The Piano Tuner (6 page)

I
have much to write, but before all else, let me tell you about the voyage thus
far, beginning from when we said good-bye. The journey from London to Calais
was uneventful. The fog was thick and rarely parted long enough to give us a
glimpse of anything more than the waves. The trip takes but a few hours. When
we arrived in Calais, it was night, and we were taken by carriage to the train
station, where we boarded a train for Paris. As you know, I have always dreamed
of visiting the adopted home of Sebastien Erard. But no sooner had we arrived
than I was on another train heading south. France really is a beautiful
country, and our route took us past golden pastures, and vineyards, and even
fields of lavender (famous for their perfumes—which I promise to bring
you when I return). As for the French people, I have less positive words, as
none of the Frenchmen I happened to meet had ever heard of Erard or the
mécanisme à étrier,
Erard’s great
innovation. They only stared at my inquiries as if I were mad.

In
Marseilles we boarded another ship, owned by the same line, and soon we were
steaming across the Mediterranean. How I wish you could see the beauty of these
waters! They are a blue like none that I have ever seen before. The closest
color I can think of is the early nighttime sky, or perhaps sapphires. The
camera is a wonderful invention indeed, but how I wish we could take
photographs in true color so you could see for yourself what I mean. You must
go to the National Gallery and look for Turner’s
Fighting
Temeraire,
it is the closest to this that I can imagine. It is very warm,
and I have already forgotten the cold English winters. I spent much of the
first day on deck and ended up with quite a sunburn. I must remember to wear my
hat.

After the first day, we passed through the Strait of Bonifacio,
which runs between the islands of Sardinia and Corsica. From the ship we could
see the Italian coastline. It looks very still and peaceful, and it was. It is
hard to imagine the tumultuous history that was born deep in those hills, that
this is the country that gave birth to Verdi, Vivaldi, Rossini, and, most of
all, Cristofori.

How to describe my days to you? Apart from simply
sitting on the deck and staring at the sea, I have spent many hours reading
reports sent by Anthony Carroll. It is strange to think that this man, who has
occupied my thoughts for weeks now, does not yet even know my name. Regardless,
he does have extraordinary tastes. I opened one of the packages of sheet music
that I was given to deliver to him, and found it to contain Liszt’s Piano
Concerto no. 1, Schumann’s Toccata in C Major, and others. There are some
sheets whose music I don’t recognize, and when I try humming them out I
can’t decipher any melody. I will have to ask him about these when I
reach his camp.

Tomorrow we stop in Alexandria. The coast is very close
now, and in the distance I can see minarets. This morning we passed a small
fishing boat, and a local fisherman stood and watched us steam by, a net
hanging loosely from his hands, so close that I could see the dried salt which
dusted his skin. And less than a week ago I was still in London! Alas, we will
stay only a short time in port and I will have no time to visit the Pyramids.

There is so much more I want to tell you … the moon is almost
full now, and at night I often go on deck to stare at it. I have heard that the
Orientals believe that there is a rabbit in the moon, but I still cannot see
this, only a man, winking, mouth wide open in surprise and wonder. And now I
think I understand why he looks so, for if all is wondrous from the deck of a
ship, imagine what it must be like from the moon. Two nights ago I
couldn’t sleep for all the heat and excitement, and I went on deck. I was
looking out at the ocean when slowly, not a hundred yards from the ship, the
water began to shimmer. At first I thought it was the reflection of the stars,
but it appeared to take form, glowing like thousands of tiny fires, like the
streets of London at night. By its brightening, I expected to see a bizarre sea
animal, but it stayed amorphous, floating on the water. It stretched for nearly
a mile, and then, after we had passed it and I turned back to look for it in
the sea, it was gone. Then last night, the beast of light came again, and I
learned from a traveling naturalist who had come to the deck to look at the sky
that the light was not the light of one monster, but millions, microscopic
creatures that the man called “diatoms,” and that similar creatures
dye the Red Sea its famous color. Katherine, what a strange world this is where
the invisible can illuminate the waters and color the very sea red.

My
dear, I must go now. It is late, and I miss you terribly, and I hope you are
not lonely. Please do not worry about me. In truth, I was a little frightened
when I left, and sometimes when I lie in bed, I question why I am going. I
still don’t have an answer. I remember what you told me in London, that
it is such noble work, that it is my duty to my country, but this cannot be: I
never enlisted in the army when I was young, and have little interest in our
foreign affairs. I know it made you angry when I suggested that it was my duty
to the piano and not the Crown, but I still feel very strongly that Dr. Carroll
is doing the proper thing, and that if I can help in the cause of Music,
perhaps
that
is my duty. Part of my decision certainly rests in my
confidence in Dr. Carroll, and a sense of shared mission with him and his
desire to bring the music I find beautiful to places where others have only
thought of bringing guns. I know that such sentiments often pale when faced
with reality. I do miss you dearly, and I hope that I am not on some hopeless
mission. But you know that I am not one to take unnecessary risks. I might be
more frightened than you by stories I hear about the war and the jungle.

Why am I wasting words on my fears and insecurities when I have so much
that is beautiful to tell you? I suppose it is because I have no one else to
share these thoughts with. In truth, I am already happy in ways that I have
never known. I only wish you could be here with me to share this journey.

I will write again soon, my love.

Your devoted husband,

Edgar

He mailed the letter in Alexandria, a short
stop, where the ship took on new passengers, men in flowing robes who spoke a
language that seemed to come from deep within their throats. They stayed in
port for several hours, time only to wander briefly amid the smells of drying
octopus and the scented bags of the spice traders. Soon they were moving again,
through the canal at Suez and into another sea.

4

T
hat night, as the boat steamed slowly through the waters of
the Red Sea, Edgar couldn’t sleep. At first he tried to read a document
provided to him by the War Office, a turgid piece about military campaigns
during the Third Anglo-Burmese War, but gave up in boredom. The cabin was
stifling, and the small porthole did little to welcome in the sea air. At last
he dressed and walked down the long corridor to the companionway leading onto
the deck.

Outside it was cool, the sky was clear and the moon full.
Weeks from now, after he has heard the myths, he will understand why this was
important. Although the English call the thin, anemic slivers of light
“new moons,” this is only one way to understand them. Ask any child
of the Shan, or the Wa, or the Pa-O, and they will tell you that it is the full
moon which is new, for it is fresh and sparkling like the sun, and it is the
thin moon which is old and frail, and soon to die. And thus full moons mark
beginnings, eras when change begins and one must pay close attention to
portent.

Yet there remain many days before Edgar Drake arrives in
Burma, and he does not yet know the divinations of the Shan. That there are
four classes of auguries, those being the omens from the sky, the omens of
flying birds, the omens of feeding fowl, and the omens of the movement of
four-footed beasts. He doesn’t know the meanings of comets or halos or
showers of meteorites, that divination can be found in the direction of a
crane’s flight, that one must look for augury in the eggs of hens, in the
swarming of bees, and not only if but also where a lizard, rat, or spider drops
on one’s body. That if water in a pond or river turns red, the country
will be laid waste by a devastating war; such a portent foretold the
destruction of Ayutthaya, the old capital of Siam. That if a man takes anything
in his hand and it breaks without apparent cause, or if his turban falls off of
its own accord, he will die.

Such auguries need not be invoked for
Edgar Drake, not yet. He does not wear a turban and rarely breaks strings when
he tunes and repairs, and as he stood on the deck, the sea reflected the light
of the moon with a glittering of silver on blue.

The outline of the
coast could still be seen, and even the distant wink of a lighthouse. The sky
was clear, and sprayed with thousands of stars. He looked out at the sea where
waves flashed with their reflections.

The following
evening Edgar sat in the dining hall, at the end of a long table laid with
clean white cloth. Above him a chandelier betrayed the motion of the ship. An
elegant affair, he had written to Katherine, They have spared no luxury. He sat
alone and listened to an animated conversation between two officers about a
battle in India. His thoughts wandered away, to Burma, to Carroll, to tuning,
to pianos, to home.

A voice from behind brought him back to the
steamship. “The piano tuner?”

Edgar turned to see a tall
man in uniform. “Yes,” he said, swallowing his food and rising to
extend his hand. “Drake. And you, sir?”

“Tideworth,” said the man, with a handsome smile. “I am
the ship’s captain from Marseilles to Bombay.”

“Of
course, Captain, I recognize your name. It is an honor to meet you.”

“No, Mr. Drake. The honor is mine. I am sorry that I could not have
met you sooner. I have looked forward to making your acquaintance for several
weeks now.”

“
My
acquaintance, really!” said
Edgar. “Whatever for?”

“I should have told you when I
introduced myself. I am a friend of Anthony Carroll. He wrote and told me to
expect your passage. He is eagerly looking forward to meeting you.”

“And I, him. He is, indeed, my commission.” He laughed.

The Captain motioned to the chairs. “Please, let’s sit,”
he said. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your meal.”

“Of course not, Captain, I have eaten enough already. You serve us
too well.” They sat down at the table. “So, Doctor Carroll wrote
about
me
? I am curious as to what he said.”

“Not
much. I think they haven’t even informed him of your name. He did tell me
you were a fine tuner of pianos, and that your safe passage is extremely
important to him. He also said that you may be out of sorts on this journey,
and that I should watch over you.”

“That is too kind. But I
seem to be managing. Although, without an Indian war under my
belt”—he tilted his head toward the men beside him—“I
am not much for conversation here.”

“Oh, they are usually
bores,” answered the Captain, lowering his voice, an unnecessary
precaution, for the officers were fairly drunk and hadn’t even noticed
his presence.

“Regardless, I hope I am not taking you away from
your duties.”

“Not at all, Mr. Drake. The sailing is
smooth, as they say. We should be in Aden in six days, if we don’t have
any problems. They will call if they need me. Tell me, have you enjoyed the
journey?”

“Enchanting. This is my first trip away from
England, actually. Everything is beautiful beyond my imagination. I know the
Continent mostly through its music, or its pianos.” When the Captain
didn’t respond, Edgar added awkwardly, “I am a specialist in Erard
pianos. It is a French model.”

The Captain looked at him with
curiosity. “And the journey to Alexandria? No pianos there, I
imagine.”

“No, no pianos,” he laughed. “But
quite a view nonetheless. I have spent hours on deck. It is as though I am a
young man again. You must understand.”

“Of course. I still
remember the first time I sailed this route. I even wrote poems about it, silly
odes about sailing at the cusp of two continents, each vast and barren,
stretching through hundreds of miles of sands and fabled cities, each rising to
the sky, to the Levant, to the Congo. You can imagine, I am sure. Being at sea
has lost none of its thrill, although thankfully I have long abandoned poetry.
Tell me, have you made the acquaintance of any of the other
passengers?”

“Not really. I am not the outgoing sort. The
passage is thrilling enough. It is all quite new for me.”

“Well, it’s a pity you haven’t met more of the others.
They are always an extraordinary lot. Without them, I might even tire of this
view.”

“Extraordinary. How so?”

“Oh, if
only I had the hours to tell you all the tales of my passengers. Where they
embark is exotic enough. Not only from Europe or Asia, but any of the thousands
of ports of call along the Mediterranean, the North African coast, Arabia. They
call this route ‘the axis of the world.’ The stories, though! I
need only to look around the room …” He leaned closer. “For
example, over there at the back table, do you see the old gentleman dining with
that white-haired woman?”

“I do. He is probably the oldest
fellow on the ship.”

“His name is William Penfield. Former
officer with the East India Company. ‘Bloody Bill,’ they called
him. Perhaps the most decorated and violent soldier to serve in the
colonies.”

“That old man?”

“The same.
Next time you are near him, look at his left hand. He is missing two fingers
from a skirmish during his first tour. His men used to joke that he took a
thousand lives for each of his fingers.”