A pile of papers are scattered across the mahogany table, and an opened brown wrapping, still in the form of the papers it once held, still tied with twine, carefully unfolded at one end, as if its contents have been examined surreptitiously. Or were intended to be, for the strewn papers are anything but surreptitious. Nor are the tears, the swollen eyes.

Neither of them moves or says anything. His jacket is still in his hand, she sits on the edge of the sofa, her fingers nervously entwined in her handkerchief. He immediately knows why she is crying, he knows that she knows, that even if she doesn’t, this is how it would be, the news needs to be shared. Perhaps he should have told her last night, he should have known that they would come to his house, now he remembers that before he left the War Office the Colonel even told him so. Had he not been so lost in the magnitude of his decision, he wouldn’t have forgotten. He should have planned this, the news could have been broken more delicately. Edgar keeps so few secrets that those he does become lies.

His hands tremble as he hangs up the jacket. He turns. Katherine, he says. What is wrong, he wants to ask, a question of habit, but he knows the answer. He looks at her, there are questions whose answers he doesn’t yet know, Who brought the papers, When did they come, What do they say, Are you angry.

You were crying, he says.

She is quiet, now she begins to sob softly. Her hair is loose over her shoulders.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t know whether to go to her, this is different from before, this is not a time for embraces, Katherine, I meant to tell you, I tried to last night, only I didn’t think it was right then—

He crosses the room now, he slides between the sofa and the table, he sits next to her.

Dear—He touches her arm, gently, trying to turn her toward him, Katherine, dear, I wanted to tell you, please look at me, and she turns slowly, looks at him, her eyes are red, she has been crying for a long time. He waits for her to speak, he doesn’t know how much she knows. What happened? She doesn’t reply. Please, Katherine. Edgar, you know what happened. I know and I don’t know. Who brought these? Is it important? Katherine dear, don’t be angry with me, I wanted to talk to you about this, Please, Katherine—

I am not angry, Edgar, she says.

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a handkerchief, Look at me. He touches the handkerchief to her cheek.

I was angry this morning, when he came. Who? A soldier, from the War Office, He came asking for you, with these. She motioned to the papers. And what did he say? Very little, only that these papers were for your preparation, that I should be proud, that you are doing something very important, and when he said that, I still didn’t know what he was talking about. What do you mean? That is all he said, Mrs. Drake, do you know that your husband is a brave man, and I had to ask him Why, I felt like a fool, Edgar, He seemed surprised when I asked, he laughed and said only that Burma is far away, I almost asked what that meant, I almost told him that he had the wrong house, the wrong husband, but I only thanked him and he left. And you read them. Some, only some, Enough. She was silent. When did he come? This morning, I know I shouldn’t read your mail, I left the package on the table, it wasn’t mine, I went upstairs to try to finish the needlework for our bedcover, I was distracted, I kept poking myself with the needle, I was thinking about what he said, and I went downstairs, I sat here for almost an hour, wondering if I should open it, telling myself it was nothing, but I knew it wasn’t, and I thought about last night. Last night. Last night you were different. You knew. Not then, but this morning I knew, I think I know you too well.

He takes her hands.

They sit for a long time like that, their knees touching, her hands in his. She says again, I am not angry. You can be angry. I was angry, the anger came and went, I only wish you had told me, I don’t care about Burma, no that is wrong, I do care about Burma, I just…I wondered why you didn’t tell me, if maybe you thought that I would stop you from doing this, That hurt the most, I am proud of you, Edgar.

The words stay before them, suspended. He releases her hands, and she begins to cry again. She wipes her eyes, Look at me, I am behaving like a child. I can still change my mind, he says.

It isn’t that, I don’t want you to change your mind. You want me to go. I don’t want you to go, but at the same time, I know you should go, I have been expecting this. You have been expecting an out-of-tune Erard in Burma? Not Burma, this, something different, It is a lovely idea, to use music to bring about peace, I wonder what songs you will play there. I am only going to tune, I am not a pianist, I am going because it is a commission. No, but this one is different, and not only because you are going away. I don’t understand. Different, something different from your other projects, a cause, something worthy.

You don’t believe that my work is worthy already. I didn’t say that. You said as much. I watch you, Edgar, sometimes it is as if you are my child, I am proud of you, you have abilities that others don’t, you have ways of hearing sounds that other people can’t, you are skilled in the mechanics of things, you make music beautiful, that is enough. Except now it sounds like it isn’t.

Edgar, please, now you are angry. No, I am only asking you for your reasons, You have never told me this before, This is still just another assignment, I am still a mechanic, let us be careful before we give credit for Turner’s paintings to the man who makes his brushes.

Now you sound as if you don’t know if you should go. Of course I don’t know, only now my wife is telling me I should do it to prove something. You know that is not what I am saying. I have had other strange commissions, Katherine. But this is different, This is the only one you have kept hidden.

Outside the sun dips finally behind the rooftops, and the room grows suddenly darker.

Katherine, I didn’t expect this from you. What then did you expect? I don’t know, I have never done this before. You expected me to cry as I am now, to implore you not to go because that is how women behave when they lose their husbands, You expected that I will be afraid if you are gone because you will not be here to take care of me, that I will be afraid I will lose you. Katherine, that isn’t true, that isn’t why I didn’t tell you. You thought I would be scared, You tore a page from the Illustrated London News because it had an article on Burma.

There was a long silence. I am sorry, you know this is new for me. I know, this is new for me too.

I think you should go, Edgar, I wish I could go, It must be beautiful to see the world. You must return to me with stories.

It is only another commission.

You keep saying that, You know it isn’t.

The ship doesn’t leave for another month, That is a lot of time.

There is a lot to get ready.

It is very far, Katherine.

I know.

The following days passed swiftly. Edgar finished the Farrell contract and refused a new commission to voice a beautiful 1870 Streicher grand with an old Viennese action.

Officers from the War Office visited frequently, arriving each time with more documents: briefings, schedules, lists of items to take with him to Burma. After the tears of the first day, Katherine seemed to embrace the mission enthusiastically. Edgar was grateful for this; he had thought she might still be upset. Moreover, he had never been organized. Katherine had always teased him that the precise ordering of piano strings seemed to necessitate a chaotic disorganization in every other aspect of his life. On a typical day, a soldier would come to their house to drop off paperwork while Edgar was away. Katherine would take the papers, read them, and then organize them on his desk into three piles: forms that required completion and return to the army, general histories, and papers specific to his mission. Then he would come home, and within minutes the stack of papers would be in disarray, as if he had merely sifted through the piles looking for something. That something, Katherine knew, was information about the piano, but none came, and after about three or four days she would greet him with, “More papers arrived today, lots of military information, nothing about a piano,” which left him looking disappointed but helped considerably to keep the table neater. He would then collect whatever was sitting on top of the pile and retire to his chair. Later she would find him asleep with the folder open on his lap.