The Piano Teacher (12 page)

But any bad feeling she had about the situation was always drowned out by the sensation Will created in the pit of her stomach when he approached her, cut the space between them in half, and half again, coming at her with those hooded, sardonic eyes. It was narcotic, that feeling, and she couldn’t go for long without it.

Claire was trying to become invisible, so that she would be all the more visible around Will. She spoke less and less, didn’t meet with the other wives, never left the flat unless she had to. Her days revolved around him, when she could see him next, what she would say to him, how he would touch her. Sometimes he refused. She would come over and lie in bed, and he would roll over and go to sleep, saying he was tired, and she would be left alone, her hot breath coming in and out, her head spinning with frustration. She wanted to own him, for him to want to own her, but he tread lightly around her—he didn’t want to leave a mark. She wanted to be branded, a red, raw wound.

 

At Will’s she lay in bed and realized that someone in the flat above played the same song over and over again. It was a melancholy tune she didn’t recognize, and the words were muffled through the ceiling. She never mentioned it to him, as if she wanted to keep it a secret, a knowledge that she had, only for her, as if it were something of his only she knew about.

When she bought him presents, it almost paralyzed her. She had wanted to buy Will a pair of slippers, but she thought the soles were rather slippery and so she had imagined an entire scene where he wore them, and then fell and cracked his head open, and she would be left, pale with regret and longing. So she didn’t buy them, and bought him a new teapot instead. He handed it over to Ah Yik, barely noticing it.

Christmas was coming and she was filled with dread. This is what it’s like to be Martin, she thought. Somewhat dim, simple, in love with someone who doesn’t love you back. It made her miserable. Will wanted her to not call him during the holidays. It was a difficult time for him, he said. A lot of memories. So she called him during the day just to hear the phone ring. Sometimes he would answer, his voice tense and annoyed. Other times the phone would ring and ring and she would imagine the amah shaking her head, knowing, the way women know, who it was. Funny, how that transcended culture.

 

Martin’s superior, Bruce Comstock, had asked him to their beach club in Shek O, where they had hired a cabana for Saturday, and so, that morning, they packed up towels and their bathing suits, rolled down the windows in the company Morris, and drove out to the end of the island.

The road was narrow and carved right out of the hills. On their left was a wall of lush green mountain, almost steaming from the heat, and on their right, a glorious view of blue sea and sky. White boats bobbed on the water, looking for all the world like toys in an enormous bathtub.

“It feels like we’re on the Italian coast, or what I imagine it to be like,” she said.

“Isn’t it marvelous? ” he said. She reached into her bag, pulled out Melody Chen’s scarf, and tied it around her head.

“That new? ” Martin asked.

“Yes,” she said easily. “I bought it at one of those little carts on Upper Lascar Row. You know, that neighborhood with the curry shops and carpets.”

“It looks good on you,” he said. They drove on.

The bathing club was simple and well used. They met the Comstocks at the bar and had a drink before the ladies went to the locker room to change into their bathing costumes.

Minna Comstock was in her early fifties and formidable. She had two children away at university, and lived her life with vigorous energy. She played tennis twice a week and golf on Ladies’ Day at Fanling. In the locker room, she stripped down to her underclothes without embarrassment. Her body was firm but wrinkles hung from her bosom, her arms, her stomach. It seemed as if she had too much skin for the body she had.

“I bought a nice bathing suit at Wing On,” Claire ventured. “They have quite a lot of merchandise.”

“Wear British,” Mrs. Comstock barked. “The items here are cut for the Chinese frame and aren’t suitable for us. Too small. I only buy at Marks and Spencer and I always bring back loads of things from home leave, good marmalade and proper knives and things like that. Have you seen what they call a knife around here? Barbaric implement called a chopper.” She hoisted a well-muscled leg onto a bench and started to oil it. “Have some lotion,” she said, handing the slippery bottle to Claire. “It’ll protect you from too much sun.” Mrs. Comstock was brown in the oddest places—on her calves between her sock line and where her short pants must have ended, and on her arms between her shirtsleeves and where her golf gloves began.

“Thank you,” Claire said. She smoothed some cream on her face. She didn’t enjoy the sun, thought the fashion of browning yourself like some animal on a spit was quite peculiar.

 

On the beach, the wooden cabanas were covered in white cotton broadcloth, large and airy with hooks for hanging up robes and compartments for bags.

“We’re number twenty-three,” Bruce said. “You can put your belongings there while we bathe.” Inside, there were beach chairs and an ice box. Bruce surreptitiously made them gin and Schweppes (“Highway robbery, what they charge you at the bar,” he whispered) and they sat down and sipped them.

“Isn’t this nice,” Claire said. “So relaxing.”

With a jolt of recognition, she suddenly spotted Locket running toward the sea in a white-and-red polka-dot bathing suit. When she followed her path back, her eyes fell upon the Chens drinking cocktails on the club terrace with a group of people. Melody Chen had on a wide-brimmed straw hat and sunglasses and looked like a film star.

“If you’ll excuse us,” she said to the Comstocks. “I just see some people I should say hello to.”

She brought Martin over to the Chens’ table.

“Hello,” Victor Chen said, as she stood over him. He squinted at her. “Oh, it’s . . .” He paused. “These are the Silvas,” he continued smoothly, gesturing to the couple sitting next to him. “Michael is Hong Kong’s foremost obstetrician. And this is Dave Bradley, with the NBC. He’s from the United States, so he and Melody have been getting on a little too well for my taste.” He turned to the table. “And this is Locket’s piano teacher.” Claire nodded and smiled. Mrs. Chen gave out a little shriek. “Locket!” she cried, and was out of her chair and down to the beach where Locket was in danger of being enveloped by an enormous wave. The group watched her run down to her child.

“Victor,” Claire said. “My husband, Martin Pendleton.”

“Of course,” he said immediately.

“Pleased to meet you,” Martin said. He smiled, uncomfortable.

Melody Chen came back from scolding Locket. “I wish they’d let the help in the club. It’s such a stupid rule,” she said. “It’s just exhausting not to have Pai around. Oh, I mean Francesca.” She turned to Mrs. Silva with a confidential air. “Did I tell you what happened?” They started conversing in lowered tones. Claire couldn’t decide whether to attend Martin’s conversation with Victor Chen, or his wife’s conversation with her friend.

“. . . here with Bruce Comstock . . .”

“. . . Austrian crystal figures my mother gave me . . .”

“. . . very good banker . . .”

“. . . everyone’s trying out new girls from rural China but they’re awful with meals, can’t cook at all and their own food’s inedible, you have to teach them every single thing . . . I gave her a new name, of course, Francesca, because I want to go to Italy soon . . .”

Claire stood there, caught in one of those moments where everybody is having a conversation and one is excluded. She felt ill at ease, as if she had been forgotten.

“What a beautiful head scarf,” Mrs. Chen said to her suddenly. “I have one that’s a bit like it.” A strange expression glanced over her face.

“Thank you,” Claire said, with a cool she hadn’t known she possessed. She had forgotten about the scarf. She patted her head casually, trying not to panic. “Thank you very much.”

“Is it Hermès?” Melody Chen asked. “I love the colors—orange and brown are my favorite—autumn, you know.”

“Oh, no,” Claire said. “I got it here, actually. It’s just some inexpensive thing I got off a hawker. I can give you the exact location if you . . .”

“Well, it looks just as nice as the real thing,” Melody Chen interrupted. “You tall women can pull anything off.” She sipped at her martini.

“Well,” Mr. Chen said in the ensuing lull. “It was certainly nice to see you.”

 

Claire didn’t sleep that night. She got up after Martin’s breath deepened, and walked barefoot over to the window. Beneath her feet the lacquered wooden floor was smooth and cool, spotless from the mopping Yu Ling gave it every other day. Her body was still overheated from the sun she had received that day at the beach; her arms and legs felt as if the rays were still simmering beneath her skin. She cranked the window open slowly, the metal hinges creaking, and watched the pinpoints of light that were people with insomnia just like her. There was a breeze and the humid night air entered the room and cooled her body. Her head was abuzz. She hadn’t been able to concentrate on anything since their encounter with the Chens. She was sure she had behaved quite queerly to the Comstocks, as she had seen Minna give a look to Bruce after she had knocked over her drink for the second time. She hadn’t said anything to Martin because she hadn’t the slightest idea what she would have said. “Darling, I’ve been stealing from the Chens and I’m afraid I’ve been found out. I’ve stopped, though, don’t worry.” He would think her quite mad. And perhaps she had been. She rested her head against the cool pane of the window. She didn’t think Melody Chen had put two and two together. And she would never accuse Claire of stealing without concrete proof, would she? Claire looked out at the dark night and wondered if it looked the same back home in England.

Part II

SO, THIS IS WAR. Before, he would have called it driving. He’s taking a lorry full of cable drums to Causeway Bay, along with five or six Chinese workers squatting in the back. In the seat next to him is Kevin Evers, who apparently knows what to do with the cable, or what to tell the workers to do. It is now chaos back at HQ, phone and radio squawking endlessly. The airport was bombed just hours ago, with the loss of some twenty-five aircraft, and the tension is rising. Will has been told to deliver the drums and get back on the double. Evers is nervously jabbering away.

The roads at least are empty of vehicles, although there are plenty of people still on the streets. A woman beats a man with a large burlap bag, striking him with her small hands, screaming, as he shakes her off and runs. The looting has already begun.

And, hard to believe, a few days ago he was at a party in a dinner jacket, sipping champagne and exchanging barbed jokes with Trudy and her crowd.

In Causeway Bay, he finds the building where he’s to drop off the drums and they’re unloading the lorry when the siren wails again. Everyone scurries inside, the whiz of air and the loud reverberation of the explosion. The ground shudders. Evers breathes loudly next to him. When they ring back to HQ, they’re told to stay as bombing will probably intensify, park the lorry in a safe place, and billet at a flat on Montgomery Street. With a stubby pencil he writes down the number on a grimy piece of paper smudged with oil: 140. It sounds familiar.

When they venture there, they ring the doorbell and find a frightened amah who lets them in and reaches into her tunic to unearth a wrinkled envelope. When they open it, they find a rather poignant note:

“Aaah,” says Will suddenly.

“What?” Evers asks, lighting up a cigarette and giving Will one as well, for good measure.

“Nothing.” It is just that he knows them. He’s met them before, and been here for a drink. This was when he first arrived, in the weeks before he met Trudy, before everything, as she would never know people like the Weatherlys. They were very good people, respectable, and coming to Hong Kong had been their great adventure. From a small village in the Cotswolds, they still had a wide-eyed wonder at the vastness of the world and marveled that they had ended up in the Far East. He had met them at a small English shop in Causeway Bay, buying tea, a few weeks after he had arrived, and after striking up a conversation, they had invited him over. Nice people. He never saw them after he started up with Trudy. Different speeds.