by Daniel Mason
“Its song sounds like a dirge.”
Onstage, the girl began to dance, slowly at first, bending at the knees, shifting her torso to each side, raising her arms higher with each pass until she began to wave them. Or better: until they began to wave themselves, for in the glow of the candles they seemed to float from her shoulders, defying the surgeons who would have one believe the arm is tethered to the body through an intricate rope of bone and tendon, muscle and vein. Such men have never seen an a-yein pwè.
The music still moved softly, out from the darkness at the edge of the pwè-waing, into the clearing, and into the dancing girl.
The girl danced for nearly half an hour, and only when she stopped was Edgar shaken out of his trance. He turned to the Captain, but words eluded him.
“Beautiful, Mr. Drake, no?”
“I … I am speechless, really. It is hypnotic.”
“It is. Often the dancers are not as good. You can see by her elbow movements that she has been trained for dancing since she was very young.”
“How?”
“The joint is very loose. When a girl’s parents decide she will be a meimma yein, a female dance performer, they place her arm in a special brace to stretch and hyperextend the elbow.”
“That’s horrid.”
“Not really,” Khin Myo spoke at his left. She held out her arm; at the elbow it bent back gracefully, curved like the body of the saung.
“You dance?” asked Edgar.
“Only when I was young.” Laughing. “Now I stay flexible by washing Englishmen’s clothes.”
The girl had been replaced onstage by a harlequin-like character. “The lubyet, the jester,” whispered Nash-Burnham. The crowd was watching the painted man, his clothes festooned with bells and flowers. He spoke excitedly, gesticulated, and made tooting sounds as if in imitation of the band, danced, somersaulted.
At his side, Khin Myo giggled, covering her mouth. “What is he saying?” Edgar asked her.
“He is making a joke about the host of the pwè. I do not know if you would understand. Can you explain it, Captain?”
“No, I hardly understand it—he is using quite a bit of slang, no, Khin Myo? Plus, the humor of the Burmese … twelve years here and it still eludes me. Khin Myo doesn’t want to explain it because it is probably naughty.” At this she looked away, and Edgar saw her touch her hand to a smile.
They watched the lubyet for some time, and Edgar began to get restless. Many of the crowd had also stopped paying attention. Some brought out meals from baskets and began to eat. Others curled up and even went to sleep. The lubyet wandered occasionally into the audience, plucking out cheroots from people’s mouths, stealing food. Once he even approached Edgar, played with his hair, and yelled out to the crowd. Khin Myo laughed. “And now what is he saying?” asked Edgar. At his question, Khin Myo giggled again, “Oh, I am too ashamed to say, Mr. Drake.” Her eyes shone in the dance of the earthenware lanterns.
The lubyet returned to center stage and continued to talk. Finally Nash-Burnham turned to Khin Myo. “Ma Khin Myo, should we try to find the yôkthe pwè?” She nodded, and said something to the now drunken host, who jumped sloppily to his feet and waddled over to shake the hands of the two Englishmen. “He says come back tomorrow night,” said Khin Myo.
They left the pwè and walked through the streets. There were no streetlights. Were it not for the moon, they would have been in complete darkness.
“Did he tell you where we could find yôkthe pwè?” asked the Captain.
“He said there is one near the market, in its third night. They are playing the Wethandaya Zat.”
“Hmmm,” murmured the Captain approvingly.
They walked silently through the night. Compared to the raucous scene of the pwè, the streets were quiet, empty except for the stray mongrels that the Captain chased away with his cane. Lighted cheroots bobbed in darkened doorsteps like fireflies. Once Edgar thought he could hear Khin Myo singing. He looked down at her. Her white blouse trembled lightly in the wind, and sensing his stare she turned to him. “What are you singing?” he asked.
“Sorry?” A small smile flickered over her mouth.
“Nothing, nothing,” he said. “It must have been the wind.”
The moon was high in the sky when they reached the yôkthe pwè, their shadows had retreated beneath their feet. The play was well under way; beyond a raised bamboo platform nearly thirty feet long, a pair of marionettes danced. Behind them a song rose up from a hidden singer. The audience sat in various states of attention, many children were curled up asleep, some of the adults talked among themselves. They were greeted by a fat man who motioned for a pair of chairs to be brought out, as before. And as before, the Captain requested a third.
The man and Khin Myo talked at length, and Edgar’s attention shifted to the play. At one end of the stage stood a model of a city, an elegant palace, a pagoda. It was there that the two elaborately dressed puppets danced. At the other end of the stage, where there were no lights, he could make out a small collection of twigs and branches, like a miniature forest. By his side, the Captain was nodding approvingly. Finally Khin Myo stopped speaking to the host, and they sat down.
“You are very lucky tonight, Mr. Drake,” she said. “Maung Tha Zan is playing the princess. He is perhaps the most famous princess puppeteer in all of Mandalay and has played alongside the great Maung Tha Byaw, the greatest puppeteer ever—one sometimes even hears men from Mergui say ‘Tha Byaw Hé’ whenever something wonderful happens … Oh, Maung Tha Zan is not as skilled as Maung Tha Byaw, but he sings so wonderfully. Listen, soon he will start to sing the ngo-gyin.”
Edgar didn’t have time to ask what this was, for at that instant, from behind the stage rose a plaintive wail. He caught his breath. It was the same tune he had heard that night when the steamer had stopped on the river. He had forgotten it until now. “The ngo-gyin, the song of mourning,” said Nash-Burnham at his side. “Her prince is soon to abandon her, and she sings of her sad fortunes. I can never believe that a man can sing like this.”
But it wasn’t a woman’s voice either. Soprano, yes, but not feminine, not even, Edgar thought, human. He could not understand the Burmese words, but he knew of what the man sang. Songs of loss are universal, he thought, and with the man’s voice something else rose into the night air, twisted, danced with the smoke from the fire, and drifted into the sky. The sequins on the body of the princess marionette shimmered, starlike, and he thought that the song must be coming from her, the puppet, and not the puppeteer. At the base of the stage, a little boy who had been holding the candles to light the puppets moved them away from the princess and her city, walking slowly to the other end of the stage until the forest emerged from the darkness.
It was a long time after the song finished before any of them spoke. Another scene began, but Edgar was no longer watching. He looked up at the sky.
“In Gautama’s final incarnation before Siddhartha,” said Captain Nash-Burnham, “he gives up everything he possesses, even his wife and his children, and leaves for the forest.”
“Do you find yourself in that story as well, Captain?” Edgar asked, turning toward him.
The Captain shook his head. “No, I have not abandoned everything,” he said, and paused. “But there are those who have.”
“Anthony Carroll,” said the piano tuner softly.
“Or others, perhaps,” said Khin Myo.
11
In the dry season, the quickest route to Mae Lwin would have been by elephant, along a trail that had been cut by Shan troops during the Second Anglo-Burmese War and was now used sporadically by opium smugglers. But recently the road had fallen under attack, and Captain Nash-Burnham suggested that they travel by elephant to a small tributary of the Salween east of Loilem, and from there by dugout to Carroll’s camp. Nash-Burnham couldn’t accompany them, he had work to attend to in Mandalay. “But please give my regards to the Doctor,” he said. “Tell him that we miss him in Mandalay.�
� It seemed an odd moment for such simple pleasantries, and Edgar expected him to say something else, but the Captain only touched his helmet in farewell.
On the morning of his departure, Edgar was awakened by Khin Myo, who told him through his bedroom door that there was a man to see him. When he went to the entrance, he was disappointed not to see any elephants as planned, but only a young Burman he recognized from the staff at the Administrator’s residence. The man was breathless. “On behalf of the Administrator, I apologetically announce that your departure will be subject to a certain delay.” Edgar tried to hide his smile at the stilted English, afraid it would convey approval of the news. “When does the Administrator expect that I may leave?” he asked.
“Oh sir! I have no knowledge of that! You may inquire of His Respectfulness yourself.”
“Can you at least tell me if we will be leaving later today?”
“Oh no! Not today, sir!”
The emphasis of the reply silenced Edgar, who meant to say something, but only nodded and closed the door. He shrugged to Khin Myo, who said “British efficiency?” and he went back to sleep. Later in the afternoon, he finished a long letter to Katherine that he had been writing for several days, describing his visit to the puppet theater. He had begun to grow accustomed to the bureaucratic delays. The following day he wrote more letters, one about the much discussed looting of Mandalay Palace by British soldiers, the second describing the current craze over “the Hairy Lady of Mandalay,” a distant relative of the royal family whose entire body was covered with long smooth hair. And the day after that he took a long walk through the bazaar. And waited.
Yet by the fourth day after the scheduled departure, restlessness overcame the natural sense of respect and patience of a man who had spent his career repairing strings and tiny hammers. He walked to the Administrator’s residence to inquire when they would be departing. He was greeted at the door by the same Burman who had visited his quarters. “Oh, Mr. Drake!” he exclaimed. “But the Administrator is in Rangoon!”
At army headquarters, he inquired about Captain Nash-Burnham. The young subaltern at the entrance looked puzzled. “I thought you had been informed, Captain Nash-Burnham is in Rangoon, with the Administrator.”
“May I ask what his business is? I was supposed to leave for Mae Lwin four days ago. I have come a long way and so much effort has been devoted to bringing me here. It would be a shame were I to waste any more time.”
The subaltern’s face turned red. “I thought they had told you. It … excuse me, wait one moment.” He rose quickly and entered a back office. Edgar could hear hushed whispering. The man returned. “Please follow me, Mr. Drake.”
The subaltern showed him into a small room, empty except for a desk piled high with stacks of papers, held down by roughly carved figurines used locally to weigh opium. The weights were unnecessary; there was no breeze. The subaltern closed the door behind him. “Please sit down.
“Mae Lwin has been attacked,” he said.
The details of the story were unclear, as was the identity of the attackers. The night before Edgar was due to depart, a messenger on horseback had arrived at the Administrator’s residence. He reported that two days before, Mae Lwin had been raided by a group of masked riders, who had set fire to one of the storage depots and killed a guard. In the confusion that followed, a brief battle had broken out, and another Shan sentry had been shot. Carroll was safe, but concerned. It was suspected that Twet Nga Lu, the bandit chief who was fighting his own war for the state of Mongnai, was behind the attack. Most of the supplies in the storage depot had been rescued, but several of the Surgeon-Major’s jars of elixir had been damaged. “Apparently a stray bullet also struck”—but then the subaltern stopped himself, and chose his words more carefully—“other supplies important to the Doctor’s current work.”
“Not the Erard?”
The subaltern leaned back in his chair. “Mr. Drake, I understand the importance of your mission, and I understand the severe conditions you have endured to arrive here in a most impressive show of respect for and dedication to the Crown.” He let the final word hang. “This attack comes at a very precarious time. As you may know, we have been directly engaged in military activities in the Shan States since November last year. A column led by Colonel Stedman left Mandalay earlier this month. Then, only six days ago, we received reports that they had been attacked. Because of the concentration of Limbin Confederacy forces in that region, the attack on our troops was not a surprise. The attack on Mae Lwin, however, was a surprise, and it is unclear who the masked riders were, or where they obtained their rifles. There is speculation that they may even be supplied by French forces, whose whereabouts are unknown. For security reasons, unfortunately I cannot tell you much more.”
Edgar stared at the subaltern.
“I don’t mean to disappoint you, Mr. Drake. Indeed, I am speaking without authorization, as ultimately these decisions will be made in Rangoon. But I do want you to understand the reality of our situation. When Captain Nash-Burnham returns, he will be able to discuss if you are to remain in Mandalay or return by steamship to Rangoon. Until then I suggest you enjoy the amenities here and not worry yourself too much.” The subaltern leaned forward on the desk. “Mr. Drake?”
The piano tuner said nothing.
“Mae Lwin is a foul place, Mr. Drake, despite whatever they have told you to bring you here. It is swampy and malarial, hardly a climate befitting an Englishman. And to add to that, the danger of these most recent attacks … perhaps it will be best to abandon the site entirely. I would not be disappointed. Indeed, I think you are fortunate already to have seen the finest cities of Burma.”
Edgar waited. The room was stiflingly hot. Finally, he stood. “Well, thank you then. I guess I must be going now.”
The subaltern extended his hand. “And Mr. Drake, please do not share this conversation with our superiors. Although your mission is minor, generally it is Captain Nash-Burnham who deals with civilian affairs.”
“It is minor, isn’t it? No, don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone. Thank you.”
The subaltern smiled. “Think nothing of it.”
Dear Katherine,
I do not know which will reach you first, this letter or myself. One week has passed since the scheduled date of my departure, and still I remain in Mandalay. I have already written many descriptions of this city to you, but I apologize that I no longer have the enthusiasm for more. Indeed, all this has become very confusing, and developments now cast doubt over whether I will ever even meet Dr. Carroll or his Erard.
Mae Lwin has been attacked. I learned this from a subaltern at army headquarters. But I have learned little else. Whenever I ask anyone what is happening, I am answered only by blank stares or evasion. “A major strategy meeting is being held in Rangoon,” they say. Or “This incident can not be taken lightly.” Yet it puzzles me that Dr. Carroll has not been summoned to the meeting; by all accounts he is still in Mae Lwin. They say this is because of the military importance of maintaining the fort, a good enough explanation, it seems, except something about the way they say it bothers me. At first I was somewhat thrilled by the possibility of intrigue or scandal—after all, what would be more fitting in a country where everything else is so elusive? But even this has begun to exhaust me. The most scandalous option I can think of, that Dr. Carroll is being kept from a critical decision, doesn’t seem so scandalous any longer. They say a man with an obsession for a piano could hardly be immune to other eccentricities, that this man should not be trusted with such an important post. What is most painful for me is that, in some ways, I find myself agreeing. A piano means nothing if the French are planning to invade across the Mekong. What makes this so difficult to accept is that if I question the Doctor, I question myself.
My darling Katherine, when I first left England, part of me doubted that I would ever reach Mae Lwin. It seemed too distant, its path beset with too many contingencies. Yet now, now that the cancellation of my mis
sion seems more likely, I cannot believe I will not go there. For the past six weeks, I have thought about little but Mae Lwin. I have resketched the fort in my mind from maps and others’ accounts. I have made lists of things I will do when I arrive, of the mountains and streams described in Dr. Carroll’s reports which I wish to see. It is strange, Katherine, but I had already begun to think of the stories I would tell you when I return home. Of what it was like to meet the famous Doctor. Of how I mended and tuned the Erard, rescuing such a precious instrument. Of fulfilling my “duty” to England. Indeed it is perhaps this idea of “duty” that has become the most elusive goal of all. I know we spoke often of this at home, and I still don’t doubt a piano’s role. But I have come to think that “bringing music and culture here” is more subtle—there are art and music here already—their own art, their own music. This is not to say that we should not bring such things to Burma; perhaps only that it should be done with more humility. Indeed, if we are to make these people our subjects, must we not present the best of European civilization? No one was ever harmed by Bach; songs are not like armies.
My dear, I digress. Or perhaps not, for I wrote to you of my hopes, and now, slowly, my hopes have begun to vanish, obscured by War and Pragmatism and by my own suspicions. This entire trip has already coated itself in a veneer of seeming, a dreamlikeness. So much of what I have done is tied to what I will do that at times the truth I have already experienced threatens to vanish with that which I have yet to see. How to express this to you? Whereas my journey until now has been one of potential, of imagination, now its loss seems to question everything I have seen. I have allowed dreams to melt into my realities, now realities threaten to melt to only dreams, to disappear. I don’t know if anything I am writing makes sense, but in the face of such beauty around me, I only see myself standing outside our door in Franklin Mews, bag in hand, unchanged from the day I left.
