The Piano Teacher (26 page)

“So, you’ll help us?”

What could he do? She didn’t ask for herself. She asked for them. She was lost already.

Part III

MISS EDWINA STORCH, an institution in Hong Kong, hosted occasional ladies’ lunches at her home in the New Territories. She was the headmistress emeritus of a well-regarded primary school in Pokfulam and a renowned expert on Chinese porcelains—an old China hand who had retired to the New Territories. She lived famously in an old house with Alsatians, chickens, an elderly married Chinese couple in service, and another English spinster—her lifelong partner, Miss Winkle. They sometimes came for lunch at the Ladies’ Recreation Club, where Claire had seen them holding court among the other expatriate women, and she had seen Miss Winkle wrestling carnations into submission at Mrs. Beazley’s flower-arranging class at the Duddell St. YWCA. Miss Winkle was small and slight, with frail bird bones, and Miss Storch was large and heavy, with thick calves that ended in a straight line at her feet. They both wore knee-length skirts and white cotton buttoned blouses with Peter Pan collars and often took slow constitutionals around the country-side with their sensible shoes and large dogs. Her invitations were rarely turned down, for some reason that Claire had not been able to glean. So when her invitation arrived in the mail, heavy cream bond with a gold crest—rather much for a retired schoolmistress, she thought—she accepted with curiosity.

Claire drove up to a white wooden gate. She had to get out of the car to open the gate, drive through, and then get out to close it again, with a little hook that had been haphazardly screwed into the wood. Somehow, she didn’t dare leave it open, although she knew some twenty people had been invited for lunch. She drove up a dusty road, past gracious old trees, one with a wooden swing attached to a large branch, to the house itself, a rambling stone structure that seemed on the verge of falling down. There was a porch, with a screen door slightly ajar, but she walked around the house to the back garden, where she could hear music and voices.

Alongside the house there was a drinks table set up with a bucket of ice and various mismatched glasses, a large punch bowl, and small egg salad sandwiches that were already attracting flies. Five other people had already arrived, none of whom Claire recognized. Then Miss Storch came over to greet her, walking slowly with a cane.

Miss Storch was one of those people so comfortable with herself that everything she did seemed unsurprising. If she served you wine in a teacup, it would seem the most natural thing in the world, and that anyone thought otherwise was hopelessly bourgeois. Her lunch was, Claire would discover, rabbit pie, tomato soup white bread tomato sandwiches, and ice cream on a stained cotton tablecloth in a weathered old tent outside in the garden. At each chipped place setting was a carved camphor wood fan to stir up the hot and humid air. Women stood around fanning themselves as they sipped warm lemonade and ate cocktail sausages and pineapple speared onto toothpicks.

“So nice to meet you,” Miss Storch said. “I’ve been meaning to have you over.”

“The pleasure’s mine, Miss Storch,” Claire said. “I’ve heard wonderful things about you.”

“Edwina, please, and call Miss Winkle Mary. I’m giving you permission right now.”

“That’s very kind.” Claire was very aware of Miss Storch’s intelligent, razor-sharp gaze. Beads of perspiration trickled in her décolletage. “Do you have these lunches often? I’ve heard of them, of course, but didn’t know if they were . . .” She trailed off, unable to come up with the words to complete the sentence.

“Mary and I live so far out, although this is the way we choose to live. We like people, and it’s hard to see them out here, so we came upon this idea, to have regular lunches, and people seem to like them, luckily, so they make the effort to come. We’ve had most everyone out here, a few governors, the occasional lord and lady, many travelers in from England. You know.”

“And you’ve been in Hong Kong long?”

“Longer than you would believe, child.”

“Oh!” A large Doberman had come up and nosed her hand.

“That’s Marmaduke, the dear,” said Miss Storch affectionately. “He keeps us safe and eats his weight in scraps every day.”

“Do you have more dogs?”

“We have seven, but most of them are out roaming around right now. They’ll come home for dinner. We adopted them after the war when there were so many animals looking for homes. We couldn’t bear to say no, and we ended up with far too many. There are eight budgerigars in the house, with three cats who would love to eat them, and I think there’s a terrapin somewhere in the kitchen as well.”

“Were you here during the war? ”

“Of course, through all the madness and its aftermath.” Miss Storch adjusted her spectacles. They were steaming up in the heat. Her eyes bulged behind them, her skin red and fleshy.

“A friend of mine . . .” Claire stopped.

“Yes? ” Miss Storch prompted.

“A friend was here as well. But I’ve just realized how stupid that must sound. There must be thousands of people who went through that experience. I’m sorry.” Claire ducked, a sort of apologetic curtsy, and left abruptly. Marmaduke trailed behind her hopefully, then went off to find better prospects. Her heart was beating so hard, it felt as if it might burst through her chest. She walked in a daze until she came to a chair and sat down heavily. She had no idea what had come over her, what strange combination of the heat, Miss Storch’s intent gaze, and her own preoccupation with Will had conspired to make this moment into something that felt so momentous.

She got up to get a fan from one of the place settings and fanned herself. When she peeked over, Miss Storch was busy with someone else and didn’t look at all put out by Claire’s strange reaction.

She sat and cooled off. Gradually she started to take in her surroundings. It was lovely out here. There was a large, graceful oak tree and an expansive lawn rolling down to a view of the mountains.

“Doesn’t feel like Hong Kong, does it?” said a voice behind her. Claire jumped.

“So sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.” She turned around to see a little woman with spectacles hung around her neck. “Mary Winkle.”

“Yes, of course. I’m Claire Pendleton. Thank you for having me today.”

“It’s our pleasure. We like to see people so we try to entice them out with a good meal.”

A small Chinese woman came by and waited expectantly.

“Would you like a drink? You can tell Ah Chau what you’d like.”

“Some of that lemonade would be lovely.”

“Lemonade, please,” Miss Winkle said loudly. Ah Chau nodded and left.

“She’s a bit deaf since the war. The Japanese knocked her about a bit.”

“So sad,” Claire said. “Very good of you to keep her on.”

“She’s like family. When I was at Stanley, she came with provisions every single week, and I know her own family didn’t have enough to eat. And she stayed with Edwina, who was on the outside.”

“All these stories I keep hearing about. It’s extraordinary.”

“Well, it wasn’t comfortable back in England either, I’d imagine.”

“We were quite sheltered. The food was a bit short but otherwise, not too bad. I remember the air sirens and running to the shelter with my mum.”

“Of course. And the dropping feeling in your stomach when you heard them.”

“Yes. Like a bad dream, as they say.”

A bell tinkled.

“It looks like it’s time to eat.”

They walked over to the tent.

 

At lunch, Claire watched as Edwina Storch took one of the tomatoes that were piled in the center of the table like a centerpiece. She was sitting on her right. The woman ate it as if it were an apple, with utter disregard for the red, staining juice as it dribbled onto her white linen blouse.

Miss Storch noticed Claire’s stare.

“Delicious, child. Have one. They’re as sweet as sugar, grown in my garden. We made the soup with them too, to get the last of them.”

“No, thank you,” she said. “But how wonderful to think you can grow your own vegetables in Hong Kong.”

“Oh, I couldn’t live anywhere else. I’ve been utterly spoiled. If I went back to England, they’d say I’d gone native, and they’d be absolutely right.”

“Do you think you will never return?” There was something about the older lady that invited intimacy.

“I don’t know what I’d return to. I haven’t any real family anymore, and the family I’ve made is here.”

Claire sipped the cold tomato soup. She grew bold.

“Can I ask you something impertinent?”

“If I can choose not to answer it,” Miss Storch said.

“How do you decide who to invite to your luncheons? We’ve never met before, and although I was so pleased to come, I don’t know how you even knew who I was to extend the invitation.”

Miss Storch laughed, pleased.

“A good hostess always thinks of the whole. What a bore to see the same people over and over again. You need a mix of nationalities, professions, personalities. As you know, Hong Kong grows very tiresome as the community is so small. And one must amuse oneself as one gets old, don’t you think?”

A Chinese woman with an American accent spoke to Miss Storch.

“I’ve heard you have a museum-quality collection of Song porcelain from Shanxi. Do you ever show people?”

“Sometimes,” Miss Storch said with a smile. The Chinese woman waited expectantly. Miss Storch’s smile grew wider.

The red-haired woman on the left of Miss Storch spoke up in the pause. She had been speaking importantly on women’s suffrage and rights and immigrants’ plights throughout the lunch.

“Have you heard? The government is forming a commission to rout out all the Japanese sympathizers once and for all. They’re sick of those scoundrels trying to blend in and pretend they weren’t part of the evil.”

“Well,” said Miss Storch. “That’s a strong word. There were certainly those who were opportunistic. But most were people simply trying to find any sort of work and get some food on the table. I think the ones who most need to be prosecuted are those who had no such worries but simply wanted to profit enormously and didn’t care about who they hurt along the way. Greed and dishonesty are always around, whether there is war or not.”

“They’ll have to answer to a higher authority,” said the redhead, with a certain pleasure.

“It’s difficult to prove anything, what with the lack of documentation during that time,” said another woman, plumpish. “They never did find out what happened to the Crown Collection.”

“I suppose they will rely on witnesses and first-person accounts,” Miss Storch said.

“Why now?” Claire asked. “It’s been ages since the surrender.”

“Well, it’s not anything official, but there have been a few events that make this particularly timely. The obvious people, Sakai, the Japanese commander-in-chief, and Colonel Tanaka, have been executed or imprisoned, but I think there’s an emphasis on finding the local civilians who were a little too enthusiastic in befriending their new masters and who are pretending that nothing of the sort happened. I do think old grudges are being dredged up.”

“So you’ve heard of this?” said the red-haired woman.

“I have been told that something like this may come along, as I may be of some help to those in charge.” Miss Storch stood up. “Who wants to come and see my new Crosley?” she said. “They delivered it last week. It doesn’t spoil the butter and defrosts automatically.” It was clear the conversation was over.

 

Women were lingering over lemon tea and Tcachenko’s cold cream cake when Miss Winkle was suddenly standing over Claire’s shoulder.

“Claire, would you do us the honor of playing some music. We’ve heard what a talented pianist you are.”

She flushed. “Hardly talented,” she demurred. “I teach, but rarely play for myself anymore.”

“You are teaching Locket Chen, are you not?”

“Yes, she’s been studying with me for a few months.”

“How do you like it? And her parents, Victor and Melody?”

“I haven’t had the pleasure of getting to know them more intimately as they’re rarely home when I go to teach.”

“Yes, they’re busy, I’d imagine.”

“You know them?” Claire asked.

“Know them?” Miss Winkle said with an odd cast in her voice. “Yes, I should say we know them. And Edwina knows Mr. Chen very well indeed.”

“Well,” Claire said. “I’ll give them your regards if you wish.” She sipped her tea. Thankfully, the idea of her playing for the party was not resurrected. Miss Winkle was called away on some issue with the biscuits and she was free to gather up her scarf and pocketbook and say her farewells.

 

HE WOKE with a startle, then exhaled heavily in the hot air, slowly noticed the fan moving sluggishly overhead as consciousness surfaced. Perspiration covered his body and the bed linens were soaked. Her voice was as clear as a bell in his head, her sharp, vivid outline moving against a dark background. He had forgotten how much she loved her own pronouncements, how she would philosophize over a cold drink, how she was startlingly insightful at the oddest times.

She was waiting for him, expecting him to save her.

What would become his story now? he wondered. And there was Claire, who had grown important to him despite himself, in whom he saw his undeveloped self, nascent, with her silly prejudices, her cherished ignorance, and, surprisingly, her moments of clarity. Her naïveté was a salve to his battered expectations. Wasn’t love always some form of narcissism after all? She came unbidden to his dreams too, battling with the other woman, the one who haunted him day and night. Claire, with her blond and familiar femininity, English rose to Trudy’s exotic scorpion.