by Daniel Mason
He boards an omnibus, wedging himself between a portly gentleman in a thick coat and a young, ashen-faced woman who coughs incessantly. The bus lurches forward. He looks for the window but the bus is crowded, he cannot see the streets pass.
This moment will remain.
He is home. He opens the door, and she is sitting on the sofa, in the corner, at the edge of a half circle of damask that falls over the cushions. Just as yesterday, but the lamp is not burning, its wick is black, it should be trimmed, but the servant is in Whitechapel. The only light slants through curtains of Nottingham lace and catches itself on particles of suspended dust. She is sitting and staring at the window, she must have seen his silhouette pass in the street. She holds a handkerchief, her cheeks have been hastily wiped. Edgar can see tears, their tracks cut short by the kerchief.
A pile of papers are scattered across the mahogany table, and an opened brown wrapping, still in the form of the papers it once held, still tied with twine, carefully unfolded at one end, as if its contents have been examined surreptitiously. Or were intended to be, for the strewn papers are anything but surreptitious. Nor are the tears, the swollen eyes.
Neither of them moves or says anything. His jacket is still in his hand, she sits on the edge of the sofa, her fingers nervously entwined in her handkerchief. He immediately knows why she is crying, he knows that she knows, that even if she doesn’t, this is how it would be, the news needs to be shared. Perhaps he should have told her last night, he should have known that they would come to his house, now he remembers that before he left the War Office the Colonel even told him so. Had he not been so lost in the magnitude of his decision, he wouldn’t have forgotten. He should have planned this, the news could have been broken more delicately. Edgar keeps so few secrets that those he does become lies.
His hands tremble as he hangs up the jacket. He turns. Katherine, he says. What is wrong, he wants to ask, a question of habit, but he knows the answer. He looks at her, there are questions whose answers he doesn’t yet know, Who brought the papers, When did they come, What do they say, Are you angry.
You were crying, he says.
She is quiet, now she begins to sob softly. Her hair is loose over her shoulders.
He doesn’t move, doesn’t know whether to go to her, this is different from before, this is not a time for embraces, Katherine, I meant to tell you, I tried to last night, only I didn’t think it was right then—
He crosses the room now, he slides between the sofa and the table, he sits next to her.
Dear—He touches her arm, gently, trying to turn her toward him, Katherine, dear, I wanted to tell you, please look at me, and she turns slowly, looks at him, her eyes are red, she has been crying for a long time. He waits for her to speak, he doesn’t know how much she knows. What happened? She doesn’t reply. Please, Katherine. Edgar, you know what happened. I know and I don’t know. Who brought these? Is it important? Katherine dear, don’t be angry with me, I wanted to talk to you about this, Please, Katherine—
I am not angry, Edgar, she says.
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a handkerchief, Look at me. He touches the handkerchief to her cheek.
I was angry this morning, when he came. Who? A soldier, from the War Office, He came asking for you, with these. She motioned to the papers. And what did he say? Very little, only that these papers were for your preparation, that I should be proud, that you are doing something very important, and when he said that, I still didn’t know what he was talking about. What do you mean? That is all he said, Mrs. Drake, do you know that your husband is a brave man, and I had to ask him Why, I felt like a fool, Edgar, He seemed surprised when I asked, he laughed and said only that Burma is far away, I almost asked what that meant, I almost told him that he had the wrong house, the wrong husband, but I only thanked him and he left. And you read them. Some, only some, Enough. She was silent. When did he come? This morning, I know I shouldn’t read your mail, I left the package on the table, it wasn’t mine, I went upstairs to try to finish the needlework for our bedcover, I was distracted, I kept poking myself with the needle, I was thinking about what he said, and I went downstairs, I sat here for almost an hour, wondering if I should open it, telling myself it was nothing, but I knew it wasn’t, and I thought about last night. Last night. Last night you were different. You knew. Not then, but this morning I knew, I think I know you too well.
He takes her hands.
They sit for a long time like that, their knees touching, her hands in his. She says again, I am not angry. You can be angry. I was angry, the anger came and went, I only wish you had told me, I don’t care about Burma, no that is wrong, I do care about Burma, I just … I wondered why you didn’t tell me, if maybe you thought that I would stop you from doing this, That hurt the most, I am proud of you, Edgar.
The words stay before them, suspended. He releases her hands, and she begins to cry again. She wipes her eyes, Look at me, I am behaving like a child. I can still change my mind, he says.
It isn’t that, I don’t want you to change your mind. You want me to go. I don’t want you to go, but at the same time, I know you should go, I have been expecting this. You have been expecting an out-of-tune Erard in Burma? Not Burma, this, something different, It is a lovely idea, to use music to bring about peace, I wonder what songs you will play there. I am only going to tune, I am not a pianist, I am going because it is a commission. No, but this one is different, and not only because you are going away. I don’t understand. Different, something different from your other projects, a cause, something worthy.
You don’t believe that my work is worthy already. I didn’t say that. You said as much. I watch you, Edgar, sometimes it is as if you are my child, I am proud of you, you have abilities that others don’t, you have ways of hearing sounds that other people can’t, you are skilled in the mechanics of things, you make music beautiful, that is enough. Except now it sounds like it isn’t.
Edgar, please, now you are angry. No, I am only asking you for your reasons, You have never told me this before, This is still just another assignment, I am still a mechanic, let us be careful before we give credit for Turner’s paintings to the man who makes his brushes.
Now you sound as if you don’t know if you should go. Of course I don’t know, only now my wife is telling me I should do it to prove something. You know that is not what I am saying. I have had other strange commissions, Katherine. But this is different, This is the only one you have kept hidden.
Outside the sun dips finally behind the rooftops, and the room grows suddenly darker.
Katherine, I didn’t expect this from you. What then did you expect? I don’t know, I have never done this before. You expected me to cry as I am now, to implore you not to go because that is how women behave when they lose their husbands, You expected that I will be afraid if you are gone because you will not be here to take care of me, that I will be afraid I will lose you. Katherine, that isn’t true, that isn’t why I didn’t tell you. You thought I would be scared, You tore a page from the Illustrated London News because it had an article on Burma.
There was a long silence. I am sorry, you know this is new for me. I know, this is new for me too.
I think you should go, Edgar, I wish I could go, It must be beautiful to see the world. You must return to me with stories.
It is only another commission.
You keep saying that, You know it isn’t.
The ship doesn’t leave for another month, That is a lot of time.
There is a lot to get ready.
It is very far, Katherine.
I know.
The following days passed swiftly. Edgar finished the Farrell contract and refused a new commission to voice a beautiful 1870 Streicher grand with an old Viennese action.
Officers from the War Office visited frequently, arriving each time with more documents: briefings, schedules, lists of items to take with him to Burma. After the tears of the first day, Katherine seemed to embrace the
mission enthusiastically. Edgar was grateful for this; he had thought she might still be upset. Moreover, he had never been organized. Katherine had always teased him that the precise ordering of piano strings seemed to necessitate a chaotic disorganization in every other aspect of his life. On a typical day, a soldier would come to their house to drop off paperwork while Edgar was away. Katherine would take the papers, read them, and then organize them on his desk into three piles: forms that required completion and return to the army, general histories, and papers specific to his mission. Then he would come home, and within minutes the stack of papers would be in disarray, as if he had merely sifted through the piles looking for something. That something, Katherine knew, was information about the piano, but none came, and after about three or four days she would greet him with, “More papers arrived today, lots of military information, nothing about a piano,” which left him looking disappointed but helped considerably to keep the table neater. He would then collect whatever was sitting on top of the pile and retire to his chair. Later she would find him asleep with the folder open on his lap.
She was astonished by the amount of documentation they supplied, apparently all at Carroll’s request, and she read the papers avidly, even copying out sections of a history of the Shan written by the Doctor himself, a piece she had expected to be dull, but which thrilled her with its stories and gave her confidence in the man whom she felt she had entrusted to watch over her husband. She had recommended it to Edgar, but he told her he would wait, I will need things to distract me when I am alone. Otherwise, she rarely mentioned her readings to him. The stories and descriptions of the people fascinated her; she had loved tales of far-off places since she was a young girl. But while she caught herself daydreaming, she was glad she wasn’t going. It seemed, she confided to a friend, like one big silly game for boys who haven’t grown up, like stories from Boys’ Own or the penny cowboy serials imported from America. “Yet you let Edgar go,” her friend had responded. “Edgar never played those games,” she said. “Perhaps it is not too late. Besides, I have never seen him so excited, so filled with purpose. He is like a young man again.”
After several days, other packages arrived, these marked from Colonel Fitzgerald, to be delivered to Surgeon-Major Carroll. They looked as if they contained sheets of music, and Edgar started to open them, but Katherine scolded him. They were packed neatly in brown paper, and he would surely leave them disorganized. Fortunately, the names of the composers had been written on the outside of the paper, and Edgar contented himself with the knowledge that should he be stranded, he would at least have Liszt to keep him company. Such taste, he said, gave him confidence in his mission.
The departure date was set for November 26, one month to the day following Edgar’s acceptance of his commission. It approached like a cyclone, if not for the mad preparations that preceded it, then for the calm that Katherine knew would follow. While he spent his days finishing his work and tidying up the workshop, she packed his trunks, modifying the recommendations of the army with knowledge unique to the wife of a tuner of Erards. Thus to the army’s list of items such as water-repellent rot-proof clothes, dinner wear, and an assortment of pills and powders to “better enjoy the tropical climate,” she added ointment for fingers chapped from tuning and an extra pair of spectacles, as Edgar invariably sat on a pair about once every three months. She packed a dress coat with tails as well, “In case you are asked to play,” she said, but Edgar kissed her on the forehead and unpacked it, “You flatter me, dear, but I am not a pianist, please don’t encourage such ideas.”
She packed it anyway. She was used to such protestations. Since he was a boy, Edgar had noticed in himself an aptitude for sound, although not, he had also sadly learned, an aptitude for composition. His father, a carpenter, had been an avid amateur musician, collecting and constructing instruments of all shapes and sounds, scavenging the bazaars for strange folk instruments brought from the Continent. When he realized that his son was too shy to play for visiting friends, he had invested his energies in Edgar’s sister, a delicate little girl who had later married a singer with the D’Oyly Carte Company, now quite well known for his starring roles in the operettas of Mr. Gilbert and Mr. Sullivan. So while his sister sat through hours of lessons, Edgar spent the days with his father, a man whom he remembered primarily for his large hands, Too large, he would say, for finery. And so it had become Edgar’s job to tend to his father’s growing collection of instruments, most of which, to the boy’s delight, were in manifest disrepair. Later, as a young man, when he had met and fallen in love with Katherine, he had been equally delighted to hear her play, and had told her this when he proposed. You dare not be asking me to marry you simply so you may have someone to test the instruments you tune, she had said, her hand lightly resting on his arm, and he had replied, a young man flushed by the feeling of her fingers, Don’t worry, if you wish you may never play, Your voice is music enough.
Edgar packed his own tools. Because the army had still not given him details about the piano, he visited the shop where it had been purchased, and spoke at length with the owner about the instrument’s specifics, how extensively it had been rebuilt, which of the original parts remained. With limited space, he could afford only to bring tools and replacement parts specific to the piano. Even so, the tools filled half of one of his trunks.
A week before he was to leave, Katherine held a small good-bye tea party for her husband. He had few friends, and most of them were tuners as well: Mr. Wiggers, who specialized in Broadwoods; Mr. d’Argences, the Frenchman whose passion was Viennese uprights; and Mr. Poffy, who wasn’t actually a piano tuner since he mostly repaired organs—It is nice, Edgar once explained to Katherine, to have variety in one’s friends. Of course, this hardly spanned the full array of Those Associated with Pianos. The London directory alone, between Physicians and Pickle and Sauce Manufacturers, listed Pianoforte makers, Pianoforte action makers, Pianoforte fret cutters, hammer coverers, hammer and damper felt manufacturers, hammer rail makers, ivory bleachers, ivory cutters, key makers, pin makers, silkers, small work manufacturers, Pianoforte string makers, Pianoforte tuners. Notably absent from the party was Mr. Hastings, who also specialized in Erards, and who had snubbed Edgar ever since he had put up a sign on his gate reading “Gone to Burma to tune in the service of Her Majesty; please consult Mr. Claude Hastings for minor tunings that cannot await my return.”
Everyone at the party was thrilled about the Erard commission, and speculated late into the evening about what could be wrong with the piano. Eventually, bored with the discussion, Katherine left the men and retired to bed, where she read from The Burman, a wonderful ethnography by a newspaperman recently appointed to the Burma Commission. The author, one Mr. Scott, had taken the Burmese name Shway Yoe, meaning Golden Honest, as a nom de plume, a fact that Katherine dismissed as further proof that the war was but a “boys’ game.” Nevertheless, it made her uneasy, and she reminded herself before falling asleep to tell Edgar not to return with a ridiculous new name as well.
And the days passed. Katherine expected a last-minute flurry of preparation, but three days before the set departure, she and Edgar awoke one morning to find nothing left to prepare. His bags were packed, his tools cleaned and ordered, his shop closed.
They walked down to the Thames, where they sat on the Embankment and watched the boat traffic. There was a distinct clarity to the sky, Edgar thought, to the feeling of her hand in his, All that is lacking to complete this moment is music. Ever since he was a boy, he had the habit of attaching not only sentiment to song but song to sentiment. Katherine learned this in a letter he wrote to her soon after visiting her home for the first time, in which he described his emotions as being “like the allegro con brio of Haydn’s Sonata no. 50 in D Major.” At the time, she had laughed and wondered whether he was serious or if this were the sort of joke that only apprentice piano tuners enjoyed. Her friends, for their part, decided that surely it was a joke, if a strange one, and s
he found herself agreeing, until later she bought the music for the sonata and played it, and from the piano, newly tuned, came a song of giddy anticipation that made her think of butterflies, not the kind that follow spring, but rather the pale flittering shadows that live in the stomachs of those who are young and in love.
As they sat together, fragments of melodies played in Edgar’s head, like an orchestra warming up, until one tune slowly began to dominate and the others fell in line. He hummed. “Clementi, Sonata in F-sharp Minor,” Katherine said, and he nodded. He had once told her it reminded him of a sailor lost at sea. His love awaiting him onshore. In the notes hide the sound of the waves, gulls.
They sat and listened.
“Does he return?”
“In this version he does.”
Below them, men unloaded crates from the smaller boats used for river traffic. Seagulls cried, waiting for discarded food, calling to each other as they circled. Edgar and Katherine walked along the shore. As they turned away from the river and began their return, Edgar’s fingers wrapped around those of his wife. A tuner makes a good husband, she had told her friends after they had returned from their honeymoon. He knows how to listen, and his touch is more delicate than that of the pianist: only the tuner knows the inside of the piano. The young women had giggled at the scandalous implications of these words. Now, eighteen years later, she knew where the calluses on his hands lay and what they were from. Once he had explained them to her, like a tattooed man explaining the stories of his illustrations, This one that runs along the inside of my thumb is from a screwdriver, The scratches on my wrist are from the body itself, I often rest my arm like this when I am sounding, The calluses on the inside of my first and third fingers on the right are from tightening pins before using regulating pliers, I spare my second finger, I don’t know why, a habit from youth. Broken nails are from strings, it is a sign of impatience.