to
run his fingers over its body, spreading the fluid over its throat and chest.
His eyes were closed and he began to whisper something, softly. At last he
opened them. He wrapped the baby’s swaddling back around the leaves and
spoke to the girl. She rose and bowed in thanks, and walked away through the
crowd.

“What was that?” Edgar asked.

“I think
the child has consumption. That little bottle is Steven’s Consumption
Cure,” said Carroll. “Direct from England. I somewhat doubt its
efficacy, but we don’t have much better. Do you know of Koch’s
discoveries?”

“Only what I have read in the broadsheets.
But I couldn’t tell you anything. I know Steven’s Cure only because
we bought it for our housemaid—her mother has consumption.”

“Well, the German thinks that he found the cause of consumption in a
bacteria, he calls it a ‘tubercle bacillus.’ But that was five
years ago. As closely as I try to follow the advances, I am too isolated, and
it is difficult to know how science has changed.”

“And the
plant?”

“The medicine men call it
mahaw tsi.
It
is a famous Kachin cure, and their medicine men guard it from foreigners. It
took a long time to convince them to show it to me. I am pretty certain it is a
species of
Euonymus,
although I can’t be sure. They use it for
many ailments, some believe that even saying the words
mahaw tsi
can
cure disease. They say it is especially potent for diseases of air, and this
baby has a cough. Anyway, I mix it with Holloway’s ointment. For a long
time I was doubtful about the herbs, but I think that I see some improvement in
my patients who use them. That and prayer.”

Edgar stared at the
Doctor. “To whom?” he asked, finally. But another patient had
arrived, and the Doctor didn’t answer.