The Piano Tuner (32 page)

He continued. Far ahead on the road, he saw a woman walking with
a parasol. It was an image he had seen many times in the lowlands, but not yet
on the Plateau: the sun overhead, a lone woman hidden beneath her parasol, her
dress shimmering in the mirage of the road. The air was still, and he stopped
to watch the thin line of dust rising from her feet. And then suddenly he
realized the incongruity of the scene, that Shan women, with their wide-brimmed
hats or turbans, rarely carried parasols.

A hundred paces away, he
recognized Khin Myo.

She approached without saying anything. She was
wearing a fine red silk
hta main,
and a pressed white cotton blouse
that hung loosely and swayed in the breeze. Her face was painted with thick,
even lines of
thanaka
and her hair was pulled back and fastened with a
pin made of polished teakwood, carved in a delicate filigree. Several strands
had worked themselves loose and fallen over her face. She brushed them back.
“I have been looking for you,” she said. “The cook said that
he had seen you walk up to the village. I wanted to join you. One of the Shan
girls said that the
nwè ni,
‘ipomoea’ I think you
call it, have started to bloom, and I thought we could walk there together. Do
you feel well enough?”

“I think so. I think I am finally
better.”

“I’m glad, I was worried,” she
said.

“So was I … I dreamed a lot … strange,
terrible dreams. I thought I saw you.”

She was silent for a
moment. “I didn’t want you to be alone.” She touched his arm.
“Come, let’s walk.”

As they moved slowly down the
road, the crowd shuffled along behind them. Khin Myo stopped and looked back at
the children. “Are you going to bring your … how do you say
it?”

“Entourage?”

“A French word,
no?”

“I suppose so. I didn’t know you speak
French.”

“I don’t. A couple of words only. Doctor
Carroll likes teaching me the meanings of words.”

“Well, I
would love to learn how to say ‘Go home’ to my entourage. They are
charming, but I am not used to such attention.”

Khin Myo turned
and said something to them. They squealed and ran back several paces before
stopping to watch again. Khin Myo and Edgar continued to walk. The children
didn’t follow.

“What did you tell them?” asked
Edgar.

“I said that Englishmen eat Shan children,” she
answered.

Edgar smiled. “Probably not the type of propaganda we
want,” he said.

“Oh, quite the opposite. A number of the
most famous Shan spirits eat children. And they have been worshiped since long
before you arrived.”

They walked and followed a trail that rose
over a small hill. They passed a house that Khin Myo said belonged to an old
woman with an evil eye, and she warned Edgar to be careful. She said even this
with a playfulness, a lightness, and the sense of sadness he felt from the
memory of their talk by the river seemed distant. They entered a small grove of
trees and began to climb the hill. The trees thinned, and the ground became
spotted with flowers.

“Are these the ones you are looking
for?” asked Edgar.

“No, there is a meadow on the other side
of the ridge. Come.”

They reached the top of the hill and looked
out over a field of tall shrubs, covered with dark red and salmon-colored
flowers.

“Oh, how lovely!” exclaimed Khin Myo, and she ran
down the trail with a childlike gait. Edgar smiled and followed, walking, but
then, reflexively, his legs began to run as well. A little. Khin Myo stopped
and turned, and she started to say something, and Edgar tried to stop, but the
downward momentum of the hill prevented him, and he skipped, once, twice,
before finally stopping before her. He was out of breath, his face red and
flushed.

Khin Myo looked at him and raised an eyebrow. “Were you
just skipping?” she asked.

“Skipping?”

“I think I just saw you skipping.”

“No, never, I
just was running too fast and couldn’t stop.”

Khin Myo
laughed. “I think that I saw you skipping! Mr. Drake …” She
smiled. “And now look, you are blushing.”

“I am not
blushing!”

“You are indeed. Look, you are turning red this
very instant!”

“It is sunburn; that is what happens to
Englishmen when they go out into the sun.”

“Mr. Drake, I
hardly think even
English
skin will burn so quickly beneath a
hat.”

“Exertion then. I am not a young man.”

“Exertion then, Mr. Drake.” And once again she touched his arm.
“Come, let’s look at the flowers.”

It was not the
type of meadow to which Edgar was accustomed, not the soft dew-coated fields he
knew from the English countryside. This was dry, and the stalks and brushes
exploded through the hard soil with hundreds of flowers in hues he
couldn’t imagine, for a man trained to tell the difference in notes may
not recognize the subtlety of vision. “If only it would rain,” said
Khin Myo, “there would be even more flowers.”

“Do you
know the names?” he asked.

“Only a couple. I know more of
the lowland flowers. But Doctor Carroll has taught me some. That one is
honeysuckle. And that one is a type of primrose, also found in China. And that
one is Saint-John’s-wort, those will be wild roses.” She picked
some as she walked.

From over the hill, they heard singing, and a young
Shan girl emerged, first her head, as if disembodied, then her torso, and then
her legs and feet, which pattered along the path. She walked quickly, and
lowered her head in respect. Ten paces along the trail, she turned back to look
at them again, quickened her pace, and disappeared behind a rise.

Neither Edgar nor Khin Myo spoke, and Edgar wondered if Khin Myo had
noticed what had been implied in the young girl’s stare, what it meant
for the two of them to be alone in the meadow of flowers. Finally he cleared
his throat. “Perhaps they will get the wrong idea, if we are alone here
together,” he said, and immediately wished he hadn’t spoken.

“What do you mean?”

“I am sorry, never
mind.” He looked at her. She was standing very close to him, and a wind
from across the meadow mixed the scent of flowers with that of her perfume.

Perhaps she sensed his discomfort, for she didn’t ask again, but
raised the flowers to her nose and said to him, “Come smell, there is
nothing like it.” And slowly, he lowered his head close to hers, only the
scent of the flowers hung in the air between their lips. He had never seen her
so close, the details of her irises, the cleft of her lips, the delicate powder
of
thanaka
that ran across her cheeks.

Finally, she looked up
and said, “It is getting late, Mr. Drake. You have just been sick. We
should go back. Perhaps Doctor Carroll is here already.” And she
didn’t wait for him to answer, but pulled an ipomoea from the bouquet and
reached behind her head to fasten the flower in her hair. She began to walk
back toward camp.

Edgar stood only long enough to watch her walk away,
and then set off down the trail to follow her.

Doctor
Carroll didn’t return that afternoon, but after six months of drought on
the Shan Plateau, the rain did. It caught the two of them as they made their
way down the trail, and they began to run together, laughing, big warm drops
spinning down through the air with the force of hailstones. Within minutes they
were soaked. Khin Myo ran ahead of him with her parasol at her side, her hair
swinging with the weight of the water. The ipomoea stayed briefly, held by the
tension of droplets, and then, carried off by them, drifted to the ground. With
a nimbleness that surprised him, and without breaking the mad muddy rush, Edgar
reached down and picked it up.

At the edge of the village, they ran
through crowds charging up from the river to escape the sudden downpour,
everyone laughing, covering their heads, shouting. For each woman who ran for
shelter, to protect her carefully tied turban, two children rushed out into the
rain, to dance in a swelling puddle in the clearing. Edgar and Khin Myo finally
reached shelter, in front of her room. Water rushed over the lip of the roof
and fell curtainlike, separating them from the shouts that filled the
camp.

“You are soaked,” laughed Khin Myo. “Look at
you.” “And you too,” said Edgar. He watched her, her long
black hair plastered against her neck, her light blouse to her body. Her skin
could be seen through the translucent cloth, the outline of her breast pressing
at the cotton. She looked up at him and brushed wet hair from her face.

He stood and watched her and for a moment she held his gaze, and in the
deep recesses of his chest he felt something stir, a longing, that she would
invite him to her room, to dry off only, of course, he would never ask for
more. To dry off only, and then in the darkness of the room, scented with
coconut and cinnamon, a wish that perhaps their hands would brush, first
accidentally, then again, perhaps, bolder, deliberate, that their fingers would
meet and entwine and they would stand like that for a moment before she looked
up and he looked down. And he wondered if she thought the same, as they stood
outside and felt the coolness of the water on their skin.

And perhaps
it could have been, had Edgar acted with the spontaneity of the rain, had he
moved toward her with the same boldness with which water falls. But not now.
This expects too much of a man whose life is defined by creating order so that
others may make beauty. It expects too much of one who makes rules to ask that
he break them. And so, after a long silence, as they both stand and listen to
the rain, his voice cracks and he says, “We’d better change then. I
must find dry clothes.” Fleeting words that mean little and much.

It rained all afternoon and through the night. In the
morning, when the sky cleared, Doctor Anthony Carroll returned to Mae Lwin,
having ridden all night through the rain, racing through the storm with the
emissary of the Shan Prince of Mongnai.

17

E
dgar was sitting on the balcony,
watching the frothy waters of the Salween pass, when he heard hoofbeats. The
riders broke into camp: Doctor Carroll, followed by Nok Lek and a third man he
didn’t recognize.

A group of boys ran out to help the men
dismount. Even from a distance, Edgar could see that they were soaked. The
Doctor removed his pith helmet and tucked it under his arm. He looked up and
saw the piano tuner outside his room. “Good morning, Mr. Drake,” he
shouted. “Please come down. I would like to introduce you to
someone.”

Edgar pushed himself out of his chair and descended to
the clearing. When he reached the group, the boys had taken the ponies away,
and Carroll was wiping off his gloves. He wore a riding jacket, and puttees
splattered with mud. A damp cheroot hung smoldering between his lips. His face
was flushed and tired. “I trust you have survived in my
absence?”

“Yes, Doctor, thank you. The rains came. I
worked on the piano a bit more. I think it is finally tuned.”

“Excellent, excellent, Mr. Drake. That is exactly what I wanted to
hear, and I will explain why in a moment. First, let me introduce you to Yawng
Shwe.” He turned to his companion, who bowed slightly before offering his
hand. Edgar shook it.

“You can see he is familiar with our
customs,” Carroll said of the visitor.

“A pleasure to meet
you, sir,” said Edgar.

“He doesn’t speak English.
Handshaking only,” said Carroll, wryly. “Yawng Shwe is here as an
emissary from the
sawbwa
of Mongnai. You must have heard of it. It is
to the north. The Shan prince—the
sawbwa—
of the state of
Mongnai has traditionally been one of the most powerful in the cis-Salween
states. We raced to get here because tomorrow the
sawbwa
will visit
Mae Lwin, and I have extended an invitation to him to stay at the camp. It is
his first visit here.” The Doctor stopped. “Come,” he said,
wiping his wet hair back from his face. “Let’s find something to
drink before we talk further. We are completely parched from a night of riding.
And this despite all the rain.”

The four men turned up the slope
and began walking toward the headquarters. At Edgar’s side, Carroll spoke
again. “I am very pleased the piano is ready. It seems that it will be
needed sooner than we thought.”

“Sorry?”

“I would like you to play for the
sawbwa,
Mr. Drake.”
He saw Edgar begin to speak, and interrupted. “I will explain more later.
The
sawbwa
is an accomplished musician, and I’ve told him much
about the piano.”

Edgar stopped walking. “Doctor,” he
protested, “I am not a pianist. I have told you this many
times.”

“Nonsense, Mr. Drake. I have heard you play while
you are tuning. Perhaps you are not ready for a London concert hall, but you
are more than fit to perform in the jungles of Burma. And besides, we have no
other choice. I told him that you came especially for him, and I must sit with
the
sawbwa
to explain the music.” He put his hand on the
tuner’s shoulder and fixed his gaze on him. “There is much at
stake, Mr. Drake.”

Edgar shook his head again, but the Doctor
didn’t give him another chance to speak. “Now let me make our guest
comfortable. I will meet you in your room.” He called out in Shan to a
boy who stood at the door of the headquarters. The emissary of the
sawbwa
laughed and the men disappeared inside.

Edgar returned to his room to wait for the Doctor. He paced nervously, This
is ridiculous, I don’t need to be part of his games, This is not what I
came for, I have told him many times I don’t play, He is like Katherine,
they don’t understand this.

He waited. An hour passed, and then
perhaps two, although he couldn’t be certain, and couldn’t even
indulge the habit of looking at the broken watch, as he had recently left it in
his bags.