Will laughed at her when she told him of her excitement.
“Why on earth do you care about a silly woman getting a crown because she happened to be born into a certain family? And also because her uncle fell in love with someone that others find objectionable?”
Claire was shocked.
“You sound Communist, Will,” she warned. “I wouldn’t go around town airing those kinds of views.”
“Sometimes you are such a ninny,” he said, but his voice was kind. “You are the silliest woman I care to know.” And he kissed her forehead gently.
They had been together for some eight months. Long enough to have a rhythm, but new enough that her palms still tingled, new enough to still check her reflection in any available surface before she was to meet him. Martin’s steady hours gave them time together, but it was Will’s work that confounded Claire.
“They never use you,” she said. “They have two others, local Chinese. Why did they hire you?”
“I’m useful in my own way,” he said. And refused to elaborate further.
But his lack of work meant they could spend afternoons together, in his small flat, having sent Ah Yik on one of many endless errands. How to deal with the small woman was one of Claire’s regular ordeals. Her illicit status ate at her, making it difficult to look Ah Yik in the eye. She worried unceasingly about what to say, or what not to say, or whether to even acknowledge her presence. When asked his opinion, Will claimed not to care, even more maddening than usual.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “She is the soul of discretion and loyal to a fault.”
“That’s not what I’m worried about,” Claire said.
“You’re worried about her opinion?” he needled.
“I find it uncomfortable, Will,” she said. “That is all.”
“I understand. But she doesn’t care at all what we do. She’s seen much worse.”
“And how is that?”
“She’s been with me for years.”
“Are you saying . . .” She stopped. “Never mind.” She didn’t want to know what he meant.
“Why do you care about the queen?” he asked suddenly.
“She is our queen,” she said. “What do you mean, why do I care? Why would I not care?”
“You believe in empire?”
“Of course,” she said, although she didn’t know exactly what he was talking about.
He propped himself up on an elbow, interested now.
“Now, what about this. Do you think the queen cares for you?”
“What? You are asking such queer questions, Will. Sometimes I don’t understand you at all.”
“I just want to know if you think the queen, or rather, the queen to be, takes an interest in your well-being.”
“She has many subjects but I’m sure she wishes the best for all of us.”
“And you owe her your loyalty, and regard yourself as her subject.”
“I do, yes.” She shook her head. “Why are you being so obstinate? These are the things that we hold dear as British subjects, and it is not so uncommon to think this way.”
Will smiled, a lazy smile.
“I just think that lovely little Lizzie doesn’t care for you as much as you seem to think she does.”
“You’re incorrigible,” she said. “Let’s not talk about it anymore. It’s putting me in a bad mood. You’re a terrible person and you make me angry.”
He laughed. He liked it when she scolded him.
But Will was erratic. His temper flared at the oddest things.
She had locked the door after them once, and having heard the click, he had turned around with real anger in his face.
“I told you,” he said. “I never lock my door. Please unlock it.”
She had, feeling chastised, her face blooming with embarrassment.
Later, she tried to bring it up.
“Why do you get so angry about locking your door? It seems so silly.”
“It’s a long story,” he said. “But please don’t ever do it again.” He offered no apology or further explanation.
She tiptoed around him, but then he would pull her into bed or kiss her, and she would feel like it was all enough—that all the uncertainty and humiliation and guilt was worth it.
And there was this too. Claire wanted a baby.
It had happened all of a sudden. After years of regarding the mewling creatures as nothing more than nuisances, something had shifted inside her, and every particle of her yearned for a child, an infant to hold and smell and embrace. She longed for her belly to swell and expand, to feel the mysterious knocks from within, to walk around knowing that she was nurturing a child inside her.
She saw babies everywhere, strapped to the backs of Chinese women in their cloth sacks, towheaded infants playing on the lawn at the Ladies’ Recreation Club. She felt bereft, unwomanly, as if something vital had been torn from her. She recorded her menstrual cycles and wept when blood stained her undergarments. When acquaintances told her they were expecting, her stomach dropped, as if from the want.
And, of course, it would be Will’s baby. The thought of having Martin’s child was, while not entirely repulsive, foreign to her, as if it were hardly a possibility. Martin had in fact receded so far from her life as she lived it that she was always faintly surprised when she woke up next to him. His smell seemed strange, his skin too clammy and corporeal. She resisted his advances, and he good-naturedly acquiesced, which made her despise him, which in turn made her despise herself. Had she always been this cruel? What had made her this way? Martin simply worked harder, spent more time at the office, and made it easy for her. What had made him like that? What had made her like this?
May 8, 1953
A CHANCE to get to know the Chens better arose. Not that Claire felt she wanted to.
It had been an odd circumstance. Locket’s mother had come into the room after the lesson, looking rather harried. There was something about her that was different these days. She spent most of the time locked up in her room, it seemed, as she was now almost always home when Claire came for Locket’s lesson. And she had lost so much weight she was gaunt.
She started when she saw Claire.
“Oh, Mrs. Pendleton,” she said. “How are you?”
“Fine, thank you.” Claire started to put away her things. It was the end of the hour. Locket had scampered off as soon as Claire had leaned back from the piano.
“I say,” Mrs. Chen began. “You wouldn’t be free for dinner tonight, would you? You and your husband? I know it’s terribly short notice.”
Claire didn’t know what to say. Her mouth opened but nothing came out.
“It would be lovely to have you. Victor and I are having a dinner party, you see . . .”
And then Claire did see. It was a last-minute invitation. Someone had dropped out and they needed two people without other obligations.
“I’m afraid . . .”
“Oh, please say you’ll come,” Mrs. Chen cried. “It’s a nice group of people. Government officials as well, so I would think Mr. Pendleton would be interested.” She dangled this before Claire.
“Well . . .” she said. She knew Martin would want to go.
“It’s settled, then. It’s at The Golden Lotus, a Cantonese restaurant in Central at eight. We have a private room.”
“Thank you so much for the invitation,” Claire had said.
“Do you think they’ll expect us to eat caterpillars or chicken’s feet?” Martin asked at home when told about their sudden plans.
“Who knows what they do,” Claire said. “I won’t eat anything like that.” She watched Martin wet his comb and draw it through his hair.
“What shirt should I wear?” he asked.
“I don’t know why we’re going to this dinner, I really don’t,” she said, but Martin had already left the room to rummage through his shirts. She stared at her face in the mirror. She looked drawn. She powdered her nose and pinched her cheeks for color.
>
The dinner did not go well. It was difficult to have a conversation with people who talked on a scale Claire was unused to. And they talked about themselves so much!
They had arrived on time, so they were the first other than the Chens, who were standing in a corner having a drink.
“Oh, I’m so glad you could make it,” Melody said, coming toward them. Her gaunt body was enclosed in a fantastic outfit of green silk chiffon with bell sleeves, and she had on emerald chandelier earrings and the most enormous emerald ring Claire had ever seen. She couldn’t take her eyes off the stone.
“Melody,” Claire said, feeling the unfamiliar name on her tongue. She had thought about what she was going to call Mrs. Chen and decided on the way to the restaurant it would be appropriate for her to call Mrs. Chen by her first name since it was a social occasion. “Melody, this is my husband, Martin Pendleton. We met briefly at the beach club.”
Martin and Mr. Chen shook hands.
“I understand you’re in water,” Mr. Chen said. He took Martin over to get a drink from the bartender.
“Your dress is lovely,” Mrs. Chen said of the simple shift Claire had also worn to the Arbogasts’ party on the Peak that day ages ago, when she first met Will. “I adore white, so fresh.” She seemed sincere. Her once-pretty face reminded Claire of a bony chicken, the flesh thin but sagging.
They were perfectly pleasant—ideal hosts, entertaining and engaging, introducing them to every single person who arrived, and yet Claire felt more and more uncomfortable as the night progressed.
She was seated next to a Mr. Anson Ho, who operated textile factories in Shanghai and was setting up new ones in Hong Kong. He made it very clear that the scale was large, and that the British had nothing to do with his success.
“Chinese are very entrepreneurial,” he kept saying. “We will find a way to make money anywhere. The old government did not give enough chances to the local population. The British are very arrogant but they need to realize it is a new age now. The Chinese in Hong Kong need to govern themselves.” He had a red, bulbous nose that suggested too many nights of Cognac. He drank his wine roughly, swirling it around in large circles, gulping it down. She nodded and smiled.
Martin was seated away from her, and was talking to an attractive Brazilian woman. He had drunk a fair amount and his gestures were becoming more animated. Around the table they spoke of Red China, the Koreas, “Rhee is playing with fire,” and what was going on in Myanmar. Opposite Claire was Belle, a woman from America, a journalist, she said, and she declared the harbor in Hong Kong to be inferior to the ones in Sydney and Rio. Belle smoked theatrically and asked Claire’s opinion about the harbor matter and Claire wiped her mouth with her napkin and excused herself to go to the powder room.
There, she found Melody Chen washing her hands nervously, wringing them again and again in the water, looking at herself in the mirror. She jumped when Claire came in. The ring rested on the basin.
“That’s a beautiful stone,” Claire said. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“I have to take it off before I wash my hands,” Melody said, drying her hands. “Emeralds are very fragile and I’m afraid I’ll do something to it. It keeps slipping off my finger too.” She picked it up gingerly and slipped it back on. “Such a bother!”
“You’ve lost such a lot of weight,” Claire said. “Are you all right?”
“Fine, yes, fine,” Melody said, not meeting her eye. “I must take better care of myself. Victor says I run around too much.”
Claire didn’t move although she was blocking the way to the door.
“Are you having a good time?” The Chinese woman stepped around her. “Victor and I were so glad you could join us on such short notice. We’re delighted with Locket’s progress—you’ve been a real boon to her musical education.” She held the door open for a moment. “It’s a nice evening, isn’t it?” The door closed behind her.
Claire took one of the cloths carefully folded on the restroom shelf and wiped all the moisture off the basin. It looked pristine again.
When she returned to the table, people were reminiscing about the war and the aftermath.
“What I found extraordinary,” Melody was saying, “was how, after the war, Hong Kong was so friendly then, and there was so much good feeling toward all and sundry, and then when everyone starting coming across the border, that lasted awhile. But now, of course, if someone manages to come over, they’re no longer greeted with such enthusiasm. There are just too many of them, and too many sad stories. Our sympathy has a time limit. You know Betty Liu had some six relatives staying with her for a year. She finally managed to pack them off to Canada but it took some doing. She had to hire three more maids!”
“That must have made for a busy ‘Arrivals and Departures’ column,” Belle said, speaking of the much-read column in the Post that marked those leaving Hong Kong by aircraft, and those who had arrived and were staying at the Gloucester.
“It’s like the tide, the Chinese come and go from China to Hong Kong depending on what turns history takes,” said Victor. “But nothing ever changes too much.”
“Where were you?” Belle asked Melody. “Were you here when the Japanese were?”
“Oh, no,” she said. “Victor saw what was coming far before it did, and he packed me off to California to stay with my college room-mate, who lives in Bel Air. I was pregnant at the time.”
“Very clever of him,” Belle said. “But he’s always been clever.”
Everyone seemed to have history, as if they had all grown up together, although they hailed from all corners of the world. Their language was the same.
“Yes, I’m very lucky,” Melody said. “Victor has always thought ahead.” Her face was still as she said it. There was a slight pause.
“Well!” said Victor. “My prescient self thinks we should play games. Isn’t that what you English love to do at dinner parties?”He directed this question to Claire. “I’m always being forced to play charades and act like a horse. For some reason, that’s viewed as entertainment by your countrymen.”
Claire opened her mouth but nothing came out. Everyone waited for her rejoinder. All she could think of, absurdly, was the phrase “The Communists are coming, the Communists are coming.” It ran through her mind like a jaunty little ditty.
“You should be one to talk, Victor,” Belle said finally, rescuing her. “I’ve seen you crack a monkey’s head open and eat the brains, and think that’s a fine way to spend the evening.”
“Well said!” said a Frenchman. “Good defense is always a good offense!”
As the conversation drifted on, successfully defused by the others, Claire sat quietly, trying to tamp down the flush of pure panic that had enveloped her when everyone’s attention had been mercilessly focused on her for that brief moment. She wished desperately for the evening to be over, even as she felt Melody Chen’s eyes, not unsympathetic, on her, and managed a wan smile.
When she and Martin returned home, he garrulous with wine, she silent, they went to bed upon washing up and changing into their nightclothes.
“Did you find there were a lot of awkward moments tonight?” she asked.
“I didn’t notice, no,” he said.
She wanted to beat him then, for his dumb, unknowing nature, beat him with her fists against his stolid, ignorant chest.
He laid a questioning hand on her shoulder. She turned away and he fell quiet.
“Claire,” he started.
“Martin, I’m exhausted.” She cut him off. “Please.”
He was silent. Then he settled into the sheets and pulled up the blanket. After a pause, a gentle “Good night, dear.”
She didn’t know whom she hated more at that instant: Martin or herself.
The next day she told Will about the ring, how beautiful it was. A strange look came over his face. “It is unforgettable,” he said. “I’ve seen it before.”
“Are emeralds very costly?”
�
�Some might say that one is without price,” he said.
“You know that particular ring? Has she had it long?”
He laughed, a short, violent laugh.
“You women and your baubles. All the same.”
And he refused to be drawn out further.
“I was at Edwina Storch’s for lunch the other day,” she told him finally. “Do you know her?”
A shadow passed over his face. They were lying in bed together.
“I’ve known her for a while. She’s been in the colony just about longer than anybody else. She’s pleasant enough, I suppose, although she managed to keep herself out of Stanley during the war under very murky circumstances. A survivor, to be sure.” He paused.
“Did you enjoy yourself? The din at these hen parties must be as loud as blazes what with everyone chattering away about their latest frock.”
“Is that what you think we do? Talk about dresses and how to make preserves?”
“Isn’t it?”
“I’ll have you know,” she said, “we have very serious discussions about politics and reparations for war.”
“And amahs,” he said, biting her shoulder. “And where to find the best leg of lamb, and how to entertain your . . .”
She covered his mouth with hers.
“Do shut up, darling,” she said, thrilling to the notion of being a woman who would say such a thing.
Afterward, she turned to him.
“There was something interesting. Someone said they were going to be digging up all the people who had collaborated with the Japanese during the war and prosecuting them. Do you know anyone who did such a thing?”
“What is it with you today?” he asked. “I feel like I’m being interrogated. Where does this sudden curiosity about everything come from?”
“Don’t be silly,” she said. “I just want to know. They say war does awful things to people, and I wanted to know if you knew anyone who had really done terrible things and got away with it.”
The Piano Teacher Page 21