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.

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.