The Piano Tuner

by Daniel Mason

  The air was cool, almost cold, and he stood for several silent minutes until he caught his breath, and he turned and ducked inside the doorway. He closed the door. There was a small mattress, draped in a mosquito net. The porter had gone. Kicking off his boots, he climbed beneath the netting.

  He had forgotten to lock the door. A small gust of wind blew it open. Moonlight danced in on the wings of tiny moths.

  The following morning Edgar awoke to the sensation of closeness, a rustling at the mosquito net, hot breath near his cheek, the muffled giggling of children. He opened his eyes to meet a half dozen other whites, irises, pupils, before their little owners shrieked and ran squealing out of the room.

  It was light already, and much cooler than in the lowlands. In the night, he had pulled the thin sheet over him, and he was still in his clothes from the journey, still filthy. In his fatigue, he had forgotten to wash. The sheets were soiled with mud. He cursed, and then smiled and shook his head, thinking, It is hard to be angry when one has been wakened by the laughter of children. Points of light shone through the cross-weaves of the bamboo wall, speckling the room. They have brought the stars inside, he thought and climbed out from under the mosquito net. As he walked to the door, the percussion of his footsteps on the wooden floor was echoed by a scurrying outside the door and more squeals. The door still hung open. He poked his head out.

  A small head at the end of the landing ducked back behind the corner. More giggling. Smiling, he closed the door and slid a rough bolt of wood through a socket across the doorjamb. He peeled off his shirt. Dried, matted pieces of mud flaked off and broke on the floor. He looked for a washbasin, but there was none. Not knowing what to do with the clothes, he folded them roughly and set them by the door. He dressed in fresh clothes, khaki trousers, a light cotton shirt and dark waistcoat. He combed his hair hastily and collected the package he had brought for the Doctor from the War Office.

  The children were waiting by the door when he opened it. Seeing him, they fled down the walkway. In their hurry, one boy tripped and the others fell on top of him. Edgar reached down, picked up one of the boys, and, tickling him, threw him over his shoulder, now surprised by his sudden playfulness. The other children stayed at his side, emboldened by the realization that the tall foreigner had only enough arms for one package and one squirming child.

  On the steps Edgar nearly collided with an older Shan boy. “Mr. Drake, Doctor Carroll want you. He eat breakfast.” He shifted his eyes to the child who stared at him upside down from Edgar’s shoulder. He scolded him in Shan. The children laughed.

  “Don’t be angry,” said Edgar. “It is my fault entirely. We were wrestling …”

  “Wrestling?”

  “Never mind,” said Edgar, now slightly embarrassed. He put the boy down and the group scattered like birds released from a cage. Straightening his shirt and brushing his hair to the side with his fingers, he followed the boy down the stairs.

  When they reached the clearing, he stopped. The dark blue shadows of last night’s memory had become blossoming flowers, hanging orchids, roses, hibiscus. Butterflies flew everywhere, flittering, tiny pieces of color that filled the air like parade confetti. In the open space, children played with a ball made of woven cane, shouting as it bounced whimsically over the rough ground.

  They walked through the brush and onto the sandy bank, where Doctor Carroll sat at a small table set for two. He was dressed in a crisp white linen shirt, rolled up at the cuffs. His hair was combed neatly, and he smiled as the piano tuner approached. In the sunlight, Edgar was immediately reminded of the photo of the Doctor that he had seen back in London. It must have been taken twenty years earlier, but he instantly recognized the broad shoulders, the strong nose and jaw, the neatly combed hair and the dark mustache, now speckled with gray. Something else was familiar from the photo as well, a movement, an elusiveness, a sense of animation in the blue eyes. The Doctor held out his hand. “Good morning, Mr. Drake.” His grip was strong and his hands rough. “I trust you have slept well.”

  “Like a baby, Doctor. Until some of the children found my room.”

  The Doctor laughed. “Oh, you will get used to that.”

  “I do hope so. It has been a long time since I woke to the sound of children.”

  “Do you have children yourself?”

  “No, sadly, never. I do have nieces and nephews.”

  One of the boys pulled out a chair for him. The river flowed by swiftly, brown and spotted with foam. Edgar had expected to see Khin Myo, but the Doctor was alone. At first her absence struck him as somewhat odd, as she had also been summoned from Mandalay. He thought to ask the Doctor about this, but the question made him uncomfortable. She had said nothing to him on their journey about why she was coming, and she had disappeared so quickly when they arrived.

  The Doctor motioned to the package in Edgar’s hands. “Have you brought something?”

  “Of course. I am sorry. Music sheets. You have admirable taste.”

  “You opened the package?” The Doctor arched an eyebrow.

  Edgar blushed. “Yes, I’m sorry, I suppose I shouldn’t have. But … well, I admit I was curious what sort of music you had requested.” The Doctor said nothing, so Edgar added, “Impressive choices … but then some others, unlabeled, which I didn’t recognize, notes that didn’t seem to make much musical sense …”

  The Doctor laughed. “It is Shan music. I am trying to put it to the piano. I transcribe it and send it home, where a friend, a composer, makes some adaptations and sends it back. I always wondered what someone who read them would think … Cheroot?” He unwrapped a sardine tin from a handkerchief to reveal a line of rolled cigars of the kind he was smoking the night before.

  “No thank you. I don’t smoke.”

  “Pity. There is nothing better. A woman in the village rolls these for me. She boils the tobacco in palm sugar and lines it with vanilla and cinnamon and Lord knows what other nepenthe. They dry in the sun. There is a Burmese story of a girl who dried the cheroots she made for her sweetheart by keeping them warm against her body … Alas, I am not so lucky.” He smiled. “Tea, perhaps?”

  Edgar thanked him and Carroll nodded to one of the boys, who brought a silver teapot and filled his cup. Another boy set plates of food on the table: small cakes of rice, a bowl of crushed peppers, and an unopened jar of marmalade that Edgar suspected had been brought out only for him.

  The Doctor took a cheroot from the tin and lit it. He took several puffs. Even outside, the incense was thick and pungent.

  Edgar was tempted to ask the Doctor more about the music, but decorum told him it might be improper to discuss this before they became better acquainted. “Your fort is impressive,” he said.

  “Thank you. We tried to build it in Shan style—it is more beautiful, and I could use local craftsmen. Some of it—the double stories, the bridges—are my own innovations, necessities of the site. I needed to stay close to the river, and hidden below the ridge.”

  Edgar looked out over the water. “The river is much larger than I had thought.”

  “It surprised me as well when I first came here. It is one of the largest rivers in Asia, fed by the Himalayas—but you must know this already.”

  “I read your letter. I was curious what the name meant.”

  “Salween? Actually, the Burmese pronounce the word ‘Thanlwin,’ whose meaning I have yet to ascertain. Than-lwin are small Burmese cymbals. Although my friends here insist that the river is not named for the instrument—perhaps the tone of the words is different—I think it is rather poetic. The cymbals make a light sound, like water over pebbles. ‘River of light sound’—a fitting name, even if it is incorrect.”

  “And the village … Mae Lwin?”

  “Mae is a Shan word for river. It is the same in Siamese.”

  “Was that Shan that you spoke last night?” Edgar asked.

  “You recognized it?”

  “No … No, of course not. Only that it sounded differ
ent from Burmese.”

  “I am impressed, Mr. Drake. Of course, I should have expected as much from a man who studies sound … Wait … quiet …” The Doctor stared at the opposite bank.

  “What is it?”

  “Shhh!” The Doctor raised his hand. He furrowed his brow in concentration.

  There was a faint rustling in the bushes. Edgar sat up straight in his chair. “Is someone there?” he whispered.

  “Shhh. No sudden moves.” The Doctor spoke quietly to the boy, who brought him a small telescope.

  “Doctor, is something wrong?”

  Peering through the telescope, Carroll lifted his hand to ask for silence. “No … nothing … don’t worry, wait, there … Aha! Just as I thought!” He turned and looked at Edgar, the telescope still raised.

  “What’s the matter?” Edgar whispered. “Are we … are we being attacked?”

  “Attacked?” The Doctor handed him the telescope. “Hardly.… this is even better, Mr. Drake. Only one day here, and already you get to see Upupa epops, the hoopoe. It is a lucky day indeed. I must record this—it is the first time I have ever seen one here at the river. We have them in Europe, but they usually prefer open, drier country. It must have come here because of the drought. Wonderful! Look at the beautiful crest on its head, it flies like a butterfly.”

  “Yes.” Edgar tried to match the Doctor’s enthusiasm. He peered through the telescope at the bird across the river. It was small and gray, but otherwise unremarkable from this distance. It flew away.

  “Lu!” Doctor Carroll called. “Bring me my journal!” The boy brought a brown book, bound with a string. Doctor Carroll untied it, put on a pair of pince-nez, and scribbled briefly. He handed the book back to the boy, and looked over his glasses at Edgar. “A lucky day indeed,” he said again. “The Shan would say that your arrival is propitious.”

  The sun finally broke over the trees that lined the bank. The Doctor looked up at the sky. “It’s so late already,” he said. “We must get going soon. We have quite a long way to go today.”

  “I didn’t know we were going anywhere.”

  “Oh! I must apologize, Mr. Drake. I should have told you last night. It is Wednesday, and every Wednesday I go hunting. I would be honored by your company. And I think you would enjoy it.”

  “Hunting … But the Erard …”

  “Of course.” The Doctor slapped his hand on the table. “The Erard. I have not forgotten it. You have been traveling for weeks to repair the Erard, I know. Don’t worry, you will be tired of that piano soon enough.”

  “No, it is not that. I just thought I should look at it at least. I am hardly a hunter. Why, I haven’t handled a gun since a hunt in Rangoon. A long and terrible story … And then on the way here—”

  “On the way here, you were ambushed. Khin Myo told me. You were quite a hero.”

  “A hero, hardly. I fainted, I almost killed the pony, and—”

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Drake. It is rare that I even fire a gun when I go hunting. Perhaps I will shoot a boar or two, provided we have enough riders to carry them back. But that is hardly the purpose of the trip.”

  Edgar felt weary. “I suppose then that I should ask what the purpose is.”

  “Collection. Botanical mainly, although this often means medical as well … I send samples to the Royal Botanic Gardens at Kew. The amount there is to be learned is astounding. I have been here twelve years and haven’t even begun to exhaust the Shan pharmacopoeia. Regardless, you should come simply because it is beautiful, because you just arrived, because you are my guest, because it would be rude for me not to show you the wonders of your new home.”

  My new home, thought Edgar, and there was another rustling in the branches across the river as a bird took flight. Carroll reached for his telescope and squinted into it. Finally he lowered it. “A crested kingfisher. Not rare, but still lovely. We will leave inside an hour. The Erard can survive one more day out of tune.”

  Edgar smiled weakly. “Might I at least have a moment to shave? It has been days.”

  The Doctor jumped to his feet. “Of course. But don’t worry about washing too carefully. We will be filthy within an hour.” He set his napkin on the table and spoke again to one of the boys, who ran off through the clearing. He motioned Edgar ahead. “After you,” he said, dropping the cheroot in the sand and grinding it with his boot.

  When Edgar returned to his room, he found a small basin of water on the table with a razor, shaving cream, brush, and towel resting at its side. He splashed the water on his face. It briefly relieved him. He didn’t know what to think of Carroll, or of the postponement of his work to go look for flowers, and he found himself troubled by vaguer doubts. There was something disconcerting about the Doctor’s manner, about how to reconcile the legends of physician-soldier with the affable, even avuncular man who offered tea and toast and marmalade and became so excited about birds. Perhaps it is because this is all still so English, he thought, After all, a stroll, if that is what this is, is a proper way to greet a guest. Still, he was bothered, and he shaved gingerly, pulling the blade over his skin, and raising his palms to feel the smoothness of his cheeks.

  They mounted a pair of Shan ponies that had been saddled in the clearing. Someone had tied little flowers in their hair.

  Soon Nok Lek trotted up on another pony. Edgar was glad to see him again, and noticed that he carried himself differently than he had on the journey; the youthful confidence seemed more subdued around the Doctor, more deferential. He nodded to the two men, and Carroll motioned for the boy to lead. He nimbly turned his pony and bounded off .

  They rode out of the clearing on a trail that paralleled the river. By the sun, Edgar reckoned they were heading southeast. They passed through a small grove of willows that stretched up from the riverbed. The foliage was thick and low and Edgar had to duck his head to keep from being knocked from the saddle. The path turned uphill and slowly rose above the willows, giving way to a drier brush. On the ridge that sheltered the camp, they stopped. Below, to the northeast, a wide valley stretched out, covered with small bamboo settlements. To the south, a small series of hills pushed up through the slope of the land, like the vertebrae of a disinterred skeleton. In the far distance, higher mountains were barely discernible for the glare of the sun.

  “Siam,” said the Doctor, pointing to the mountains.

  “I hadn’t realized we were so close.”

  “About eighty miles. This is why the War Office is so worried about keeping the Shan States. The Siamese are our only buffer against the French, who already have troops near the Mekong.”

  “And these settlements?”

  “Shan and Burmese villages.”

  “What are they growing?”

  “Opium, mostly … although production here is nothing like it is to the north, in Kokang, or deeper into Wa country. They say that there are so many poppies in Kokang that all the bees fall into deep opium sleeps and never wake up. But the crop here is substantial enough … Now you understand another reason why we don’t want to lose the Shan States.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out the sardine tin. He put a cheroot in his mouth and offered the tin again to Edgar. “Changed your mind yet?”

  Edgar shook his head. “But I read about the poppies. I thought it was forbidden by the Indian Opium Act. The reports say—”

  “I know what the reports say.” He lit the cigar. “If you read closely, you would know that the Indian Opium Act of 1878 prohibited the growing of opium in Burma proper; at the time we did not control the Shan States. This doesn’t mean that there isn’t pressure to stop. There is much more fuss about it in England than here, which is probably why so many of … us, who write the reports, are selective in what we say.”

  “That makes me worry about everything else I have read.”

  “I wouldn’t. Most of what is written is true, although you will have to get used to the subtleties, to the differences between what you read in England and what you see here, especi
ally anything to do with politics.”

  “Well, I don’t know much, my wife follows these issues more than I do.” Edgar paused. “But I would be interested in what you have to say.”

  “About politics, Mr. Drake?”

  “Everyone in London seems to have an opinion on the future of the Empire. You must know much more than they do.”

  The Doctor waved the cheroot. “I actually think little of politics, I find it rather, how should I say, impractical?”

  “Impractical?”

  “Take opium, for instance. Before the Sepoy Rebellion, when our holdings in Burma were administered by the East India Company, opium use was even encouraged—the trade was quite lucrative. But there has always been a call to prohibit or tax it, by those who object to its ‘corrupting influences.’ Last year, the Society for the Suppression of the Opium Trade requested that the viceroy ban the trade. Their request was rejected, quietly. This was no surprise; it is one of our largest cash crops in India. And banning it really does nothing. The merchants just start smuggling the drug by sea. The smugglers are actually rather clever. They put the opium in bags and tie them to blocks of salt. If the ships are searched, they merely drop the cargo into the water. After a certain time, the salt dissolves, and the package floats back to the surface.”

  “You sound as if you approve of this.”

  “Approve of what? Of opium? It is one of the best medicines that I have, an antidote for pain, diarrhea, coughing, perhaps the most common symptoms of the diseases I see here. Anyone who wishes to make policies on such subjects should come here first.”

  “I never knew …” said Edgar. “What do you think then about self-government, it does seem to be the most pressing question …”