The Piano Teacher (17 page)

“We could marry,” he says. “I’ll take care of you better.”

She looks up. He is frightened of her face, willfully blank.

“You don’t know what will happen out here,” he repeats. “At least we will be together.”

She goes on folding her sweaters. Her hands are quick and sure.

“Do you know what the Chinese think of the English?” she says a moment later, as if he hadn’t said anything of importance.

“Not really, but I hope Dominick isn’t representative.”

Trudy laughs.

“Well, a bit, although there’s more to that situation than meets the eye. Don’t be too harsh about him. He has his reasons. But many Chinese think English are rude and arrogant and think so much of their own heritage when ours is so much older and richer. And they’re terribly stingy. I’ve never seen an Englishman pick up the bill for dinner, when even the poorest Chinese would be ashamed to let someone else pay if it were his invitation. It’s odd, don’t you think? I like our way so much better. We Chinese are not stupid. We know that most of the Englishmen here live in a way they could never afford in their own country, and they’re living here like kings because their money happens to buy a lot more of our labor than our own money does. So they think they’re the lords here and we’re the serfs. But it doesn’t change the fact that back at home they could never have the lavish life they have here. They’re living on borrowed money, under assumed identities. You’re not very English, Will. You’re generous to a fault and very gracious and humble. I’m so glad you’re not like most of your countrymen.”

“I say,” he says. “I don’t know if this is the thing we should be talking about. I mean, this is quite a moment, right?”

“I know, I know,” she says impatiently, as if he’s missing the point. “I just meant that a lot of the locals don’t really care what happens to the British. But at the same time, they don’t really care about the Japanese either. Everyone just wants to live their lives, undisturbed, make a little money, make a little love, die with some food in their stomach. That’s all.”

Trudy’s points always take a while to sink in because they’re unexpected, as if spoken from the mouth of a child, and then Will always realizes how very shrewd she is. And how practical. He watches her pack an evening dress and, after a moment’s hesitation, a matching shawl.

“Have you seen my silver evening shoes?” she asks.

“Never knew you had any,” he says. He doesn’t ask why she might think she would need evening clothes in a time of war.

“I always look forward,” Trudy says suddenly. “Never backward. I hate photographs, diaries, clippings. What’s the point? I don’t understand how people can keep diaries—horrid things.” He is surprised at her vehemence.

“I’ve always kept a journal of my travels.”

“That’s different, more of a travelogue, I would think.”

“Well, my impressions, certainly. And the people I meet.”

“I certainly hope I am not in this journal of yours.”

“You would be disappointed,” he says after a pause.

“People can be so loathsome, don’t you think?” she says. “If we aren’t together in the future, please don’t think of me with hatred. Think of me kindly or forget me. I always try to do that. Think with kindness and don’t judge. And know the entire situation.”

“What on earth are you saying? Don’t take such absurd leaps.” He feels like she’s punched him in the stomach, cannot feign the nonchalance, but cannot say too, don’t leave me.

“If you love me, you know exactly who I am.”

“Trudy, you are not this person. You are not.”

“And you are not stupid, my love.” She hands him his bag. “There. All set for your grand adventure.”

 

At the parade ground, he notes with chagrin that others seem to have brought all of their belongings, stuffed into enormous suitcases that are filled to bursting and tied shut with heavy twine. Some practical joker has brought his golf clubs. There are people sitting on their luggage, drinking from thermoses, looking lost. There are also, curiously, Chinese people with all their belongings tied up in pink and red cloths, slung over their shoulders, squatting in the shade.

Will has money tucked into his trousers, and a few gold rings and bracelets Trudy has forced on him. “Gold is good; people will always take gold,” her voice rings in his ears. He has only his small satchel, with the few essential items she had packed. Ned has some of Frederick ’s clothes Angeline gave him, ill-fitting as they are—the young Canadian bringing out the maternal side of both the women.

Trudy had stopped just long enough for them to get out of the car and to give him a light kiss, and then she had spun away quickly. A good-bye made of nothing. He stands there for a moment, Ned shuffling awkwardly near him, then picks up his bag, feeling slightly embarrassed that the young man has seen their bloodless good-bye. He spots the Trotters, the Arbogasts. He goes over to Hugh Trotter and introduces him to Ned, explaining his situation.

“This is quite bad,” Hugh says, not caring about the travails of the young Canadian. “I hear that over at the bank, they’re burning unsigned notes so they don’t get into the wrong hands.”

“Yes,” Will says. “This is not good at all.”

“You know, two days ago, they declared a new government for Chinese civilians—they’re calling it the Civil Department of the Japanese Army and they’re trying to sort things out, get the gas, water, and electric rolling smoothly again. They want everyone to get back into the flow, open their shops, resume their jobs. All except us, of course. We’re enemy prisoners now.”

“Then why are the Chinese here?” Will looks around at all the locals. “Surely they can’t be registering everyone in the colony.”

“No, it’s a mix-up. The Japanese didn’t realize that the Chinese here regard themselves as British nationals, so a lot of them have shown up, and there’s a lot of confusion as to what to do with them. I think they only want the
gweilos,
to put it bluntly. I would imagine the Chinese people will go home today.”

Will notices children playing—what are they doing here? They should have been sent away months ago. Hugh follows his gaze.

“Yes, and of course, the children. Damn fools, the parents,” he says. “Sentimental. Didn’t want to send their families away to safety. Like ostriches, they were. I hope the conditions are decent.”

“Well, one hopes, yes.”

“And you heard Millicent Potter went blind from shock?”

“No, I hadn’t heard,” Will said.

“Her child died in her arms, shrapnel from a bomb, and she was holding him, and her husband said all of a sudden she couldn’t see. It comes and goes apparently, but it’s been gone for a while.”

“Awful.”

“And Trudy?” Hugh asks. “I assume she’s not involved in all this?”

“Yes, she’s Portuguese and Chinese, so both good things to be at the moment.”

“It’ll be good to have someone on the outside. She can help you get things and messages. We have our amah and houseboy tailing us at the moment. I’ve given them more money than they’ll see in a lifetime so I hope they don’t run off with it. But what could we do?” Hugh gives a wintry smile. “Ironic, isn’t it? ”

Reggie Arbogast joins them.

“The situation is bad right now. They’re winning in the Philippines and all over Malay and Burma. They’re gaining too much momentum.”

A Japanese soldier rides up on a horse.

“Line! ” he shouts. “One line. No Chinese.”

The crowd hesitates, moves in an amorphous mass, like a jellyfish, Will thinks, if he were watching from the sky. They ripple and lap, an uncertain sea creature.

“One line! No Chinese! ” shouts the soldier again, this time more loudly. He canters the horse around, waving a sword in the air. The Orientals in the mix pick themselves up and move to one side, a gradual sifting of the races.

“It’s like he’s herding us,” Hugh says to Will. “We’re the cattle.”

Will takes account of the clothes he is wearing—a sturdy pair of cotton trousers, two shirts, a sweater, and a jacket. He’s suddenly aware that they might have to last him for a long time. He’s glad he wore a heavy belt. Somehow, he thinks the strong leather and metal will come in useful.

The soldier swings around and leaves. The crowd is silent. A woman sits down on her suitcase and begins to cry. “Buck up,” her husband says. “This is just the beginning.”

 

They divide them into nationalities and march them in single file. Will watches the Americans walk away, along with the Dutch and the Belgians. The British are made to wait until the end. The Japanese seem to have some special prejudice against them.

They walk for hours, on almost unrecognizable roads with burning piles of rubbish outside charred buildings and the overpowering stench of rotting bodies and human waste. The mothers and children march with the men, babies crying. The roads are lined with locals, silently watching the unlikely spectacle of Western people being led away under the rule of the Oriental. Some spit in their path but most just look. Will sees relief in their faces, relief that they are not the victims, at least this time. There is also pity in some of the older faces. One brave soul in the procession tries to strike up a rendition of “Hail Britannia,” but his melody fades away under the implacable gaze of a soldier who slows his steps until he is menacingly abreast of the singer. And there is the silence again, broken only by the tramping of feet and the heavy breathing of the conquered.

 

They are herded into the Nam Ping Hotel, which has clearly been used as a brothel in the recent past. The lobby is dingy and smudgy-looking, with peeling red paint and garish gold Chinese characters painted onto signs.

First, they are told to take off all their watches and jewelry and place them into a large sack. Then, a Japanese soldier jerks his gun toward the stairs to indicate they should go up.

The rooms are tiny, and things get ugly, with people rushing to claim their space until they realize that no matter how quick they are, they will have to squeeze four or five into a room. The stucco walls are bubbled with moisture and decay and flakes of ceiling fall down at the slightest tremor. There are iron beds with wafer-thin mattresses and
mintoi,
the Chinese quilt, with large, copper-colored stains. Large cockroaches scurry around, alarmed at the sudden invasion, and the floor is wet and unpleasant. It is chaos, with people demanding toilet paper, towels, clean water, not knowing that no one is there to supply them. Some don’t seem to realize the days of amahs and chauffeurs are gone. The toilets stop up almost immediately and the hallways are filled with an unspeakable odor. Will and Hugh organize teams to clean. Some refuse, or don’t show up. Will tells the others not to worry, that there will be plenty of work to go around soon, and that everyone will do their share. The Japanese provide no guidance—some look amused at the chaos, and others are simply oblivious, putting their feet up and having Chinese children run errands for them, fetching them beer and cuttlefish.

There is no food the first night. They go to bed hungry, rooms alive with the sound of whimpering children and the labored breath of their parents. Will tucks his hands into his armpits, hears young Ned’s snore—a strange, interrupted, barking sound—and wonders what Trudy is doing.

And so he finds out. Not tooth powder but food. Food is the luxury. The Japanese hand out a watery vat of rice in the evening, with not enough chipped bowls and spoons. There is some putrid boiled meat, a few rotting vegetables swimming in brown water. The first evening, some women refuse to eat it. By the next, everyone takes their share. They find Chinese willing to go fetch food for coins tossed from the balcony, but this is an iffy proposition at best as some disappear with the money, never to be seen again. Those lucky enough to have their amahs or houseboys on their tail throw down money and get fish and vegetables tossed back in return.

There is a lieutenant in charge of the hotel, Ueki, a small man with round glasses and a mustache. He is impossible to read as Will finds out when he is elected to meet with a supervisor about the living conditions and the food. It is an odd meeting, tense and excessively polite.

Ueki has commandeered the hotel manager’s office behind the reception desk and is sitting behind a metal desk with an open bottle of whiskey and a lit cigarette smoldering in an ashtray. Smoke hangs thick in the air, unmoved by the fan that circles slowly overhead.

Will bows because it seems the right thing to do. Ueki inclines his head slightly.

“I have a few issues I’d like to bring to your attention,” Will says.

“Speak,” says the man.

“The toilets need to be cleaned, and we need supplies to clean them with. Can you provide us with some toilet brushes and cleaning powders? Also, a plunger would be helpful.”

“I will see what I can do.”

“And Mrs. Aitken is eight months pregnant and quite uncomfortable. Could we find a bed for her? She’s in a bed with two other people right now. Everyone else is doubled or tripled up as well.” Except the corpulent secretary from Australia who refuses to give up her bed, but that’s another matter.

“Fine.”

Ueki waves off the request, so Will is not sure if he means yes or no.

“And the food . . .” Will hesitates.

“Yes?”

“The food is inadequate.”

The short lieutenant studies Will.

“Do you want smoke?” He offers a slim silver case, probably freshly looted from some friend of Trudy’s.

Will takes one and leans over so that Ueki can light it.

“Do you know where I learned the English?”

“No, but it’s very good.” Will tells himself he’s not currying favor, not being obsequious, just honest.

“English missionary came to Japan, taught me for three years.”

“There are lots of missionaries doing good works out there,” Will says, it seems to him, idiotically.