by Daniel Mason
Finally he was ready to fine-tune the piano. He began an octave below the string that had been shattered by the bullet. He inserted lever wedges to mute off the side strings of each note in the octave, so that when the key was struck, only the middle string would vibrate. He struck the key, reached into the body of the piano, and turned the tuning pin. When the middle string was tuned he moved to the side strings, and when this note was in tune, he moved one octave lower—as a builder would first lay the foundations of a house, he always told his apprentices—falling into the familiar pattern, twisting the tuning pins, testing them, key pin key, a rhythm only broken by absentminded slaps at mosquitoes.
With the octave spanned, he then turned to the notes that lay in between, to set them in equal temperament, so that the notes were all equally spaced along the octave. It was a concept many apprentices often found difficult to understand. Each note produces a sound at a particular frequency, he would explain, Strings in tune with one another can harmonize, while out-of-tune strings produce frequencies which overlap to produce a rhythmic pulse, known as a beat, a synchrony of slightly discordant sounds. On a piano tuned perfectly in a particular key, there should be no beats when correct intervals are played. But then it is impossible to play the piano in any other key. Equal temperament was an innovation that allowed for more than one key to be played on a single instrument, the sacrifice being that no key would be in perfect tune. To tune in equal temperament meant deliberately creating beats, adjusting the strings finely so that only a well-trained ear could discern that they were slightly, if necessarily, out of tune.
Edgar hummed softly as he worked. It was his habit, often to Katherine’s chagrin, that while at work he became completely absorbed in tuning. Do you see anything when you are working? she had asked soon after they were married, leaning over the side of the piano. See what? he had answered. You know, see anything, the piano, the strings, me. Of course I see you, and he took her hand and kissed it. Edgar, please! Please, I am asking how you work, I am being serious, Do you see anything while you work? How couldn’t I, Why? It just seems that you disappear, into a different place, maybe a world of notes. Edgar laughed, What a strange world that would be, dear. And he leaned forward and kissed her again. But in truth, he did understand what she was trying to ask. He worked with his eyes open, but when he finished, when he thought back on the day, he could never remember a single visible image, only what he had heard, a landscape marked by tone and timbre, intervals, vibrating, They are my colors.
And so now, while he worked, he thought little of home, of Katherine, of the Doctor’s absence, or of Khin Myo. Nor did he notice that he had observers, three little boys who watched him through slats in the bamboo wall. They whispered and giggled, and had Edgar not been lost in the Pythagorean maze of tone and mechanics, and had he spoken Shan, he would have heard them wonder how this could be the great musician, the man who would repair their singing elephant. How peculiar these British are, they would tell their friends. Their musicians play alone, and you cannot dance or sing to such strange, slow melodies. But after an hour, even the novelty of espionage wore off, and the little boys walked glumly back to the river to swim.
The day drew on. Shortly past noon, Nok Lek brought Edgar his lunch, a large bowl of rice noodles drenched in a thick broth that the boy said was made from a type of bean, garnished with minced meat and peppers. He also brought a jar of paste made from burnt rice husks, which Edgar painted over the bottom of the soundboard before stopping to eat. After several bites he returned to work.
In the early afternoon, clouds arrived, but it didn’t rain. The room grew humid. He always worked slowly, but he was surprised by his own deliberation. A thought that had begun to plague him when he first started on the piano now returned. In a matter of hours, he would be done with the tuning and would no longer be needed in Mae Lwin. He would be forced to return to Mandalay, and then to England. But I want this, he told himself, for it means I will be home again. Yet the immediacy of the departure became more real as he worked, his fingers raw from the strings, the monotony hypnotizing, crank, key, listen, crank, key, listen, the tuning spreading over the piano like ink spilled on paper.
Edgar had three keys left to tune when the clouds broke and the sun shone through the window, lighting the room. He had replaced the lid on the piano overnight, and raised it while he tuned. Now he could once again see the reflection of the view in the polished mahogany. He stood and watched the Salween flow through its square of light on the piano’s surface. He walked to the window and stared out at the river.
Two weeks until the piano needs to be tuned again, he had told the Doctor. What he didn’t tell him was that now that the piano was tuned and regulated and voiced, to keep it in fine tune would be relatively easy, he could teach the Doctor, perhaps even one of his Shan assistants. He could tell him this, he thought, and he could leave the tuning hammer, This is only right. And then he thought, I have been away from home for a long time, Perhaps too long.
He could tell him this, and he would, eventually, but he reminded himself there was no need to rush things either.
Besides, he thought, I have only just arrived.
15
Doctor Carroll didn’t return the next day as planned, nor the day after that. The camp seemed empty and Edgar saw neither Nok Lek nor Khin Myo. He was surprised that he thought of her only now, that he been so absorbed in the excitement surrounding the piano. He had seen her only once in the few days since their arrival. Then she had passed him while he was with the Doctor, had nodded politely and stopped to whisper something to Carroll in Burmese. She stood close to the Doctor when she spoke and looked past him to Edgar, who quickly shifted his gaze out to the river. He had tried to see if there was something in their interaction, a touch or shared smile. But she only bowed slightly, and moved off gracefully down the trail.
He spent the morning making minor adjustments to the Erard, fine-tuning some of the strings, touching up areas on the soundboard that had not been covered with enough resin. But he soon tired of the work. The piano was well tuned—perhaps not his finest job, he conceded, as he didn’t have all the tools he needed—but there were few other improvements that could further help the piano, given the circumstances.
It was noon when he left the Erard and walked down to the Salween. By the river, several men stood out on jagged rocks that jutted into the water, casting fishing nets, crouching, waiting. He laid out a blanket and sat in the shade of a willow and watched two women beating clothes against a rock, naked save for their hta mains that had been pulled up and tied around their chests in modesty. He wondered if this was a Shan custom or merely an English import.
His mind wandered, aimlessly, from the river, over the mountains, to Mandalay, farther. He wondered what the army thought of his absence. Perhaps it hasn’t even been noticed, he thought, for Khin Myo has also gone, and Captain Nash-Burnham is in Rangoon, and he wondered, How many days have I been away? He hoped they had not contacted Katherine, for certainly she would worry, and he could comfort himself only with the thought that she was far away, and that news traveled slowly. He tried to calculate how long he had been away from home, but was surprised when he realized that he wasn’t even certain how long he had been in Mae Lwin. The trip across the Shan Plateau seemed without time, a moment, a kaleidoscope of silver temples and deep jungle, muddied rivers and swiftly riding ponies.
Without time, Edgar thought, and he thought of the world outside suspended, It is as if I have left London only this morning. He liked the idea, Perhaps this is so, Indeed my watch stopped in Rangoon, In England Katherine is only now returning home from the docks, Our bed still holds the fading warmth of two bodies, Perhaps it will still be warm when I return. And his thoughts pushed forward, One day I will climb out of the valley of the Salween and walk back across the hills to Mandalay, and I will sit one more night and watch the yôkthe pwè, and this time the story will be different, a story of return, and I will take the steamer back
down the river, and there I will meet soldiers and over gin I will add my tales to theirs. Forward, The trip will be faster now, for we will travel with the current, and in Rangoon I will return to the Shwedagon and I will see how the turmeric-painted woman’s baby has grown, I will board another steamer, and my bags will be heavier for I will carry gifts of silver necklaces and embroidered cloth, and musical instruments for a new collection. On the steamer I will spend my days staring at the same mountains I saw when I arrived, only this time I will stand on the starboard side, The train will speed across India as before, it will climb away from the Ganges like a prayer, the sun will rise behind us and set before us, and we will chase it, Perhaps somewhere, at some lonely station, I will hear the end of the Poet-Wallah’s story. In the Red Sea I will meet a man, and I will tell him I have heard songs, but not his. In the Red Sea, it will be dry, and the humidity will be drawn from my watch in invisible vapors, it will begin to work again, ticking, The time is no later than the day I departed.
He heard the sound of footsteps enter his daydream, and turned. Khin Myo stood in the shade of the willow. “May I join you?”
“Ma Khin Myo. What a pleasant surprise,” he said, pulled from his reverie. “Please, please sit down.” He made a space for her on the blanket. When she had sat and smoothed her hta main over her legs, he said, “I was just thinking about you earlier today. You vanished. I have hardly seen you since we arrived.”
“I left you and the Doctor alone. I know you have work to do.”
“I have been busy, I know. I regretted not seeing you, though.” His words felt somehow stilted, and he added, “I enjoyed our conversations in Mandalay, on the way here.” He wanted to say something else, but felt a sudden awkwardness about her being there. He had almost forgotten how attractive she was. Her hair was brushed back and fastened with a needle of ivory. Her blouse rustled lightly in the breeze that slipped through the willow branches. Below the damascene border of the sleeves, her arms were bare, and she held her hands folded together on her hta main.
“Nok Lek told me that you had finished,” she said.
“This morning, I think, although there is still some work remaining. The piano was in serious disrepair.”
“Doctor Carroll told me so. I think he feels it was his fault.” He noticed that she tilted her head slightly from side to side when she joked, a habit he had seen in many of the Indians. He had seen her do it before, but was particularly struck by it now. It was quite subtle, as if she was enjoying an inner joke that was much funnier, and much more profound, than her words suggested.
“I know. He shouldn’t, though. I am quite pleased. The piano will sound wonderful.”
“He did say that you seemed happy.” She smiled, and turned to him. “Do you know what you will do, now?”
“Now?”
“Now that you have finished. Will you return to Mandalay?” she asked.
He laughed. “Will I? Why of course—I must eventually. Perhaps not right away. I want to wait to be certain the piano has no other problems. And after that, it is only fair that after this long trip, I will get to hear it in a performance. But then—I don’t know.”
They both were silent and turned to look toward the river. Out of the corner of his eye, Edgar saw her look down suddenly, as if embarrassed by a thought, and run her finger along the iridescent silk of her skirt. He turned to her. “Is everything all right?”
She blushed. “Of course, I was just thinking of something else.” Silence again, and then suddenly she added, “You are different.”
Edgar swallowed, startled. She had spoken so softly that he had to ask himself if it was her voice or but the rustling of the branches. “I’m sorry?”
She said, “I have been with you for many hours, in Mandalay, traveling. Most other visitors would have told me about themselves within minutes. And yet I only know that you are from England, and that you have come to tune the piano.” She played with the edge of her hta main. Edgar wondered if it was a sign of nervousness, as an Englishman would finger his hat in his hands.
“I am sorry if I am too direct, Mr. Drake,” she added when he didn’t answer. “Please don’t be offended.”
“No, I don’t mind,” he said. But he wasn’t certain how to respond. He found himself surprised at the question, but even more that she, who had been so reserved before, had asked it. “I am not used to being asked about myself. Especially not by …” he paused.
“Not by a woman?”
Edgar said nothing.
“It is fine if you were thinking that, I wouldn’t blame you. I know all that is written about women of the East. I can read your magazines and I understand your conversations, remember. I know what they say, I have seen the way the sketch artists draw us in your newspapers.”
Edgar felt himself blushing, “They are terrible.”
“Not all. Many of them are right. Besides, to be painted as a beautiful dancing young girl is better than being painted as a savage—as your newspapers show our men.”
“Rubbish, mainly,” insisted Edgar. “I wouldn’t pay much attention …”
“No, I don’t mind, I only wonder, or worry, about those who come here expecting their own imaginings.”
Edgar shifted uneasily. “I am sure once they arrive they see it isn’t so,” he said.
“Or they simply change us to fit that image.”
“I …” Edgar paused, caught by her words. He stared at her, thinking.
“I am sorry. I did not mean to speak so strongly, Mr. Drake.”
“No … no, not at all.” He nodded now with the resonance of a thought. “No, I do want to talk to you, but I am somewhat shy. It is my character, really. At home in London, too.”
“I don’t care. I don’t mind talking. I get lonely here sometimes. I speak some Shan, and many of the villagers speak some Burmese, but we are very different, most have never left their village.”
“You have the Doctor—” Immediately he regretted saying this.
“That is something I wish I had told you in Mandalay. If only to save you from having to ask.”
He felt the sudden and unique relief that comes when a suspicion is answered. “He is away often,” he said.
Khin Myo looked up at him, as if surprised by his words. “He is an important man,” she said.
“Do you know where he goes?”
“Where? No.” She tilted her head. “Away, only. It is not my concern.”
“I might think that it is. You said you get lonely.”
She stared at him longer this time. “It is different,” she said simply.
There was a sadness in her voice, and Edgar waited for her to speak again. She was silent now. He said, “I am sorry. I didn’t intend to be inconsiderate.”
“No.” She looked down. “You ask me many questions. That is also different.” A tremor of wind ran through the trees. “You have someone, Mr. Drake.”
“I do,” said Edgar slowly, relieved now that the conversation had moved away from the Doctor. “Her name is Katherine.”
“It is a nice name,” said Khin Myo.
“Yes … yes, I suppose so. I am so used to it that I hardly think of it as a name anymore. When you know someone so well, it is as if they lose their names.”
She smiled at him. “May I ask how long you have been married?”
“Eighteen years. We met when I was an apprentice tuner. I tuned her family’s piano.”
“She must be beautiful,” Khin Myo said.
“Beautiful …” Edgar was struck by the innocence with which she had asked the question. “She is … although we are not young.” He continued, awkwardly, if only to fill the silence. “She was very beautiful, at least in my eyes … talking about her makes me miss her dearly.”
“I am sorry—”
“No, not at all. It is wonderful, in its way. Many men who have been married eighteen years have fallen out of love with their wives …” He stopped and looked out at the river. “I suppose I am different
, maybe you are right, although I don’t know if I mean the same thing when I say this as you mean when you say it—I love music and pianos and the mechanics of sound, perhaps that is different. And I am quiet. I daydream too much … But, I shouldn’t bother you with this.”
“You don’t have to. We can talk of something else.”
“Actually, I don’t mind. I am surprised only that you asked, that you noticed something, about me. Many women don’t like the things I just told you about; English women like men who join armies or compose poetry. Who become doctors. Who can aim pistols.” He smiled. “I don’t know if this makes sense. I have never done any of these. In England we live in a time of such accomplishment, of culture, conquest. And I tune pianos so that others may make music. I think many women would think that I am dull. But Katherine is different. Once I asked her why she chose me, if I was so quiet, and she said that when she listened to music she could hear in it my work … Silly and romantic, maybe, and we were so young …”
“No, not silly.”
They were quiet. Edgar said, “It is strange, I have just met you and yet I am telling you stories I have never told friends.”
“Perhaps it is because you just met me that you are telling me.”
“Perhaps.”
They were quiet. “I know very little about you,” he said, and the branches of the willow rustled.
“My story is short,” she began.
She was thirty-one years old, born in 1855 to a second cousin of King Mindon. Edgar looked surprised when she said this, and she added quickly, “It doesn’t mean much, The royal family is so large that, if anything, my ounce of royal blood meant danger when Thibaw came to the throne.”
