Why am I wasting words on my fears and insecurities when I have so much that is beautiful to tell you? I suppose it is because I have no one else to share these thoughts with. In truth, I am already happy in ways that I have never known. I only wish you could be here with me to share this journey.
I will write again soon, my love.
Your devoted husband,
He mailed the letter in Alexandria, a short stop, where the ship took on new passengers, men in flowing robes who spoke a language that seemed to come from deep within their throats. They stayed in port for several hours, time only to wander briefly amid the smells of drying octopus and the scented bags of the spice traders. Soon they were moving again, through the canal at Suez and into another sea.
4
That night, as the boat steamed slowly through the waters of the Red Sea, Edgar couldn’t sleep. At first he tried to read a document provided to him by the War Office, a turgid piece about military campaigns during the Third Anglo-Burmese War, but gave up in boredom. The cabin was stifling, and the small porthole did little to welcome in the sea air. At last he dressed and walked down the long corridor to the companionway leading onto the deck.
Outside it was cool, the sky was clear and the moon full. Weeks from now, after he has heard the myths, he will understand why this was important. Although the English call the thin, anemic slivers of light “new moons,” this is only one way to understand them. Ask any child of the Shan, or the Wa, or the Pa-O, and they will tell you that it is the full moon which is new, for it is fresh and sparkling like the sun, and it is the thin moon which is old and frail, and soon to die. And thus full moons mark beginnings, eras when change begins and one must pay close attention to portent.
Yet there remain many days before Edgar Drake arrives in Burma, and he does not yet know the divinations of the Shan. That there are four classes of auguries, those being the omens from the sky, the omens of flying birds, the omens of feeding fowl, and the omens of the movement of four-footed beasts. He doesn’t know the meanings of comets or halos or showers of meteorites, that divination can be found in the direction of a crane’s flight, that one must look for augury in the eggs of hens, in the swarming of bees, and not only if but also where a lizard, rat, or spider drops on one’s body. That if water in a pond or river turns red, the country will be laid waste by a devastating war; such a portent foretold the destruction of Ayutthaya, the old capital of Siam. That if a man takes anything in his hand and it breaks without apparent cause, or if his turban falls off of its own accord, he will die.
Such auguries need not be invoked for Edgar Drake, not yet. He does not wear a turban and rarely breaks strings when he tunes and repairs, and as he stood on the deck, the sea reflected the light of the moon with a glittering of silver on blue.
The outline of the coast could still be seen, and even the distant wink of a lighthouse. The sky was clear, and sprayed with thousands of stars. He looked out at the sea where waves flashed with their reflections.
The following evening Edgar sat in the dining hall, at the end of a long table laid with clean white cloth. Above him a chandelier betrayed the motion of the ship. An elegant affair, he had written to Katherine, They have spared no luxury. He sat alone and listened to an animated conversation between two officers about a battle in India. His thoughts wandered away, to Burma, to Carroll, to tuning, to pianos, to home.
A voice from behind brought him back to the steamship. “The piano tuner?”
Edgar turned to see a tall man in uniform. “Yes,” he said, swallowing his food and rising to extend his hand. “Drake. And you, sir?”
“Tideworth,” said the man, with a handsome smile. “I am the ship’s captain from Marseilles to Bombay.”
“Of course, Captain, I recognize your name. It is an honor to meet you.”
“No, Mr. Drake. The honor is mine. I am sorry that I could not have met you sooner. I have looked forward to making your acquaintance for several weeks now.”
“My acquaintance, really!” said Edgar. “Whatever for?”
“I should have told you when I introduced myself. I am a friend of Anthony Carroll. He wrote and told me to expect your passage. He is eagerly looking forward to meeting you.“
“And I, him. He is, indeed, my commission.” He laughed.
The Captain motioned to the chairs. “Please, let’s sit,” he said. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your meal.”
“Of course not, Captain, I have eaten enough already. You serve us too well.” They sat down at the table. “So, Doctor Carroll wrote about me? I am curious as to what he said.”
“Not much. I think they haven’t even informed him of your name. He did tell me you were a fine tuner of pianos, and that your safe passage is extremely important to him. He also said that you may be out of sorts on this journey, and that I should watch over you.”
“That is too kind. But I seem to be managing. Although, without an Indian war under my belt”—he tilted his head toward the men beside him—“I am not much for conversation here.”
“Oh, they are usually bores,” answered the Captain, lowering his voice, an unnecessary precaution, for the officers were fairly drunk and hadn’t even noticed his presence.
“Regardless, I hope I am not taking you away from your duties.”
“Not at all, Mr. Drake. The sailing is smooth, as they say. We should be in Aden in six days, if we don’t have any problems. They will call if they need me. Tell me, have you enjoyed the journey?”
“Enchanting. This is my first trip away from England, actually. Everything is beautiful beyond my imagination. I know the Continent mostly through its music, or its pianos.” When the Captain didn’t respond, Edgar added awkwardly, “I am a specialist in Erard pianos. It is a French model.”
The Captain looked at him with curiosity. “And the journey to Alexandria? No pianos there, I imagine.”
“No, no pianos,” he laughed. “But quite a view nonetheless. I have spent hours on deck. It is as though I am a young man again. You must understand.”
“Of course. I still remember the first time I sailed this route. I even wrote poems about it, silly odes about sailing at the cusp of two continents, each vast and barren, stretching through hundreds of miles of sands and fabled cities, each rising to the sky, to the Levant, to the Congo. You can imagine, I am sure. Being at sea has lost none of its thrill, although thankfully I have long abandoned poetry. Tell me, have you made the acquaintance of any of the other passengers?”
“Not really. I am not the outgoing sort. The passage is thrilling enough. It is all quite new for me.”
“Well, it’s a pity you haven’t met more of the others. They are always an extraordinary lot. Without them, I might even tire of this view.”
“Extraordinary. How so?”
“Oh, if only I had the hours to tell you all the tales of my passengers. Where they embark is exotic enough. Not only from Europe or Asia, but any of the thousands of ports of call along the Mediterranean, the North African coast, Arabia. They call this route ‘the axis of the world.’ The stories, though! I need only to look around the room…” He leaned closer. “For example, over there at the back table, do you see the old gentleman dining with that white-haired woman?”
“I do. He is probably the oldest fellow on the ship.”
“His name is William Penfield. Former officer with the East India Company. ‘Bloody Bill,’ they called him. Perhaps the most decorated and violent soldier to serve in the colonies.”
“That old man?”
“The same. Next time you are near him, look at his left hand. He is missing two fingers from a skirmish during his first tour. His men used to joke that he took a thousand lives for each of his fingers.”
“Terrible.”