The Piano Tuner (36 page)

He knew who
it was before the door drifted open and she tentatively stepped inside. Perhaps
it was the delicate, patient sound of the knocking, distinct from the
Doctor’s confident pounding or the servants’ hesitancy. Perhaps the
wind had shifted, bringing the scent of wet earth down from the mountain, and
on its route lifted her perfume. Or perhaps he recognized the direction, that
they moved in age-worn patterns, destined repetitions.

From the doorway
came the voice, the accent liquid. “Hello.”

“Ma Khin
Myo,” he said.

“May I come in?”

“Of
… course.”

She closed the door lightly. “Am I
interrupting you?”

“No, not at all … Why would you
think that?”

She tilted her head slightly. “You seem
preoccupied. Is something the matter?”

“No, no.” His
voice trembled, and he forced a smile. “I am only passing the
time.”

She stayed by the door and held her hands together. She
wore the same light blouse she had worn the day she had met him by the river.
He could see she had painted her face recently, and thought of the incongruity,
There is no sun now, no reason to wear
thanaka
but that it is
beautiful.

“You know,” she said, “in all the time
that I have had English friends, I have heard the piano played often. I love
its sound. I … I thought maybe you could show me how you
work.”

“Of course. But isn’t it late? Shouldn’t
you be with …” he hesitated.

“With Doctor Carroll?
He is not in Mae Lwin.” She was still standing. Behind her, her shadow
reclined against the wall, curves against the lines of bamboo.

“Of course, of course. I knew, didn’t I?” He took his
glasses and polished them in his shirt. He took a deep breath. “I have
been here all day. So many hours at the piano can drive one a bit … mad.
I am sorry. I should have sought your company.”

“You still
haven’t even offered me a place to sit.”

Edgar started at
her directness. He moved over to clear a place on the bench.
“Please.”

She moved slowly across the room, toward the
piano, her shadow on the wall growing longer. She gathered her
hta
main
together and sat beside him. For a moment, he only looked at her as
she stared down at the keys. The flower she wore was fragrant, freshly picked;
he could see where tiny grains of pollen had dusted her hair. She turned toward
him.

“I am sorry if I seem distracted,” he said.
“I’m always a bit slow to come out of the trance that I enter when
I tune. It is another world. It’s always a bit startling to be
interrupted by … visitors … it is hard to explain.”

“Perhaps like being awakened from a dream.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps … But I am awake in a world of sounds. It is
as if I have begun to dream again …” When she said nothing, he
added, “That must seem strange. ”

“No.” She
shook her head. “At times we confuse what is real with what we are
dreaming.”

There was silence. Khin Myo lifted her hands and
placed them on the keyboard.

“Have you ever played
before?” he asked.

“No, but I have always wanted to, since
I was a little girl.”

“You can play now, it is much more
interesting than watching me tune.”

“Oh, I shouldn’t,
really. I don’t know how.”

“That’s all right.
Just try. Press the keys.”

“Any key?”

“Start where your finger is now. That is the first note of the
Prelude in F Minor. It’s part of
The Well-Tempered Clavier,
which I played for the
sawbwa.
”

She pressed the
key. The note rang out in the room, echoing back to them.

“See,” said Edgar. “Now you have played Bach.”

Khin Myo didn’t turn from the piano. He saw the corner of her eyes
wrinkle, the hints of a smile. “It sounds so different, sitting
here.”

“It does. There is nothing quite like it. Please,
perhaps I can teach you more of the piece.”

“Oh, I
wouldn’t want to bother you. Actually, you are right: maybe it is late. I
didn’t want to interrupt your work.”

“Nonsense. You
are here now.”

“But I can’t play.”

“I insist. It is a short motif, but one of great meaning. Please, now
that we have started, I couldn’t let you leave. The next note is that
one, hit that with your forefinger.”

She turned to him.

“Go on, play,” he said, and pointed to the key. She pressed it.
Deep in the piano, the hammer leaped toward its string.

“Now,
next key to the left, now the key above that. Now back to the first. Yes, that
one, the first key that you played. Now the second one again, that one. And
above. There, that’s it. Now play it again, faster now.” Khin Myo
struggled through it.

“It doesn’t sound like much,”
she said.

“It sounds like everything. Try it again.”

“I don’t know … Maybe you should.”

“No, you are playing wonderfully. It will be much easier if you use
your left hand for the lower notes.”

“I don’t think I
can. Can you show me?” She turned, her face close to his.

Edgar’s heart pounded suddenly, and for a brief moment he was afraid
she would hear it. But the sound of the music emboldened him. He stood, and he
moved behind her and lowered his arms over hers. “Put your hands on
mine,” he said.

Slowly, she lifted her hands. For a moment they
waited, floating, and then she let them settle gently. Neither moved, each
feeling only the other’s hands, the rest of their bodies but pale
outlines. He could see their reflections in the lacquered mahogany of the
nameboard. Her fingers only reached halfway along his.

The piece began
slowly, tentatively. The Fugue in F-sharp Minor from Book 2 of
The
Well-Tempered Clavier
always reminded him of an opening of flowers, a
meeting of lovers, a song of beginnings. He hadn’t played it on the night
of the
sawbwa’
s visit; it is the thirty-eighth piece, and he had
stopped at the twenty-fourth. So at first his hands moved slowly, uncertain,
but with the soft weight of her fingers, he moved through each measure
steadily, and within the piano, actions glided up with the touch of the keys,
leaping and falling back from the jacks, leaving strings trembling, rows and
rows of tiny intricate pieces of metal and wood and sound. On the case, the
candles trembled.

As they played, a strand of her hair broke loose
from where it had been tucked beneath the flower. It tickled his lip. He
didn’t pull back, but closed his eyes, and moved his face closer so that
it traced itself over his cheek as he played, over his lips again, now over the
lashes of his eyes.

The music rose faster, then dipped sweetly, softer,
and then it ended.

Their hands rested together on the piano. She turned
her head slightly, her eyes closed. She said his name, her voice composed only
of breath.

He asked, “Is this why you came here
tonight?”

There was silence and she answered, “No, Mr.
Drake.” She whispered it now. “I have been here
forever.”

And Edgar lowered his lips to her skin, cool and moist
with perspiration. He let himself breathe in the scent of her hair, taste the
sweet salt of her neck. Slowly, she moved her hands, and her fingers entwined
themselves within his.

And for that moment, everything stopped. The
warmth of her fingers, the smoothness of her skin on his calluses. The light of
the candle dancing over the soft surface of her cheek, catching only the
shadows of the flower. They stayed like this for seconds, or longer, but only
the crickets kept time.

It was she who broke their embrace, softly
untangling her hands from his, which still rested on the keyboard. She traced
her fingers along his arm. I must leave. And he closed his eyes again, inhaled
one last time and let her go.

21

H
e spent the night at the piano, drifting in and out of
sleep. It was still dark when he awoke to the sound of the door creaking,
footsteps. He opened his eyes, expecting to see the children, but found himself
staring into the eyes of an old woman. “Doctor need you. Hurry,”
she said, her breath rank with the smell of fermented fish.

“Sorry?” He sat up, still lost in sleep.

“Doctor
Carroll need you. Hurry.”

He stood and straightened his shirt.
Only then did he associate the Doctor’s call with last night, with Khin
Myo.

The old woman led him from the room. It was still early dawn and
cold, the sun was long from breaking over the mountain. At the door to the
headquarters, she grinned a mouth full of betel-stained teeth and hobbled away
down the path. Edgar found the Doctor inside, standing over maps spread out on
his desk. “You sent for me,” he said.

The Doctor stared at
the maps for a moment before looking up. “Yes, hello, Mr. Drake, please
sit down.” He motioned to a chair.

Edgar sat and watched the
Doctor flip earnestly through the maps, one hand tracing lines on the paper,
the other raised and massaging the back of his neck. Suddenly he looked up and
pulled the pince-nez from his nose. “Mr. Drake, my apologies for waking
you so early.”

“It is all right, I—”

“This is rather urgent,” the Doctor interrupted. “I just
returned several hours ago from Mongpan. We raced to get here.” His voice
seemed different, distracted, formal, the timbre of confidence now gone. Only
then did Edgar notice that he was still dressed in riding clothes, still
splashed with mud. He wore a pistol in his belt. Edgar felt a sudden sense of
guilt, This is not about Khin Myo.

“Mr. Drake, it is best that I
approach this bluntly.”

“Of course, but—”

“Mae Lwin is going to be attacked.”

Edgar leaned
forward, as if to hear him better. “I am sorry, I don’t understand.
Attacked?”

“Perhaps tonight.”

There was
silence. For a moment, Edgar thought it was a jest, or one of Carroll’s
projects, that there was more, which the Doctor would explain. He looked again
at the pistol, the muddy shirt, Carroll’s eyes, lined and exhausted.
“You are serious,” he said as if to himself. “But I thought
we signed a treaty. You told me—”

“The treaty still
stands. It is not the Limbin Confederacy.”

“Who
then?”

“Others. I have enemies. Perhaps shifting alliances,
men I once thought were friends, but whose loyalty I now question.” He
stared back down at the map. “I wish I could tell you more, but we must
prepare …” He paused before looking up again. “I can tell
you only this. A month before you arrived, we were attacked—you know
this, you were detained in Mandalay. Several of the attackers were later
captured, but they refused to reveal who had employed them, even under the pain
of torture. Some say they were petty thieves, but I have never seen petty
thieves armed so well. What’s more, some of the rifles they carried were
British, which meant they had been stolen. Or the men were former allies turned
traitors.”

“And now?”

“Two days ago, I
traveled to Mongpan, to discuss building a road to Mae Lwin. Only hours after I
had arrived, a Shan boy ran into the Prince’s quarters. He had been
fishing on one of the small Salween tributaries where he saw a group of men
camped in the forest, crept up on them, and listened to their conversations. He
couldn’t understand everything, but heard the men talking of a plan to
attack Mongpan and then Mae Lwin. Again, they carried British rifles, and this
time the group was much larger. If the boy is correct, I am confused about why
any
dacoits
would venture this far onto the Plateau to attack us.
There are many possibilities, but I don’t have time to discuss them with
you now. If they are in Mongpan already, they may be here as soon as
tonight.”

Edgar waited for the Doctor to say more, but he was
silent. “And now what will you do?” he ventured.

“From what was described to me, the group is too large for us to
defend the site. I have called for reinforcements. I have sent riders out on
horseback. Tribes loyal to me will send men, if they can get here soon enough.
From Mongpan, from Monghang, from …” He turned again to the map,
listing villages, but Edgar was not listening. He thought only of the image of
riders descending on Mae Lwin from the hills. He saw the men riding swiftly
through the passages of karst, across the Plateau, the banners flying, the
ponies’ tails dyed red, of the armies gathering in camp, of the women
seeking shelter, of Khin Myo. He thought now of the meeting of the Confederacy
of Princes. Now the Doctor wore the same uniform, the same distant stare. Edgar
began to speak. “And I—”

“I need your help, Mr.
Drake.”

“How? I will do anything. I am not good with a
rifle, but—”

“No, more important. Even with
reinforcements, Mae Lwin may fall, and even if we are able to repel an attack,
it will only be with much damage. It is only a small village.”

“But with more men—”

“Perhaps, or perhaps
they will burn the camp. I must think about this. I cannot risk everything I
have spent twelve years working for. The army will rebuild Mae Lwin, but I
cannot expect more. I have already arranged for my medical equipment, my
microscopes, my plant collections, to be moved and hidden. But
then—”

“The Erard.”

“I
don’t trust my men to carry it out alone. They don’t understand its
fragility.”

“But where?”

“Downriver.
You will float out this morning. It is only several days to British forts in
Karen country. There you will be met by troops who can escort you back to
Rangoon.”

“Rangoon?”

“Until we know
what is happening. But Mae Lwin is no longer safe for a civilian. The time for
that is past.”

Edgar shook his head. “This is all happening
too fast, Doctor. Perhaps I can stay … or I can take the piano into the
mountains. I cannot bear this …” His voice drifted off.
“What about Khin Myo?” he asked, suddenly. I can ask this now, she
is part of this, inextricably so, She is no longer in my thoughts only.