So to this dream of the Shan princes entered a new character, a man Edgar thought he knew, but who now seemed as inscrutable as the sawbwas who sat before him, who spoke a strange tongue, who held the respect and fear of foreign tribes. Edgar turned to watch the Doctor, to look for the man who played the piano, who collected flowers and read Homer, but heard only a language of strange tones, words that even a man who controlled the intricacy of notes couldn’t understand. And for one brief, terrifying moment, as the glow of candles flickered upward across his face, Edgar thought that he recognized the high cheekbones, the long brow, and the intensity of stare and speech that the other tribes say make a Shan.
But this only lasted briefly, and as swiftly as it arrived, the haunting left him. And Anthony Carroll was still Anthony Carroll and he turned and his eyes flashed. “You holding up, old man? Is something wrong?” It was late, and it would be many hours before the meeting finished.
“Yes, I am holding up,” Edgar answered. “No…there is nothing wrong at all.”
The meeting lasted until dawn, when sunlight finally began to trickle through the rafters. Edgar didn’t know if he had been sleeping when he sensed a shuffling around him and one of the Shan princes, and then another, rose and walked out, bowing to the Englishmen as they left. As the others stood, there were more formalities, and Edgar remarked on how gaudy and caricatured the costumes seemed in the daylight, extravagance beyond the pomp and posture of their wearers. Soon they rose too, to follow the princes. At the door Edgar heard a voice at his back, and turned to find himself face-to-face with Twet Nga Lu.
“I know who you are, Mr. Drake,” said the Shan Bandit Chief in a deliberate English, a smile slinking along his lips. He said something in Shan and raised his hands before him. Edgar stepped back, suddenly frightened, and Twet Nga Lu, now laughing, turned his palms down and began to move his fingers before him in the mocking mime of a pianist.
Edgar looked to see if Carroll had seen this, but the Doctor was engaged in conversation with another prince. As Twet Nga Lu passed, Edgar saw Carroll turn, and the two men stared at each other. It was a brief exchange, and then Twet Nga Lu walked out of the room, where a group of Shan warriors fell into formation behind him.
On the road back to Mae Lwin, they spoke little. The Doctor stared out into the mist that covered the trail. Edgar’s thoughts were thick with fatigue and confusion. He wanted to ask about the meeting, but the Doctor seemed lost in contemplation. At one point the Doctor stopped to point out a group of red flowers by the side of the trail, but for the remainder of the trip he was silent. The sky was heavy, and the wind picked up, whipping along the lonely crags and open road. Only when they were climbing the hill above Mae Lwin did Carroll turn to the piano tuner.
“You haven’t asked what happened at the meeting.”
“I am sorry,” Edgar said warily. “I am a bit tired, that’s all.”
Anthony Carroll shifted his gaze down the trail. “Last night, I received a conditional surrender from both the Limbin Confederacy and from Twet Nga Lu, to end their resistance to British rule in one month’s time, in exchange for limited autonomy guaranteed by Her Majesty. The revolt is over.”
20
They arrived in camp shortly after noon. In the clearing, a group of boys came out to meet them, taking away the men’s ponies. The camp seemed eerily silent. Edgar expected announcement, movement, something to acknowledge the accomplishment. He had the unsettling feeling that he had just witnessed history. But there was nothing, only the customary greetings. The Doctor disappeared, and Edgar returned to his room. He fell asleep still dressed in his riding clothes.
He awoke at midnight, sweating, disoriented, having dreamed that he was still on horseback, on the long ride from Mongpu. Only as he recognized the features of his room, the mosquito net, his bag, the stack of papers, and the tuning tools, did his heart slow.
He again tried to sleep but couldn’t. Perhaps it was his thoughts of the Doctor, or his dream of a journey without end, or perhaps it was only because he had been sleeping since the early afternoon. He was hot, and dirty, and parched, and he found himself breathing fast, Maybe I am sick again. He pushed aside the mosquito net and rushed to the door. Outside the air was fresh and cool, and he took deep breaths and tried to calm himself.
It was a still night, and a sliver of moon passed between indecisive rain clouds. Below his room, the Salween was dark. He slipped down the stairs and out across the clearing. The camp was silent. Even the guard at the watch-post slept, seated outside the hut, his head rolled back and resting on the wall.
As Edgar walked, the soil curled up against his toes. He passed through the thicket of flowers and onto the beach. He was moving faster now, tearing off his shirt and throwing it onto the sand. He stepped out of his riding breeches. His toes touched the water and he dove.
The river was cool and smooth with suspended silt. He rose to the surface and rested, floating. Upriver, the rocks jutted into the river, breaking the current into eddies which curled along the shore. He felt himself move slowly upstream.
He finally climbed out of the water and stood on the bank. Pulling his clothes back over his wet body, he walked barefoot to the edge of the beach and picked his way over the rocks until he reached the large boulder where the fishermen stood to cast their nets. He lay on his back. The stone was still warm from the day’s sun.
He must have fallen asleep, because he didn’t hear anyone walk down to the beach, only the sound of splashing. He opened his eyes slowly, puzzled at who also might have made the nighttime pilgrimage to the river, Perhaps the young couple has returned. Slowly, carefully, so as not to reveal his presence, he turned on his side and looked down the beach.
It was a woman, and she was kneeling, crouched away from him, her long hair tied above her head. She was washing her arms, lifting water in cupped hands and letting it run down her skin. She was wearing her hta main; even in solitude, she bathed with modesty, as if she knew well of the lecherous eyes of owls. The hta main soaked up the water from the river and clung to her torso and to the swell of her hips.
Perhaps he knew who she was before she turned toward him and saw him, and the two of them froze, each aware of their mutual violation, the shared sensuality of the river, of the sliver of moon. Then she moved hastily, gathering up her other clothes, her soap. Without looking back, she ran up the trail.
The clouds shifted. The moon returned. He walked onto the beach. On the sand there was a comb, ivory, incandescent.
The Doctor left again on another “diplomatic mission” and Edgar returned to work on the piano. With the arrival of the rains, the soundboard had swollen, a nearly imperceptible change, perhaps noticeable only to those who wish to tune.
For two days, he kept the comb.
In moments of privacy, he would take it out and examine it, running his fingers over the orphaned strands of black hair that wove themselves through the ivory prongs. He knew he should return it to her, but he waited, out of indecision or expectation, out of a sense of intimacy that grew along with the waiting and the silence, that became more acute with each brief, awkward conversation they shared in the unavoidable moments when they passed each other on the paths.
And so he kept the comb. Convincing himself he must work, he delayed returning it during the day, while at night he told himself he must wait again until morning, I cannot go to her when it is dark. The first night he stayed late at the piano, tuning and retuning. On the second night, while he played alone, he heard a knock on the door.