My darling Katherine, when I first left England, part of me doubted that I would ever reach Mae Lwin. It seemed too distant, its path beset with too many contingencies. Yet now, now that the cancellation of my mission seems more likely, I cannot believe I will not go there. For the past six weeks, I have thought about little but Mae Lwin. I have resketched the fort in my mind from maps and others’ accounts. I have made lists of things I will do when I arrive, of the mountains and streams described in Dr. Carroll’s reports which I wish to see. It is strange, Katherine, but I had already begun to think of the stories I would tell you when I return home. Of what it was like to meet the famous Doctor. Of how I mended and tuned the Erard, rescuing such a precious instrument. Of fulfilling my “duty” to England. Indeed it is perhaps this idea of “duty” that has become the most elusive goal of all. I know we spoke often of this at home, and I still don’t doubt a piano’s role. But I have come to think that “bringing music and culture here” is more subtle—there are art and music here already—their own art, their own music. This is not to say that we should not bring such things to Burma; perhaps only that it should be done with more humility. Indeed, if we are to make these people our subjects, must we not present the best of European civilization? No one was ever harmed by Bach; songs are not like armies.
My dear, I digress. Or perhaps not, for I wrote to you of my hopes, and now, slowly, my hopes have begun to vanish, obscured by War and Pragmatism and by my own suspicions. This entire trip has already coated itself in a veneer of seeming, a dreamlikeness. So much of what I have done is tied to what I will do that at times the truth I have already experienced threatens to vanish with that which I have yet to see. How to express this to you? Whereas my journey until now has been one of potential, of imagination, now its loss seems to question everything I have seen. I have allowed dreams to melt into my realities, now realities threaten to melt to only dreams, to disappear. I don’t know if anything I am writing makes sense, but in the face of such beauty around me, I only see myself standing outside our door in Franklin Mews, bag in hand, unchanged from the day I left.
What more can I write? I spend hours looking out at the Shan Hills, trying to decide how to describe them for you, for I feel that only by doing so can I take some of what I have seen home with me. I wander the markets, following the flow of oxcarts and parasols along the rutted roads, or I sit by the river watching the fishermen, waiting for the steamer from Rangoon that would bring news of my departure, or bring me home. The waiting has begun to grow unbearable, as has the oppressive heat and dust that smother the city. Any decision would be better than none.
My dear, I realize now that in all the frightening possibilities we discussed before I left, we never considered what now seems most likely: that I will return home with nothing. Perhaps these words are only the ramblings of boredom or loneliness, but when I write “nothing,” I mean not only that the Erard remains untuned, but that I have seen a world that is very different, yet I have not begun to understand it. Coming here has created a strange feeling of emptiness in me that I didn’t know I had, and I don’t know whether heading into the jungle will fill it, or tear it open further. I wonder about why I came here, about how you said I needed this, about how I am now set to return home, how I will have to face this as a failure.
Katherine, words were never my medium, and now I cannot think of music for what I feel. But it is growing dark, and I am by the river, so I must go. My only solace is that I will see you soon and that we will be together again. I remain,
Your loving husband,
Edgar
He folded the letter and rose from the benches by the Irrawaddy. He walked home slowly through the city streets. At the small house, he opened the door to find Khin Myo waiting.
She held an envelope and handed it to him without speaking. There was no address, only his name scrawled in bold letters. He looked at her, and she stared back, expressionless. For a brief moment, he held it together with his letter to Katherine. As soon as he opened it, he recognized the elegant hand.
Dear Mr. Drake,
It is my deep regret that our first personal correspondence must be burdened by such urgency, but I believe that you are well aware of the circumstances that have jeopardized your visit to Mae Lwin. My impatience must only be equaled by yours. In the attack on our camp, the strings belonging to the fourth-octave A key were snapped by a musket ball. As you know, it is impossible to play any meaningful piece without this note, a tragedy that those in the War Office cannot fathom. Please proceed to Mae Lwin immediately. I have sent a messenger to Mandalay to convey you and Ma Khin Myo to our fort. Please meet him tomorrow on the road to Mahamuni Pagoda. I take full responsibility for your decision and your safety. If you stay in Mandalay, you will be on a ship to England before the end of the week.
Edgar lowered his hand. He knows my name, he thought. He looked at Khin Myo. “You are going too?” “I will tell you more soon,” she said.
The following morning, they rose before dawn and boarded an oxcart full of pilgrims bound for Mahamuni Pagoda, on the southern outskirts of Mandalay. The pilgrims stared at him and talked merrily. Khin Myo leaned close to Edgar. “They are saying that they are pleased there are some British Buddhists.”
In the sky, dark clouds moved slowly over the Shan Hills. The oxcart rattled along the road. Edgar clutched his bag to his chest. At Khin Myo’s suggestion, he had left most of his belongings in Mandalay, taking with him only a spare change of clothes and important papers, and tools to mend the piano. Now he could hear the faint clink of the metal as they struggled over ruts in the road. At Mahamuni Pagoda they disembarked, and Khin Myo led him along a small path to where a boy stood waiting. He was dressed in flowing blue trousers and a blue shirt, with a checkered cloth tied about his waist. Edgar had read that many of the Shan men, like the Burmans, kept their hair long, and noticed that the boy wore his wrapped in a colorful turban that looked like something between the Burmese gaung-baung and those of the Sikh soldiers. He held the reins of two small ponies.
“Mingala ba,” he said to them, bowing slightly. “Hello, Mr. Drake.”
Khin Myo smiled at him. “Mr. Drake, this is Nok Lek, he will take us to Mae Lwin. His name means ‘little bird.’” She paused, then added, “Don’t let this mislead you. He is one of Anthony Carroll’s best fighters.”
Edgar looked at the boy. He seemed scarcely fifteen years old.
“Do you speak English?” he asked.
“A little,” said the boy with a proud grin, and reached down to take their bags.
“You are being modest,” said Khin Myo. “You are learning very fast.”
Nok Lek began to secure the bags to the saddles. “I hope you know how to ride, Mr. Drake,” he said when he had finished. “These are Shan ponies. Smaller than English horses, but very good in mountains.”
“I’ll try my best to hold on,” said Edgar.
“Ma Khin Myo will ride with me,” said Nok Lek. He put both hands on the pony’s back and leapt lightly into its saddle. He was barefoot, and he slipped his feet into a pair of rope stirrups, holding the hemp between his first and second toes. Edgar noticed the boy’s calves, muscles like knotted ropes. Nervously, he looked at his own pony: English metal stirrups. Khin Myo climbed on behind Nok Lek and sat sideways with both feet together. Edgar was surprised that the little animal could walk under such a load. He mounted his own pony. Without speaking, they began to move east.