The Piano Teacher

by Janice Y. K. Lee

  “And she wouldn’t have had anyone to confide in. She was totally alone. And I made her that way.”

  The air was damp still with the ever-present Hong Kong humidity. A drop of perspiration slowly wended its way down Claire’s back.

  She willed him to look at her, to acknowledge she was there, a part of this, but he stared out at the harbor, his eyes blank. Slowly, she realized: His new lightness was not just relief at the passing of his burden. There was emptiness there too.

  HE SEES TRUDY, waving on the steps of the Toa, as he gets in the car that will drive him back to Stanley. She has a wistful look on her face, her amber hair lit from behind, the setting sun sinking into the Hong Kong horizon. Pregnant Madonna. She blows him a kiss, suddenly winks. He hates how she does that—always turns a serious moment into a joke. But this is how she lives, how she survives. This is the animal she is. She had never told him anything different. She had warned him.

  Arbogast broke, she had told him during this furlough, and he had nodded. “Yes, I saw him afterward,” he said.

  “But you know,” she said, her voice slightly panicked, “it wasn’t the correct information. Otsubo is furious. But there was evidence that it was there. An old storage building in Mong Kok. Someone else got to it first.”

  “How did Otsubo know that Arbogast might know where it was?” he asked.

  She hesitated.

  “I think, Victor,” she said finally. “Although I have nothing to back that up. He has his finger in every pie, that man.”

  “Be careful,” he said.

  “I know.” She nodded. “Otsubo’s tired of me now, anyway. I think we’ve run our course.”

  “What does that mean for you?” he asked, careful to mask his relief.

  She laughed.

  “Oh, nothing good, I’m afraid. Just means I’m under his thumb just as much as always but I no longer have the means to coddle him out of his bad moods.”

  “Do you want to come into camp now?”

  “Again, with the camp! You cannot cage this bird, my love. I’ve grown used to dark, dangerous freedom and all its attendant humiliations.”

  “But you could . . .”

  “I am in the process of lining up another . . . sponsor,” she said slowly. “Or one is being lined up for me. So don’t you worry.”

  Tears sprang to his eyes, hot, unexpected. He felt as if he might die if she saw them.

  “I should go,” he said.

  “Yes.”

  He turned to go. She caught his arm, studied his face.

  “Every time I say good-bye to you, I wonder if it’s au revoir or adieu. You know what I mean?”

  He nodded.

  “You’ve too much power over me,” she said lightly. “I have to pretend like it doesn’t matter, like you don’t matter. How did that happen?”

  He looks at her, his love, her face ruddy with pregnancy, birdlike ankles swollen, this woman, a survivor, six months pregnant with an unwanted child, and finds he cannot forgive her this last transgression. It is easier to brand her a villain and go back to camp, play the victim, lick his wounds. This is what he does. There is no glory in it, but there is survival. And he realizes that is what they are playing at now.

  May 27, 1953

  EDWINA STORCH had told her everything, sure that she would pass on the information to Will.

  Edwina’s voice in her head, the old woman pouring tea in the dark club.

  “Trudy redoubled her efforts to be indispensable to Otsubo. She knew what kind of asset she had in him. I knew Otsubo because he had been of some help to me in getting my pass, and I kept in touch and tried to help him in whatever small matters I might be of assistance.” She had peered at Claire over her spectacles. “You understand, I was not collaborating with the enemy. I thought I would be of better use to England and everyone if I kept abreast of the situation, and there was no reason to alienate the man.” She took off her glasses and rubbed them again.

  “And when Trudy started to prove herself really indispensable to Otsubo—you know, the girl knew everything about Hong Kong and all the skeletons in the closet—her cousin, Dominick, who I never liked, started to get jealous. It was as if they were both vying for his favor, and there was only room for one. Dominick was a terrible person. I don’t know if you know anything about him but he was just awful. A sadistic, small man who always felt that life owed him everything. They were both Otsubo’s flunkies and ran around getting him meetings with Chinese leaders and keeping him informed about everything that went on in the Chinese community, and even in the small European community that was still outside. Dominick made some money buying and selling necessities. He would buy it cheap through his sources and charge exorbitant rates to the local market. Very distasteful. He’d also try to get information on who was helping whom and report back to Otsubo. Needless to say, this made him less than popular with their old crowd, but he was certainly the best fed. Dominick was more out in the open about it than Trudy. People stopped talking to him.”

  Claire interrupted.

  “Did you have to do any work? How did you survive?”

  Edwina pursed her lips.

  “I’ve always preferred not to dwell on the unpleasantness of the past.”

  Claire almost laughed aloud, but saw that Edwina Storch was unaware of the enormous irony of what she was saying.

  “There was all this business of the Japanese in Hong Kong trying to enrich themselves. It’s quite common in a victory but there was a lot of chatter about the Crown Collection, which had some extremely rare and priceless porcelain pieces. Otsubo found out I knew a bit about the subject and called me in to get some information. I told him what little I knew.”

  Edwina’s eyes sparkled.

  “Actually, I knew quite a bit more than I let on but didn’t think it was an opportune time.” She paused.

  “What if I were to tell you, Claire, that the governor had just flown into Hong Kong on the eve of the war.” She sat very still, as if in a trance. “He was stepping into a very tricky situation and he knew it. He had just been sworn in and was taking over a colony that was, from most intelligence reports, going to be conquered in short order. He had orders from London, one of which was to secure the Crown Collection which was in Government House. His strategy . . .”

  She laughed, interrupting herself. “Interesting story, isn’t it? Politicians are so stupid. No sense at all. His strategy was to tell three different people about the location he was going to have it sent so that it would survive the war. Communications to London were already compromised so he had to think of another way.” She looked at Claire. “I was one of the three.”

  “That must have been a great honor,” Claire murmured. She imagined the scene: Edwina Storch summoned to Government House, given tea, scones, a cordial reception from a man who had little knowledge of his new territory, still settling into his private quarters, getting to know the servants, his enormous task, Edwina condescending, as only a woman of her age and experience could be. How did she get away with it for so long and without challenge?

  “They knew I had been a long time in Hong Kong and knew a great deal about the people, the history, the place, which I do, of course,” Edwina mused. “And the other two. Well, I found out who they were as well. We weren’t supposed to know, but this kind of information gets around. The governor was nervous and confided in a few people, not the location but our identities. As chatter grew, it all came to light. One was Reggie Arbogast. Do you know him?”

  Claire nodded. “Slightly.”

  “He turned a bit queer after the war.” Her mouth grew set, grim. An unforgiving expression settled on her face. “And a silly cow of a wife, Regina.”

  “And the third?” Claire couldn’t help asking.

  Edwina looked surprised.

  “I thought you would guess. The third was Victor Chen.”

  April 1942

  WHEN IT RAINS in Hong Kong, the world stops. The deluge is so overwhelming, so strong, t
hat the city disappears under a sheet of gray water and people vanish like panicked rats, scurrying into doorways, shops, restaurants. Inside, they shake off the water, ordering coffee or browsing through dresses while they wait for the rain to stop.

  Trudy and Victor Chen sit inside Chez Sophie, a small French restaurant in Causeway Bay, and watch the rain fall outside.

  “It never seems clean here, even after the rain,” Trudy says. “The water washes the grime off the streets but it’s back two instants later. Hong Kong is just dirty. Always has been. Can’t live anywhere else, though. This filthy city is home.” She rubs the arm of her chair, red velvet, the fabric starting to shine from constant use. “I’ve always loved this restaurant,” she says. “As a child, Father used to take me to the Sunday brunch here every week, and I’d buy a new dress to wear.”

  Victor harrumphs.

  “Every week?” he says. “You were spoiled, weren’t you?”

  “Spoiled?” she asks. “Don’t worry, Victor. I’m sure this war will beat every last shred of privilege out of me.”

  “People will show their true colors.”

  “They already are, Victor, dear cousin, and people are already commenting on it. I’ve heard people call us collaborators. Isn’t that what you call those who get too close to the conquerors?”

  “Collaborator is a dirty word, Trudy. I’d be careful how you use it.” Victor sips Cognac, his face reddening. Trudy lounges in her chair, sleek in a tan wool skirt and ivory blouse. A half-empty coffee cup sits in front of her.

  “But that’s what we are, aren’t we, Victor?” Trudy asks, needling him. “Isn’t that what they call people like us?”

  “Don’t be naïve,” he snaps. “You are providing English lessons and etiquette. You’re basically a governess to the good general, educating him in the ways of the Western world that he is so interested in, despite himself. And I am merely doing my best to provide a smooth transition so that our people do not have to suffer. Never say something so stupid again. Not everything is so black and white. Should we spite ourselves and alienate the very people who might help us through this difficult time? Trudy, you are no longer a child.”

  “But Otsubo is so . . .”

  “You do not have to concern yourself with him other than to give him English lessons and try to fulfill his requests.” His face turns shrewd. “I would say you should comply with every request, no matter what it is or how veiled it is.”

  “He is a pig,” she says quietly. The waiter comes and silently refills her cup. She puts sugar and milk in, takes a sip.

  Victor studies her face.

  “You’ve changed,” he says. “Is it the Englishman? Has he inculcated you with his timeless values, the right way to do things, honor and all that rubbish the English are so good at spewing? And yet, when it comes to their responsibilities, they always find a reason why they can’t fulfill them, and they always sound so good when they do. They’ve refined it to an art. They sound good and do nothing.”

  “Who don’t you hate, Victor?” She thinks privately that his speech is undermined by his Oxford accent.

  “You are more Chinese than anything else, Trudy. You will always be viewed as foreign in any other country. You belong in Hong Kong.”

  He lights a cigarette, doesn’t offer her one. She knows he’s always disapproved of her smoking in public. He thinks women should be demure and quiet when out.

  “These are going to be currency too now, you know,” he says, inspecting the lit tip. “Things are going to be different, and getting a foothold in the new world is going to be like building a foundation on quicksand. You have to be adaptable.”

  Trudy puts her hands on the table and leans forward. If she could, she would bare her teeth and hiss.

  “I’m busy, Victor. Why did you want to see me?”

  “I just want to be sure we’re on the same side,” he says. “Being as we’re family and all.”

  Trudy laughs.

  “You’ve never felt so familial before, I’m sure.” She hesitates. “Maybe I’ll go into Stanley instead. Will said . . .”

  “Don’t be idiotic, Trudy. You can get a lot more accomplished out here than you can by being in a prison. And make no mistake, that’s what it is in there, a prison. Why would you give it up?”

  “But Will . . .”

  Victor laughs.

  “I didn’t know you were so sentimental, my dear. And of course, there’s the matter of your father.”

  Trudy tenses. “What of him?”

  “I didn’t want to say anything but . . . he is not well.”

  Trudy’s face doesn’t move. “He’s never said anything to me.”

  Victor looks at her as if she were stupid.

  “And you think he would?”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  Victor waves his hand. “It doesn’t matter to me in the least.” He catches himself. “Of course, I am concerned with his welfare and I thought you had a right to know.”

  In the restaurant, the pianist comes in and sits down. He starts to practice. Trudy and Victor sit across from each other, each unwilling to make the next move.

  “Debussy,” Trudy says.

  “Yes.”

  They sit, two chess players, looking at anything but each other. Victor smokes his cigarette down to the stub and crushes it in the crystal ashtray. He speaks first, oblique.

  “The Players are already hard to get. The Japanese are bringing in their own brands, Rising Sun and rubbish tobacco like that. It’s going to be all about transportation and access to imports. The channels are going to get narrower. Goods will be dear.”

  Trudy looks up. “Goods like, say, medicine, you mean?”

  “Well, of course. That’s just one example. Good-quality medicine. American and British pharmaceutical companies are certainly not going to be shipping goods to conquered territories. At least not legally. People are going to have to be clever.”

  “And you’ve always been clever, Victor. And criminally unsubtle.”

  He throws up his hands. “I’ve always been called something. But I’m just trying to make sure you understand the entire situation. Food is going to be in very short supply. It’s not just a matter of silk stockings and good port.”

  Trudy stands up. “Excuse me, I just have to powder my nose.” She walks gracefully over to the powder room and the door closes silently behind her.

  Victor waits, tapping his pack of cigarettes on the tablecloth. When she emerges, she is fresh-faced, with a new coat of lipstick, woman’s armor.

  “People will think we’re in love, Victor. This illicit meeting in an out-of-the-way restaurant.” She smiles at him.

  “Having an affair?”

  “You don’t fancy me?”

  Victor considers her teasing more seriously than he should.

  “You’re like a sister to me, Trudy. Melody has always been very fond of you. She asked me to take care of you while she was gone, make sure you were all right.”

  “That’s funny. She told me to go to Macau, to be with my father.”

  “He does need someone to help him out, take care of him.”

  “He has Leung.” Her father’s devoted houseboy, with him for forty years. “He’ll take care of him better than I ever could.”

  “Didn’t you hear?”

  Trudy’s face falls. “No, what?”

  “Leung was knifed in the lung. Seems he was trying to prevent some Japanese private from taking your father’s Rolex. It was touch and go for a while, but then he finally succumbed. These soldiers know just where to put the knife.”

  “Father would have told me,” Trudy says. “He would have contacted me.”

  “You know how it is with your father,” Victor says soothingly. “He doesn’t want to be a bother to you. But don’t worry, Trudy. I took care of it. I have a woman from Shanghai living with your father, cooking and taking care of him. He didn’t want you to worry. I didn’t want you to worry. I only brought it up because
. . .”

  There is a long pause. Trudy looks up and smiles at Victor, brittle. She reaches slowly across the table for the pack of cigarettes and takes one out. Victor does not offer a light so she goes into her handbag and gets a lighter. Her hands are shaking. She inhales deeply and blows the smoke at Victor.

  “Otsubo . . .” she says. “He adores me. Thinks I’m some exotic flower.”

  “I know,” Victor says. “You should make sure that lasts.”

  He looks at her searchingly with narrowed eyes, then turns away, satisfied.

  “I’m having a garden party next week,” he says. “You will be the hostess. We are family, so people won’t talk. Bring Otsubo and tell him to invite whoever he wants.”

  Trudy nods, so slight a movement it is almost unnoticeable.

  “I think we’re finished here,” Victor says. “But one more thing, Trudy. When you decide to do something, you should do it all the way. There’s nothing worse than indecision, or ambivalence. That’s the kind of thing that endangers lives. But you’re a smart girl—you know what I’m talking about. Have a good day.”

  He tosses some bills on the table and walks out.

  May 27, 1953

  CLAIRE SAT in the library with the retired headmistress, stunned.

  “Victor Chen?” she asked. “He was one of the three? Why didn’t he just . . .”

  “Oh,” Edwina said. “He didn’t want to sell the information too cheap. Nothing if not a good businessman, that fellow. Very misinformed about him, the government was. I could have told them he’d sell his own mother if the price was right. They thought it would be good to have a Chinese person know, in case the English were all imprisoned or killed. And they thought he had loyalties to England because he had been schooled there. He found out that I knew and that Reggie knew, but Reggie was in Stanley and he knew he’d never say anything. Me, he didn’t know so well. So he had me over a few times as well. I’ve never been so lavishly entertained and skillfully interrogated about my intentions. But I knew better. We played cat and mouse for a while and he always kept tabs on me.”