The Piano Tuner by Daniel Mason

the surface
of puddles and tugging at the wet leaves that mat the grass. They stop and sit
in the shelter of a gazebo and watch the few who have ventured out into the
rain, hidden beneath umbrellas that tremble with the gale: old men who walk
alone, couples, mothers leading children through the gardens, perhaps to the
zoo, skipping, Mummy, what will we see? “Shhhh! Behave yourself, there
are Bengal tigers and Burmese pythons and they eat naughty
children.”
    They walk. Through the darkened gardens, flowers
dripping with rain. The sky is low, the leaves yellow. She takes his hand and
leads him away from the long avenues and across the emerald lawns, two tiny
figures moving through the green. He doesn’t ask where they are going,
but listens to the mud suck at his boots, foul sounds. The sky hangs low and
gray, and there is no sun.
    She takes him to a small arbor and it is dry
there, and he brushes her wet hair from her face. Her nose is cold. He will
remember this.
    Day turns to night.
     
    And it is
November 26, 1886.
    A carriage pulls up to the Royal Albert Dock. Two
men in pressed army uniforms emerge and open the doors for a middle-aged man
and woman. They step tentatively to the ground, as if it is the first time they
have ridden in a military vehicle, its steps are higher, and its threshold
thicker to support the carriage over rough terrain. One of the soldiers points
to the ship, and the man looks at it and then turns back to the woman. They
stand by each other and he kisses her lightly. Then he turns and follows the
two soldiers toward the boat. Each carries a trunk, he a smaller bag.
    There is little fanfare, no bottles broken over the bow—this custom
being reserved for the christeners of maiden voyages and the drunks who sleep
at the dock and occasionally wash up at the fairgrounds downstream. From the
deck, the passengers stand and wave to the crowd. They wave back.
    The
engines start to rumble.
    As they begin to move, the fog closes in over
the river. Like a curtain, it covers the buildings and the piers and those who
have come to bid good-bye to the steamship. Midstream, the fog grows thicker
and creeps over the deck, erasing even the passengers from one another.
    Slowly, one by one, the passengers return inside, and Edgar remains alone.
Mist beads on his glasses and he removes them to wipe them on his waistcoat. He
tries to peer through the fog, but it reveals nothing of the passing shoreline.
Behind him, it obliterates the ship’s smokestack, and he feels as if he
is floating in emptiness. He holds his hand out before him and watches as the
swirls of white wrap around it in currents of tiny droplets.
    White.
Like a clean piece of paper, like uncarved ivory, all is white when the story
begins.
    3
    November 30,
1886
    Dear Katherine,
    It has now been five days since I left
London. I am sorry I have not written to you sooner, but Alexandria is our
first mail stop since Marseilles, so I have decided to wait to write rather
than send you letters which bear only old thoughts.
    My dear, beloved
Katherine, how can I describe the last few days to you? And how I wish that you
were here on this journey to see everything that I am seeing! Just yesterday
morning, a new coastline appeared on the starboard side of the ship and I asked
one of the sailors what it was. He answered “Africa” and seemed
quite surprised by my question. Of course I felt foolish, but I could hardly
control my excitement. This world seems both so small and so vast.
    I
have much to write, but before all else, let me tell you about the voyage thus
far, beginning from when we said good-bye. The journey from London to Calais
was uneventful. The fog was thick and rarely parted long enough to give us a
glimpse of anything more than the waves. The trip takes but a few hours. When
we arrived in Calais, it was night, and we were taken by carriage to the train
station, where we boarded a train for Paris. As you know, I have always dreamed
of visiting the