The Piano Tuner (26 page)

The room was dark. The Doctor walked
across the floor to the windows and opened them. Outside, the view spilled out
over the camp, to the Salween drifting past, dark and brown. The piano was
covered by a blanket made of the same material he had seen on many of the
women, decorated with thin multicolored lines. The Doctor removed it with a
flourish. “Here it is, Mr. Drake.” The Erard stood half in the
light of the window, the smooth surface of its case almost liquid against the
rough backdrop of the room.

Edgar walked forward and put his hand on
the piano. For a moment he stood silent, looking only, and then began to shake
his head. “Unbelievable,” he said. “Really … this is
so …” He took a deep breath. “I suppose part of me still
can’t believe this. I have known about this for over two months now, but
I think I am as surprised as if I had just walked in from the jungle and seen
it … I am sorry, I didn’t think I would be so affected. It is
… beautiful …”

He stood at the keyboard. Sometimes
he was so focused on the technical aspects of piano construction that he forgot
how lovely the instruments could be. Many of the Erards built during the same
period were ornately decorated with inlaid wood, carved legs, even a sculpted
nameboard. This one was simpler. A dark brown mahogany veneer stretched into
curved, feminine legs, so smooth that they seemed almost lascivious; now he
could understand why there were those in England who insisted that piano legs
be covered. The nameboard was decorated with a thin, elegant line of
mother-of-pearl, curling at each end into a bouquet of flowers. The case was
smooth, monochrome, the texture found only in the interlocking pieces of
veneer.

He said at last, “I admire your taste, Doctor. How did
you know to select this one? Or an Erard for that matter?”

“Or a piano for that matter, you should ask.”

Edgar
chuckled. “Indeed. At times I suppose I am a bit single-minded. It seemed
so fitting …”

“Well, I am touched by the sentiment.
You and I think in a similar manner … There is something about a piano
that is different from other instruments, something imposing, deserving of
admiration. It is always a subject of much discussion among the Shan I know.
They say it bestows honor to hear it played. It is also the most versatile of
instruments, something I think anyone would enjoy.”

“And an
Erard?”

“My request was actually not that specific. I did
ask for an Erard, an older model. I might even have mentioned one from 1840, as
I had heard somewhere that Liszt had once played one. But the War Office chose,
or maybe I was just lucky and this was the only one for sale. I agree it is
beautiful. I was hoping perhaps that you could educate me to more of its
technical aspects.”

“Of course … only where can I
start? I don’t want to bore you.”

“I appreciate your
humility, Mr. Drake, but I am sure you won’t.”

“Very
well then … but please stop me if I do.” Edgar ran his hand over
the case. “An 1840 Erard grand, Doctor, built by Sebastien Erard’s
Paris workshop, which makes it unusual, as most of the Erards you find in
London are from the London workshop. Mahogany-veneered. It has a
double-escapement repetition action—the action is the set of levers that
lift a hammer to the strings. It is designed so that after the hammer hits the
strings it can fall back, ‘escaping.’ The double-escapement action
was an innovation developed by Erard, but is standard on pianos now. It is very
slender on Erards, hence it is common for the hammers to go out of adjustment.
The heads of the hammers are made of alternating leather and felt, much more
difficult to work with than most other pianos, which are pounded felt only.
Before I even examine it, I will wager that the voicing on this one is in
terrible shape. I can’t imagine what the humidity has done to the felt
covers on the hammers.

“Hmmm … What else can I tell you,
Doctor? Two pedals—a sustaining pedal and an una corda. The dampers will
run to the second B key above the middle octave—that is pretty typical.
Erard dampers are located below the strings and held there by a spring, which
is unusual, most piano dampers rest on the strings from above. I’ll know
when I look inside, but it should have cast-iron tension bars between the
wrest-plank and the rim, this was pretty standard by 1840; it served to support
the tension of stronger steel wires, which were used because of their louder
sound.” He touched the design that stretched above the keyboard.
“Look at the nameboard, it is mother-of-pearl.” He looked up to see
a bemused look on Carroll’s face, and laughed. “Forgive me, I am
getting carried away …”

“I am glad to see you are so
pleased. I must confess, I was actually concerned that you might be
angry.”

“Angry? Good Lord, what would I be angry
about?”

“I don’t know, part of me has felt that the
piano’s condition is my fault, that I put it at risk by bringing it here,
and that would anger a lover of musical instruments. I don’t know if you
remember, but I asked the War Office to give you an envelope, with instructions
not to open it.” He paused. “You may open it now. It is nothing,
just a description of how I transported the piano to Mae Lwin, but I did not
want you to read it until you saw that it was safe.”

“Is
that what the letter was about? I
have
been quite curious. I thought
perhaps it was something about the dangers here, that you might not want my
wife to read … but the Erard’s journey? Perhaps you are right,
perhaps I should be angry. But I
am
a tuner. The only thing I care for
more than pianos is repairing them. And regardless: it is here, and now that I
am here as well …” He stopped and looked out of the window.
“Well, I can’t think of any place more exciting and worthier of its
music. Besides, the strings can stand up to incredible abuse, although perhaps
not what
this
instrument has been through, and I certainly can’t
say the same about mother-of-pearl decoration. What I would be worried about is
the sun and humidity, which can cause it to go out of tune in days.” He
paused. “Actually, Doctor, I do have one question. I have never spoken to
you about this, and I couldn’t find any mention of it in your letters,
but I don’t even know if you have played the piano yet, or what it has
… accomplished.”

The Doctor put his hand on the Erard.
“Ah, Mr. Drake. We haven’t spoken about this because I don’t
have much to tell you. There was a celebration soon after I brought it here. An
occasion notable for both sadness and rejoicing—you will read about it in
my letter—the village insisted, and I obliged. They made me play for
hours. Of course, only then did I realize how out of tune the piano already
was. If any of the Shan felt so too, they were polite, although I think that
the instrument is strange enough for them; tuning was the least of their
concerns. But I have great aspirations for it. You should have seen the faces
of the children who came to watch.”

“You didn’t play
again.”

“Once or twice, but the piano was so
flat—”

“Sharp probably if it was its first time in a
humid country. It’s flat now, because of the dry season.”

“Terribly sharp then. And so I stopped playing. It was almost
impossible for me to bear.”

“And yet, you thought you
could tune it …” Edgar said, half to himself.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Drake?”

“Well, someone who
knows enough about pianos to select an 1840 Erard would know that it would go
out of tune, especially in the jungle, that it would need a professional tuner.
Yet, still, you thought you could do this yourself.”

The Doctor
was quiet. “That is what I told the army, but there are other reasons. I
was overjoyed that they had granted my request, and I was afraid to ask for
more. At times my enthusiasm outruns my abilities. I have seen a piano tuned
before and I thought I would try alone first. I thought that, after surgery, it
would be easy.”

“I will forgive you for saying that,”
said Edgar, lightly. “But I can teach you something about tuning if you
like.”

Carroll nodded. “Of course, but only for a little
while. I should leave you alone. I have work to do. Besides, it has taken me a
long time to become comfortable with observers in the surgery. I imagine it is
even more difficult when it comes to treating sound.”

“These, Doctor, are my instruments.” Edgar
opened his bag and spread them across the bench. “I brought a basic set.
This is a tuning hammer, these narrow-blade screwdrivers are for general use,
this special thin screwdriver and a drop-screw regulator are for the action.
Let’s see … What else? Key-easing pliers and a key spacer, bending
pliers, two damper-bending irons, a spring-adjusting hook, parallel pliers, a
special thin capstan-screw regulator used for Erards, for adjusting the hammer
height. Also: leather-covered wedges for tuning, and coils of replacement piano
wire of different gauges. There are other tools as well, these over here are
specifically for voicing: a hammer iron, glue, and multiple extra voicing
needles, as they frequently become bent.”

“Voicing? You
keep using that word.”

“Sorry, voicing means treating a
piano’s hammers so they produce a nice tone when they strike the strings.
I am probably getting ahead of myself. You said you have seen a piano
tuned?”

“Seen? Once or twice, briefly. But I have never had
it explained to me.”

“Well, I’ll wager that you will
learn quickly. There are three basic components to tuning. Typically, tuners
begin with regulating, which means aligning the action so that the hammers are
at even heights and strike the strings briskly and fall back smoothly so that a
note can be played again. Usually that is the first step.
I
like to
begin with a rough tuning, however. A piano usually must be tuned several
times, as the act of tuning one string changes the dimensions of the soundboard
so as to affect all other strings. There are ways to avoid this, tuning strings
sharp, for example, but in my opinion, it is still impossible to predict the
changes. Furthermore, the strings tend to settle, so it is better to leave the
piano overnight before a second attempt. So I tune roughly, regulate, and then
tune again—that is
my
technique, others
do
do it
differently. After this comes voicing, the repair of the hammer felt itself.
Erard experts are usually good voicers, if I might be so immodest; the
combination of the leather and felt makes the hammers more difficult to work
with. There are other smaller jobs as well. For example, I need to think about
whether there is a way to waterproof the soundboard. Of course, all of this
depends on what is wrong.”

“And do you have any notion what
will need to be repaired? Or will you not know until you play?”

“Actually, I can probably guess now. I suppose it is not unlike
thinking about a patient’s history before the examination. I can tell
you, and then I can let you go.” He turned to the piano and looked at it
closely.

“To begin with, there will be a problem with the
soundboard, the belly. This is certain. Whether it has cracked yet I
don’t know. It is very lucky it has been in Burma for only a year and
thus has suffered only one year’s cycle of humidity. Fortunately, as long
as the cracks are minor, they can easily be repaired, or ignored
even—often it is only a cosmetic concern. Bigger cracks will be more of a
problem.”

He tapped his fingers on the case. “The piano
will be out of tune, of course. That goes without saying. The dry season will
have resulted in the soundboard shrinking, loosening the strings and dropping
the pitch. If substantial enough, I may have to raise the pitch as much as a
full semitone and leave the piano for at least another twenty-four hours before
fine-tuning further. Of course, the problem with doing this is that when the
rain comes again, the board will expand, and the increased tension could cause
terrible damage. This should have been expected, but the military didn’t
seem to consider it. I will have to think about this problem; perhaps I will
need to teach someone here to tune.” Suddenly he stopped. “My God,
I forgot. In the note you sent me in Mandalay, you wrote the piano was shot. I
can’t believe I didn’t think about this until now. It changes
everything. Please, may I see the damage?”

The Doctor walked to
the side of the piano and raised the top case. A pungent odor rose from the
piano. It was unfamiliar, curried and heavy. “Excuse the smell, Mr.
Drake. Turmeric. One of the Shan men suggested I put it into the piano to
protect it from termites. You probably don’t do that in London.” He
laughed. “But it seems to have worked.”

The lid opened
away from the window, so it was dark inside the piano, and Edgar saw the bullet
hole immediately, an oval crack in the soundboard through which the floor could
be seen. Carroll’s letter was right, the bullet had split all three
strings of the fourth-octave A key, leaving them loose, twisting back toward
the tuning and hitch pins like strands of uncombed hair. Shot through the
belly, he thought, and briefly considered telling the Doctor the stories of the
Reign of Terror. Instead he looked inside. There was a nick on the inside of
the piano lid, in the trajectory of the bullet, but no exit hole; it probably
did not have enough momentum to break through the lid. “Did you take the
bullet out?” he asked, and to answer the question himself, he struck a
key. There was a rattling on the soundboard. Many clients who called in London
sought his services for “a terrible racket,” which turned out to be
a coin or screw which had accidentally been dropped into a grand and sat
rattling on the soundboard when it vibrated. He squinted into the piano, found
the bullet, and picked it out. “A souvenir,” he said. “May I
keep it?”

“Of course,” said the Doctor. “Is the
damage serious?”