The Piano Tuner (13 page)

At last the men
ceased talking among themselves, and one of them rode up to Dalton and began to
speak. Edgar was too distracted to follow the conversation. His glasses steamed
over and he took them from his nose and wiped them on his shirt. He put them
back on his face and they fogged again. He took them off. After the third time,
he let them sit on his face, watching the forest through the thin layer of
condensation.

Up ahead, Dalton had finished conferring with the
Burman. “All right then,” he shouted, and turned his horse around,
the animal’s hooves trampling the tangle of underbrush. “I spoke to
our guide. He says that he rode to the nearest village and asked the villagers
about the tiger. Apparently, it was sighted only yesterday tearing the throat
from the breeding sow of a local swineherd. The whole village is distraught,
one of the soothsayers said that this same tiger is the one that killed an
infant two years ago. So they are organizing their own tiger hunt, trying to
flush it out of the jungle. They said that we can try to hunt it. It was last
sighted three miles north of here. Or, he said we could try heading south to a
series of swamps where there are many wild boars.”

“I
didn’t come all the way out here to shoot pigs,” Fogg
interjected.

“Nor did I,” said Witherspoon.

“And Mr. Drake,” asked Dalton. “Your vote?”

“Oh, I won’t even be firing a shot. I couldn’t hit a
stuffed, glazed pig if it lay on the table in front of me, let alone a boar.
You decide.”

“Well, I haven’t hunted a tiger in
months,” said Dalton.

“It’s decided then,”
said Witherspoon.

“Just watch where you fire,” said Dalton.
“Not everything that moves is a tiger. And Mr. Drake, be careful of
snakes. Don’t grab anything that looks like a stick unless you are
certain that it doesn’t have fangs.” He kicked his horse’s
flank, and the other men followed, winding on through the forest.

The
vegetation grew thicker, and they stopped frequently for the first rider to cut
at vines that hung over the trail. More plants seemed to grow from the trees
than from the ground, twisting creepers that climbed vines toward the sunlight.
Jagged epiphytes, orchids, pitcher plants, clung to the larger trees, losing
their roots in the confusion of shoots that crisscrossed the sky. Edgar had
always enjoyed gardens, and he prided himself on his knowledge of Latin plant
names, but he searched in vain for a plant he could recognize. Even the trees
were foreign, massive, borne by elephantine trunks that stretched across the
ground with finlike buttress roots, tall enough to hide a tiger behind their
walls.

They rode for another half hour, and passed the ruins of a
small structure, wrapped in the tangled roots of the trees. The Englishmen rode
past it without stopping. Edgar wanted to call out to ask what it was, but his
companions were too far ahead. He turned to look at the stones, hidden in moss.
Behind him, the Burmans also seemed to notice. One of the men, who had been
carrying a small wreath of flowers, quickly dismounted and laid it at the base
of the ruins. Edgar turned as his horse walked on. Through the tessellations of
hanging vines, he saw the man bow, and then the vision was lost, the vines
closed in, and his horse pushed forward.

The others had ridden ahead,
and he almost collided with them at a turn in the trail. They were all gathered
at the base of a large tree. Dalton and Witherspoon were arguing in a
whisper.

“Just one shot,” Witherspoon was saying.
“You can’t let a pelt like that pass. I promise I could get it in
one shot.”

“I told you, for all we know, the tiger could be
watching us. Fire now, and you will scare it away for certain.”

“Nonsense,” said Witherspoon. “The tiger is scared
already. Three years and I don’t have a good monkey pelt. They are always
so old, and the only fine pelt I could have had was ruined by an inept
skinner.”

Edgar followed the direction of their argument up the
tall tree. At first he saw nothing, only a tangle of leaves and vines. But then
something moved, and the small head of a young monkey poked out over an
epiphyte. Edgar heard a rifle being loaded next to him and Dalton’s voice
again, “I am telling you, leave it alone,” and then above, the
monkey seemed to sense something was wrong, lifted itself up, and began to
leap. Witherspoon raised the rifle, and Dalton again, “Hold your fire,
damn it,” and then above, the monkey’s jump was matched by the
flick of Witherspoon’s finger, the flash from the gun barrel, the
explosion of the shot. For a brief second there was a pause, silence, as above
a scattering of debris from where the monkey had jumped drifted down through
the clearing. And then Edgar heard another sound, directly above, a soft
chirping, and he looked up to see a figure, silhouetted against the backdrop of
trees and fragments of sky, falling. It seemed so slow, the body rotating in
space, tail streaming up, fluttering, avian in its descent. He stared
transfixed as the monkey fell past him, not three feet from his horse, and
crashed into the brush. There was a long pause, and then Dalton cursed and
kicked his horse forward. One of the Burmans jumped down from his saddle,
picked up the monkey, and held it out to Witherspoon to inspect the coat, now
bloody and matted with dirt. He nodded at the Burman, who threw the monkey into
a canvas sack. Then Witherspoon kicked, and the group moved forward. Following
behind, Edgar watched the tiny figure in the bag swing against the side of the
horse, shifting shadows of the forest playing over the stain of red that spread
across the canvas.

They marched forward. Near a small stream, they
passed through a swarm of mosquitoes, which Edgar tried to wave away from his
face. One landed on his hand, and he watched it with fascination as it probed
his skin, looking for a place to bite. It was much larger than those he had
seen in England, with tiger-striped legs. Today, I am the first to slay the
tiger, Edgar thought, and he crushed it with a slap of his hand. Another
landed, and he let it bite, watching it drink, its belly swelling, and then
this one he crushed as well, smearing his own blood over his arm.

The
forest thinned and opened into rice fields. They passed several women bent over
in the mud, planting seeds. The road widened, and they could see a village in
the distance, a scrambled mass of bamboo houses. As they approached, a man came
out and greeted them. He was wearing nothing but a worn red
paso,
and
spoke with animation to the head rider, who translated.

“This
man is one of the village leaders. He says that they sighted the tiger this
morning. Men from this village have joined in the hunt. He begged us to join
them too. They have very few guns. He will send a boy with us as a
guide.”

“Excellent,” said Dalton, unable to control
his excitement. “I thought that after Witherspoon’s hastiness, we
had lost our chance.”

“And I will have a fine tiger pelt in
addition to the monkey,” said Witherspoon.

Even Edgar felt his
blood surge. The tiger was close, and dangerous. The only other time he had
seen a tiger was at the London Zoo, a thin, pathetic animal losing its hair to
a disease that puzzled even London’s best veterinary surgeons. His
discomfort at having to kill something—amplified by the shooting of the
baby monkey—vanished. Indeed, Dalton was right, this village needs us, he
thought. He looked behind the villager, to where a group of women had gathered,
each of whom held a baby against her hip. He felt a tugging at his boot and
looked down to see a naked little boy touching the stirrups.
“Hello,” he said, and the boy stared upward. His face was smeared
with dust and mucus. “You are a handsome little fellow, but quite in need
of a bath.”

Fogg heard him talking and turned. “Made a
friend, I see, Mr. Drake?”

“Seems to be the case,”
Edgar said. “Here.” He rummaged in his pocket until he found an
anna. He tossed it down. The boy reached out but missed it, and the coin
bounced into a small puddle by the side of the road. The boy dropped to his
knees and thrust his hands into the water, searching for the coin, a frightened
look on his face. Suddenly his hand grasped something, and he pulled the coin
from the water and looked at it triumphantly. He spat on his hand and wiped off
the coin, then scampered back to show his friends. Within seconds they were
gathered around Edgar’s horse. “No,” said Edgar. “No
more coins.” He looked forward and tried to ignore the little
outstretched hands.

The villager who had spoken to them left the group
and returned minutes later with an older boy, who climbed onto the horse of the
first rider. They followed a trail that led out of the village and ran between
the rice fields and the uncleared jungle. Behind them, the group of boys ran in
gleeful pursuit, their bare feet pattering across the road. At the base of the
slope, they turned away from the fields, following a rough clearing which
skirted the forest. Soon they passed two men standing at the edge of the
jungle. Naked to the waist, one of the men wore a poor imitation of a British
helmet and held a rusty old rifle.

“A soldier,” Witherspoon
joked. “I hope he didn’t get that from someone he shot.”

Edgar frowned. Fogg chuckled. “I wouldn’t worry. Defects
from our factories in Calcutta have an astonishing way of finding their way
into places where even our soldiers are afraid to travel.”

Dalton rode up with their guide. “Have they seen the tiger?”
Fogg asked.

“Not today, but it was last seen near here. We should
load our rifles. Drake, you too.”

“Oh, really, I
don’t think …”

“We are going to need all the
firepower possible if the beast rushes us. Now, where did all those little
children go?”

“I don’t know, I saw them chasing a
bird into the forest.”

“Good. Let’s not play Father
Christmas here. The last thing we want is an entourage of noisy
children.”

“Sorry, I didn’t think—”

Suddenly Witherspoon raised his hand. “Shhh!”

Dalton
and Edgar looked at him. “What is it?”

“I
don’t know. Something in the bushes at the far end of the
clearing.”

“Come on, move carefully.” Dalton kicked
at his horse. The party advanced slowly.

“There, now I see
it!” This time it came from their guide. He raised his arm and pointed to
thick bushes. The horses stopped. They were now less than twenty yards from the
edge of the clearing.

Edgar felt his heart pound as he followed the
man’s arm toward the forest. There was stillness, a slowing, and he
gripped his gun and felt the tension of his finger against the trigger. At his
side Witherspoon raised his rifle.

They waited. The bushes
trembled.

“Blast it, I can’t see a thing. It could be
anywhere in there.”

“Don’t fire unless you know it is
the tiger. You took enough chances in the forest with that monkey. We have one
chance, and we all need to fire at once.”

“It’s
there, Captain.”

“Easy now.”

“Damn it,
get your rifles ready. It’s moving again.” Witherspoon cocked his
rifle and peered through the sights. There was movement in the bushes, slinking
steadily, the shaking growing stronger. “It’s coming. Get your
rifles up.”

“All right, rifles up. Mr. Drake, you too. We
only have one shot at this. Fogg?”

“Locked and loaded. You
call the shot, Captain.”

Edgar felt cold sweat break out over his
body. His arms were shaking. He could barely raise the rifle stock to his
shoulder.

Above them, a vulture flew, looking down on the scene, a
group of eight men, five horses, standing in the dry grass of the clearing,
hedged on either side by dense jungle that stretched out over the hills.
Behind, in the rice fields, a group of women was advancing toward them, walking
faster, now running.

Edgar’s horse stood in the back of the
group, and so he saw the women first. They seemed to be shouting. He turned and
yelled, “Captain!”

“Quiet, Drake, it’s
coming.”

“Captain, wait.”

“Shut up,
Drake,” Witherspoon snarled, not dropping his eyes from the sights.

But then they heard the shouts too, and Dalton turned. “What is going
on?”

The Burman said something. Edgar turned back to look at the
bushes. They were shaking more strongly. He could hear the crash of feet in the
underbrush.

The women were screaming.

“What the hell is
going on?”

“Someone shut them up. They are going to scare
it away.”

“Witherspoon, drop your rifle.”

“Don’t ruin this, Dalton.”

“Witherspoon, I
told you, drop the rifle. Something is wrong.”

The women were
closer. Their cries rose up above the men’s voices.

“Damn!
Someone get them to shut up. Fogg, do something!”

Edgar could
see Witherspoon stare down his rifle. Fogg, who had been silent until now,
swung around on his horse and faced the women. “Halt!” he yelled.
The women kept running, crying, lifting the edge of their
hta mains
as
they came.

“Halt! Damn you!”

All was a blur, the
running, the shouts, the incessant sun.

Edgar whirled to look back at
the forest.

“There it is!” Fogg yelled.

“Captain! Drop your weapon!” Dalton shouted, and kicked his
horse toward Witherspoon, who tightened his grip on his rifle and fired.

The rest remains frozen, a sun-washed memory, a slanting.
There are cries and screams, but it is the slanting that will haunt Edgar Drake
most, the impossible angle of grief, mother to child, the arms outstretched,
reaching, pulling at those who try to restrain. A slanting he has never seen,
but still recognizes, from pietàs, Greek urns with tiny figures wailing
oi moi.

He stands and watches for a long time, but it will be
days before the horror of what happened comes to him, slamming into his chest,
entering him as if he is suddenly possessed. It will happen at an
officers’ function at the Administrator’s residence, when he will
see a servant girl walk by, carrying her child on her hip. Then it will come,
he will feel himself drowning, choking, mumbling half excuses to puzzled
officers who ask him if he is feeling well, and he, Yes, don’t worry, I
am just a little faint, that’s all, and now stumbling, outside and down
the steps, into the garden, where he will fall vomiting into the roses, tears
welling up behind his eyes, and he will begin to cry, sobbing, shaking, a grief
beyond all proportion, so that later he will think back and wonder for what
else he mourned.