“And then?”
“If the leip-bya is lost, or if in its journey it is caught and eaten by a bilu–how do you say—an evil spirit—then this is a man’s final sleep.”
The boy reached forward and prodded the fire, sending up sparks.
“And that is the story?”
“I told you—a belief only, but he wanted me to tell you. I don’t know why. He is strange sometimes.”
It was warm by the fire, but Edgar felt a chill. From his memory, images of India, of a train ride, a boy falling, a baton flashing in the night.
“A Poet-Wallah,” said the piano tuner softly.
“Sorry, Mr. Drake?”
“Oh…nothing, nothing. Tell him that it gives me much to think about. Perhaps one day he should be a storyteller.”
As Nok Lek spoke, Edgar stared across the fire at the small boy, who sat in the embrace of his brother. He only smiled, his body lost in the smoke of the fire.
The flames grew low and Nok Lek left, disappearing into the darkness and returning with more wood. Across the fire, the brothers had fallen asleep in each other’s arms. It began to drizzle, and Nok Lek and Edgar rose and put out the fire. They woke the boys, who mumbled and followed them up to the shelter. It rained several times during the night, and Edgar could hear the drumming of the raindrops on the mats covering the piano’s case.
In the morning, they struck camp beneath overcast skies. As they floated on, they left the woven mat over the piano. The rain clouds broke in the late morning, the sky cleared. The river, swollen with tributaries, flowed more swiftly. By early afternoon, Nok Lek told Edgar that they had passed into land controlled by the principality of Mawkmai, that within two days they would enter Karen country.
There the British had border posts on the river across from northern Siam, there they could stop, they did not need to travel all the way to Moulmein.
It will all be over soon, thought Edgar, It all becomes but a memory. And without being asked by the boys, he removed the woven mat from the piano and stood at it once again, deciding what to play. A finale, for if tomorrow we leave the river, tomorrow the dream ends, and the pianist will become a tuner once again. The raft floated lightly with the current, and the strings rung with the wave of hammers. Ahead on the bow of the raft, one of the brothers turned to watch.
He did not know what to play, only that he must begin and the song would follow. He thought perhaps he should play Bach again, and tried to think of a piece, but it didn’t seem right now. So he closed his eyes and listened for something. And in the vibration of strings, he heard a song that had risen to the sky weeks ago, one night on the Irrawaddy, and then that moonlit evening in Mandalay, when he had stopped to watch the yôkthe pwè. The song of loss, the ngo-gyin. And he thought, Perhaps this is fitting now. He put his fingers to the keyboard, and as he began to play, the song descended from where it had risen once, sounds that no tuner could have created, sounds that are foreign, new, neither flat nor sharp, for Erards are not constructed to be played on a river, nor to play the ngo-gyin.
Edgar Drake played, and there was a crack of gunfire and a splash, and another, and another. And only then did he open his eyes, to see two of his companions floating in the water, and the third, faceup, silent on the deck of the raft.
He stood at the piano, the raft spinning lazily from the force of the fallen bodies. The river was quiet; he did not know from where the shots had been fired. Trees on the bank rustled slightly in the wind. Rain clouds drifted slowly through the sky. A parrot called, and flew off from the opposite bank. Edgar’s fingers remained still, suspended above the keys.
And then, from the right bank, a rustling, and a pair of dugouts pushed off from the shore, making their way steadily downstream to the raft. The piano tuner, who did not know how to control the raft, could do nothing but wait, stunned, as if he too had been shot.
The current was slow, and the dugouts gained on him. Each dugout held two men. When they were about a hundred yards away, Edgar saw they were Burman, and that they wore Indian Army uniforms.
The men said nothing as their dugouts pulled alongside him. One man from each dugout climbed out onto the logs. The arrest was swift, Edgar didn’t protest, but only lowered the key cover over the keys. A rope was tied from the dugouts to the raft, and they paddled to shore.
They were met on the bank by a Burman and two Indians, who escorted Edgar up a long path to a small clearing of guardhouses, above which flew a British flag. They walked to a small bamboo hut and opened the door. There was a chair in the center of the room. “Sit,” said one of the Indians. Edgar sat. The men left, closing the door. Light shone through the slats in the bamboo. Outside, two men stood guard. There were footsteps, the door opened, and in walked a British lieutenant.
Edgar rose to his feet. “Lieutenant, what is happening?”
“Sit down, Mr. Drake.” The man’s voice was severe. He wore a freshly pressed uniform, its angles sharp and starched.
“Lieutenant, those boys were shot. What—”
“I said sit down, Mr. Drake.”
“You don’t understand—there has been some dreadful error.”
“This is the last time I will ask you.” “I—”
“Mr. Drake.” The Lieutenant took a step forward.
Edgar stared him in the eyes. “I demand to know what is going on.” He felt anger rising, replacing shock.
“I am asking you to sit down.”
“And I won’t. Until you tell me why I am here. You have no right to command me.”
“Mr. Drake.”
The blow was swift, and Edgar could hear the crack of the man’s hand as it crashed across his face. He fell back in his chair. His hands rose to his throbbing temple, sticky with blood.
The Lieutenant said nothing, but only eyed Edgar warily. The tuner nursed his cheek and stared back. The Lieutenant pulled a chair out of the shadows. He sat facing Edgar and waited.
Finally he spoke. “Edgar Drake, you are under military arrest by order of army headquarters in Mandalay. Within these papers are recorded the nature of your crimes.” He lifted a stack of folders from his lap. “You will be held here until an escort arrives from Yawnghwe. From there you will be taken to Mandalay, and then to Rangoon for trial.”
Edgar shook his head. “This must be a mistake.”
“Mr. Drake, I have not given you permission to speak.”
“I need no permission.” He rose again from his chair, and the Lieutenant rose as well. They faced each other.
“I—” Edgar was cut short by another blow. His glasses fell. He stumbled back, almost knocking over the chair. He held on to it for support.
“Mr. Drake, this will be much easier if you cooperate.”
Shaking, Edgar reached down and picked up his glasses and put them back on. He stared through them with incredulity. “You have just murdered my friends. You strike me, and you request cooperation? I am in the service of Her Majesty.”
“No longer, Mr. Drake. Traitors are not accorded such respect.”
“Traitor?” He felt his head spinning. Now he sat, still. “This is mad.”
“Mr. Drake, these charades will get you nowhere.”
“I know nothing. Traitor! On what charges?”
“The charges? Aiding and abetting Surgeon-Major Anthony Carroll, a spy and himself a traitor to the Crown.”
“Anthony Carroll?”
The Lieutenant didn’t respond.
Edgar thought he saw a faint sneer on the man’s face. “Doctor Anthony Carroll? Anthony Carroll is Britain’s finest soldier in Burma. I have no idea what you are talking about.”
They stared at each other.
There was a knock at the door. “Come in,” said the Lieutenant.
The door opened, and in walked Captain Nash-Burnham. At first Edgar barely recognized the stout, jovial man he had spent an evening with at the pwè in Mandalay. His uniform was dirty and rumpled. His cheeks were unshaved. Deep bags underlined his eyes.
“Captain!” said Edgar, rising once again. “What is happening?”
The Captain looked at Edgar and then back to the Lieutenant. “Lieutenant, have you informed Mr. Drake of the charges?”