They walk. Through the darkened gardens, flowers dripping with rain. The sky is low, the leaves yellow. She takes his hand and leads him away from the long avenues and across the emerald lawns, two tiny figures moving through the green. He doesn’t ask where they are going, but listens to the mud suck at his boots, foul sounds. The sky hangs low and gray, and there is no sun.
She takes him to a small arbor and it is dry there, and he brushes her wet hair from her face. Her nose is cold. He will remember this.
Day turns to night.
And it is November 26,1886.
A carriage pulls up to the Royal Albert Dock. Two men in pressed army uniforms emerge and open the doors for a middle-aged man and woman. They step tentatively to the ground, as if it is the first time they have ridden in a military vehicle, its steps are higher, and its threshold thicker to support the carriage over rough terrain. One of the soldiers points to the ship, and the man looks at it and then turns back to the woman. They stand by each other and he kisses her lightly. Then he turns and follows the two soldiers toward the boat. Each carries a trunk, he a smaller bag.
There is little fanfare, no bottles broken over the bow—this custom being reserved for the christeners of maiden voyages and the drunks who sleep at the dock and occasionally wash up at the fairgrounds downstream. From the deck, the passengers stand and wave to the crowd. They wave back.
The engines start to rumble.
As they begin to move, the fog closes in over the river. Like a curtain, it covers the buildings and the piers and those who have come to bid good-bye to the steamship. Midstream, the fog grows thicker and creeps over the deck, erasing even the passengers from one another.
Slowly, one by one, the passengers return inside, and Edgar remains alone. Mist beads on his glasses and he removes them to wipe them on his waistcoat. He tries to peer through the fog, but it reveals nothing of the passing shoreline. Behind him, it obliterates the ship’s smokestack, and he feels as if he is floating in emptiness. He holds his hand out before him and watches as the swirls of white wrap around it in currents of tiny droplets.
White. Like a clean piece of paper, like uncarved ivory, all is white when the story begins.
3
November 30,1886
Dear Katherine,
It has now been five days since I left London. I am sorry I have not written to you sooner, but Alexandria is our first mail stop since Marseilles, so I have decided to wait to write rather than send you letters which bear only old thoughts.
My dear, beloved Katherine, how can I describe the last few days to you? And how I wish that you were here on this journey to see everything that I am seeing! Just yesterday morning, a new coastline appeared on the starboard side of the ship and I asked one of the sailors what it was. He answered “Africa” and seemed quite surprised by my question. Of course I felt foolish, but I could hardly control my excitement. This world seems both so small and so vast.
I have much to write, but before all else, let me tell you about the voyage thus far, beginning from when we said good-bye. The journey from London to Calais was uneventful. The fog was thick and rarely parted long enough to give us a glimpse of anything more than the waves. The trip takes but a few hours. When we arrived in Calais, it was night, and we were taken by carriage to the train station, where we boarded a train for Paris. As you know, I have always dreamed of visiting the adopted home of Sebastien Erard. But no sooner had we arrived than I was on another train heading south. France really is a beautiful country, and our route took us past golden pastures, and vineyards, and even fields of lavender (famous for their perfumes– which I promise to bring you when I return). As for the French people, I have less positive words, as none of the Frenchmen I happened to meet had ever heard of Erard or the mécanisme à étrier, Erard’s great innovation. They only stared at my inquiries as if I were mad.
In Marseilles we boarded another ship, owned by the same line, and soon we were steaming across the Mediterranean. How I wish you could see the beauty of these waters! They are a blue like none that I have ever seen before. The closest color I can think of is the early nighttime sky, or perhaps sapphires. The camera is a wonderful invention indeed, but how I wish we could take photographs in true color so you could see for yourself what I mean. You must go to the National Gallery and look for Turner’s Fighting Temeraire, it is the closest to this that I can imagine. It is very warm, and I have already forgotten the cold English winters. I spent much of the first day on deck and ended up with quite a sunburn. I must remember to wear my hat.
After the first day, we passed through the Strait of Bonifacio, which runs between the islands of Sardinia and Corsica. From the ship we could see the Italian coastline. It looks very still and peaceful, and it was. It is hard to imagine the tumultuous history that was born deep in those hills, that this is the country that gave birth to Verdi, Vivaldi, Rossini, and, most of all, Cristofori.
How to describe my days to you? Apart from simply sitting on the deck and staring at the sea, I have spent many hours reading reports sent by Anthony Carroll. It is strange to think that this man, who has occupied my thoughts for weeks now, does not yet even know my name. Regardless, he does have extraordinary tastes. I opened one of the packages of sheet music that I was given to deliver to him, and found it to contain Liszt’s Piano Concerto no. 1, Schumann’s Toccata in C Major, and others. There are some sheets whose music I don’t recognize, and when I try humming them out I can’t decipher any melody. I will have to ask him about these when I reach his camp.
Tomorrow we stop in Alexandria. The coast is very close now, and in the distance I can see minarets. This morning we passed a small fishing boat, and a local fisherman stood and watched us steam by, a net hanging loosely from his hands, so close that I could see the dried salt which dusted his skin. And less than a week ago I was still in London! Alas, we will stay only a short time in port and I will have no time to visit the Pyramids.
There is so much more I want to tell you…the moon is almost full now, and at night I often go on deck to stare at it. I have heard that the Orientals believe that there is a rabbit in the moon, but I still cannot see this, only a man, winking, mouth wide open in surprise and wonder. And now I think I understand why he looks so, for if all is wondrous from the deck of a ship, imagine what it must be like from the moon. Two nights ago I couldn’t sleep for all the heat and excitement, and I went on deck. I was looking out at the ocean when slowly, not a hundred yards from the ship, the water began to shimmer. At first I thought it was the reflection of the stars, but it appeared to take form, glowing like thousands of tiny fires, like the streets of London at night. By its brightening, I expected to see a bizarre sea animal, but it stayed amorphous, floating on the water. It stretched for nearly a mile, and then, after we had passed it and I turned back to look for it in the sea, it was gone. Then last night, the beast of light came again, and I learned from a traveling naturalist who had come to the deck to look at the sky that the light was not the light of one monster, but millions, microscopic creatures that the man called “diatoms,” and that similar creatures dye the Red Sea its famous color. Katherine, what a strange world this is where the invisible can illuminate the waters and color the very sea red.
My dear, I must go now. It is late, and I miss you terribly, and I hope you are not lonely. Please do not worry about me. In truth, I was a little frightened when I left, and sometimes when I lie in bed, I question why I am going. I still don’t have an answer. I remember what you told me in London, that it is such noble work, that it is my duty to my country, but this cannot be: I never enlisted in the army when I was young, and have little interest in our foreign affairs. I know it made you angry when I suggested that it was my duty to the piano and not the Crown, but I still feel very strongly that Dr. Carroll is doing the proper thing, and that if I can help in the cause of Music, perhaps that is my duty. Part of my decision certainly rests in my confidence in Dr. Carroll, and a sense of shared mission with him and his desire to bring the music I find beautiful to places where others have only thought of bringing guns. I know that such sentiments often pale when faced with reality. I do miss you dearly, and I hope that I am not on some hopeless mission. But you know that I am not one to take unnecessary risks. I might be more frightened than you by stories I hear about the war and the jungle.