The Piano Tuner

by Daniel Mason

  They were met onshore by Captain Trevor Nash-Burnham, who had originally intended to meet Edgar in Rangoon, and whom Edgar knew as the author of several of the reports he had read on Surgeon-Major Carroll. The reports were rich with descriptions of Mandalay, of the river, of the winding trails to Carroll’s camp. Edgar had secretly longed to meet Nash-Burnham, as he had been unimpressed by most of the bureaucrats he met following the hunt, whose dullness in the presence of such color astounded him. Standing on the bank, he now recalled how in Rangoon, in the administrative frenzy after the shooting, he had been walking home from a briefing with a member of the Department of Village Administration. They had passed a crowd of people trying to move the body of an opium addict who had fallen asleep under a wagon and been crushed when the horses pulled the cart forward. The man was crying, a low, stuporous wail, as a group of merchants alternately tried to coax the horses forward or back the wagon up. Edgar had been sickened, but the functionary hadn’t even stopped talking about the teak tallies collected from the various districts of the colony. When Edgar asked where they could find help, the man shocked him not by answering “Why?”—which would have been predictably insensitive—but “For whom?” And this answer he could scarcely hear over the man’s screams.

  Standing on the banks of the city, he shifted awkwardly. As the Captain read a letter from the War Office, a detailed notice about supplies and timetables, Edgar scrutinized his face for the man who had written of the Irrawaddy as “this shimmering serpent who carries off our dreams, only to bring fresh ones from the jeweled hills.” He was a squat man, with a broad forehead, who wheezed when he talked too fast, a striking contrast to the youth and fitness of Captain Dalton. It was an odd moment for an official briefing. Edgar looked at his pocket watch, a gift from Katherine before his departure. It was four, and only then did he remember that the watch had rusted to a halt only three days after he had arrived in Rangoon, and now, as he had jokingly written to Katherine, was correct only twice a day, although he kept it “to preserve appearances.” He now thought with some amusement of the London advertisement, This Christmas day, when church bells chime, Give yourself the gift of time—Robinson’s quality watches …

  The river was beginning to come to life, and a stream of vendors could be seen making their way down the road to the water. The men boarded a carriage and drove into town. The center of Mandalay, as Edgar would note in his next letter home, was about two miles from the Irrawaddy; when the capital had been moved from Amarapura, on the river, the kings wanted a site far from the noise of the foreigners’ steamships.

  The road was dark and rutted. Edgar watched shapes pass outside the window until it became opaque with condensation. Nash-Burnham reached up and wiped it clean with a handkerchief.

  By the time the carriage entered town, the sun had begun to rise. Outside, the roads were filling with people. They approached a bazaar. Hands pressed against the window, faces peered in. A porter carrying two bags of spices on a pole dodged out of the path of the carriage, swinging his bags so that one of them touched lightly against the window, dusting it with curry powder, which caught the rising sunlight and stained the glass gold.

  As they moved through the street, Edgar tried to picture himself on one of the maps of Mandalay he had studied on the steamship. But he was lost, and allowed himself to be caught up in the momentum of his arrival, the wonder and speculation that accompanies a new home.

  They passed seamstresses, their tables set out in the middle of the road, betel vendors, with trays of cracked betel-nut shells and cups of lime, knife sharpeners, sellers of false teeth and religious icons, of sandals, mirrors, dried fish and crab, rice, pasos, parasols. Occasionally the Captain would point something out on the road, a famous shrine, a government office. And Edgar would answer, Yes I have read of it, or It is even more beautiful than in the illustrations, or Perhaps I will visit it soon.

  At last the carriage pulled to a halt in front of a small, unremarkable cottage. “Your temporary lodgings, Mr. Drake,” said the Captain. “Usually we put up guests in the barracks inside Mandalay Palace, but it is better if you stay here now. Please make yourself at home. We will lunch today at the residence of the Commissioner of the Northern Division—a special reception in honor of the annexation of Mandalay. I will call for you at noon.”

  Edgar thanked Nash-Burnham and slid out of the carriage. The driver carried his trunks to the door. He knocked and a woman answered. The driver led Edgar inside. From the anteroom, Edgar followed the woman to a raised wooden floor, and into a room furnished sparsely with a table and two chairs. The woman pointed at his feet, and Edgar, seeing that she had abandoned her sandals at the door, sat on the step and clumsily pulled off his shoes. She led him through a door to the right and into a room dominated by a large bed covered with a mosquito net. She set the luggage on the floor.

  Off the bedroom was a bathing room, with a water basin and pressed towels. A second door led into a yard, where a small table sat beneath a pair of papaya trees. It all felt very quaint, thought Edgar, and very English, except for the papaya trees, and the woman who stood beside him.

  He turned to her. “Edgar naa meh. Naa meh be lo … lo … kaw dha le?” A question mark as much for the correctness of his Burmese as for the question itself. What is your name?

  The woman smiled. “Kyamma naa meh Khin Myo.” She pronounced it softly, the m and y melting together like a single letter.

  Edgar Drake extended his hand, and she smiled again and took it in hers.

  His watch still read four. Now, by the reckoning of the sun, it was three hours off; he was free until it was eight hours off when he would meet the Captain for lunch. Khin Myo had begun to heat water for the bath, but Edgar interrupted her. “I go … out, walking. I go walking.” He made a motion with his fingers, and she nodded. She seems to understand, he thought. He took out his hat from his bag and walked out to the anteroom, where he had to sit again to tie his shoes.

  Khin Myo was waiting at the door with a parasol. He stopped by her, unsure of what he should say. He liked her immediately. She held herself gracefully and smiled and looked at him directly, unlike so many of the other servants, who seemed to sneak away shyly when their tasks were finished. Her eyes were dark brown, set beneath thick lashes, and she wore even lines of thanaka on both cheeks. She had placed a hibiscus flower in her hair, and when he walked in front of her, he could smell a sweet perfume, like the mixed essences of cinnamon and coconut. She wore a bleached lace blouse, which hung down to her waist, and a purple silk hta main folded with careful pleats.

  To his surprise she walked with him. In the street, he tried again to piece together some Burmese. “Don’t worry about me, ma … thwa … um, you don’t need to um … ma walk.” This was only polite, I shouldn’t burden her with taking care of me.

  Khin Myo laughed. “You speak good Burmese. And they said you have only been here two weeks.”

  “You speak English?”

  “Oh, not so well, my accent is rough.”

  “No, your accent is very nice.” There was a softness to her voice that struck him immediately, like whispering, but deeper, like the sound of wind playing over the open end of a glass bottle.

  She smiled, and this time dropped her gaze. “Thank you. Please, continue. I don’t want to interrupt your walk. I can accompany you if you wish.”

  “But really, I don’t want to bother you …”

  “It is no bother at all. I love my city in the early morning. And I couldn’t let you go alone. Captain Nash-Burnham said that you might get lost.”

  “Well, thank you, thank you. I am surprised, really.”

  “At my English, or that a Burmese woman is not ashamed to speak to you?” When Edgar couldn’t find the words to reply, she added, “Don’t worry, they see me often with visitors.”

  They walked down the street, past more houses with carefully swept dirt paths. Outside one house, a woman hung clothes on a line. Khin Myo stopped to speak to her. “
Good morning, Mr. Drake,” said the woman.

  “Good morning,” he answered. “Do all the …” He paused, awkward with the words.

  “Do all the servants speak English?”

  “Yes … yes.”

  “Not all. I am teaching Mrs. Zin Nwe when her master is away.” Khin Myo checked herself. “Actually, please don’t tell anyone that; perhaps I am a little too open with you already.”

  “I won’t tell a soul. You teach English?”

  “I used to. It is a long story. And I don’t want to bore you.”

  “I doubt you would. But may I ask then how you learned?”

  “You have a lot of questions, Mr. Drake. Are you so surprised?”

  “No, no. Not at all, I am sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you …”

  She was silent. As they walked, she still remained slightly behind him.

  She spoke again, softly. “I am sorry. Here you are kind, and I am rude.”

  “No,” Edgar answered. “I do have too many questions. I haven’t met many Burmese. And you know how most of the officers are.”

  Khin Myo smiled. “I know.”

  They turned at the end of the street. To Edgar it seemed as if they were roughly following the road he had arrived on.

  “Where would you like to go, Mr. Drake?”

  “Take me to your favorite place,” he answered, startled by the sudden intimacy implied in his answer. If she too was surprised, she kept it hidden.

  They followed a wide road west, the sun rising behind them, and Edgar watched their shadows advance headfirst, snakelike over the ground. They spoke little and walked for nearly an hour. At a small canal, they stopped to watch a floating market. “I think this is the most beautiful place in Mandalay,” Khin Myo said. And Edgar, who had been in the city less than four hours, said he agreed. Below them, the boats shifted by the banks.

  “They look like floating lotus flowers,” he said.

  “And the merchants like croaking frogs upon them.”

  They were standing on a small bridge, watching boats move through the canal. Khin Myo said, “I hear that you are here to repair a piano?”

  Edgar hesitated, surprised by the question, “Yes, yes I am. How did you know?”

  “One learns a lot if others assume you are deaf to their tongue.”

  Edgar looked at her. “I imagine so … Do you think that is strange? It is quite a distance to travel to repair a piano, I suppose.” He turned back to the canal. Two boats had stopped for a woman to measure out a yellow spice into a small bag. Some of the spice dusted the black water like pollen.

  “Not so strange. I am confident that Anthony Carroll knows what he is doing.”

  “Do you know of Anthony Carroll?”

  Again she was silent, and he turned to see her staring out across the water. In the canal, the merchants poled through ink and islands of hyacinth, calling out the price of spices.

  They walked back to the house. The sun was higher now, and Edgar worried that he might not have enough time to bathe before Nash-Burnham came to take him to the reception. Inside, Khin Myo filled the basin in his bathroom with water and brought him soap and a towel. He bathed and shaved and dressed in a new shirt and new trousers, which she had pressed while he was bathing.

  When he came outside, he found her kneeling by a washbasin, already washing his clothes.

  “Oh, Miss Khin Myo, you don’t need to do that.”

  “What?”

  “Wash my clothes.”

  “Who will wash your clothes if I don’t?”

  “I don’t know, it’s just that—”

  She interrupted him. “Look! Captain Nash-Burnham is here.”

  He saw the Captain rounding the corner. “Hello!” he shouted. He was wearing mess dress: a scarlet shell jacket, a mess waistcoat, blue trousers. A sword hung from his waist.

  “Hello, Mr. Drake! Hope you don’t mind a stroll. The carriage was needed for some of the less vigorous guests!” He walked into the yard and looked at Khin Myo. “Ma Khin Myo,” he said, bowing with a flourish. “Aaah, you smell lovely.”

  “I smell like cleaning soap.”

  “If only roses could bathe in such a soap.”

  Here at last, thought Edgar, is the man who called the Irrawaddy a shimmering serpent.

  The Commissioner’s residence was twenty minutes on foot from the house. As they walked, the Captain tapped his fingers on his scabbard. “How did you enjoy your morning, Mr. Drake?”

  “Well, Captain, very well. I went on a most charming walk with Miss Khin Myo. She is unusual for a Burmese woman, isn’t she? They are all so shy. And she speaks beautiful English.”

  “She is very impressive. Did she tell you how she learned?”

  “No, I didn’t ask, I didn’t want to pry.”

  “That is kind of you, Mr. Drake, although I don’t think she would mind telling you. But I appreciate your discretion. You wouldn’t believe all the problems I have had with other guests. She is very beautiful.”

  “She is. Many of the women are. If only I were a young man again.”

  “Well, be careful. You wouldn’t be the first Englishman to fall in love and never go home. Sometimes I think that the only reason we seek new colonies is for their girls. Let me be the one to warn you to stay away from matters of love.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t worry,” Edgar protested. “I have a dear wife in London.” The Captain looked at him askance. Edgar laughed, But I am telling the truth, I do miss Katherine even now.

  They followed a fence that enclosed a broad lawn surrounding a stately mansion. At the entrance to the driveway an Indian in a police uniform stood guard. Captain Nash-Burnham nodded at him and he opened the gate. They walked up a long path where several horses stood harnessed to carriages.

  “Welcome, Mr. Drake,” said Nash-Burnham. “It should be a bearable afternoon if we survive lunch and the requisite poetry reading. We will be able to play some cards once the ladies retire. We are a bit jaundiced with one another, but we do manage to get along. Just pretend that you are back in England.” He paused. “But first some advice: don’t talk to Mrs. Hemmington about anything Burmese. She has some unpleasant views on what she calls ‘the Nature of Brown Races,’ which are embarrassing to many of us. Seems as if only mentioning a temple or Burmese food gets her talking and she won’t stop. Talk to her about London gossip, or crochet, but nothing Burmese.”

  “But I know nothing about crochet.”

  “Don’t worry. She does.”

  They were near the top of the stairs. “And be careful if Colonel Simmons drinks too much. And don’t ask military questions—remember you are a civilian. And one last thing … perhaps I should have told you this first: most of them know why you are here, and they will extend the hospitality due a fellow countryman. But you are not among friends. Please try not to talk about Anthony Carroll.”

  They were met at the door by a tall Sikh butler. The Captain greeted him. “Pavninder Singh, my good man, how are you today?”

  “Fine, sahib, fine,” he smiled.

  Nash-Burnham handed him his sword. “Pavninder, this is Mr. Drake.” He motioned to Edgar.

  “The piano tuner?”

  The Captain laughed, his hand on his belly. “Pavninder is an accomplished musician himself. He is a wonderful tabla player.”

  “Oh, sahib, you are too generous!”

  “Quiet, and stop calling me sahib, you know I hate that. I know music. There are thousands of Indians in Her Majesty’s service in Upper Burma, and you play the finest tabla of any of them. You should see the local girls swoon over him, Mr. Drake. Perhaps the two of you can play a duet if Mr. Drake is in town long enough.”

  Now it was Edgar’s turn to protest. “Actually, Captain, I am quite unskilled on the piano—at playing, that is. I only tune and repair.”

  “Nonsense, you both are too modest. Regardless, pianos seem to be quite a sore subject at the present time, so you have been spared. Pavninder, have they started lunch yet?�
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  “Soon, sir. You are just in time.”

  He led them into a room crowded with officers and their wives, gin and gossip. He was right, I am back in London, thought Edgar, They have even imported the Atmosphere.

  Nash-Burnham was forging a path between two rather large and tipsy women in flowing muslin, each decorated with a cascade of sashes that perched like butterflies on the slopes of their dresses. He placed his hand on a large and dimpled elbow, Mrs. Winterbottom, how are you? Introductions, Mr. Drake?

  They moved slowly about the party, the Captain leading Edgar through the eddies of chatter with the intensity of a boatman, his face shifting rapidly between a look of caution as he scanned the room and a wide engaging grin when he pulled one powdered matron or another from their circles to introduce the tuner with a soliloquy, Lady Aston, My Dear, I haven’t seen you since the Commissioner’s Party in March, My Dear you do look so Lovely tonight, Was it the month in Maymyo, Yes? See I knew! Well, I must bring myself to travel there again soon, Not much fun for a bachelor, though, Too peaceful! But soon, soon, I must visit, Wait, let me introduce you to a visitor, Mr. Drake from London. A pleasure to meet you, Lady Aston. And you too, I do miss London dreadfully. Myself as well, madam, and I have only been away one month. Really? You have just arrived, well welcome, I must introduce you to my husband, Alistair? Alistair, meet Mr. Drick, recently arrived from London. A tall man with Dundreary whiskers held out his hand, My pleasure, Mr. Drick … Mr. Drake, actually, Lord Aston, It is a pleasure. Even I know Dundreary whiskers are long out of fashion in London, he thought.

  Moving. I would like you to meet Mr. Edgar Drake, recently arrived from London. Mr. Drake, this is Miss Hoffnung, perhaps one of the craftiest whist hands in Upper Burma. Oh, Major, you flatter me, Don’t believe anything he tells you, Mr. Drake. Mrs. Sandilands, Mr. Drake. Mrs. Partridge, this is Edgar Drake from London. Mr. Drake, this is Mrs. Partridge, this is Mrs. Pepper.