The Piano Tuner (25 page)

It was a young boy,
holding his left hand close to his body. Carroll motioned for Edgar to sit in a
chair behind him. He reached for the boy’s hand, but the boy guarded it.
The boy’s mother, who stood behind him, spoke to him sharply. Finally
Carroll gently pried his arms open.

Three fingers on the boy’s
left hand were almost completely severed, held by ragged tendons and covered
with clotted blood. Carroll handled the wound carefully, and the boy winced in
pain. “This is bad,” the Doctor muttered, and spoke to the woman in
Shan. The boy began to cry. Carroll turned and said something to Nok Lek, who
removed a package from the cabinet and rolled it out on the desk. There was a
cloth, and bandages, and several cutting tools. The boy started to yell.

Edgar looked uncomfortably over the waiting room. The other patients were
still, unexpressive, watching.

Carroll removed another bottle from the
cabinet. He took the boy’s hand and stretched it over the cloth on the
table. He poured the contents of the bottle out over the wound. The boy jumped
and screamed. Carroll poured more, wiping the hand vigorously with the cloth.
He took a smaller vial from the cabinet and poured a thick liquid onto a
bandage, which he rubbed over the wound. Almost immediately the boy began to
calm down.

The Doctor turned to Edgar. “Mr. Drake, I am going to
need your help. The salve should numb some of the pain, but he is going to
start to scream when he sees the saw. I usually have a nurse but she is with
other patients now. That is if you don’t mind helping, of course. I did
think it might be interesting for you to observe our surgery at work, seeing
how important such projects are for local relations.”

“Local relations?” Edgar said faintly. “You are going to
amputate?”

“I have no other choice. I have seen wounds like
this turn a whole arm gangrenous. I am just going to take off the injured
fingers. The wound on his hand doesn’t look deep. I wish I had ether
here, but my supply ran out only last week and they haven’t sent me more.
We could have him smoke opium, but it will still hurt. I would rather be
finished with this as quickly as possible.”

“What can I
do?”

“Just hold his arm. He is small, but you will be
surprised how fiercely he will try to throw you off.”

Carroll
rose, as did Edgar behind him. The Doctor gently took the boy’s hand and
laid it on the table. He tied a tourniquet above the boy’s elbow and
motioned for Edgar to hold his arm. He did so, but his actions felt rough and
cruel. Then Carroll turned to Nok Lek and nodded and Nok Lek reached over and
twisted the boy’s ear. The boy shrieked and shot his free hand up to his
ear, and before Edgar could turn back to the table, the doctor had cut off one,
two, and then a third finger. The boy looked at them, perplexed, and then
screamed again, but Carroll had already wrapped the bloody hand in the cloth.

The morning wore on, patient after patient filed into
the examining chair before the window: a middle-aged man with a limp, a
pregnant woman and a woman who could not conceive, a child Carroll diagnosed as
deaf. There were three people with goiters, two with diarrhea, and five with
fevers, all of which Carroll attributed to malaria. From each of the feverish
patients, he drew a drop of blood and placed it on a slide and examined it
beneath a small microscope that reflected light from the window up through the
eyepiece.

“What are you looking for?” asked Edgar, still
shaken from seeing the amputation. Carroll let him look through the microscope.

“Do you see the small circles?” he asked.

“Yes, everywhere.”

“Those are red blood cells.
Everyone has them. But if you look closely, you can see that inside of the
cells are darker objects, like blemishes.”

“I don’t
see anything,” Edgar said, and sat back in frustration.

“Don’t worry, it is difficult at first. Until about seven years
ago, no one knew what they were, until a Frenchman discovered that they are the
parasites that cause the disease. I have been very interested because most
Europeans think that the disease is caused by breathing bad air from the
swamps, that is why the Italians named the disease
mala aria,
‘bad air.’ But when I was in India, I had a friend, an Indian
doctor who translated for me some of the Hindu Vedas, where they call malaria
‘the king of diseases’ and attribute it to the anger of the god
Shiva. As for transmission, the Vedas implicate the lowly mosquito. But no one
has found this parasite in the mosquito yet, so we can’t be certain. And
since mosquitoes live in the swamps, it is difficult to dissociate the two.
Actually, it is difficult to dissociate any of its possible sources in the
jungle. The Burmese, for example, call it
hnget pyhar,
it means
‘bird fever.’”

“And what do you
think?”

“I have been collecting mosquitoes, dissecting
them, grinding them up, peering at their innards through the microscope, but I
haven’t found anything yet.”

Carroll gave each of the
malaria patients quinine tablets and an extract of a plant he said came from
China, as well as a local root to ease the intensity of the fevers. For the
diarrhea, he gave laudanum or ground papaya seeds; for the goiters, tablets of
salt. He instructed the man with a limp how to make crutches. For the pregnant
woman, he rubbed an ointment on her swollen belly. For the deaf child he could
do nothing, and told Edgar how seeing such a child saddened him like almost no
other disease, for the Shan had no sign language, and even if they had, the boy
could never hear the songs of the night festivals. Edgar thought of another
little boy, the deaf son of a client, who would push his face against the piano
case when his mother played, to feel the vibrations. He thought of the steamer
to Aden as well, and of the Man with One Story, There are causes of deafness
that perhaps even medicine cannot understand.

For the woman who could
not conceive, Carroll turned to Nok Lek and spoke at length. When Edgar asked
what he had recommended, Carroll said, “This is confusing. She is barren,
and she walks through her village muttering to a make-believe child. I do not
know how to cure her. I have told Nok Lek to take her to a monk in the north
who specializes in cures for such diseases. Maybe he can help.”

Close to noon, they saw their last patient, a thin man who was led to the
chair by a woman who looked half his age. After talking briefly to the woman,
Carroll turned to the room and announced something in Shan. Slowly, those
waiting rose and filed out of the room. “This could take some time. It is
a shame I cannot see them all,” he said. “But there are so many who
are sick.”

Edgar studied the patient more closely. He wore a
moth-eaten shirt and a pair of torn trousers. He was barefoot, and his toes
were callused and gnarled. He wasn’t wearing a turban. His head was
shaved smooth, his face and eyes hollowed. As he stared at Edgar he made slow
rhythmic motions with his jaw, as if chewing his tongue or the inside of his
cheeks. His hands shook, slowly and rhythmically.

Carroll spoke at
length with the woman, and then finally turned to Edgar. “She says he is
possessed,” he said. “They come from the mountains, nearly a
week’s journey from here, from a village near Kengtung.”

“Why come here?” asked Edgar.

“The Shan say there
are ninety-six diseases. This isn’t one of them. She has seen all the
medicine men near Kengtung, and they can do nothing. Now word of this
man’s disease has spread, and medicine men fear him because they think
that the spirit is too strong. So she came here.”

“Surely
you don’t believe he is possessed …”

“I
don’t know, there are things here that I have seen which I never could
have believed before.” He paused. “In some areas of the Shan
States, men like this are worshiped, as spirit mediums. I have been to
festivals where hundreds of villagers have come to watch them dance. In England
we would have called the writhing movements Saint Vitus’ dance, for Saint
Vitus is the patron saint of hysterical and nervous diseases. But I don’t
know what to call this dance, Saint Vitus cannot hear prayers from Mae Lwin.
And I do not know what spirits cause this possession.”

He turned
back to the man, and this time addressed him directly, and the man stared back
with empty eyes. The two remained like this for a long time, until at last
Carroll rose and took the man by the arm and led him outside. He gave no
medicine.

St. Vitus, thought Edgar, Vitus was the name of Bach’s
grandfather, It is strange how all is connected, even if only by a name.

When the old man had shuffled away slowly with his wife,
Carroll led Edgar to another building, separate from the headquarters. Inside
several patients lay on cots.

“This is our little
hospital,” Carroll explained. “I don’t like to keep patients
here; I think they heal better at home. But I feel as if I need to watch some
of the more severe cases, usually diarrhea or malaria. I trained Miss Ma as a
nurse.” He pointed to a young woman who sat wiping one of the patients
with a wet cloth. “She takes care of the patients when I am away.”
Edgar nodded to her and she bowed slightly.

They walked past the
patients, Carroll explaining, “This young fellow has severe diarrhea,
which I am afraid is cholera. We had a terrible outbreak years ago, and ten
villagers died. Fortunately, no one else has fallen ill, and I am keeping him
here so that he doesn’t infect the others … This next case is
terribly sad and, unfortunately, terribly common. Cerebral malaria. There is
little I can do for the boy. He will die soon. I want to give his family hope,
so I let him stay here … This child has rabies. She was bitten by a mad
dog, which many now think is the mode of transmission, although again, I am too
far from the learning centers of Europe to know the current opinion.”

They stopped by the little girl’s bed. She lay twisted in tense
contortions, her eyes open in frozen horror. Edgar was shocked to see that her
hands had been tied behind her back.

“Why is she
restrained?” he asked.

“The disease makes you mad. That is
what it means;
rabere
is Latin for rage. Two days ago she tried to
attack Miss Ma, so we had to restrain her.”

At the end of the
room, they found an old woman. “And what is wrong with her?” Edgar
asked, beginning to feel overwhelmed by the litany of diseases.

“This one?” the Doctor asked. He said something to the old
woman in Shan and she sat up. “She is fine. She is the grandmother of one
of the other patients, who is currently seated in the corner over there. When
she comes to visit him, he lets her rest in the cot because she says it is so
comfortable.”

“Doesn’t he need it?”

“He does, although he isn’t in immediate danger like the other
patients.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Probably diabetic. I have a number of patients who come to see me
because they are frightened when they notice that insects eat their urine,
because of the sugar in it. Some of the Shan seem particularly unnerved, they
say that it is the same as having their own bodies preyed upon. Another old
diagnosis, also by ancient Brahmins. He doesn’t need to be in my little
hospital, but it makes him feel better, and gives his grandmother a place to
rest.”

Carroll spoke to the man, and then to Miss Ma. Finally he
motioned to Edgar to follow him outside. They stood in the sunlight. It was
early afternoon.

“I think we are done for today. I hope this has
been worthwhile for you, Mr. Drake.”

“It was. Although I
was a little taken aback at first, I must admit. It is not like an English
surgery. It is not very
private.
”

“I don’t
have much of a choice. Although, it is good that everyone can see that an
English face can do more than look down a rifle.” He paused. “You
were asking me about my political opinions yesterday, no? There—an
opinion.” He laughed.

“Indeed,” said Edgar, slowly.
“Despite the stories, I am still amazed—”

“About what, may I ask?”

Edgar watched as the patients
drifted slowly out of the clinic. “That you have accomplished all this.
That you have brought music here, medicine. It is hard to believe that you have
never fought a battle.”

Anthony Carroll stared at him. “You
believe that? You are quite innocent, my dear fellow.”

“Maybe, but the men on the steamer said you have never fired a
shot.”

“Then you should be happy you have seen me in my
surgery, and not when we question prisoners.”

A chill ran along
Edgar’s spine. “Prisoners?”

The Doctor lowered his
voice. “The
dacoits
are known to tear tongues from mouths. I am
not above their rules … But it shouldn’t bother you. As you say,
you are here for music.”

Edgar felt faint. “I … I
didn’t think …”

They stared at each other.

Suddenly Carroll’s face broke into a wide grin, his eyes twinkling.
“A joke, Mr. Drake, a joke. I warned you about discussing politics. You
mustn’t be so earnest. Don’t worry, everyone leaves with their
tongue intact.”

He slapped the tuner on the back. “You came
to find me this morning,” he said. “Regarding the Erard, I
imagine?”

“Regarding the Erard,” replied Edgar
weakly. “But if now is not a good time for this, I understand. This has
been quite a morning already …”

“Nonsense, this is
the perfect time. For what is tuning if not another form of cure? Let us waste
not another instant. I know that you have been waiting.”

14

T
he sun had risen
high above the mountain, and it was hot despite the cool breeze that licked up
from the river. Still slightly unnerved, Edgar returned to his room to collect
his tools, and the Doctor led him up a narrow trail to a path that ran between
the buildings and the mountainside. He was surprised he had taken
Carroll’s jest so seriously, but the thought of finally seeing the Erard
cheered him. Since arriving, he had wondered where it was kept, and would peer
into open rooms as he took strolls through the compound. They stopped at a
door, bolted with a heavy metal latch. Carroll took a small key from his pocket
and fitted it into the lock.