by Daniel Mason
“And then he attacked Mae Lwin,” said Edgar. “They told me this in Mandalay.”
There was a long pause. “No, no he didn’t attack Mae Lwin,” Carroll said slowly. “I was with Twet Nga Lu the day Mae Lwin was attacked. Mandalay doesn’t know this. The villagers say that the attack was by the Karenni, another tribe. I haven’t reported this because the army will certainly send troops, the last thing we need here. But it wasn’t Twet Nga Lu.” Carroll spoke more quickly now. “I have spoken to you in confidence, and now I need to ask your assistance. We will be in Mongpu soon. This is the first time in a long while that Twet Nga Lu has met the sawbwa of Mongnai. If they cannot settle their differences, they will not stop fighting until one of them is dead, and we will be forced to intercede with our armies. Of course, there are many in the War Office, bored by the peace since the annexation, who are anxious for war. If there is any chance of peace, they will destroy it. Until the treaty is signed, no one can know that I am here.”
“I have never heard you speak so candidly of the war.”
“I know. But there are reasons. The Limbin Confederacy thinks that I have orders from superiors within the British command. If they know I am alone, they won’t fear me. So, today, if anyone asks, you are Lieutenant-Colonel Daly, civil officer of the Northern Shan Column, stationed at Maymyo, representative of Mr. Hildebrand, Superintendent of the Shan States.”
“But the sawbwa of Mongnai has seen me play.”
“He already knows and has agreed to keep this a secret. It is the others whom I need to convince.”
“You didn’t tell me this when we left,” said Edgar. He felt an anger growing.
“You wouldn’t have come.”
“I am sorry, Doctor. I cannot do this.”
“Mr. Drake.”
“Doctor, I can’t do this. Mr. Hildebrand is—”
“Mr. Hildebrand will never know. You will need to do nothing, to say nothing.”
“But I can’t. It’s seditious. It’s—”
“Mr. Drake, I had hoped that after almost three months in Mae Lwin, you would understand, that you could help me. That you were not like the others.”
“Doctor, there is a difference between believing that a piano can help bring peace and signing treaties without orders, impersonating others, defying one’s queen. There are rules and laws …”
“Mr. Drake, your defiance began when you came to Mae Lwin against orders. You are now considered missing, perhaps already under suspicion.”
“Under suspicion! For what …”
“What do you think, now that you have disappeared for so long?”
“I do not need to participate in any charades. I am due to return to Mandalay anytime now.” He gripped the reins tightly.
“From here, Mr. Drake? You can’t turn back now. And I know as well as you that you do not want to return to Mandalay.”
Edgar shook his head angrily. “Is this why you called me to Mae Lwin?” It was dark now, and he stared into the Doctor’s face, illuminated by the dull glow of his cigar.
The end of the cheroot flickered light. “No, Mr. Drake, I brought you to tune a piano. But situations change. We are, after all, at war.”
“And I am walking into battle unarmed.”
“Unarmed? Hardly, Mr. Drake. You are with me. Don’t underestimate my importance.”
Edgar’s pony twitched her ears at the mosquitoes that buzzed around her head, the only sound. Her mane shivered.
There was a shout from the road ahead. A man rode up on horseback.
“Bo Naw, my good friend!” Carroll exclaimed.
The man bowed slightly from his mount. “Doctor Carroll, the princes are all here, with their armies. We are waiting only for you.”
Carroll looked to the piano tuner, who returned his stare. A faint smile ran across the Doctor’s lips. Edgar wrapped his fingers once again in the reins. His face was still.
Carroll took his helmet and fitted it over his head, fastening the strap over his chin like a soldier. He took his cigar from his mouth and flicked it into the air, where it traced a golden trajectory. He hissed.
For a moment Edgar waited alone. Then, sighing heavily, he took the cheroot from his mouth and threw it to the ground.
It was nearly dark as they galloped down a trail that passed between stone outcroppings. In the distance, Edgar could see the glow of torchlights. They rode through a rough barricade, past vague silhouettes of guards. Soon the trail rose, and they approached a fort, hidden in a dark grove of trees.
The fort was long, and low, surrounded on all sides by a stockade of sharpened bamboo. A group of elephants was tethered to the wall. Armed guards saluted the riders. They stopped at the entrance to the stockade, where a sentry emerged into the torchlight. He eyed the men suspiciously. Edgar stared into the fort. The path that led up to the building was lined with more men, and in the flickering light of torches he could see the glint of spears, cutlasses, rifles. “Who are they?” he whispered.
“Armies. Each sawbwa has brought his own troops.”
Beside them, Bo Naw spoke in Shan. The guard walked forward and took the reins of their ponies. The Englishmen dismounted, and entered the stockade.
As they stepped inside the ramparts, Edgar sensed a movement of bodies, and for a brief second he thought that it was a trap. But the men were not advancing. They were kowtowing, bowing before the Doctor like a wave, their backs glistening with sweat, weapons clanging.
The Doctor walked swiftly, and Edgar caught up with him by the door. As they ascended the steps of the fort, he looked behind him, at the vision of the backs of the warriors, the fierce stockade, and the forest beyond. Crickets screamed, and in his mind now echoed a single word. The man at the entrance had called Carroll not “Doctor,” or “Major,” but “Bo,” the Shan word that Edgar knew was reserved for warrior chiefs. Carroll took off his helmet and tucked it beneath his arm. They stepped inside.
For several long breaths, they stood and stared into a deep darkness, until shapes shifted slowly out of the dim light. There were several princes, seated in a semicircle, each dressed in some of the finest clothes Edgar had seen in Burma, bejeweled costumes like those of the puppets that had danced at the yôkthe pwè: sequined jackets with brocaded wings on the shoulders, crowns shaped like pagodas. The men had been talking when they had entered, but the room was now silent. Carroll led Edgar around the circle to two open cushions. Behind each prince, other men stood in the darkness, barely licked by the dancing lights of tiny fires.
They sat, still silent. Then one of the princes, an older man with a finely combed mustache, spoke at length. When he finished, Carroll answered. At one point he motioned to the piano tuner, who heard “Daly, Lieutenant-Colonel, Hildebrand,” but he understood nothing else.
When Carroll’s introduction was complete, another prince began to speak. The Doctor turned to Edgar. “All is fine, Lieutenant-Colonel. You are welcome here.”
The meeting began, and soon the night was lost, a blur of jeweled gowns and candlelight, a canto of strange tongues. Soon Edgar felt himself doze off, so that it all took on the quality of a dream. A dream within a dream, he told himself, as his eyelids fell slowly, For perhaps I have been dreaming since Aden. Around him, the princes seemed to float; the upturned candleholders hid the floor from the flames. Only at occasional breaks in the conversation did Carroll speak to him, “That man who is speaking is Chao Weng, sawbwa of Lawksawk, next to him is Chao Khun Kyi, the sawbwa of Mongnai—whom you must recognize. Then that is Chao Kawng Tai of Kengtung, who has traveled a great distance to be here. At his side is Chao Khun Ti of Mongpawn. Next to him is Twet Nga Lu.”
And Edgar asked, “Twet Nga Lu?” But Carroll had returned to the conversation, leaving Edgar to stare at the man he had heard about since the steamer voyage, who some said didn’t exist, who had escaped hundreds of British raids, who was perhaps one of the last figures standing between Britain and the consolidation of the Empire. Edgar stared at the Shan B
andit Chief. There was something familiar about him that he couldn’t place. He was a small man, with a face that was soft even in the angular shadows cast by the candlelight. Edgar could see none of his tattoos or talismans, but he noticed that he spoke with an eerie self-assurance, a half grin cast into the smoke-filled air like a threat. And although he rarely said anything, when he did, the room quickly grew quiet. Edgar then realized why he recognized the man, or if not the man, why he recognized the confidence, the elusiveness. He had seen the same in Anthony Carroll.
So to this dream of the Shan princes entered a new character, a man Edgar thought he knew, but who now seemed as inscrutable as the sawbwas who sat before him, who spoke a strange tongue, who held the respect and fear of foreign tribes. Edgar turned to watch the Doctor, to look for the man who played the piano, who collected flowers and read Homer, but heard only a language of strange tones, words that even a man who controlled the intricacy of notes couldn’t understand. And for one brief, terrifying moment, as the glow of candles flickered upward across his face, Edgar thought that he recognized the high cheekbones, the long brow, and the intensity of stare and speech that the other tribes say make a Shan.
But this only lasted briefly, and as swiftly as it arrived, the haunting left him. And Anthony Carroll was still Anthony Carroll and he turned and his eyes flashed. “You holding up, old man? Is something wrong?” It was late, and it would be many hours before the meeting finished.
“Yes, I am holding up,” Edgar answered. “No … there is nothing wrong at all.”
The meeting lasted until dawn, when sunlight finally began to trickle through the rafters. Edgar didn’t know if he had been sleeping when he sensed a shuffling around him and one of the Shan princes, and then another, rose and walked out, bowing to the Englishmen as they left. As the others stood, there were more formalities, and Edgar remarked on how gaudy and caricatured the costumes seemed in the daylight, extravagance beyond the pomp and posture of their wearers. Soon they rose too, to follow the princes. At the door Edgar heard a voice at his back, and turned to find himself face-to-face with Twet Nga Lu.
“I know who you are, Mr. Drake,” said the Shan Bandit Chief in a deliberate English, a smile slinking along his lips. He said something in Shan and raised his hands before him. Edgar stepped back, suddenly frightened, and Twet Nga Lu, now laughing, turned his palms down and began to move his fingers before him in the mocking mime of a pianist.
Edgar looked to see if Carroll had seen this, but the Doctor was engaged in conversation with another prince. As Twet Nga Lu passed, Edgar saw Carroll turn, and the two men stared at each other. It was a brief exchange, and then Twet Nga Lu walked out of the room, where a group of Shan warriors fell into formation behind him.
On the road back to Mae Lwin, they spoke little. The Doctor stared out into the mist that covered the trail. Edgar’s thoughts were thick with fatigue and confusion. He wanted to ask about the meeting, but the Doctor seemed lost in contemplation. At one point the Doctor stopped to point out a group of red flowers by the side of the trail, but for the remainder of the trip he was silent. The sky was heavy, and the wind picked up, whipping along the lonely crags and open road. Only when they were climbing the hill above Mae Lwin did Carroll turn to the piano tuner.
“You haven’t asked what happened at the meeting.”
“I am sorry,” Edgar said warily. “I am a bit tired, that’s all.”
Anthony Carroll shifted his gaze down the trail. “Last night, I received a conditional surrender from both the Limbin Confederacy and from Twet Nga Lu, to end their resistance to British rule in one month’s time, in exchange for limited autonomy guaranteed by Her Majesty. The revolt is over.”
20
They arrived in camp shortly after noon. In the clearing, a group of boys came out to meet them, taking away the men’s ponies. The camp seemed eerily silent. Edgar expected announcement, movement, something to acknowledge the accomplishment. He had the unsettling feeling that he had just witnessed history. But there was nothing, only the customary greetings. The Doctor disappeared, and Edgar returned to his room. He fell asleep still dressed in his riding clothes.
He awoke at midnight, sweating, disoriented, having dreamed that he was still on horseback, on the long ride from Mongpu. Only as he recognized the features of his room, the mosquito net, his bag, the stack of papers, and the tuning tools, did his heart slow.
He again tried to sleep but couldn’t. Perhaps it was his thoughts of the Doctor, or his dream of a journey without end, or perhaps it was only because he had been sleeping since the early afternoon. He was hot, and dirty, and parched, and he found himself breathing fast, Maybe I am sick again. He pushed aside the mosquito net and rushed to the door. Outside the air was fresh and cool, and he took deep breaths and tried to calm himself.
It was a still night, and a sliver of moon passed between indecisive rain clouds. Below his room, the Salween was dark. He slipped down the stairs and out across the clearing. The camp was silent. Even the guard at the watch-post slept, seated outside the hut, his head rolled back and resting on the wall.
As Edgar walked, the soil curled up against his toes. He passed through the thicket of flowers and onto the beach. He was moving faster now, tearing off his shirt and throwing it onto the sand. He stepped out of his riding breeches. His toes touched the water and he dove.
The river was cool and smooth with suspended silt. He rose to the surface and rested, floating. Upriver, the rocks jutted into the river, breaking the current into eddies which curled along the shore. He felt himself move slowly upstream.
He finally climbed out of the water and stood on the bank. Pulling his clothes back over his wet body, he walked barefoot to the edge of the beach and picked his way over the rocks until he reached the large boulder where the fishermen stood to cast their nets. He lay on his back. The stone was still warm from the day’s sun.
He must have fallen asleep, because he didn’t hear anyone walk down to the beach, only the sound of splashing. He opened his eyes slowly, puzzled at who also might have made the nighttime pilgrimage to the river, Perhaps the young couple has returned. Slowly, carefully, so as not to reveal his presence, he turned on his side and looked down the beach.
It was a woman, and she was kneeling, crouched away from him, her long hair tied above her head. She was washing her arms, lifting water in cupped hands and letting it run down her skin. She was wearing her hta main; even in solitude, she bathed with modesty, as if she knew well of the lecherous eyes of owls. The hta main soaked up the water from the river and clung to her torso and to the swell of her hips.
Perhaps he knew who she was before she turned toward him and saw him, and the two of them froze, each aware of their mutual violation, the shared sensuality of the river, of the sliver of moon. Then she moved hastily, gathering up her other clothes, her soap. Without looking back, she ran up the trail.
The clouds shifted. The moon returned. He walked onto the beach. On the sand there was a comb, ivory, incandescent.
The Doctor left again on another “diplomatic mission” and Edgar returned to work on the piano. With the arrival of the rains, the soundboard had swollen, a nearly imperceptible change, perhaps noticeable only to those who wish to tune.
For two days, he kept the comb.
In moments of privacy, he would take it out and examine it, running his fingers over the orphaned strands of black hair that wove themselves through the ivory prongs. He knew he should return it to her, but he waited, out of indecision or expectation, out of a sense of intimacy that grew along with the waiting and the silence, that became more acute with each brief, awkward conversation they shared in the unavoidable moments when they passed each other on the paths.
And so he kept the comb. Convincing himself he must work, he delayed returning it during the day, while at night he told himself he must wait again until morning, I cannot go to her when it is dark. The first night he stayed late at the piano, tuning and retuning. On the secon
d night, while he played alone, he heard a knock on the door.
He knew who it was before the door drifted open and she tentatively stepped inside. Perhaps it was the delicate, patient sound of the knocking, distinct from the Doctor’s confident pounding or the servants’ hesitancy. Perhaps the wind had shifted, bringing the scent of wet earth down from the mountain, and on its route lifted her perfume. Or perhaps he recognized the direction, that they moved in age-worn patterns, destined repetitions.
From the doorway came the voice, the accent liquid. “Hello.”
“Ma Khin Myo,” he said.
“May I come in?”
“Of … course.”
She closed the door lightly. “Am I interrupting you?”
“No, not at all … Why would you think that?”
She tilted her head slightly. “You seem preoccupied. Is something the matter?”
“No, no.” His voice trembled, and he forced a smile. “I am only passing the time.”
She stayed by the door and held her hands together. She wore the same light blouse she had worn the day she had met him by the river. He could see she had painted her face recently, and thought of the incongruity, There is no sun now, no reason to wear thanaka but that it is beautiful.
“You know,” she said, “in all the time that I have had English friends, I have heard the piano played often. I love its sound. I … I thought maybe you could show me how you work.”
“Of course. But isn’t it late? Shouldn’t you be with …” he hesitated.
“With Doctor Carroll? He is not in Mae Lwin.” She was still standing. Behind her, her shadow reclined against the wall, curves against the lines of bamboo.
“Of course, of course. I knew, didn’t I?” He took his glasses and polished them in his shirt. He took a deep breath. “I have been here all day. So many hours at the piano can drive one a bit … mad. I am sorry. I should have sought your company.”
