“Do you find yourself in that story as well, Captain?” Edgar asked, turning toward him.
The Captain shook his head. “No, I have not abandoned everything,” he said, and paused. “But there are those who have.”
“Anthony Carroll,” said the piano tuner softly.
“Or others, perhaps,” said Khin Myo.
11
In the dry season, the quickest route to Mae Lwin would have been by elephant, along a trail that had been cut by Shan troops during the Second Anglo-Burmese War and was now used sporadically by opium smugglers. But recently the road had fallen under attack, and Captain Nash-Burnham suggested that they travel by elephant to a small tributary of the Salween east of Loilem, and from there by dugout to Carroll’s camp. Nash-Burnham couldn’t accompany them, he had work to attend to in Mandalay. “But please give my regards to the Doctor,” he said. “Tell him that we miss him in Mandalay.” It seemed an odd moment for such simple pleasantries, and Edgar expected him to say something else, but the Captain only touched his helmet in farewell.
On the morning of his departure, Edgar was awakened by Khin Myo, who told him through his bedroom door that there was a man to see him. When he went to the entrance, he was disappointed not to see any elephants as planned, but only a young Burman he recognized from the staff at the Administrator’s residence. The man was breathless. “On behalf of the Administrator, I apologetically announce that your departure will be subject to a certain delay.” Edgar tried to hide his smile at the stilted English, afraid it would convey approval of the news. “When does the Administrator expect that I may leave?” he asked.
“Oh sir! I have no knowledge of that! You may inquire of His Respectfulness yourself.”
“Can you at least tell me if we will be leaving later today?”
“Oh no! Not today, sir!”
The emphasis of the reply silenced Edgar, who meant to say something, but only nodded and closed the door. He shrugged to Khin Myo, who said “British efficiency?” and he went back to sleep. Later in the afternoon, he finished a long letter to Katherine that he had been writing for several days, describing his visit to the puppet theater. He had begun to grow accustomed to the bureaucratic delays. The following day he wrote more letters, one about the much discussed looting of Mandalay Palace by British soldiers, the second describing the current craze over “the Hairy Lady of Mandalay,” a distant relative of the royal family whose entire body was covered with long smooth hair. And the day after that he took a long walk through the bazaar. And waited.
Yet by the fourth day after the scheduled departure, restlessness overcame the natural sense of respect and patience of a man who had spent his career repairing strings and tiny hammers. He walked to the Administrator’s residence to inquire when they would be departing. He was greeted at the door by the same Burman who had visited his quarters. “Oh, Mr. Drake!” he exclaimed. “But the Administrator is in Rangoon!”
At army headquarters, he inquired about Captain Nash-Burnham. The young subaltern at the entrance looked puzzled. “I thought you had been informed, Captain Nash-Burnham is in Rangoon, with the Administrator.”
“May I ask what his business is? I was supposed to leave for Mae Lwin four days ago. I have come a long way and so much effort has been devoted to bringing me here. It would be a shame were I to waste any more time.”
The subaltern’s face turned red. “I thought they had told you. It…excuse me, wait one moment.” He rose quickly and entered a back office. Edgar could hear hushed whispering. The man returned. “Please follow me, Mr. Drake.”
The subaltern showed him into a small room, empty except for a desk piled high with stacks of papers, held down by roughly carved figurines used locally to weigh opium. The weights were unnecessary; there was no breeze. The subaltern closed the door behind him. “Please sit down.
“Mae Lwin has been attacked,” he said.
The details of the story were unclear, as was the identity of the attackers. The night before Edgar was due to depart, a messenger on horseback had arrived at the Administrator’s residence. He reported that two days before, Mae Lwin had been raided by a group of masked riders, who had set fire to one of the storage depots and killed a guard. In the confusion that followed, a brief battle had broken out, and another Shan sentry had been shot. Carroll was safe, but concerned. It was suspected that Twet Nga Lu, the bandit chief who was fighting his own war for the state of Mongnai, was behind the attack. Most of the supplies in the storage depot had been rescued, but several of the Surgeon-Major’s jars of elixir had been damaged. “Apparently a stray bullet also struck”—but then the subaltern stopped himself, and chose his words more carefully—“other supplies important to the Doctor’s current work.”
“Not the Erard?”
The subaltern leaned back in his chair. “Mr. Drake, I understand the importance of your mission, and I understand the severe conditions you have endured to arrive here in a most impressive show of respect for and dedication to the Crown.” He let the final word hang. “This attack comes at a very precarious time. As you may know, we have been directly engaged in military activities in the Shan States since November last year. A column led by Colonel Stedman left Mandalay earlier this month. Then, only six days ago, we received reports that they had been attacked. Because of the concentration of Limbin Confederacy forces in that region, the attack on our troops was not a surprise. The attack on Mae Lwin, however, was a surprise, and it is unclear who the masked riders were, or where they obtained their rifles. There is speculation that they may even be supplied by French forces, whose whereabouts are unknown. For security reasons, unfortunately I cannot tell you much more.”
Edgar stared at the subaltern.
“I don’t mean to disappoint you, Mr. Drake. Indeed, I am speaking without authorization, as ultimately these decisions will be made in Rangoon. But I do want you to understand the reality of our situation. When Captain Nash-Burnham returns, he will be able to discuss if you are to remain in Mandalay or return by steamship to Rangoon. Until then I suggest you enjoy the amenities here and not worry yourself too much.” The subaltern leaned forward on the desk. “Mr. Drake?”
The piano tuner said nothing.
“Mae Lwin is a foul place, Mr. Drake, despite whatever they have told you to bring you here. It is swampy and malarial, hardly a climate befitting an Englishman. And to add to that, the danger of these most recent attacks…perhaps it will be best to abandon the site entirely. I would not be disappointed. Indeed, I think you are fortunate already to have seen the finest cities of Burma.”
Edgar waited. The room was stiflingly hot. Finally, he stood. “Well, thank you then. I guess I must be going now.”
The subaltern extended his hand. “And Mr. Drake, please do not share this conversation with our superiors. Although your mission is minor, generally it is Captain Nash-Burnham who deals with civilian affairs.”
“It is minor, isn’t it? No, don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone. Thank you.”
The subaltern smiled. “Think nothing of it.”
Dear Katherine,
I do not know which will reach you first, this letter or myself. One week has passed since the scheduled date of my departure, and still I remain in Mandalay. I have already written many descriptions of this city to you, but I apologize that I no longer have the enthusiasm for more. Indeed, all this has become very confusing, and developments now cast doubt over whether I will ever even meet Dr. Carroll or his Erard.
Mae Lwin has been attacked. I learned this from a subaltern at army headquarters. But I have learned little else. Whenever I ask anyone what is happening, I am answered only by blank stares or evasion. “A major strategy meeting is being held in Rangoon,” they say. Or “This incident can not be taken lightly.” Yet it puzzles me that Dr. Carroll has not been summoned to the meeting; by all accounts he is still in Mae Lwin. They say this is because of the military importance of maintaining the fort, a good enough explanation, it seems, except something about the way they say it bothers me. At first I was somewhat thrilled by the possibility of intrigue or scandal—after all, what would be more fitting in a country where everything else is so elusive? But even this has begun to exhaust me. The most scandalous option I can think of, that Dr. Carroll is being kept from a critical decision, doesn’t seem so scandalous any longer. They say a man with an obsession for a piano could hardly be immune to other eccentricities, that this man should not be trusted with such an important post. What is most painful for me is that, in some ways, I find myself agreeing. A piano means nothing if the French are planning to invade across the Mekong. What makes this so difficult to accept is that if I question the Doctor, I question myself.