by Daniel Mason
“What part of London are you from, Mr. Drake?”
“Do you play lawn tennis?”
“What is your business in London, Mr. Drake?”
“Franklin Mews, near Fitzroy Square. And, no, I don’t know how to play lawn tennis, Mrs. Partridge.”
“Pepper.”
“My dearest apologies, I still don’t know how to play lawn tennis, Mrs. Pepper.”
Laughing. “Fitzroy Square, that is near the Oxford Music Hall, right, Mr. Drake?”
“Indeed, it is.”
“You sound as if you know it. You’re not a musician, are you, Mr. Drake?”
“No, not really, peripherally associated, you might say …”
“Ladies, enough questions for Mr. Drake. I think he is quite tired.”
They stopped in a corner of the room, sheltered from the crowd by the broad back of a tall officer dressed in tartan. The Captain took a swift sip of gin.
“I hope you are not exhausted by the conversation.”
“No, I will manage. I am amazed, though, it is all so … reproduced.”
“Well, I hope you enjoy it. It should be a fine afternoon. The cook is a chap from Calcutta, they say one of the finest in India. I don’t come to these functions regularly, but it is a special day. I expect you will feel right at home.”
“At home …” and Edgar almost added, As much as I feel at home, at home. But a gong sounded in the hall, and the crowd moved into the dining room.
After grace, lunch began. Edgar was seated across from Major Dougherty, an obese man who laughed and wheezed and asked Edgar about his journey, and made jokes about the state of river steamships. At his left, Mrs. Dougherty, powdered and spindly, asked him if he followed British politics, and Edgar answered obliquely by recounting some news about ongoing preparations for the Queen’s Jubilee. When she persisted, the Major interrupted her after several minutes, chuckling, “Oh, my dear, I imagine one reason Mr. Drake came to Burma was to escape British politics! Right, Mr. Drake?” Everyone laughed, even Mrs. Dougherty, who settled back into her soup, content with what little she had pried from the visitor, and Edgar tensed briefly because the question, like a tightrope dancer, had tottered somewhat close to the real reason he had come to Burma. On his right, Mrs. Remington jumped in to scold the Major for laughing about such matters, “It wasn’t idle talk, no, as British subjects, we must know such things, for the mail here comes so late, and how is the Queen now, and I heard that Lady Hutchings had contracted consumption; was that before or after the London Fancy Dress Ball?” “After.” “Well that is fortunate, not for Lady Hutchings, but for the Ball, after all it is so lovely, and how I wish I had been there,” and some of the other ladies twittered and then began a conversation about the last society ball each had attended, and Edgar sat back and began to eat.
They are polite, he thought, To think that in England I would never have been invited to such an affair. Yet he was rather comforted by the direction of the conversation—for what could be further from potentially flammable subjects such as pianos and unusual doctors than the Fancy Dress Ball—when Mrs. Remington asked, innocuously enough, “Did you attend the Ball, Mr. Drake,” and he answered, “No, I didn’t,” and she, “You know so much about it, you must have gone,” and he, “No,” and politely, “I only tuned the Erard grand that was played at the event,” and he realized right away that he shouldn’t have said this, and she, “Pardon, the what-ard grand?” and he couldn’t help himself, “Erard, it’s a type of piano, one of the finest in London, they had an 1854 Erard, quite a beautiful instrument, I had done the voicing on it myself a year before, they just needed tuning for the ball,” and she seemed quite content with this, and was silent, one of those silences that played prelude to a change in topic, except Mrs. Remington said innocently, “Erard … why that’s the piano Doctor Carroll plays.”
Even then the conversation could have been salvaged, for example, had Mrs. Dougherty spoken quickly enough, for she had wanted to ask the visitor what he thought of the Burmese weather and hear him say how horrid it was, or had Major Dougherty spoken about a recent attack by dacoits outside of Taunggyi, or had Mrs. Remington pursued the subject of the Ball, which was far from being exhausted as she still wanted to know if her friend Mrs. Bissy had attended. But Colonel West, sitting to Major Dougherty’s left, who had been silent throughout the meal, muttered suddenly and quite audibly, “We should have dumped that piece of rubbish in the water.”
Edgar turned from Mrs. Remington. “I am sorry, Colonel. What did you say?”
“Only that I wish that, for the benefit of Her Majesty, that infernal instrument had been dumped into the Irrawaddy or used for firewood.” There was silence around the table and Captain Nash-Burnham, who had been engaged in another conversation, said, “Please, Colonel, we have been through this before.”
“Don’t tell me what to talk about, Captain, I lost five men to dacoits because of that piano.”
The Captain put down his silverware. “Colonel, with all due respect, we are all very sorry about the attack. I knew one of the men. But I think the issue of the piano is separate, and Mr. Drake here is our guest.”
“Are you telling me what happened, Captain?”
“Of course not, sir. I was only hoping that there was another time when we could discuss this.”
The Colonel turned to Edgar. “Reinforcements to my post were delayed two days because they had to escort the piano. Did the War Office tell you that story, Mr. Drake?”
“No.” Edgar’s pulse raced; he felt dizzy. In his mind flashed images of the hunt in Rangoon, They didn’t tell me about that either.
“Please, Colonel, Mr. Drake has been briefed adequately.”
“He shouldn’t even be in Burma. It is all nonsense.”
Silence had spread down the table. Faces turned toward the men. Captain Nash-Burnham clenched his jaw, his face reddening. He pulled his napkin from his lap and set it gently on the table.
“Thank you, Colonel, for the lunch,” he said, standing. “If you don’t mind, Mr. Drake, I think we’d best be going. We have … business to attend to.”
Edgar looked at the staring faces. “Yes, yes, of course, Captain.” He pushed himself away from the table. There were whispers of disappointment. There are questions to ask about the Ball, murmur the ladies, He really was a pleasant fellow, Trust the men to bring war and politics to these functions. Nash-Burnham walked the length of the table and put his hand on the tuner’s shoulder. “Mr. Drake.”
“Thank … thank you for the lunch, everyone,” he stood and held his hand in the air in an awkward good-bye.
At the door the finest tabla player in Upper Burma handed a sword to Captain Nash-Burnham, who scowled.
Outside a woman walked past with a large basket balanced on her head. Captain Nash-Burnham dug his toe angrily into the ground. “Mr. Drake, I am sorry for that. I knew he would be here. I should not have brought you. It was a mistake.”
“Please, Captain, it was nothing of the sort.” They began to walk. “I didn’t know about his men.”
“I know you didn’t know. It has nothing to do with this.”
“But, he said—”
“I know what he said, but the reinforcements weren’t due to travel to the Ruby Mines, to join his patrol, for a week. It had nothing to do with the piano. Doctor Carroll brought it to Mae Lwin himself. But I couldn’t argue with him. He is my superior. Leaving early was insubordination enough.”
Edgar was silent.
“I am sorry I am angry, Mr. Drake,” said the Captain. “I often take remarks about Doctor Carroll quite personally. By now, I should have grown used to such comments from some of the officers. They are jealous, or they want war. A balanced peace is a poor fertilizer for promotion. The Doctor—” He turned and looked steadily at Edgar. “Might I say, the Doctor and his music keep them from invading. Nevertheless, I shouldn’t have brought you into this.”
It seems I already am, thought the piano tuner,
but he was silent. They began to walk again, and said nothing until they reached his lodgings.
10
Captain Nash-Burnham returned that evening, whistling as Khin Myo led him through the house. He found Edgar in the small yard, eating a bitter salad of crushed tea leaves and dried pulses that Khin Myo had made him.
“Aha, Mr. Drake! Discovering the local cuisine, I see.” He held his hands over his belly, which strained at a white waistcoat.
“Indeed, Captain. I am glad to see you again. I must apologize. I have been regretting all afternoon what happened at the reception today. I think I should—”
“Think nothing of the sort, Mr. Drake,” the Captain interrupted. He had removed his sword and now carried a cane, which he stamped on the ground. His face fell easily into a smile. “I already told you this afternoon. It was my responsibility. The others will soon forget this. Please, you should too.” His smile was reassuring.
“Are you certain? Perhaps I should send a note of apology.”
“For what? If anyone is in trouble, it is myself, and I’m not worried. We often argue. But we must not let it ruin the evening. Ma Khin Myo, I thought that we could take Mr. Drake to see a pwè tonight.”
“That would be lovely,” said Khin Myo. “And Mr. Drake”—she turned to look at him—“is very lucky, as this is the perfect season for the pwè. I think there must be at least twenty in Mandalay tonight.”
“Excellent,” said the Captain, slapping his leg and standing up. “Let’s go then! Ready, Mr. Drake?”
“Certainly, Captain,” said Edgar, relieved to see the Captain’s good spirits. “Dare I ask what a pwè is?”
“Oh, a pwè!” laughed Nash-Burnham. “What’s a pwè? You are in for a wonderful treat. Burmese street theater, but that doesn’t begin to explain it. You must see it really. Can you go now?”
“Of course. But it is night, won’t these plays have ended?”
“On the contrary, most have not yet begun.”
“A pwè,” began the Captain before they were out the door, “is uniquely Burmese, and I might even say Mandalayan; here the art is at its finest. There are many reasons to hold a pwè, for births or for deaths, for namings, when Burmese girls get their first ear piercing, when young men become monks, when they stop being monks, when pagodas are dedicated. Or even nonreligious reasons: if one wins a lucky bet, builds a house or even digs a well, when there is a good harvest, a boxing match, when a fire-balloon is released. Anything else you can think of. A propitious event, and a man holds a pwè.”
They were walking down the road in the direction of the canal Edgar had visited that morning with Khin Myo. “Actually,” said the Captain, “I am surprised that we didn’t see a pwè when we drove through town this morning. The driver probably knew about them and tried to avoid them. People will sometimes set them up in the middle of the road, completely halting traffic. It’s one of the administrative problems we’ve inherited from the Burmese. During the dry season, there may be dozens of pwè throughout the city. And on nights like tonight, when the sky is clear, they are especially popular.”
They turned a corner. Down the street, they could see lights, movement. “There is one!” exclaimed Khin Myo, and Nash-Burnham, “Yes, we are lucky, lucky indeed. We have a saying that there are but two types of Englishmen in Burma, those who love the pwè and those who can’t bear it. Since the first evening of my arrival, when sleepless with excitement, I took to the streets to explore and found myself at the edge of a yôkthe pwè, a puppet drama, I have fallen in love with the art.”
They were approaching the lights, and Edgar could see a wide crowd of people seated on mats in the middle of the road. These were arranged around an empty patch of earth and a thatched structure. In the center of the empty plot stood a pole. Around the pole, flames flickered in concentrically arranged earthenware pots, lighting the faces of the first row of spectators.
They stood at the edge of the crowd of seated families who looked up at the new arrivals. There was much chattering, and one man shouted something toward a large house behind the shack. Khin Myo answered him. “They want us to stay,” she said.
“Ask him what is being performed,” said Nash-Burnham.
Khin Myo spoke again, and the man answered at length.
“It is the story of the Nemi Zat,” she said.
“Wonderful!” The Captain stomped his cane on the ground with pleasure. “Tell him we will stay for a moment, but that we wish to take our visitor to a yôkthe pwè, so we cannot stay here till the end.”
Khin Myo spoke again. “He understands,” she said.
A servant emerged with two chairs and set them down on the outskirts of the crowd. Nash-Burnham spoke to her directly. When she brought another chair, he offered it to Khin Myo. They sat.
“It looks as though they haven’t begun,” said the Captain. “In fact, you can see the dancers still putting on their makeup.” He pointed to a group of women who stood by a mango tree applying thanaka to their faces.
A little boy ran out into the center of the circle and lit a cheroot from one of the flames in the earthenware pots.
“That circular space is the stage,” said Nash-Burnham. “The Burmese call it the pwè-wang—”
“Pwè-waing,” corrected Khin Myo.
“Sorry, pwè-waing, and the branch in the center is the pan-bin, am I correct, Ma Khin Myo?” She smiled. He continued. “The Burmese sometimes say it represents a forest, but I have a feeling that it sometimes only serves to keep the audience back. In any case, most of the dancing will take place within the pwè-waing.”
“And the earthenware pots?” asked Edgar. “Is there any significance to them?”
“Not as far as I know. They light the stage if the moon is not enough, and provide a constant fire for cheroot-lighting.” He laughed.
“What is the subject of the play?”
“Oh, it varies widely. There are many types of pwè. There is the ahlu pwè, a pwè sponsored by a rich man to commemorate a religious festival or the entry of his son into the monastery. They are usually the best, as he can afford to hire the finest actors. Then there are the subscription pwè, when a member of a neighborhood will collect money from others and pool it to hire a pwè company, then an a-yein pwè, a dance performance, then the kyigyin pwè, a free performance offered by an actor or company trying to make their name famous. And then of course the yôkthe pwè, puppets, which I promise you we will find this evening. If that is not enough to confuse you—please correct me if I make any errors, Ma Khin Myo”—“You are doing very well, Captain”—“there is the zat pwè, or real story, a religious play that tells one of the stories of the Buddha’s lives. There are as many of these as the Buddha had incarnations: five hundred and ten, although only ten are usually performed, the so-called Zatgyi Sèbwè, dramas about how the Buddha overcame each of the deadly sins. That is what is playing tonight: the Nemi Zat is the fifth,” “Fourth,” “Thank you Khin Myo, the fourth Zatgyi Sèbwè. Khin Myo, would you like to explain the plot?” “No, Captain, I am very much entertained listening to you speak.” “Well, then I see I must be careful in what I say … I hope you are not bored, Mr. Drake?”
“No, not at all.”
“Well, we won’t stay for more than an hour, and the pwè will go until dawn. It can take up to four days to complete … In any case, you must know the plot, everyone here does already, these are only retellings of the same story.” The Captain paused to think. “This one is about Prince Nemi, one of the Buddha’s incarnations, who is born into a long line of Burmese kings. As a young man, Prince Nemi is so pious that the spirits decide to invite him to see heaven. One moonlit night, perhaps very much like tonight, they send a chariot down to earth. I can only imagine the awe of Prince Nemi and his people as they watch the chariot descend, and fall before it, trembling with fear. The Prince boards it, and it disappears, leaving only the moon. The chariot takes Nemi first to the heavens where the nats live—nats are Burmese folk spirits, even
good Buddhists believe they are everywhere—and then to Nga-yè, the underworld where the serpents called nagas dwell. At last he reluctantly returns to his world, to share the wonders he has seen. The finale is quite sad: it was the tradition of the kings that when they grew old and sensed that death was near, they left their homes and traveled into the desert to die as hermits. And so one day, Nemi, like his forefathers before him, wanders into the mountains to die.”
There was a long silence. Edgar could see the dancers packing away the thanaka and straightening their hta mains.
“It is perhaps my favorite story,” said Nash-Burnham. “Sometimes I wonder if I love it so because it reminds me of myself, of what I have seen … although there is a difference.”
“What is that?” asked Edgar.
“When I return from the plains of heaven and Nga-yè, no one will believe my words.”
The night was hot, but Edgar felt a shiver through his body. About them, the crowd had grown silent, as if they too were listening to the Captain. But one of the dancers had arrived onstage.
Edgar was immediately taken by her beauty, her dark eyes exaggerated by the heavy thanaka on her face. She was thin and looked perhaps fourteen, and she stood in the center of the pwè-waing, waiting. Although Edgar hadn’t seen them when he had arrived, a group of musicians was seated on the opposite side of the pwè: a small ensemble, drums, cymbals, a horn, a bamboo instrument he couldn’t identify, and the stringed instrument he had seen in Rangoon—it was called a saung, Khin Myo told him, twelve strings strung on a boatlike frame. They began, softly at first, like a tentative slip into water, until the man with the bamboo instrument began to play, and a song rose up over the pwè-waing.
“My god,” whispered Edgar. “That sound.”
“Aaah,” said Captain Nash-Burnham. “I should have realized you would love the music.”
“No, not that … sorry, I mean yes I do, but I have never heard that sound, the wailing.” And even though all the instruments were playing, the Captain knew exactly which one the piano tuner was referring to. “It is called a hneh, a sort of Burmese oboe.”
