He knew who it was before the door drifted open and she tentatively stepped inside. Perhaps it was the delicate, patient sound of the knocking, distinct from the Doctor’s confident pounding or the servants’ hesitancy. Perhaps the wind had shifted, bringing the scent of wet earth down from the mountain, and on its route lifted her perfume. Or perhaps he recognized the direction, that they moved in age-worn patterns, destined repetitions.
From the doorway came the voice, the accent liquid. “Hello.”
“Ma Khin Myo,” he said.
“May I come in?”
“Of… course.”
She closed the door lightly. “Am I interrupting you?”
“No, not at all…Why would you think that?”
She tilted her head slightly. “You seem preoccupied. Is something the matter?”
“No, no.” His voice trembled, and he forced a smile. “I am only passing the time.”
She stayed by the door and held her hands together. She wore the same light blouse she had worn the day she had met him by the river. He could see she had painted her face recently, and thought of the incongruity, There is no sun now, no reason to wear thanaka but that it is beautiful.
“You know,” she said, “in all the time that I have had English friends, I have heard the piano played often. I love its sound. I…I thought maybe you could show me how you work.”
“Of course. But isn’t it late? Shouldn’t you be with…” he hesitated.
“With Doctor Carroll? He is not in Mae Lwin.” She was still standing. Behind her, her shadow reclined against the wall, curves against the lines of bamboo.
“Of course, of course. I knew, didn’t I?” He took his glasses and polished them in his shirt. He took a deep breath. “I have been here all day. So many hours at the piano can drive one a bit…mad. I am sorry. I should have sought your company.”
“You still haven’t even offered me a place to sit.”
Edgar started at her directness. He moved over to clear a place on the bench. “Please.”
She moved slowly across the room, toward the piano, her shadow on the wall growing longer. She gathered her hta main together and sat beside him. For a moment, he only looked at her as she stared down at the keys. The flower she wore was fragrant, freshly picked; he could see where tiny grains of pollen had dusted her hair. She turned toward him.
“I am sorry if I seem distracted,” he said. “I’m always a bit slow to come out of the trance that I enter when I tune. It is another world. It’s always a bit startling to be interrupted by…visitors…it is hard to explain.”
“Perhaps like being awakened from a dream.”
“Perhaps. Perhaps…But I am awake in a world of sounds. It is as if I have begun to dream again…” When she said nothing, he added, “That must seem strange. ”
“No.” She shook her head. “At times we confuse what is real with what we are dreaming.”
There was silence. Khin Myo lifted her hands and placed them on the keyboard.
“Have you ever played before?” he asked.
“No, but I have always wanted to, since I was a little girl.”
“You can play now, it is much more interesting than watching me tune.”
“Oh, I shouldn’t, really. I don’t know how.”
“That’s all right. Just try. Press the keys.”
“Any key?”
“Start where your finger is now. That is the first note of the Prelude in F Minor. It’s part of The Well-Tempered Clavier, which I played for the sawbwa.”
She pressed the key. The note rang out in the room, echoing back to them.
“See,” said Edgar. “Now you have played Bach.”
Khin Myo didn’t turn from the piano. He saw the corner of her eyes wrinkle, the hints of a smile. “It sounds so different, sitting here.”
“It does. There is nothing quite like it. Please, perhaps I can teach you more of the piece.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t want to bother you. Actually, you are right: maybe it is late. I didn’t want to interrupt your work.”
“Nonsense. You are here now.”
“But I can’t play.”
“I insist. It is a short motif, but one of great meaning. Please, now that we have started, I couldn’t let you leave. The next note is that one, hit that with your forefinger.”
She turned to him.
“Go on, play,” he said, and pointed to the key. She pressed it. Deep in the piano, the hammer leaped toward its string.
“Now, next key to the left, now the key above that. Now back to the first. Yes, that one, the first key that you played. Now the second one again, that one. And above. There, that’s it. Now play it again, faster now.” Khin Myo struggled through it.
“It doesn’t sound like much,” she said.
“It sounds like everything. Try it again.”
“I don’t know…Maybe you should.”
“No, you are playing wonderfully. It will be much easier if you use your left hand for the lower notes.”
“I don’t think I can. Can you show me?” She turned, her face close to his.
Edgar’s heart pounded suddenly, and for a brief moment he was afraid she would hear it. But the sound of the music emboldened him. He stood, and he moved behind her and lowered his arms over hers. “Put your hands on mine,” he said.
Slowly, she lifted her hands. For a moment they waited, floating, and then she let them settle gently. Neither moved, each feeling only the other’s hands, the rest of their bodies but pale outlines. He could see their reflections in the lacquered mahogany of the nameboard. Her fingers only reached halfway along his.
The piece began slowly, tentatively. The Fugue in F-sharp Minor from Book 2 of The Well-Tempered Clavier always reminded him of an opening of flowers, a meeting of lovers, a song of beginnings. He hadn’t played it on the night of the sawbwa’s visit; it is the thirty-eighth piece, and he had stopped at the twenty-fourth. So at first his hands moved slowly, uncertain, but with the soft weight of her fingers, he moved through each measure steadily, and within the piano, actions glided up with the touch of the keys, leaping and falling back from the jacks, leaving strings trembling, rows and rows of tiny intricate pieces of. metal and wood and sound. On the case, the candles trembled.
As they played, a strand of her hair broke loose from where it had been tucked beneath the flower. It tickled his lip. He didn’t pull back, but closed his eyes, and moved his face closer so that it traced itself over his cheek as he played, over his lips again, now over the lashes of his eyes.
The music rose faster, then dipped sweetly, softer, and then it ended.
Their hands rested together on the piano. She turned her head slightly, her eyes closed. She said his name, her voice composed only of breath.
He asked, “Is this why you came here tonight?”
There was silence and she answered, “No, Mr. Drake.” She whispered it now. “I have been here forever.”
And Edgar lowered his lips to her skin, cool and moist with perspiration. He let himself breathe in the scent of her hair, taste the sweet salt of her neck. Slowly, she moved her hands, and her fingers entwined themselves within his.
And for that moment, everything stopped. The warmth of her fingers, the smoothness of her skin on his calluses. The light of the candle dancing over the soft surface of her cheek, catching only the shadows of the flower. They stayed like this for seconds, or longer, but only the crickets kept time.
It was she who broke their embrace, softly untangling her hands from his, which still rested on the keyboard. She traced her fingers along his arm. I must leave. And he closed his eyes again, inhaled one last time and let her go.
21
He spent the night at the piano, drifting in and out of sleep. It was still dark when he awoke to the sound of the door creaking, footsteps. He opened his eyes, expecting to see the children, but found himself staring into the eyes of an old woman. “Doctor need you. Hurry,” she said, her breath rank with the smell of fermented fish.
“Sorry?” He sat up, still lost in sleep.
“Doctor Carroll need you. Hurry.”
He stood and straightened his shirt. Only then did he associate the Doctor’s call with last night, with Khin Myo.
The old woman led him from the room. It was still early dawn and cold, the sun was long from breaking over the mountain. At the door to the headquarters, she grinned a mouth full of betel-stained teeth and hobbled away down the path. Edgar found the Doctor inside, standing over maps spread out on his desk. “You sent for me,” he said.