The Piano Teacher (6 page)

“You really are, Will,” Trudy says. “No one in all Hong Kong would agree to do anything so nice for the Chens, you know. They’ve awful reputations around here, that’s why they’re leaving.”

“Be that as it may,” Will says, “I have to pay something.”

“We’ll talk about it later,” the Chens say, but they never do. Instead they drink four splits of champagne and end up going to the beach at midnight to hunt for crabs by candlelight.

May Road is different from Happy Valley, his old neighborhood. Filled with expatriates and housewives and their servants, it is a bourgeois suburb of England, or how he’d always imagined them to be. Children walk obediently next to their amahs, matrons climb into the backs of their chauffeured cars, it’s much more quiet than the chattering bustle of his old haunt. He misses Happy Valley, the vitality of it, the loud, rude locals, the lively shops.

 

But then there is Trudy. Trudy has a large place not five minutes from him. He walks the winding road to her flat every day after picking up new clothes after work.

“Isn’t this nice?” she says, lavishing him with kisses at the door. “Isn’t it delicious that you’re so close and not in that dreadful Happy Valley? I do think the only time I’d go there before I met you was when I needed plimsolls for the beach. There’s this wonderful shop there . . .”

And then she’s on to something else, crying out to Ah Lok that the flowers are browning, or that there’s a puddle in the foyer. At Trudy’s, there’s no talk of war, no fighting except squabbling with the servants, no real troubles. There’s only ease and her sweet, lilting laugh. He slips gratefully into her world.

CLAIRE HAD BEEN WAKING at the same time every night. Twenty-two minutes after three. By now, she knew it without even looking at the clock. And every night, after she started awake, she would look over at the hulking shape of her husband as he slept, and she would be calmed from the shock of consciousness. His chest rose and fell evenly as his nose reverberated with a gentle snore. He always slept heavily, aided by the several beers he had every evening. She sat up, clapped twice loudly, her hands stiff, the sound like two bullets in the night. Martin shifted at the noise, then breathed freely. That trick was one of the few that her mother had imparted about married life. The clock now showed 3:23.

She tried to go back to sleep. She had done it once or twice before, fallen back asleep before her body got too awake. Breathing softly, she lay flat on her back and felt the damp linen sheet beneath and the light weight of the cotton quilt on top. It was so humid she could wear only a thin cotton nightdress to bed, and even that grew sticky after a day or two. She must buy a new fan. The old one had sputtered to a stop last week, caked with mossy mold. A fan, and also some more electric cord. And lightbulbs. She mustn’t forget lightbulbs. She breathed lightly, over the slight rumble of Martin starting up again. Should she write the things down? She would remember, she tried to tell herself. But she knew she would get up and write it down, so as not to forget, so as not to obsess about forgetting, and then she would be up, and unable to go back to sleep. It was settled. She got up softly and felt her way out of the mosquito netting, disturbing a resting mosquito that buzzed angrily in her ear before flying away. The pad was lying next to the bed on a table, and she penciled in her list.

Then, the real reason. She reached into the depths of the bureau and felt around carefully for the bag. It was a cloth bag, one she had got for free at a bazaar, and it was large and full. She pulled it out, quietly.

Going into the bathroom, she switched on the light. The tub sat full of water. There hadn’t been rain for several months now, and the government was starting to ration. Yu Ling drew the tub full every evening, between five and seven o’ clock, when the water was on, for their use during the day.

Claire set the bag down and dipped a bucket in the water and wet a washcloth to wipe her face. Then she sat on the cool tile floor and pulled her nightdress up so that she could place the bag between her legs.

She dumped the contents out.

There were more than thirty items glittering up at her. More than thirty costly necklaces, scarves, ornaments, perfume bottles. They looked almost tawdry, jumbled together in the harsh bathroom light, against the white tile, so Claire laid down a towel and separated them, so that each had a few inches of space, a cushion against the floor. There, now they looked like the expensive items they were. Here was a ring, thick, beautifully worked gold, with what looked like turquoise. She slipped it on her finger. And here was a handkerchief, so sheer she could see the pale pink of her palm underneath it. She sprayed it with perfume, a small round bottle of it, called Jazz. On the bottle there was a drawing of two women dancing in flapper dresses. She waved the scented handkerchief around. Jasmine scent. Too heavy. She groomed her hair with the tortoiseshell comb, rubbed French hand lotion around her fingers, then carefully applied lipstick to her mouth. Then she clipped on heavy gold earrings and tied a scarf around her head. She stood in front of the mirror. The woman who looked back was sophisticated and groomed, a woman who traveled the world and knew about art and books and yachts.

She wanted to be someone else. The old Claire seemed provincial, ignorant. She had been to a party at Government House, sipped champagne at the Gripps while women she knew twirled around in silky dresses. She had her nose pressed up against the glass and was watching a different world, one she hadn’t known existed. She could not name it but she felt as if she were about to be revealed, as if there were another Claire inside, waiting to come out. In these few hours in the morning, dressed in someone else’s finery, she could pretend she was part of it, that she had lived in Colombo, eaten frog’s legs in France, or ridden an elephant in Delhi with a maharaja by her side.

At seven in the morning, after she had brewed herself a cup of tea and eaten some buttered toast, she made her way to the bedroom. She stood over her sleeping husband.

“Wake up,” she said quietly.

He stirred, then rolled over to face her.

“Cuckoo,” she said a little louder.

“Happy birthday, darling,” he said sleepily. He propped himself up on one elbow to offer a kiss. His breath was sour but not unpleasant.

Claire was twenty-eight today.

 

It was Saturday, and the beginning of summer. Not too hot yet, the mornings had a breeze and a little bit of cool before the sun warmed up the afternoons and the hats and fans had to come out. Martin worked half-days on Saturdays but then there was a party at the Arbogasts’, on the Peak. Reginald Arbogast was a very successful businessman and made a point of inviting every English person in the colony to his parties, which were famous for his unstinting hand and lavish foods.

“I’ll meet you at the funicular at one,” Martin told her.

 

At one, Claire was at the tram station waiting. She had on a new dress the tailor had delivered just the day before, a white poplin based on a Paris original. She had found a Mr. Hao, an inexpensive man in Causeway Bay who would come and measure her at home and charge eight Hong Kong dollars a dress. It had turned out quite well. She had sprayed on a bit of Jazz although she still found it strong. She dabbed it on, then rubbed water on it to dilute the smell. At ten past one, Martin came through the station doors, and gave her a kiss.

“You look nice,” he said. “New dress? ”

“Mm-hmm,” she said.

They took the tram up the mountain, a steep ride that seemed almost vertical at times. They held on to the rail, leaned forward, and looked outside, where they could see into people’s homes in the Mid-Levels, with curtains pushed to one side, and newspapers and dirty glasses strewn on tables.

“I would think,” Claire said, “if I knew that people would be looking in my house all day from the tram, I’d make a point of leaving it tidy, wouldn’t you? ”

At the top, they found that the Arbogasts had hired rickshaws to take their guests to the house from the station. Claire climbed in.

“I always feel for the men,” she said quietly to Martin. “Isn’t this why we have mules or horses? It’s one of these queer Hong Kong customs, isn’t it? ”

“It’s a fact that human labor here often costs less,” Martin said. Claire stifled her irritation. Martin was always so literal.

The man lifted up the harness with a grunt. They started to roll along and Claire settled into the uncomfortable seat. Around them the green was overwhelming, tropical trees bursting with leaves that dripped when scratched, bougainvillea and every other type of flowering bush springing forth from the hillsides. Sometimes she got the feeling that Hong Kong was too alive. It seemed unable to restrain itself. There were insects crawling everywhere, wild dogs on the hills, mosquitoes breeding furiously. They had made roads in the hillsides and buildings sprouted out of the ground, but nature strained at her boundaries—there were always sweaty, shirtless worker men chopping away at the greenery that seemed to grow overnight. It wasn’t India, she supposed, but it certainly wasn’t England. The man in front of her strained and sweated. His shirt was thin and gray.

“The Arbogasts apparently had this place undergo a massive cleaning after the war,” Martin said. “Smythson was telling me about it, how it had been gutted by the Japanese and all that was left was walls, and not much of those at that. It used to belong to the Bayer representative out here, Thorpe, and he never came back after he was repatriated after the war. He sold it for a song. He’d had enough.”

“The way people lived out here before the war,” Claire said. “It was very gracious.”

“Arbogast lost his hand during the war as well. He has a hook now. They say he’s quite sensitive about it so try not to look at it.”

“Of course,” Claire said.

When they walked in, the party was in full swing. Doors opened onto a large receiving room which led into a large drawing room with windowed doors open onto a lawn with a wide, stunning view of the harbor far below. A violinist sawed away at his instrument while a pianist accompanied him. The house was decorated in the way the English did their houses in the Orient, with Persian carpets and the occasional wooden Chinese table topped with Burmese silver bowls and other exotic curiosities. Women in light cotton dresses swayed toward one another while men in safari suits or blazers stood with their hands in their pockets. Swiftly moving servants balanced trays of Pimm’s and champagne.

“Why does he do this? ” Claire asked Martin. “Invite the world, I mean.”

“He’s done well for himself here, and he didn’t have much before, and wants to do something good for the community. What I’ve heard, anyway.”

“Hello hello,” said Mrs. Arbogast from the foyer, where she was greeting guests—a thin, elegant woman with a sharp face. Sparkly earrings jangled from her ears.

“Lovely of you to have us,” said Martin. “A real honor.”

“Don’t know you, but perhaps we shall have the pleasure later.” She turned aside and looked for the next guest. They had been dismissed.

“Drink? ” Martin said.

“Please,” said Claire.

She saw an acquaintance, Amelia, and walked over. Too late, she saw that Mrs. Pinter was in the circle, partially hidden by a potted plant. They all tried to avoid Mrs. Pinter. Claire had been cornered by her before and had spent an excruciating thirty minutes listening to the old woman talk about ant colonies. She wanted to be kind to older people but she had her limits. Mrs. Pinter was now obsessed with starting up an Esperanto society and would reel unwitting newcomers into her ever more complicated and idiotic plans. She was convinced that a universal language would have saved them all from the war.

“I’ve been thinking about getting a butler,” Mrs. Pinter was saying. “One of those Chinese fellows would do all right with a bit of training.”

“Are you going to teach him Esperanto? ” Amelia asked, teasing.

“We have to teach everyone but the Communists,” Mrs. Pinter said placidly.

“Isn’t the refugee problem alarming?” Marjorie Winter said, ignoring all of them. She was fanning herself with a napkin. She was a fat, kind woman, with very small sausagelike curls around her face.

“They’re coming in by the thousands, I hear,” Claire said.

“I’m starting a new league,” said Marjorie. “To help the refugees. Those poor Chinese streaming across the border like herded animals, running away from that dreadful government. They live in the most frightful conditions. You must volunteer! I’ve let space for an office and everything.”

“You remember in 1950,” Amelia said, “some of the locals practically ran hotels, taking care of all their family and friends who had fled. And these were the well-off ones, who were able to book passage. It was quite something.”

“Why are they leaving?” Claire said. “Where do they expect to go from here? ”