The Piano Teacher

by Janice Y. K. Lee

  “Is Locket going to be schooled in America? ”

  “We haven’t decided, but really, I’d rather talk to you about your schooling,” Mrs. Chen said.

  “Oh.” Claire was taken aback.

  “You know,” she continued pleasantly. “Where you studied music, and all that.”

  Claire settled back in her seat.

  “I was a serious student for a number of years. I studied with Mrs. Eloise Pollock and was about to apply for a position at the Royal Conservatory when my family situation changed.”

  Mrs. Chen sat, waiting, head tilted, with one birdlike ankle crossed over the other, her knees slanted to one side.

  “And so, I was unable to continue,” Claire said. Was she supposed to explain it in detail to this stranger? Her father had been let go from the printing company and it had been a black couple of months before he found a new job as an insurance salesman. His pay had been erratic at best—he was not a natural salesman—and luxuries like piano lessons were unthinkable. Mrs. Pollock, a very kind woman, had offered to continue her instruction at a much-reduced fee, but her mother, sensitive and pointlessly proud, had refused to even entertain the idea.

  “And what level of studies did you achieve? ”

  “I was studying for my seventh grade examinations.”

  “Locket is a beginning student but I want her to be taught seriously, by a serious musician,” Mrs. Chen said. “She should pass all her examinations with distinction.”

  “Well, I’m certainly serious about music, and as for passing with distinction, that will be up to Locket,” Claire said. “I did very well on my examinations.”

  Locket entered the room, or rather, she bumbled into it. Where her mother was small and fine, Locket was chubby, all rounded limbs and padded cheeks. She was wider than her mother already, and had glossy hair tied in a thick ponytail.

  “Hallo,” she said. She had a very distinct English accent.

  “Locket, this is Mrs. Pendleton,” Melody said, stroking her daughter’s cheek. “She’s come to see if she’ll be your piano teacher so you must be very polite.”

  “Do you like the piano, Locket? ” Claire said, too slowly, she realized, for a ten-year-old child. She had no experience with children.

  “I dunno,” Locket said. “I suppose so.”

  “Locket! ” her mother cried. “You said you wanted to learn. That’s why we bought you the new Steinway.”

  “Locket’s a pretty name,” Claire said. “How did you come about it? ”

  “Dunno,” said Locket. She reached for a glass of iced tea and drank. A small trickle wended its way down her chin. Her mother took a napkin off the silver tray and dabbed at her daughter’s chin.

  “Will Mr. Chen be arriving soon? ” Claire asked.

  “Oh, Victor! ” Melody laughed. “He’s far too busy for these household matters. He’s always working.”

  “I see,” Claire said. She was uncertain as to what came next.

  “Would you play us something? ” Melody asked. “We just got the piano and it would be lovely to hear it played professionally.”

  “Of course,” Claire said, because she didn’t know what else to say. She felt as if she were being made to perform like a common entertainer—something in Melody’s tone—but she couldn’t think of a gracious way to demur.

  She played a simple étude, which Melody seemed to enjoy and Locket squirmed through.

  “I think this will be fine,” Mrs. Chen said. “Are you available on Thursdays? ”

  Claire hesitated. She didn’t know whether she was going to take the job.

  “It would have to be Thursdays because Locket has lessons the other days,” Mrs. Chen said.

  “Fine,” said Claire. “I accept.”

  Locket’s mother was of a Hong Kong type. Claire saw women like her lunching at the Chez Henri, laughing and gossiping with one another. They were called taitais and you could spot them at the smart-clothing boutiques, trying on the latest fashions or climbing into their chauffeur-driven cars. Sometimes Mrs. Chen would come home and put a slim, perfumed hand on Locket’s shoulder and comment liltingly on the music. And then, Claire couldn’t help it, she really couldn’t, she would think to herself, You people drown your daughters! Her mother had told her that, about how the Chinese were just a little above animals and that they would drown their daughters because they preferred sons. Once, Mrs. Chen had mentioned a function at the Jockey Club that she and her husband were going to. She had been all dressed up in diamonds, a black flowing dress, and red, red lipstick. She had not looked like an animal. Bruce Comstock, the head of the Water office, had taken Martin and Claire to the club once, with his wife, and they drank pink gin while watching the horse races, and the stands had been filled with shouting gamblers.

  The week before the figurine fell into Claire’s purse, she had been leaving the lesson when Victor and Melody Chen came in. It had rung five on the ornate mahogany grandfather clock that had mother-of-pearl Chinese characters inlaid all down the front of it and she had been putting her things away when they walked into the room. They were a tiny couple and they looked like porcelain dolls, with their shiny skin and coal eyes.

  “Out the door already? ” Mr. Chen said drily. He was dressed nattily in a navy blue pin-striped suit with a burgundy pocket square peeping out just so. “It’s five on the dot! ” He spoke English with the faintest hint of a Chinese accent.

  Claire flushed.

  “I was here early. Ten minutes before four, I believe,” she said. She took pride in her punctuality.

  “Oh, don’t be silly,” Mrs. Chen said. “Victor is just teasing you. Stop it! ” She swatted her husband with her little hand.

  “You English are so serious all the time,” he said.

  “Well,” Claire said uncertainly. “Locket and I had a productive hour together.” Locket slipped off the piano bench and under her father’s arm.

  “Hello, Daddy,” she said shyly. She looked younger than her ten years. He patted her shoulder.

  “How’s my little Rachmaninoff ? ” he said. Locket giggled delightedly.

  Mrs. Chen was clattering around in her high heels.

  “Mrs. Pendleton,” she asked, “would you like to join us for a drink? ” She had on a suit that looked like it came out of the fashion magazines. It was almost certainly a Paris original. The jacket was made of a golden silk and buttoned smartly up the front, and there was a shimmery yellow skirt underneath that flowed and draped like gossamer.

  “Oh, no,” she answered. “It’s very kind of you, but I should go home and start supper.”

  “I insist,” Mr. Chen said. “I must hear about my little genius.” His voice didn’t allow for any disagreement. “Run along now, Locket. The adults are having a conversation.”

  There was a large velvet divan in the living room, and several chairs, upholstered in red silk, along with two matching black lacquered tables. Claire sat down in an armchair that was far more slippery than it looked. She sank too deeply into it, then had to move forward in an ungainly manner until she was perched precariously on the edge. She steadied herself with her arms.

  “How are you finding Hong Kong? ” Mr. Chen said. Melody had gone into the kitchen to ask the amah to bring them drinks.

  “Quite well,” she said. “It’s certainly different, but it’s an adventure.” She smiled at him. He was a well-groomed man, in his well-pressed suit and red and black silk tie. Above him, there was an oil of a Chinese man dressed in Chinese robes and a black skullcap. “What an interesting painting,” she remarked.

  He looked up.

  “Oh, that,” he said. “That’s Melody’s grandfather, who had a large dye factory in Shanghai. He was quite famous.”

  “Dyes? ” she said. “How fascinating.”

  “Yes, and her father started the First Bank of Shanghai, and did very well indeed.” He smiled. “Melody comes from a family of entrepreneurs. Her family was all educated in the West—England and America.”<
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  Mrs. Chen came back into the room. She had taken off her jacket to reveal a pearly blouse underneath.

  “Claire,” she said. “What will you have? ”

  “Just soda water for me, please,” she said.

  “And I’ll have a sherry,” Mr. Chen said.

  “I know! ” Mrs. Chen said. She left again.

  “And your husband,” he said. “He’s at a bank? ”

  “He’s at the Department of Water Services,” she said. “Working on the new reservoir.” She paused. “He’s heading it up.”

  “Oh, very good,” Mr. Chen said carelessly. “Water’s certainly important. And the English do a fair job making sure it’s in the taps when we need it.” He sat back and crossed one leg over the other. “I miss England,” he said suddenly.

  “Oh, did you spend time there? ” Claire inquired politely.

  “I was at Balliol,” he said, flapping his tie, now obviously a college tie, at her. Claire felt as if he had been waiting to tell her this fact. “And Melody went to Wellesley, so we’re a product of two different systems. I defend England, and Melody just loves the United States.”

  “Indeed,” Claire murmured. Mrs. Chen came back into the room and sat down next to her husband. The amah came in next and offered Claire a napkin. It had blue cornflowers on it.

  “These are lovely,” she said, inspecting the embroidered linen.

  “They’re from Ireland! ” Mrs. Chen said. “I just got them! ”

  “I just bought some lovely Chinese tablecloths at the China Emporium,” Claire said. “Beautiful lace cutwork.”

  “You can’t compare them with the Irish ones, though,” Mrs. Chen said. “Very crude.”

  Mr. Chen viewed his wife with amusement.

  “Women!” he said to Claire. Another amah brought in a tray of drinks.

  Claire sipped at her drink and felt the gassy bubbles in her mouth. Victor Chen looked at her expectantly.

  “The Communists are a great threat,” she said. This is what she had heard again and again at gatherings.

  Mr. Chen laughed.

  “Of course! And what will you and Melody do about them? ”

  “Shut up, darling. Don’t tease,” said his wife. She took a sip of her drink. Victor watched her.

  “What’s that you’re drinking, love? ”

  “A little cocktail,” she said. “I’ve had a long day.” She sounded defensive.

  There was a pause.

  “Locket is a good student,” Claire said, “ but she needs to practice more.”

  “It’s not her fault,” Mrs. Chen said breezily. “I’m not here to oversee her practice enough.”

  Mr. Chen laughed. “Oh, she’ll be fine,” he said. “I’m sure she knows what she’s doing.”

  Claire nodded. Parents were all the same. When she had children, she would be sure not to indulge them. She set her drink down.

  “I should be going,” she said. “It’s harder to get a seat on the bus after five.”

  “Are you sure? ” Mrs. Chen said. “Pai was getting us some biscuits.”

  “Oh, no,” she demurred. “I really should be leaving.”

  “We’ll have Truesdale drive you home,” Mr. Chen offered.

  “Oh, no,” Claire said. “I couldn’t put you out.”

  “Do you know him? ” Mr. Chen asked. “He’s English.”

  “I haven’t had the pleasure,” Claire said.

  “Hong Kong is very small,” Mr. Chen said. “It’s tiresome that way.”

  “It’s no trouble at all for Truesdale,” Mrs. Chen said. “He’ll be going home anyway. Where do you live? ”

  “Happy Valley,” answered Claire, feeling put on the spot.

  “Oh, that’s near where he lives!” Mrs. Chen cried, delighted at the coincidence. “So, it’s settled.” She called for Pai in Cantonese and told her to call the driver.

  “Chinese is such an intriguing language,” Claire said. “I hope to pick some up during our time here.”

  Mr. Chen raised an eyebrow.

  “Cantonese,” he said, “is very difficult. There are some nine different tones for one sound. It’s much more difficult than English. I picked up rudimentary English in a year, but I’m sure I wouldn’t have been able to learn Cantonese or Mandarin or Shanghainese in twice that.”

  “Well,” she said brightly, “One always hopes.”

  Pai walked in and spoke. Mrs. Chen nodded.

  “I’m terribly sorry,” she said, “but the driver seems to have left already.”

  “I’ll be fine taking the bus,” Claire said. Mr. Chen stood up as she picked up her things.

  “It was very nice to meet you,” he said.

  “And you,” she said, and walked out, feeling their eyes on her back.

  At home, Martin had arrived already.

  “Hullo,” he said. “You’re late today.” He was in an undershirt and his weekend trousers, which were stained and shiny at the knees. He had a drink in his hand.

  She took off her jacket and put on a pot of water to boil.

  “I was at the Chens’ house today,” she said. “Her parents asked me to stay for a drink.”

  “Victor Chen, is it? ” he asked, impressed. “He’s rather a big deal here.”

  “I gathered,” she said. “He was quite something. Not at all like a Chinaman.”

  “You shouldn’t use that word, Claire,” Martin said. “It’s very old-fashioned and a bit insulting.”

  Claire colored.

  “I’ve just never . . .” She trailed off. “I’ve never seen Chinese people like this.”

  “You are in Hong Kong,” Martin said, not unkindly. “There are all types of Chinese.”

  “Where is the amah? ” she asked, wanting to change the subject.

  Yu Ling came from the back when Claire called.

  “Can you help with dinner? ” Claire said. “I bought some meat at the market.”

  Yu Ling looked at her impassively. She had a way of making Claire feel uncomfortable, but she couldn’t bring herself to sack her. She wondered how the other wives did it—they appeared to handle the help with an easy aplomb that seemed unfamiliar and unattainable to Claire. Some even joked with them and treated them like family members, but she’d heard that was more the American influence. Her friend Cecilia had her amah brush her hair for her before she went to bed, while she sat at her dressing table and put on cold cream. Claire handed Yu Ling the meat she had bought on the way home.

  Amah put to work, she went and lay down on the bed with a cold compress over her eyes. How had she gotten here, to this small flat on the other side of the world? She remembered her quiet childhood in Croydon, an only child sitting at her mother’s side while she mended clothes, listening to her talk. Her mother had been bitter at what life had handed her, a hand-to-mouth existence, especially after the war, and her father drank too much, maybe because of it. Claire had never imagined life being much more than that. But marrying Martin had thrown everything up in the air and changed it all.

  But this was the thing: she, herself, had changed in Hong Kong. Something about the tropical clime had ripened her appearance, brought everything into harmony. Where the other Englishwomen looked as if they were about to wilt in the heat, she thrived, like a hothouse flower. Her hair had lightened in the tropical sun until it was veritably gold. She perspired lightly so that her skin looked dewy, not drenched. She lost weight so that her body hung together compactly and her eyes sparkled, cornflower blue. Martin had remarked on it, how the heat seemed to suit her. When she was at the Gripps or at a dinner party, she saw that men looked at her longer than necessary, came over to talk to her, let their hands linger on her back. She was learning how to speak to people at parties, order in a restaurant with confidence. She felt as if she were finally becoming a woman, not the girl she had been when she had left England. She felt as if she were a woman coming into her own.

  And then the next week, after Locket’s lesson, the porcelain rabbit h
ad fallen into her purse.

  The week after, the phone rang and Locket leaped up to answer it, eager for any excuse to stop mangling the prelude she had been playing, and while she had been chattering away to a schoolmate, Claire saw a silk scarf lying on a chair. It was a beautiful, printed scarf, the kind women tied around their necks. She put it in her bag. A wonderful sense of calm came over her. And when Locket came back into the room with only a mumbled “Sorry, Mrs. Pendleton,” Claire smiled instead of giving the little girl a piece of her mind. When she got home, she went into the bedroom, locked the door, and pulled out the scarf. It was an Hermès scarf, from Paris, and had pictures of zebras and lions in vivid oranges and browns. She practiced tying it around her neck, and over her head, like an adventurous heiress on safari. She felt very glamorous.

  The next month, after a conversation where Mrs. Chen told her she sent all her fine washing to Singapore, because “the girls here don’t know how to do it properly, and, of course, that means I have to have triple the amount of linens, what a bother,” Claire found herself walking out with two of those wonderful Irish napkins in her skirt pocket. She had Yu Ling hand wash and iron them so that she and Martin could use them with dinner. She pocketed three French cloisonné turtles while Locket had abruptly gone to the bathroom—as if the child couldn’t take care of nature’s business before Claire arrived! A pair of sterling salt and pepper shakers found their way into her purse as she was passing through the dining room, and an exquisite Murano perfume bottle left out in the living room, as if Melody Chen had dashed some scent on as she was breezing her way through the foyer on her way to a gala event, was palmed and discreetly tucked into Claire’s skirt pocket.

  Another afternoon, she was leaving when she heard Victor Chen in his study. He was talking loudly into the telephone and had left his door slightly ajar.

  “It’s the bloody British,” he said, before lapsing into Cantonese. Then, “can’t let them,” and then some more incomprehensible language that sounded very much like swearing. “They want to create unrest, digging up skeletons that should be left in the closet, and all for their own purposes. The Crown Collection didn’t belong to them in the first place. It’s all our history, our artifacts, that they just took for their own. How’d they like it if Chinese explorers came to their country years ago and made off with all their treasures? It’s outrageous. Downing Street’s behind all of this, I can assure you. There’s no need for this right now.” He was very agitated and Claire found herself waiting outside, breath held, to see if she couldn’t hear anything more. She stood there until Pai came along and looked at her questioningly. She pretended she had been looking at the brush painting in the hallway, but she could feel Pai’s eyes on her as she walked toward the door. She let herself out and went home.