The Piano Tuner

by Daniel Mason

  The

  Piano Tuner

  DANIEL MASON

  ALFRED A. KNOPF

  NEW YORK

  2002

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Introduction

  War Office Letter

  Book One

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Book Two

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  A NOTE ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Copyright Page

  For my grandmother, Halina

  “Brothers,” I said, “o you who have crossed

  a hundred thousand dangers, reach the west

  to this brief waking time that is left

  unto your senses, you must not deny

  experience of that which lies beyond

  the sun, and all the world that is unpeopled.”

  Dante, Inferno, canto XXVI

  Music, to create harmony, must investigate discord.

  Plutarch

  In the fleeting seconds of final memory, the image that will become Burma is the sun and a woman’s parasol. He has wondered which visions would remain—the Salween’s coursing coffee flow after a storm, the predawn palisades of fishing nets, the glow of ground turmeric, the weep of jungle vines. For months the images trembled in the back of his eyes, at times flaming and fading away like candles, at times fighting to be seen, thrust forward like the goods of jostling bazaar merchants. Or at times simply passing, blurred freight wagons in a traveling circus, each one a story that challenged credibility, not for any fault of plot, but because Nature could not permit such a condensation of color without theft and vacuum in the remaining parts of the world.

  Yet above these visions, the sun rises searing, pouring over them like a gleaming white paint. The Bedin-saya, who interpret dreams in shaded, scented corners of the markets, told him a tale that the sun that rose in Burma was different from the sun that rose in the rest of the world. He only needed to look at the sky to know this. To see how it washed the roads, filling the cracks and shadows, destroying perspective and texture. To see how it burned, flickered, flamed, the edge of the horizon like a daguerreotype on fire, overexposed and edges curling. How it turned liquid the sky, the banyan trees, the thick air, his breath, throat, and his blood. How the mirages invaded from distant roads to twist his hands. How his skin peeled and cracked.

  Now this sun hangs above a dry road. Beneath it, a lone woman walks under a parasol, her thin cotton dress trembling in the breeze, her bare feet carrying her away toward the edge of perception. He watches her, how she approaches the sun, alone. He thinks of calling out to her, but he cannot speak.

  The woman walks into a mirage, into the ghost reflection of light and water that the Burmese call than hlat. Around her, the air wavers, splitting her body, separating, spinning. And then she too disappears. Now only the sun and the parasol remain.

  War Office

  London

  October 24, 1886

  Dear Mr. Drake,

  I have been informed by our staff that you have received our office’s request for service in the name of Her Majesty, but have not yet been notified as to the nature of your mission. This letter serves to explain the specifics and urgency of a most serious matter, and requests that you report to the War Office, where you will be further briefed by Colonel Killian, Director of Operations for the Burma Division, as well as myself.

  A brief history of this matter. As you are most likely aware, since our occupation of the coastal states of Burma sixty years ago, through the recent annexation of Mandalay and Upper Burma, Her Majesty has seen the occupation and pacification of the territory as central to the security of our Empire throughout Asia. Despite our military victories, several developments seriously endanger our Burmese possessions. Recent intelligence reports have confirmed the consolidation of French forces along the Mekong River in Indo-China, while within Burma, local insurgence threatens our hold on the remoter regions of the country.

  In 1869, during the reign of the Burmese king Mindon Min, we stationed in Burma a physician named Surgeon-Major Anthony Carroll, a graduate of University College Hospital in London, who, in 1874, was appointed to a remote post in the Shan States, in the eastern reaches of the colony. Since his arrival, Surgeon-Major Carroll has been indispensable to the army, well beyond his immediate medical duties. He has made remarkable progress in forming alliances with native princes, and, although distant from our command, his site provides critical access to the southern Shan Plateau, and rapid deployment of troops to the Siamese border. The details of Carroll’s success are rather unusual, and you will be duly briefed when you report to the War Office. Of concern to the Crown now is a most peculiar note received from the Surgeon-Major last month, the latest in a series of somewhat vexing communications regarding his interest in a piano.

  The source of our concern follows: although we are accustomed to receiving unusual requests from the Surgeon-Major with regard to his medical investigations, we were perplexed by a letter that arrived last December, requesting the immediate purchase and delivery of one Erard grand piano. At first, our officers in Mandalay were skeptical of the inquiry, until a second message arrived by courier two days later, insisting on the seriousness of the demand, as if Carroll had correctly anticipated the incredulity of our staff. Our reply, that the delivery of a grand piano was logistically impossible, was answered by the arrival of yet another breathless messenger one week later. He brought a simple note, whose contents merit reprinting in full:

  Gentlemen,

  With all due respect to your office, I hereby resubmit my request for a piano. I know the importance of my post to the security of this region. Lest the urgency of my request again be misunderstood, be assured that I will resign my post if the piano is not delivered to me within three months. I am well aware that my rank and years of service entitle me to honorable discharge and full benefits, should I return to England.

  Surgeon-Major Anthony J. Carroll, Mae Lwin, Shan States

  As you might imagine, this letter precipitated serious consternation among our staff. The Surgeon-Major had been a flawless servant of the Crown; his record was exemplary, yet he understood well our dependence on him and his alliances with the local princes, as well as how critical such alliances are for any European power. After some debate, we approved his request and an 1840 Erard grand piano was shipped from England in January, arriving in Mandalay in early February, and transported to the site by elephant and foot by Carroll himself. Although the entire escapade was the source of considerable frustration for some of our staff in Burma, nevertheless it was a successful mission. In the following months, Carroll continued his fine service, making excellent progress in surveying supply routes through the Shan Plateau. Then last month we received another request. The humidity, it appears, has stretched the body of the Erard such that it is no longer in tune, and all local attempts to mend the instrument have failed.

  And thus we arrive at the intent of this correspondence. In his letter, Carroll specifically requested a tuner who specializes in Erard grands. While we replied that perhaps there were
some easier means by which the piano could be repaired, the Surgeon-Major remained adamant. At last we agreed, and a survey of London piano tuners has produced a list of several fine craftsmen. As you must know, most of the practitioners of your craft are quite advanced in age and not fit for difficult travel. A more detailed inquiry led us to the names of yourself and Mr. Claude Hastings of Poultry, in the City. As you are listed as an expert in Erard pianos, we felt it appropriate to solicit your service. Should you refuse our request, we will proceed to contact Mr. Hastings. The Crown is prepared to reimburse you with a fee equivalent to one year of work for service of three months.

  Mr. Drake, your skills and experience commend you to this mission of extreme importance. We graciously request that you contact our office as soon as possible to discuss this matter.

  Respectfully yours,

  Colonel George Fitzgerald,

  Assistant Director of Military Operations,

  Burma and East India Division

  It was late afternoon. Sunlight streaked through a small window to light a room filled with the frames of pianos. Edgar Drake, Piano Tuner, Erards-a-Specialty, put the letter down on his desk. An 1840 grand is beautiful, he thought, and he folded the letter gently and slid it into his coat pocket. And Burma is far.

  Book One

  fugue [from French fugue, an adaptation of the Italian fuga, literally “flight”; from the Latin fuga, related to fugere, to flee] 1. A polyphonic composition constructed on one or more short subjects or themes, which are harmonized according to the laws of counterpoint, and introduced from time to time with various contrapuntal devices. 2. Psychiatry. A flight from one’s own identity …

  Oxford English Dictionary, 2nd ed. (1989)

  1

  It was afternoon in the office of Colonel Killian, Director of Operations for the Burma Division of the British army. Edgar Drake sat by a pair of dark, rattling heating pipes and stared out the window, watching the sweep of rain. Across the room sat the Colonel, a broad, sunburnt man with a shock of red hair and a thick mustache that fanned out in combed symmetry, underlining a fierce pair of green eyes. Behind his desk hung a long Bantu lance and a painted shield that still bore the scars of battle. He wore a scarlet uniform, edged with braids of black mohair. Edgar would remember this, for the braids reminded him of a tiger’s stripes, and the scarlet made the green eyes greener.

  Several minutes had passed since the Colonel had entered the room, drawn up a chair behind a deeply polished mahogany desk, and begun to thumb through a stack of papers. At last he looked up. From behind the mustache came a stentorian baritone. “Thank you for waiting, Mr. Drake. I had a matter of urgency to attend to.”

  The piano tuner turned from the window. “Of course, Colonel.” He fingered his hat in his lap.

  “If you don’t mind, we will begin at once with the matter at hand.” The Colonel leaned forward. “Again, welcome to the War Office. I imagine this is your first visit here.” He did not leave time for the piano tuner to respond. “On behalf of my staff and superiors, I appreciate your attention to what we consider a most serious matter. We have prepared a briefing regarding the background of this affair. If you agree, I think it would be most expedient if I summarize it for you first. We can discuss any questions you may have when you know more details.” He rested his hand on a stack of papers.

  “Thank you, Colonel,” replied the tuner quietly. “I must admit that I was intrigued by your request. It is most unusual.”

  Across the table the mustache wavered. “Most unusual indeed, Mr. Drake. We do have much to discuss of this matter. If you haven’t recognized by now, this commission is as much about a man as it is about a piano. So I will begin with Surgeon-Major Carroll himself.”

  The piano tuner nodded.

  The mustache wavered again. “Mr. Drake, I will not bother you with the details of Carroll’s youth. Actually, his background is somewhat mysterious, and we know little. He was born in 1833, of Irish stock, the son of Mr. Thomas Carroll, a teacher of Greek poetry and prose at a boarding school in Oxfordshire. Although his family was never wealthy, his father’s interest in education must have been passed along to his son, who excelled at school, and left home to pursue medicine at University College Hospital in London. Upon graduation, rather than open a private surgery as most were inclined to do, he applied for a position at a provincial hospital for the poor. As earlier, we have few records of Carroll during this period, we only know that he remained in the provinces for five years. During this time he married a local girl. The marriage was short-lived. His wife died in childbirth, along with their child, and Carroll never remarried.”

  The Colonel cleared his throat, picked up another document, and continued. “Following his wife’s death, Carroll returned to London, where he applied for a position as a physician at the Asylum for the Ragged Poor in the East End during the cholera outbreaks. He held this post for only two years. In 1863 he secured a commission as a surgeon on the Army Medical Staff.

  “It is here, Mr. Drake, that our history becomes more complete. Carroll was appointed as a doctor to the 28th Foot in Bristol, but applied for a transfer to serve in the colonies only four months after his enlistment. The application was accepted immediately, and he was appointed deputy director of the military hospital in Saharanpur, in India. There he gained an early reputation not only as a fine physician but also as somewhat of an adventurer. He frequently accompanied expeditions into the Punjab and Kashmir, missions that put him in danger from local tribes as well as Russian agents, a problem that persists as the Tsar tries to match our territorial gains. There he also earned a reputation as a man of letters, although nothing that would suggest the, well, let us say fervor that led him to request a piano. Several superiors reported him shirking rounds and observed him reading poetry in the hospital gardens. This practice was tolerated, albeit grudgingly, after Carroll apparently recited a poem by Shelley—‘Ozymandias,’ I believe—to a local chieftain who was being treated at the hospital. The man, who had already signed a treaty of cooperation but had refused to commit any troops, returned to the hospital a week after his convalescence and asked to see Carroll, not the military officer. He brought with him a force of three hundred, ‘to serve the “poet-soldier”’—his words, not ours, Mr. Drake.”

  The Colonel looked up. He thought he saw a slight smile on the piano tuner’s face. “Remarkable story, I know.”

  “It is a powerful poem.”

  “It is, although I admit the episode was perhaps somewhat unfortunate.”

  “Unfortunate?”

  “We are getting ahead of ourselves, Mr. Drake, but I am of the mind that this matter with the Erard has something to do with the ‘soldier’ attempting to become more of a ‘poet.’ The piano—and, granted, this is just my opinion—represents a—how best to put this?—an illogical extension of such a strategy. If Doctor Carroll truly believes that bringing music to such a place will hasten peace, I only hope he brings enough riflemen to defend it.” The piano tuner said nothing, and the Colonel shifted slightly in his seat. “You would agree, Mr. Drake, that to impress a local noble with recitation and rhyme is one thing. To request a grand piano to be sent to the most remote of our forts is quite another.”

  “I know little of military matters,” said Edgar Drake.

  The Colonel looked at him briefly before returning to the papers. This was not the kind of person ready for the climate and challenges of Burma, he thought. A tall, thin man with thick graying hair that hung loosely above a pair of wire-rim glasses, the tuner looked more like a schoolteacher than someone capable of bearing any military responsibility. He seemed old for his forty-one years; his eyebrows were dark, his cheeks lined with soft whiskers. His light-colored eyes wrinkled at their corners, although not, the Colonel noted, in the manner of someone who had spent a lifetime smiling. He was wearing a corduroy jacket, a bow tie, and worn wool trousers. It all would have conveyed a feeling of sadness, he thought, were it not for his lips, unusually fu
ll for an Englishman, which rested in a position between bemusement and faint surprise and lent him a softness which unnerved the Colonel. He also noticed the piano tuner’s hands, which the tuner massaged incessantly, their wrists lost in the cavities of his sleeves. They were not the type of hands to which he was accustomed, too delicate for a man’s, yet when they had greeted each other, the Colonel had felt a roughness and strength, as if they were moved by wires beneath the calloused skin.

  He looked back to the papers and continued. “So Carroll remained in Saharanpur for five years. During this time he served on no fewer than seventeen missions, passing more time in the field than at his post.” He began to thumb through the reports on the missions the Doctor had accompanied, reading out their names. September 1866—Survey for a Rail Route Along the Upper Sutlej River. December—Mapping Expedition of the Corps of Water Engineers in the Punjab. February 1867—Report on Childbirth and Obstetric Diseases in Eastern Afghanistan. May—Veterinary Infections of Herd Animals in the Mountains of Kashmir and Their Risk to Humans. September—the Royal Society’s Highland Survey of Flora in Sikkim. He seemed compelled to name them all, and did so without taking a breath, so that the veins on his neck swelled to resemble the very mountains of Kashmir—at least thought Edgar Drake, who had never been there, or studied its geography, but who, by this point, was growing impatient with the notable absence of any piano from the story.