Daniel Mason
The Piano Tuner
For my grandmother, Halina
“Brothers,” I said, “o you who have crossed a hundred thousand dangers, reach the west to this brief waking time that is left unto your senses, you must not deny experience of that which lies beyond the sun, and all the world that is unpeopled.”
Music, to create harmony, must investigate discord.
In the fleeting seconds of final memory, the image that will become Burma is the sun and a woman’s parasol. He has wondered which visions would remain—the Salweens coursing coffee flow after a storm, the predawn palisades of fishing nets, the glow of ground turmeric, the weep of jungle vines. For months the images trembled in the back of his eyes, at times flaming and fading away like candles, at times fighting to be seen, thrust forward like the goods of jostling bazaar merchants. Or at times simply passing, blurred freight wagons in a traveling circus, each one a story that challenged credibility, not for any fault of plot, but because Nature could not permit such a condensation of color without theft and vacuum in the remaining parts of the world.
Yet above these visions, the sun rises searing, pouring over them like a gleaming white paint. The Bedin-saya, who interpret dreams in shaded, scented corners of the markets, told him a tale that the sun that rose in Burma was different from the sun that rose in the rest of the world. He only needed to look at the sky to know this. To see how it washed the roads, filling the cracks and shadows, destroying perspective and texture. To see how it burned, flickered, flamed, the edge of the horizon like a daguerreotype on fire, overexposed and edges curling. How it turned liquid the sky, the banyan trees, the thick air, his breath, throat, and his blood. How the mirages invaded from distant roads to twist his hands. How his skin peeled and cracked.
Now this sun hangs above a dry road. Beneath it, a lone woman walks under a parasol, her thin cotton dress trembling in the breeze, her bare feet carrying her away toward the edge of perception. He watches her, how she approaches the sun, alone. He thinks of calling out to her, but he cannot speak.
The woman walks into a mirage, into the ghost reflection of light and water that the Burmese call than hlat. Around her, the air wavers, splitting her body, separating, spinning. And then she too disappears. Now only the sun and the parasol remain.
War Office
London
October 24, 1886
Dear Mr. Drake,
I have been informed by our staff that you have received our office’s request for service in the name of Her Majesty, but have not yet been notified as to the nature of your mission. This letter serves to explain the specifics and urgency of a most serious matter, and requests that you report to the War Office, where you will be further briefed by Colonel Killian, Director of Operations for the Burma Division, as well as myself.
A brief history of this matter. As you are most likely aware, since our occupation of the coastal states of Burma sixty years ago, through the recent annexation of Mandalay and Upper Burma, Her Majesty has seen the occupation and pacification of the territory as central to the security of our Empire throughout Asia. Despite our military victories, several developments seriously endanger our Burmese possessions. Recent intelligence reports have confirmed the consolidation of French forces along the Mekong River in Indo-China, while within Burma, local insurgence threatens our hold on the remoter regions of the country.
In 1869, during the reign of the Burmese king Mindon Min, we stationed in Burma a physician named Surgeon-Major Anthony Carroll, a graduate of University College Hospital in London, who, in 1874, was appointed to a remote post in the Shan States, in the eastern reaches of the colony. Since his arrival, Surgeon-Major Carroll has been indispensable to the army, well beyond his immediate medical duties. He has made remarkable progress in forming alliances with native princes, and, although distant from our command, his site provides critical access to the southern Shan Plateau, and rapid deployment of troops to the Siamese border. The details of Carroll’s success are rather unusual, and you will be duly briefed when you report to the War Office. Of concern to the Crown now is a most peculiar note received from the Surgeon-Major last month, the latest in a series of somewhat vexing communications regarding his interest in a piano.
The source of our concern follows: although we are accustomed to receiving unusual requests from the Surgeon-Major with regard to his medical investigations, we were perplexed by a letter that arrived last December, requesting the immediate purchase and delivery of one Erard grand piano. At first, our officers in Mandalay were skeptical of the inquiry, until a second message arrived by courier two days later, insisting on the seriousness of the demand, as if Carroll had correctly anticipated the incredulity of our staff. Our reply, that the delivery of a grand piano was logistically impossible, was answered by the arrival of yet another breathless messenger one week later. He brought a simple note, whose contents merit reprinting in fulclass="underline"
Gentlemen,
With all due respect to your office, I hereby resubmit my request for a piano. I know the importance of my post to the security of this region. Lest the urgency of my request again be misunderstood, be assured that I will resign my post if the piano is not delivered to me within three months. I am well aware that my rank and years of service entitle me to honorable discharge and full benefits, should I return to England.
As you might imagine, this letter precipitated serious consternation among our staff. The Surgeon-Major had been a flawless servant of the Crown; his record was exemplary, yet he understood well our dependence on him and his alliances with the local princes, as well as how critical such alliances are for any European power. After some debate, we approved his request and an 1840 Erard grand piano was shipped from England in January, arriving in Mandalay in early February, and transported to the site by elephant and foot by Carroll himself. Although the entire escapade was the source of considerable frustration for some of our staff in Burma, nevertheless it was a successful mission. In the following months, Carroll continued his fine service, making excellent progress in surveying supply routes through the Shan Plateau. Then last month we received another request. The humidity, it appears, has stretched the body of the Erard such that it is no longer in tune, and all local attempts to mend the instrument have failed.
And thus we arrive at the intent of this correspondence. In his letter, Carroll specifically requested a tuner who specializes in Erard grands. While we replied that perhaps there were some easier means by which the piano could be repaired, the Surgeon-Major remained adamant. At last we agreed, and a survey of London piano tuners has produced a list of several fine craftsmen. As you must know, most of the practitioners of your craft are quite advanced in age and not fit for difficult travel. A more detailed inquiry led us to the names of yourself and Mr. Claude Hastings of Poultry, in the City. As you are listed as an expert in Erard pianos, we felt it appropriate to solicit your service. Should you refuse our request, we will proceed to contact Mr. Hastings. The Crown is prepared to reimburse you with a fee equivalent to one year of work for service of three months.
Mr. Drake, your skills and experience commend you to this mission of extreme importance. We graciously request that you contact our office as soon as possible to discuss this matter.
Respectfully yours,
It was late afternoon. Sunlight streaked through a small window to light a room filled with the frames of pianos. Edgar Drake, Piano Tuner, Erards-a-Specialty, put the letter down on his desk. An 1840 grand is beautiful, he thought, and he folded the letter gently and slid it into his coat pocket. And Burma is far.