The Piano Tuner

by Daniel Mason

  Edgar stared at the Doctor. “To whom?” he asked, finally. But another patient had arrived, and the Doctor didn’t answer.

  It was a young boy, holding his left hand close to his body. Carroll motioned for Edgar to sit in a chair behind him. He reached for the boy’s hand, but the boy guarded it. The boy’s mother, who stood behind him, spoke to him sharply. Finally Carroll gently pried his arms open.

  Three fingers on the boy’s left hand were almost completely severed, held by ragged tendons and covered with clotted blood. Carroll handled the wound carefully, and the boy winced in pain. “This is bad,” the Doctor muttered, and spoke to the woman in Shan. The boy began to cry. Carroll turned and said something to Nok Lek, who removed a package from the cabinet and rolled it out on the desk. There was a cloth, and bandages, and several cutting tools. The boy started to yell.

  Edgar looked uncomfortably over the waiting room. The other patients were still, unexpressive, watching.

  Carroll removed another bottle from the cabinet. He took the boy’s hand and stretched it over the cloth on the table. He poured the contents of the bottle out over the wound. The boy jumped and screamed. Carroll poured more, wiping the hand vigorously with the cloth. He took a smaller vial from the cabinet and poured a thick liquid onto a bandage, which he rubbed over the wound. Almost immediately the boy began to calm down.

  The Doctor turned to Edgar. “Mr. Drake, I am going to need your help. The salve should numb some of the pain, but he is going to start to scream when he sees the saw. I usually have a nurse but she is with other patients now. That is if you don’t mind helping, of course. I did think it might be interesting for you to observe our surgery at work, seeing how important such projects are for local relations.”

  “Local relations?” Edgar said faintly. “You are going to amputate?”

  “I have no other choice. I have seen wounds like this turn a whole arm gangrenous. I am just going to take off the injured fingers. The wound on his hand doesn’t look deep. I wish I had ether here, but my supply ran out only last week and they haven’t sent me more. We could have him smoke opium, but it will still hurt. I would rather be finished with this as quickly as possible.”

  “What can I do?”

  “Just hold his arm. He is small, but you will be surprised how fiercely he will try to throw you off.”

  Carroll rose, as did Edgar behind him. The Doctor gently took the boy’s hand and laid it on the table. He tied a tourniquet above the boy’s elbow and motioned for Edgar to hold his arm. He did so, but his actions felt rough and cruel. Then Carroll turned to Nok Lek and nodded and Nok Lek reached over and twisted the boy’s ear. The boy shrieked and shot his free hand up to his ear, and before Edgar could turn back to the table, the doctor had cut off one, two, and then a third finger. The boy looked at them, perplexed, and then screamed again, but Carroll had already wrapped the bloody hand in the cloth.

  The morning wore on, patient after patient filed into the examining chair before the window: a middle-aged man with a limp, a pregnant woman and a woman who could not conceive, a child Carroll diagnosed as deaf. There were three people with goiters, two with diarrhea, and five with fevers, all of which Carroll attributed to malaria. From each of the feverish patients, he drew a drop of blood and placed it on a slide and examined it beneath a small microscope that reflected light from the window up through the eyepiece.

  “What are you looking for?” asked Edgar, still shaken from seeing the amputation. Carroll let him look through the microscope.

  “Do you see the small circles?” he asked.

  “Yes, everywhere.”

  “Those are red blood cells. Everyone has them. But if you look closely, you can see that inside of the cells are darker objects, like blemishes.”

  “I don’t see anything,” Edgar said, and sat back in frustration.

  “Don’t worry, it is difficult at first. Until about seven years ago, no one knew what they were, until a Frenchman discovered that they are the parasites that cause the disease. I have been very interested because most Europeans think that the disease is caused by breathing bad air from the swamps, that is why the Italians named the disease mala aria, ‘bad air.’ But when I was in India, I had a friend, an Indian doctor who translated for me some of the Hindu Vedas, where they call malaria ‘the king of diseases’ and attribute it to the anger of the god Shiva. As for transmission, the Vedas implicate the lowly mosquito. But no one has found this parasite in the mosquito yet, so we can’t be certain. And since mosquitoes live in the swamps, it is difficult to dissociate the two. Actually, it is difficult to dissociate any of its possible sources in the jungle. The Burmese, for example, call it hnget pyhar, it means ‘bird fever.’”

  “And what do you think?”

  “I have been collecting mosquitoes, dissecting them, grinding them up, peering at their innards through the microscope, but I haven’t found anything yet.”

  Carroll gave each of the malaria patients quinine tablets and an extract of a plant he said came from China, as well as a local root to ease the intensity of the fevers. For the diarrhea, he gave laudanum or ground papaya seeds; for the goiters, tablets of salt. He instructed the man with a limp how to make crutches. For the pregnant woman, he rubbed an ointment on her swollen belly. For the deaf child he could do nothing, and told Edgar how seeing such a child saddened him like almost no other disease, for the Shan had no sign language, and even if they had, the boy could never hear the songs of the night festivals. Edgar thought of another little boy, the deaf son of a client, who would push his face against the piano case when his mother played, to feel the vibrations. He thought of the steamer to Aden as well, and of the Man with One Story, There are causes of deafness that perhaps even medicine cannot understand.

  For the woman who could not conceive, Carroll turned to Nok Lek and spoke at length. When Edgar asked what he had recommended, Carroll said, “This is confusing. She is barren, and she walks through her village muttering to a make-believe child. I do not know how to cure her. I have told Nok Lek to take her to a monk in the north who specializes in cures for such diseases. Maybe he can help.”

  Close to noon, they saw their last patient, a thin man who was led to the chair by a woman who looked half his age. After talking briefly to the woman, Carroll turned to the room and announced something in Shan. Slowly, those waiting rose and filed out of the room. “This could take some time. It is a shame I cannot see them all,” he said. “But there are so many who are sick.”

  Edgar studied the patient more closely. He wore a moth-eaten shirt and a pair of torn trousers. He was barefoot, and his toes were callused and gnarled. He wasn’t wearing a turban. His head was shaved smooth, his face and eyes hollowed. As he stared at Edgar he made slow rhythmic motions with his jaw, as if chewing his tongue or the inside of his cheeks. His hands shook, slowly and rhythmically.

  Carroll spoke at length with the woman, and then finally turned to Edgar. “She says he is possessed,” he said. “They come from the mountains, nearly a week’s journey from here, from a village near Kengtung.”

  “Why come here?” asked Edgar.

  “The Shan say there are ninety-six diseases. This isn’t one of them. She has seen all the medicine men near Kengtung, and they can do nothing. Now word of this man’s disease has spread, and medicine men fear him because they think that the spirit is too strong. So she came here.”

  “Surely you don’t believe he is possessed …”

  “I don’t know, there are things here that I have seen which I never could have believed before.” He paused. “In some areas of the Shan States, men like this are worshiped, as spirit mediums. I have been to festivals where hundreds of villagers have come to watch them dance. In England we would have called the writhing movements Saint Vitus’ dance, for Saint Vitus is the patron saint of hysterical and nervous diseases. But I don’t know what to call this dance, Saint Vitus cannot hear prayers from Mae Lwin. And I do not know what spirits cause this possession.”<
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  He turned back to the man, and this time addressed him directly, and the man stared back with empty eyes. The two remained like this for a long time, until at last Carroll rose and took the man by the arm and led him outside. He gave no medicine.

  St. Vitus, thought Edgar, Vitus was the name of Bach’s grandfather, It is strange how all is connected, even if only by a name.

  When the old man had shuffled away slowly with his wife, Carroll led Edgar to another building, separate from the headquarters. Inside several patients lay on cots.

  “This is our little hospital,” Carroll explained. “I don’t like to keep patients here; I think they heal better at home. But I feel as if I need to watch some of the more severe cases, usually diarrhea or malaria. I trained Miss Ma as a nurse.” He pointed to a young woman who sat wiping one of the patients with a wet cloth. “She takes care of the patients when I am away.” Edgar nodded to her and she bowed slightly.

  They walked past the patients, Carroll explaining, “This young fellow has severe diarrhea, which I am afraid is cholera. We had a terrible outbreak years ago, and ten villagers died. Fortunately, no one else has fallen ill, and I am keeping him here so that he doesn’t infect the others … This next case is terribly sad and, unfortunately, terribly common. Cerebral malaria. There is little I can do for the boy. He will die soon. I want to give his family hope, so I let him stay here … This child has rabies. She was bitten by a mad dog, which many now think is the mode of transmission, although again, I am too far from the learning centers of Europe to know the current opinion.”

  They stopped by the little girl’s bed. She lay twisted in tense contortions, her eyes open in frozen horror. Edgar was shocked to see that her hands had been tied behind her back.

  “Why is she restrained?” he asked.

  “The disease makes you mad. That is what it means; rabere is Latin for rage. Two days ago she tried to attack Miss Ma, so we had to restrain her.”

  At the end of the room, they found an old woman. “And what is wrong with her?” Edgar asked, beginning to feel overwhelmed by the litany of diseases.

  “This one?” the Doctor asked. He said something to the old woman in Shan and she sat up. “She is fine. She is the grandmother of one of the other patients, who is currently seated in the corner over there. When she comes to visit him, he lets her rest in the cot because she says it is so comfortable.”

  “Doesn’t he need it?”

  “He does, although he isn’t in immediate danger like the other patients.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Probably diabetic. I have a number of patients who come to see me because they are frightened when they notice that insects eat their urine, because of the sugar in it. Some of the Shan seem particularly unnerved, they say that it is the same as having their own bodies preyed upon. Another old diagnosis, also by ancient Brahmins. He doesn’t need to be in my little hospital, but it makes him feel better, and gives his grandmother a place to rest.”

  Carroll spoke to the man, and then to Miss Ma. Finally he motioned to Edgar to follow him outside. They stood in the sunlight. It was early afternoon.

  “I think we are done for today. I hope this has been worthwhile for you, Mr. Drake.”

  “It was. Although I was a little taken aback at first, I must admit. It is not like an English surgery. It is not very private.”

  “I don’t have much of a choice. Although, it is good that everyone can see that an English face can do more than look down a rifle.” He paused. “You were asking me about my political opinions yesterday, no? There—an opinion.” He laughed.

  “Indeed,” said Edgar, slowly. “Despite the stories, I am still amazed—”

  “About what, may I ask?”

  Edgar watched as the patients drifted slowly out of the clinic. “That you have accomplished all this. That you have brought music here, medicine. It is hard to believe that you have never fought a battle.”

  Anthony Carroll stared at him. “You believe that? You are quite innocent, my dear fellow.”

  “Maybe, but the men on the steamer said you have never fired a shot.”

  “Then you should be happy you have seen me in my surgery, and not when we question prisoners.”

  A chill ran along Edgar’s spine. “Prisoners?”

  The Doctor lowered his voice. “The dacoits are known to tear tongues from mouths. I am not above their rules … But it shouldn’t bother you. As you say, you are here for music.”

  Edgar felt faint. “I … I didn’t think …”

  They stared at each other.

  Suddenly Carroll’s face broke into a wide grin, his eyes twinkling. “A joke, Mr. Drake, a joke. I warned you about discussing politics. You mustn’t be so earnest. Don’t worry, everyone leaves with their tongue intact.”

  He slapped the tuner on the back. “You came to find me this morning,” he said. “Regarding the Erard, I imagine?”

  “Regarding the Erard,” replied Edgar weakly. “But if now is not a good time for this, I understand. This has been quite a morning already …”

  “Nonsense, this is the perfect time. For what is tuning if not another form of cure? Let us waste not another instant. I know that you have been waiting.”

  14

  The sun had risen high above the mountain, and it was hot despite the cool breeze that licked up from the river. Still slightly unnerved, Edgar returned to his room to collect his tools, and the Doctor led him up a narrow trail to a path that ran between the buildings and the mountainside. He was surprised he had taken Carroll’s jest so seriously, but the thought of finally seeing the Erard cheered him. Since arriving, he had wondered where it was kept, and would peer into open rooms as he took strolls through the compound. They stopped at a door, bolted with a heavy metal latch. Carroll took a small key from his pocket and fitted it into the lock.

  The room was dark. The Doctor walked across the floor to the windows and opened them. Outside, the view spilled out over the camp, to the Salween drifting past, dark and brown. The piano was covered by a blanket made of the same material he had seen on many of the women, decorated with thin multicolored lines. The Doctor removed it with a flourish. “Here it is, Mr. Drake.” The Erard stood half in the light of the window, the smooth surface of its case almost liquid against the rough backdrop of the room.

  Edgar walked forward and put his hand on the piano. For a moment he stood silent, looking only, and then began to shake his head. “Unbelievable,” he said. “Really … this is so …” He took a deep breath. “I suppose part of me still can’t believe this. I have known about this for over two months now, but I think I am as surprised as if I had just walked in from the jungle and seen it … I am sorry, I didn’t think I would be so affected. It is … beautiful …”

  He stood at the keyboard. Sometimes he was so focused on the technical aspects of piano construction that he forgot how lovely the instruments could be. Many of the Erards built during the same period were ornately decorated with inlaid wood, carved legs, even a sculpted nameboard. This one was simpler. A dark brown mahogany veneer stretched into curved, feminine legs, so smooth that they seemed almost lascivious; now he could understand why there were those in England who insisted that piano legs be covered. The nameboard was decorated with a thin, elegant line of mother-of-pearl, curling at each end into a bouquet of flowers. The case was smooth, monochrome, the texture found only in the interlocking pieces of veneer.

  He said at last, “I admire your taste, Doctor. How did you know to select this one? Or an Erard for that matter?”

  “Or a piano for that matter, you should ask.”

  Edgar chuckled. “Indeed. At times I suppose I am a bit single-minded. It seemed so fitting …”

  “Well, I am touched by the sentiment. You and I think in a similar manner … There is something about a piano that is different from other instruments, something imposing, deserving of admiration. It is always a subject of much discussion among the Shan I know. They say it besto
ws honor to hear it played. It is also the most versatile of instruments, something I think anyone would enjoy.”

  “And an Erard?”

  “My request was actually not that specific. I did ask for an Erard, an older model. I might even have mentioned one from 1840, as I had heard somewhere that Liszt had once played one. But the War Office chose, or maybe I was just lucky and this was the only one for sale. I agree it is beautiful. I was hoping perhaps that you could educate me to more of its technical aspects.”

  “Of course … only where can I start? I don’t want to bore you.”

  “I appreciate your humility, Mr. Drake, but I am sure you won’t.”

  “Very well then … but please stop me if I do.” Edgar ran his hand over the case. “An 1840 Erard grand, Doctor, built by Sebastien Erard’s Paris workshop, which makes it unusual, as most of the Erards you find in London are from the London workshop. Mahogany-veneered. It has a double-escapement repetition action—the action is the set of levers that lift a hammer to the strings. It is designed so that after the hammer hits the strings it can fall back, ‘escaping.’ The double-escapement action was an innovation developed by Erard, but is standard on pianos now. It is very slender on Erards, hence it is common for the hammers to go out of adjustment. The heads of the hammers are made of alternating leather and felt, much more difficult to work with than most other pianos, which are pounded felt only. Before I even examine it, I will wager that the voicing on this one is in terrible shape. I can’t imagine what the humidity has done to the felt covers on the hammers.