by Daniel Mason
“You still haven’t even offered me a place to sit.”
Edgar started at her directness. He moved over to clear a place on the bench. “Please.”
She moved slowly across the room, toward the piano, her shadow on the wall growing longer. She gathered her hta main together and sat beside him. For a moment, he only looked at her as she stared down at the keys. The flower she wore was fragrant, freshly picked; he could see where tiny grains of pollen had dusted her hair. She turned toward him.
“I am sorry if I seem distracted,” he said. “I’m always a bit slow to come out of the trance that I enter when I tune. It is another world. It’s always a bit startling to be interrupted by … visitors … it is hard to explain.”
“Perhaps like being awakened from a dream.”
“Perhaps. Perhaps … But I am awake in a world of sounds. It is as if I have begun to dream again …” When she said nothing, he added, “That must seem strange. ”
“No.” She shook her head. “At times we confuse what is real with what we are dreaming.”
There was silence. Khin Myo lifted her hands and placed them on the keyboard.
“Have you ever played before?” he asked.
“No, but I have always wanted to, since I was a little girl.”
“You can play now, it is much more interesting than watching me tune.”
“Oh, I shouldn’t, really. I don’t know how.”
“That’s all right. Just try. Press the keys.”
“Any key?”
“Start where your finger is now. That is the first note of the Prelude in F Minor. It’s part of The Well-Tempered Clavier, which I played for the sawbwa.”
She pressed the key. The note rang out in the room, echoing back to them.
“See,” said Edgar. “Now you have played Bach.”
Khin Myo didn’t turn from the piano. He saw the corner of her eyes wrinkle, the hints of a smile. “It sounds so different, sitting here.”
“It does. There is nothing quite like it. Please, perhaps I can teach you more of the piece.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t want to bother you. Actually, you are right: maybe it is late. I didn’t want to interrupt your work.”
“Nonsense. You are here now.”
“But I can’t play.”
“I insist. It is a short motif, but one of great meaning. Please, now that we have started, I couldn’t let you leave. The next note is that one, hit that with your forefinger.”
She turned to him.
“Go on, play,” he said, and pointed to the key. She pressed it. Deep in the piano, the hammer leaped toward its string.
“Now, next key to the left, now the key above that. Now back to the first. Yes, that one, the first key that you played. Now the second one again, that one. And above. There, that’s it. Now play it again, faster now.” Khin Myo struggled through it.
“It doesn’t sound like much,” she said.
“It sounds like everything. Try it again.”
“I don’t know … Maybe you should.”
“No, you are playing wonderfully. It will be much easier if you use your left hand for the lower notes.”
“I don’t think I can. Can you show me?” She turned, her face close to his.
Edgar’s heart pounded suddenly, and for a brief moment he was afraid she would hear it. But the sound of the music emboldened him. He stood, and he moved behind her and lowered his arms over hers. “Put your hands on mine,” he said.
Slowly, she lifted her hands. For a moment they waited, floating, and then she let them settle gently. Neither moved, each feeling only the other’s hands, the rest of their bodies but pale outlines. He could see their reflections in the lacquered mahogany of the nameboard. Her fingers only reached halfway along his.
The piece began slowly, tentatively. The Fugue in F-sharp Minor from Book 2 of The Well-Tempered Clavier always reminded him of an opening of flowers, a meeting of lovers, a song of beginnings. He hadn’t played it on the night of the sawbwa’s visit; it is the thirty-eighth piece, and he had stopped at the twenty-fourth. So at first his hands moved slowly, uncertain, but with the soft weight of her fingers, he moved through each measure steadily, and within the piano, actions glided up with the touch of the keys, leaping and falling back from the jacks, leaving strings trembling, rows and rows of tiny intricate pieces of metal and wood and sound. On the case, the candles trembled.
As they played, a strand of her hair broke loose from where it had been tucked beneath the flower. It tickled his lip. He didn’t pull back, but closed his eyes, and moved his face closer so that it traced itself over his cheek as he played, over his lips again, now over the lashes of his eyes.
The music rose faster, then dipped sweetly, softer, and then it ended.
Their hands rested together on the piano. She turned her head slightly, her eyes closed. She said his name, her voice composed only of breath.
He asked, “Is this why you came here tonight?”
There was silence and she answered, “No, Mr. Drake.” She whispered it now. “I have been here forever.”
And Edgar lowered his lips to her skin, cool and moist with perspiration. He let himself breathe in the scent of her hair, taste the sweet salt of her neck. Slowly, she moved her hands, and her fingers entwined themselves within his.
And for that moment, everything stopped. The warmth of her fingers, the smoothness of her skin on his calluses. The light of the candle dancing over the soft surface of her cheek, catching only the shadows of the flower. They stayed like this for seconds, or longer, but only the crickets kept time.
It was she who broke their embrace, softly untangling her hands from his, which still rested on the keyboard. She traced her fingers along his arm. I must leave. And he closed his eyes again, inhaled one last time and let her go.
21
He spent the night at the piano, drifting in and out of sleep. It was still dark when he awoke to the sound of the door creaking, footsteps. He opened his eyes, expecting to see the children, but found himself staring into the eyes of an old woman. “Doctor need you. Hurry,” she said, her breath rank with the smell of fermented fish.
“Sorry?” He sat up, still lost in sleep.
“Doctor Carroll need you. Hurry.”
He stood and straightened his shirt. Only then did he associate the Doctor’s call with last night, with Khin Myo.
The old woman led him from the room. It was still early dawn and cold, the sun was long from breaking over the mountain. At the door to the headquarters, she grinned a mouth full of betel-stained teeth and hobbled away down the path. Edgar found the Doctor inside, standing over maps spread out on his desk. “You sent for me,” he said.
The Doctor stared at the maps for a moment before looking up. “Yes, hello, Mr. Drake, please sit down.” He motioned to a chair.
Edgar sat and watched the Doctor flip earnestly through the maps, one hand tracing lines on the paper, the other raised and massaging the back of his neck. Suddenly he looked up and pulled the pince-nez from his nose. “Mr. Drake, my apologies for waking you so early.”
“It is all right, I—”
“This is rather urgent,” the Doctor interrupted. “I just returned several hours ago from Mongpan. We raced to get here.” His voice seemed different, distracted, formal, the timbre of confidence now gone. Only then did Edgar notice that he was still dressed in riding clothes, still splashed with mud. He wore a pistol in his belt. Edgar felt a sudden sense of guilt, This is not about Khin Myo.
“Mr. Drake, it is best that I approach this bluntly.”
“Of course, but—”
“Mae Lwin is going to be attacked.”
Edgar leaned forward, as if to hear him better. “I am sorry, I don’t understand. Attacked?”
“Perhaps tonight.”
There was silence. For a moment, Edgar thought it was a jest, or one of Carroll’s projects, that there was more, which the Doctor would explain. He looked again at the pistol, the m
uddy shirt, Carroll’s eyes, lined and exhausted. “You are serious,” he said as if to himself. “But I thought we signed a treaty. You told me—”
“The treaty still stands. It is not the Limbin Confederacy.”
“Who then?”
“Others. I have enemies. Perhaps shifting alliances, men I once thought were friends, but whose loyalty I now question.” He stared back down at the map. “I wish I could tell you more, but we must prepare …” He paused before looking up again. “I can tell you only this. A month before you arrived, we were attacked—you know this, you were detained in Mandalay. Several of the attackers were later captured, but they refused to reveal who had employed them, even under the pain of torture. Some say they were petty thieves, but I have never seen petty thieves armed so well. What’s more, some of the rifles they carried were British, which meant they had been stolen. Or the men were former allies turned traitors.”
“And now?”
“Two days ago, I traveled to Mongpan, to discuss building a road to Mae Lwin. Only hours after I had arrived, a Shan boy ran into the Prince’s quarters. He had been fishing on one of the small Salween tributaries where he saw a group of men camped in the forest, crept up on them, and listened to their conversations. He couldn’t understand everything, but heard the men talking of a plan to attack Mongpan and then Mae Lwin. Again, they carried British rifles, and this time the group was much larger. If the boy is correct, I am confused about why any dacoits would venture this far onto the Plateau to attack us. There are many possibilities, but I don’t have time to discuss them with you now. If they are in Mongpan already, they may be here as soon as tonight.”
Edgar waited for the Doctor to say more, but he was silent. “And now what will you do?” he ventured.
“From what was described to me, the group is too large for us to defend the site. I have called for reinforcements. I have sent riders out on horseback. Tribes loyal to me will send men, if they can get here soon enough. From Mongpan, from Monghang, from …” He turned again to the map, listing villages, but Edgar was not listening. He thought only of the image of riders descending on Mae Lwin from the hills. He saw the men riding swiftly through the passages of karst, across the Plateau, the banners flying, the ponies’ tails dyed red, of the armies gathering in camp, of the women seeking shelter, of Khin Myo. He thought now of the meeting of the Confederacy of Princes. Now the Doctor wore the same uniform, the same distant stare. Edgar began to speak. “And I—”
“I need your help, Mr. Drake.”
“How? I will do anything. I am not good with a rifle, but—”
“No, more important. Even with reinforcements, Mae Lwin may fall, and even if we are able to repel an attack, it will only be with much damage. It is only a small village.”
“But with more men—”
“Perhaps, or perhaps they will burn the camp. I must think about this. I cannot risk everything I have spent twelve years working for. The army will rebuild Mae Lwin, but I cannot expect more. I have already arranged for my medical equipment, my microscopes, my plant collections, to be moved and hidden. But then—”
“The Erard.”
“I don’t trust my men to carry it out alone. They don’t understand its fragility.”
“But where?”
“Downriver. You will float out this morning. It is only several days to British forts in Karen country. There you will be met by troops who can escort you back to Rangoon.”
“Rangoon?”
“Until we know what is happening. But Mae Lwin is no longer safe for a civilian. The time for that is past.”
Edgar shook his head. “This is all happening too fast, Doctor. Perhaps I can stay … or I can take the piano into the mountains. I cannot bear this …” His voice drifted off. “What about Khin Myo?” he asked, suddenly. I can ask this now, she is part of this, inextricably so, She is no longer in my thoughts only.
The Doctor looked up and his voice grew suddenly stern. “She will stay with me.”
“I only asked because—”
“She is safer here, Mr. Drake.”
“But Doctor—”
“I am sorry, Mr. Drake, but I cannot talk longer. We must make preparations to leave.”
“There must be a way I can stay, now.” Edgar tried to control the panic in his voice.
“Mr. Drake,” said the Doctor slowly, “I do not have time for this. I am not giving you a choice.”
Edgar stared at him. “And I am not one of your soldiers.”
There was a long silence. The Doctor massaged the back of his neck again and stared down at the maps. When he looked up again, his face had softened. “Mr. Drake,” he said, “I am sorry that this had to happen. I know what this means to you, I know more than you think I know. But I have no choice now. I think one day you will understand.”
Edgar stumbled out into the sun.
He stood still and tried to calm himself. Around him, the camp spun with dizzying activity. Men arranged sandbags or ran to the river with rifles and ammunition. Others cut and tied bamboo into sharp ramparts. A line of women and children worked as a fire brigade, filling buckets, clay vessels, cooking pots with water.
“Mr. Drake.” These words from behind him. A small boy held his bag. “I am taking this to the river, sir.” The piano tuner only nodded.
His eyes followed a line of activity up the mountain, where the front wall of the piano room had been completely removed. He could see men working inside, shirtless bodies toiling at a bamboo-and-rope pulley. A crowd had gathered below to watch, buckets of water and rifles still in their hands. Above he heard shouting. Further up the trail, a group of men strained at a rope. He saw the piano lurch into the air, uneasy at first, but in the room the men steadied it, pushing it onto a slide made of long pieces of bamboo that had been lashed together. The men at the rope groaned, the piano swung out on the pulley, flying now, slowly, down, and Edgar heard a ringing as they let it drop, the rope burning their hands. For a long time the piano remained suspended, inching slowly down the bamboo, until at last it touched the ground, and another group of men rushed to catch it, and Edgar took his first breath since he had looked up.
The piano stood on a dry patch of earth. It seemed very small in the light, against the backdrop of the camp.
More shouts and running, bodies moved about him in a blur. He remembered the afternoon he left London on the steamer, how the fog swirled, how all became silent, and he was left alone. He felt a presence beside him.
“You are leaving,” she said.
“Yes.” He looked at her. “You know?”
“He told me.”
“I want to stay, but—”
“You should go. It isn’t safe.” She looked at the ground. She was standing so close to him that he could see the top of her head, the stem of a single purple flower twisting itself into the darkness of her hair.
“Come with me,” he said suddenly.
“You know I can’t.”
“By this evening I will be miles downstream, by morning you and Doctor Carroll may be dead, and I will never know—”
“Don’t say those things.”
“I … hadn’t planned for this. There is so much left that I … I may never see you again, I don’t want to say this, but—”
“Mr. Drake …” She began to speak but stopped. Her eyes were moist. “I am sorry.”
“Please, come with me.”
“I must stay with Anthony,” she said.
Anthony, he thought, I have never heard his name. “I came here because of you,” he said, but already his words sounded empty.
“You came here for something else,” she said, and from the river came a call.
22
They carried the piano through the flowering brush at the edge of the camp and down to the river. There, a raft was waiting, a rough contraption of logs three times the length of the piano. The men splashed into the shallows and set the piano on the raft. They lashed its legs through spaces between th
e logs. They worked quickly, as if familiar with the task. When the piano was secured, a chest was placed on the other end of the raft, and similarly fastened. “Your belongings are inside,” said Carroll.
It was still unclear who among the many men wading through the water, twisting rope, tying, adjusting, would accompany him, until at last the piano was secured and the raft balanced. Then two boys walked up to the bank, picked two rifles each, and walked back to the raft.
“This is Seing To and Tint Naing,” said the Doctor. “They are brothers. They are very skilled boatmen and they speak Burmese. They will accompany you down the river. Nok Lek will go as well, but in a dugout, to scout the rapids ahead. You will float to Karen country, or perhaps as far as Moulmein, which would take five or six days. There you will be deep into British territory and safe.”
“And then what should I do? When should I return?”
“Return? I don’t know, Mr. Drake …” The Doctor was silent, and then held out a small piece of paper, folded and sealed with wax. “I want you to have this.”
“What is it?” said Edgar, surprised by the offer.
The Doctor thought for a moment. “That is for you to decide. You must wait to read it.” Behind him one of the boys said, “We are ready, Mr. Drake, we need to go.”
Edgar extended his hand and took the paper, and folded it once more and slipped into his shirt pocket. “Thank you,” he said quietly, and he stepped onto the raft. They pushed off from the shore. Only looking back at the bank did he see her, standing in the flowers, her body half hidden in the brush. Behind her Mae Lwin rose to the mountain, layers of bamboo homes, one without a wall, open and naked to the river.
The raft was caught by the current and swept downstream.
The rains had swollen the river considerably since Edgar had first floated down months before. He thought of the night they had arrived, descending silently through the darkness. How different a world it seemed from the one in which he now traveled, the wooded banks drenched in heavy sunlight, the garish scintillation of the leaves. Sensing their approach, a pair of birds took off from the shore, flapping under the weight of the light until they caught a current of air and banked downstream. Hoopoe, Upupa epops, Perhaps they are the same ones I saw the day I arrived, he thought, surprised that he knew their name. The boat followed the birds, sunlight flashing off the case of the piano.