The Piano Teacher (2 page)

To her surprise, she didn’t detest Hong Kong, as her mother had told her she would—she found the streets busy and distracting, so very different from Croydon, and filled with people and shops and goods she had never seen before. She liked to sample the local bakery goods, the pineapple buns and yellow egg tarts, and sometimes wandered outside Central, where she would quickly find herself in unfamiliar surroundings, where she might be the only non-Chinese around. The fruit stalls were heaped with not only oranges and bananas, still luxuries in postwar England, but spiky, strange-looking fruits she came to try and like: star fruit, durian, lychee. She would buy a dollar’s worth and be handed a small, waxy brown bag and she would eat the fruit slowly as she walked. There were small stalls made of crudely nailed wood and corrugated tin, which housed specialty shops: this one sold chops, the stone stamps the Chinese used in place of signatures; this one made only keys; this one had a chair that was rented for half-days by a street dentist and a barber. The locals ate on the street in tiny little restaurants called
daipaidong,
and she had seen three worker men in dirty singlets and trousers crouched over a plate containing a whole fish, spitting out the bones at their feet. One had seen her watching them, and deliberately picked up the fish’s eyeball with his chopsticks and raised it up to her, smiling, before he ate it.

Claire hadn’t met many Chinese people before, but the ones she had seen in the big towns in England were serving you in restaurants or ironing clothes. There were many of those types in Hong Kong, of course, but what had been eye-opening was the sight of the affluent Chinese, the ones who seemed English in all but their skin color. It had been quite something to see a Chinese step out of a Rolls-Royce, as she had one day when she was waiting on the steps of the Gloucester Hotel, or in business suits, eating lunch with other Englishmen who talked to them as if they were the same. She hadn’t known that such worlds existed. And then with Locket, she was thrust into their world.

 

After a few months settling in, finding a flat and setting it up, Claire had put the word out that she was looking for a job teaching the piano, somewhat as a lark, she put it—something to fill the day—but the truth was, they could really use the extra money. She had played the piano most of her life and was primarily self-taught. Amelia, an acquaintance she had met at a sewing circle, said she would ask around.

She rang a few days later.

“There’s a Chinese family, the Chens. They run everything in town. Apparently, they’re looking for a piano teacher for their daughter, and they’d prefer an Englishwoman. What do you think? ”

“A Chinese family? ” Claire said. “I hadn’t thought about that possibility. Aren’t there any English families looking? ”

“No,” Amelia said. “Not that I’ve been able to ascertain.”

“I just don’t know . . .” Claire demurred. “Wouldn’t it be odd? ” She couldn’t imagine teaching a Chinese girl. “Does she speak English? ”

“Probably better than you or me,” Amelia said impatiently. “They’re offering very adequate compensation.” She named a large sum.

“Well,” Claire said slowly, “I suppose it couldn’t do any harm to meet them.”

 

Victor and Melody Chen lived in the Mid-Levels, in an enormous white two-story house on May Road. There was a driveway, with potted plants lining the sides. Inside, there was the quiet, efficient buzz of a household staffed with plentiful servants. Claire had taken a bus, and when she arrived, she was perspiring after the walk from the road to the house. The amah had led her to a sitting room, where she found a fan blowing blessedly cool air. A houseboy adjusted the drapes so that she was properly shaded. Her blue linen skirt, just delivered from the tailor, was wrinkled, and she had on a white voile blouse that was splotched with moisture. She hoped the Chens would allow her some time to compose herself. She shifted, feeling a drop of perspiration trickle down her thigh.

No such luck. Mrs. Chen swooped through the door, a vision in cool pink, holding a tray of drinks. A small, exquisite woman, with hair cut just so, so that it swung in precise, geometric movements. Her shoulders were fragile and exposed in her sleeveless shift, her face a tiny oval.

“Hello! ” Mrs. Chen trilled. “Lovely to meet you. I’m Melody. Locket’s just on her way.”

“Locket? ” Claire said, uncertain.

“My daughter. She’s just back from school and getting changed into something more comfortable. Isn’t the heat dreadful?” She set down the tray, which held long glasses of iced tea. “Have something cool, please.”

“Your English is remarkably good,” Claire said as she took a glass.

“Oh, is it? ” Melody said casually. “Four years at Wellesley will do that for you, I suppose.”

“You were at university in America?” Claire asked. She hadn’t known that Chinese went to university in America.

“Loved every minute,” she said. “Except for the horrible, horrible food. Americans think a grilled cheese sandwich is a meal! And as you know, we Chinese take food very seriously.”

“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.”

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.”