The Piano Teacher

by Janice Y. K. Lee

  Will cocks his head.

  “Really? That has rich comic possibility, certainly, but I don’t know if that’s the thing to do.”

  “I know it sounds mad, but where would we go? What do you think we should do? ”

  “We could go into town and see what other people are doing.”

  “But we might not have a place to sleep or anything to eat.”

  “Well,” Will says. “Let’s do this. Let’s take the car early tomorrow morning and we’ll go down to Central and see what’s going on there and we can come back up.”

  “All of us?”

  “Ned should stay, since he’s had a rough time, but you and Angeline can come if you want.”

  The next morning, they pile into the car, Ned as well, as he had not wanted to be left alone. He is freshly bathed and absurdly attired in some of Frederick’s clothes, the sumptuous weave of the shirt cloth glowing up underneath his childish face, his torso swimming in tropical-weight wool trousers cut to house Frederick’s not inconsiderable girth, cinched inefficiently by an alligator belt.

  The road winds down the mountain, and as they round this curve or that, they catch a glimpse of the harbor and Central, looking eerily similar, just without cars. As they enter town, they quiet, looking at the empty buildings, the barren streets.

  “Let’s go to the Gloucester,” Trudy says. “There should be people there.”

  They park and walk down Connaught Road. Ned touches Will’s hand and motions to the side. Between two buildings, a man’s body lies, crumpled, blood streaked over his clothes. They pass silently.

  “It’s so quiet,” Trudy whispers.

  “No cars or people anywhere,” Will says.

  But inside the Gloucester, it is bustling, with more people than they’ve ever seen in the lobby of that elegant hotel. They are sleeping on sofas, on the marble floor, the potted plants all moved tidily to one side, forming a verdant fringe to this strange refugee camp. Uniformed hotel boys are scurrying around with cups of coffee on silver trays, trying to serve the unorthodox guests as best as they are able.

  “There’s Delia Ho!” Trudy cries. “I thought she had gone to China. And there’s Anson and Carol. And Edwina Storch with Mary. The whole world’s here!”

  People throng around the new arrivals, asking where they’ve been, what they’ve seen.

  “Can’t help you,” Angeline says. “We’ve been hiding out at home.”

  “Undisturbed?” asks an American.

  “Quite,” says Trudy. “But eating like dogs. Is there any food here?”

  There isn’t much, unfortunately, the hotel trying their best to supply their guests with what remains in their cellar. Trudy sits down to share a rice pudding with Delia, spooning some into Will’s mouth, and then, seeing Ned off in a corner, gesturing him over to have some as well.

  “The coffee is atrocious,” she says. “They’ve gone to well water.”

  “What’s going on?” Will asks Dick Gubbins, an American businessman who, even before all this, always knew what was going on.

  “I’ve been at the American Club, came here to see if I could find out anything. They’re starting to rampage through town, celebrating their victory. Mitzy, that old bird with the antiques store on Carnavon Road, was stabbed by a drunk soldier for nothing at all, for not handing over her purse fast enough, or something.” His voice drops. “And you know what happened at the hospital.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Awful stuff. They’re just animals, sometimes. The nuns were violated, the other nurses too, doctors bayoneted while trying to defend them. They’re not supposed to touch hospital workers, obviously, but tell that to a bloodthirsty mob. Drew McNamara’s over there trying to clean the whole mess up and see that those responsible are apprehended but everything’s so chaotic now. Under the Hague Convention, police are supposed to be able to keep order, the old Hong Kong police, but I haven’t seen much of them. It’s complete madness out there, I tell you. The Japanese are using some of the British constables to stand guard outside their consulate. I don’t think they understand the concept of irony.

  “The Chinese and Indians should be able to move freely. Trudy’s cousin, that Victor Chen, is doing a good job acting as a go-between, trying to lessen the violence and looting. The neutral Europeans should be all right, but it’s touchy there. The Japs have asked for prostitutes, in addition to swarming all over the Wanchai brothels. Hopefully that’ll get some of their energy out. If you get a drunk or crazy one, they’ll swing at your head with a sword and not care if they’ve cut your head off. They’re demanding money and watches and jewelry from anyone they meet on the street. There’s supposed to be a victory parade on the twenty-ninth.”

  “Any word on what they’re planning to do with us?”

  “No. But if you can get to China, I would. I’m trying to arrange passage now for me and some of my men.”

  “I don’t know why Trudy doesn’t go.”

  “And you should as well, big guy. Nothing for you here, right? Listen, best of luck, and we’ll have a drink when this is all over, okay? Call me if you’re ever in New York.” They shake hands and Gubbins leaves, trailing palpable clouds of American prosperity and assurance.

  Trudy comes over.

  “You remember Sophie Biggs and her husband; we just saw them at Manley’s party,” she tells him. “Well, her husband knows some Japanese and so he spoke some to a few soldiers in the street and they thought he was being disrespectful and they shot him in the knee. And he was lucky, Sophie says. He’s not in good shape because the hospitals have been bombed and are operating on the barest of levels. Delia says they’re setting up checkpoints soon, so we’re not going to be able to get around without passes. Should we go back up and get our things? Should we stay up there or come back down here? It is rather more convivial down here in town. I was going a bit stir crazy up there.”

  “I think it would be nice if we moved into town, yes. But there’s no room here. We shouldn’t sleep on the floor here when we have perfectly good beds at home. We should conserve our strength to prepare for whatever might be ahead. Who knows when we’ll get to sleep well again.”

  “So you think we should stay at Angeline’s?”

  “I just don’t know where we would stay in town. I’m not going to stay here.” He gestures around. “This is a riot waiting to happen. I think it’s going to get ugly here, and I don’t mean with the Japanese.”

  “So cynical. Isn’t that my job? ” But she doesn’t disagree. “Isn’t it funny,” she says. “We’re at war but most of what we’ve done is wait around for something to happen.”

  “You don’t want anything to happen, Trudy. We want everything to remain boring and uneventful.”

  “But you know what I mean. We just sit at home and look at each other. Is that what war is? I wonder what Vivien Leigh is doing right at this very moment.”

  He slaps her lightly on the bottom. “She’s fast asleep,” he says.

  Edwina Storch comes over with Mary, her partner.

  “How are you, my dear,” she says to Trudy.

  “All right, darling. How are you all faring?”

  “Can’t complain, but trying to figure out the new order and how to go about things.”

  “It’s like quicksand, isn’t it?” Trudy says.

  “You’re a survivor, though,” says Edwina, with an odd cast in her voice.

  Trudy pauses.

  “As are you,” she says lightly. “I’m sure we’ll all be raising a glass of champagne to each other after this is all over.”

  “I certainly hope so,” says Edwina. “You’re at home?”

  “No, at Angeline’s,” says Trudy. “Don’t know if that’s the best place, but that’s where we are for now.”

  “Well, be well,” Edwina says. “I’m sure we will see each other soon.”

  “I certainly hope so,” says Trudy. When the women leave, Trudy makes a face at Will, sticking out her tongue.

 
They gather up Ned and Angeline, Trudy kissing everyone in sight, and stop by a newly sprung market to buy rice, choi sam, and rambutans at an exorbitant price, then drive home carefully, avoiding the main roads, feeling like some strange, newly orphaned family.

  The electricity finally goes out on New Year’s Eve. Will has been making quick, urgent drives to town to get information and supplies, trying to avoid running into any Japs. He’s been successful for the most part, with the exception of one day when he was in the car with Ned, leaving town with a sack of rice, melon seeds, and some tins of bully beef, feeling rather victorious at his successful scavenging. A Japanese soldier appeared suddenly on the road ahead of them and waved down their car. Will’s stomach had plummeted into the seat.

  “Don’t say anything,” he warned Ned. The soldier had them open the trunk. He looked at the rice and looked at them, and then had them get out of the car. Gesturing with his rifle, he had them empty their pockets and take off their wristwatches.

  “American?” he asked.

  “English.”

  The man laughed. He looked to be around twenty-two, with a wide, naïve face.

  “We win!” He pushed up his sleeve to reveal five wristwatches, lined up on his pale arm.

  There was no reply for that, so when the man took their money and their watches and the rice and beef, Will and Ned got into the car silently and went back home. They had felt lucky.

  And then New Year’s Eve, Will wakes up and turns on the switch, only to find the electricity is gone. The telephone works intermittently.

  Trudy rallies against the silence that greets these announcements.

  “Who needs all those gadgets,” she says. “They’re more work anyway. And everyone looks better by candlelight.” She pauses. “I think we should have a party. A real bang-up New Year’s party, and invite all our fellow campers who are up here with us on the Peak. I’ll see what we have and we can do a potluck-style evening.”

  The Millers live down the road, a fashionable American family of six who are hunkering down with their six or seven servants—two or three amahs, a baby amah, a cook, a houseboy, and a gardener. They come by every once in a while to share information and for human contact. Trudy goes with Will to invite them and insists they bring everyone, including the servants and the baby.

  “They can hang out in the kitchen and be part of it, a bit. You don’t want to leave them alone—they might not be there when you come back!”

  The bemused Millers agree to come and bring whatever they can spare, and to spread the word.

  On the way home, Trudy says, “There’s that story of the village with the soup. Do you know it? ”

  “No,” Will says. “Village? ”

  “There was a village with a chief who wanted to throw a big party with a communal soup. He asked everyone to bring something for the soup—a meat or a vegetable or something good, you know. But everyone thought that everyone else would bring something so they just brought a stone, figuring no one would notice. And in the end, tragic as it is, the soup was not delicious, or something like that.” She stops. “I don’t know why I told you that just now. Except that the people in that village were definitely not Chinese, having so little respect for food.”

  “You’re afraid the Millers will bring rocks to our party?”

  “No, idiot,” she says. “I’m afraid people aren’t honorable.”

  But of course the party is a wild success. Though no dress is specified, people come in their finest, a sort of last gasp to the world as they know it. They gather together at Angeline’s house, like moths to a flame, bringing surprising delicacies brought up from secret cellars—a case of champagne (“Why not?” the giver reasons. “Just figured it was now or some Jap would be bathing in it later”), five freshly slaughtered chickens, sardines, a small sack of rice, watercress, cheese, bananas. And this still being Hong Kong, people have brought their servants to prepare and serve it all.

  “A veritable feast,” Trudy says, looking at the table.

  “The proverbial groaning table,” says Will.

  “I wouldn’t go that far, darling.” She kisses him on the cheek. “Doesn’t it feel like we’re on school holiday? You don’t need to go to work, I don’t need to pretend to do anything with my time. Anything goes.”

  Young Ned Young, a little more comfortable in his situation now, pulls Will aside. “That Trudy is something else,” he says. “Where’d you find her? I never met anyone like her, for sure.”

  Men in dinner jackets and women in evening gowns are lounging in chairs, on the floor, drinking beer and tea out of odd containers—jam jars and tins—eating crackers and sardines. There’s no music so people offer to sing and play the piano. The instrument’s terribly out of tune, but the music is sweet and the voices lovely.

  Close to midnight, they gather around the biggest candle in the living room and count down.

  “Ten, nine,” they start, before Trudy interrupts.

  “Let’s prolong this. Let’s count down from fifty instead. Do we really have anything better to do?” People are agreeable and start over.

  “Fifty, forty-nine, forty-eight . . .” And then something odd happens. Somewhere between thirty-four and thirty-three, the mood changes and it seems as if they are counting toward something that is rather important. They are chanting and their voices gather force and purpose, so that as they count down into the twenties and into the teens and the single digits, they become louder and braver, until they get to “five, four, three, two . . . one” and they burst into cheers and hug one another and feel, for a moment, as if something has been salvaged. Women wipe away tears and men clap one another on the back.

  “Happy New Year, my darling,” Trudy says, kissing Will. “May this be the worst Eve we ever experience.”

  To the room she lifts her glass. “It’s time,” she says, “to bury the silver and put away the sheets in the hot room. It will be over, but we don’t know when.”

  At the end, guests leave in the wee hours, or stay, strewn among the many sofas and chairs, scared to go back outside, but wanting to get home. Trudy ministers to them, providing water and soothing words, until they muster up the courage to pull themselves together, expel the effects of drink, and lurch into the night, one eye cocked toward the sky for enemy aircraft.

  January 4, 1942

  ON THE FOURTH DAY of the new year, Trudy comes in with a leaflet in her hand.

  “They’re collecting people,” she announces, and reads from it.

  “ ‘Since the Japanese occupation of Hong Kong on Christmas Day, enemy aliens have been allowed free movement in practically all urban districts of the colony’—very generous of them isn’t it? Then there’s something about generals and army orders, and then it says, ‘All enemy civilians’—that does make you sound dangerous, Will—‘all enemy civilians shall assemble at the Murray Parade Ground on January fifth.’ You are allowed to carry personal effects, and the care of your house is your own personal responsibility. Enemies include British, Americans, Dutch, Panamanians and whoever else has been disagreeable enough to war with our conquerors.” She looks up. “I think I’m off scot-free.”

  “Are you?”

  “Well, I’m none of those categories, certainly. And I’ve secreted my British passport away somewhere very safe so no one need know about it. And I don’t think a dislike of origami qualifies me as warring with the Japanese. But we’ll have to get you there, I suppose, unless you want to go elsewhere? ” She wrinkles her brow. “China? Some people are arranging passage.”

  “No, I think staying in Hong Kong will be better. They will have to do things in a way that is accountable. If they gather us together, they have to register us and let our governments know, I would imagine.” He shrugs his shoulders. “But we should decide what to do with Ned.”

  Over a sparse lunch of rice and salted cabbage, they decide to clean the Canadian up and register him as English.

  “Pretend you lost your passport—a fire when
a bomb hit your home or something. Your accent is a problem though,” Trudy says. “Do you think the Japanese will notice? ”

  “I could pretend to be American,” he says earnestly.

  “But we don’t know any Americans to take you under their wing. Better you stick with Will and keep your mouth shut.”

  Trudy says again she will not register.

  “Angeline, you could go with Will and Ned, since Frederick is English. You’re counted as English, then. You have your marriage certificate somewhere, don’t you? I’ll be fine out here without you. So many family friends have offered to take me in, I won’t be alone.” Trudy strokes her friend’s arm.

  “I’ll stay here with you, I think. Don’t you?”

  “Why can’t you pretend you’re in government and not go?” Trudy asks Will. “Colonial staff are exempt from the order.”

  “Darling,” he says. “There are ways of verifying these things. It would be worse if I lied and were to be found out.”

  “But you won’t be allowed to come back, then, do you think? They’re not going to write down your name, give you a pat on the back, and send you on your way?”

  “Realistically, they’re going to keep us all in a group. So I assume there will be some sort of collective living for a while, as they figure out what they’re going to do with us. I’ve heard of mass exchanges between governments, so they might exchange us for Japanese who are living in our countries. But it might take a rather long time to get all that sorted out, so we should really have a plan of how to keep in contact.”

  After lunch, Will and Trudy go upstairs to pack a suitcase.

  “What will you need? A toothbrush.” She hands him a new one. “Tooth powder. Surely those are necessities. A comb—can’t have you looking disheveled. On the other hand, perhaps we don’t want you looking too handsome and getting yourself and all the ladies in trouble.”

  “Will you come with me?” he says. This is what he has wanted to ask all morning. The thought of leaving her makes him short of breath. He has seen her every day for months, not gone more than a few hours without smelling her skin, her hair. He finds other women grotesque now—they are too large, too loud, too slow. One afternoon, a short while after he had first arrived in Hong Kong, he and Simonds had sat at their desks and watched, mesmerized, as one is by the mundane, as their office lady, Miss Tsai, boiled water and poured it into a thermos. Miss Tsai was thin and wore metal spectacles. Her shoulders, which she covered with the same gray cardigan every day, were so small they looked as brittle as a bird’s bones. Her hair was cropped short and often shined with grease. Simonds had turned to him—this was before Trudy—and said, “I don’t understand how some find Chinese women attractive. They have no sex, so spindly.” Will wishes Simonds had met Trudy, the languorous slip of her. He had shipped out a little after the time Will had first met Trudy at the party, still professing his desire to find a buxom young Englishwoman with whom to form a family. He’s probably found her by now. But Will suspects he would find his English lass too rosy, too exuberant, next to the rapier-sharp silhouette that is Trudy.