The Piano Teacher (29 page)

They took a taxi to a cemetery. Will paid the driver and got out. Paint peeled off a dilapidated, vacant guardhouse. A large tin sign with garish red Chinese characters teetered precariously above it.

“A cemetery!” she said. “You know how to treat a girl on holiday.”

“Do you know anything about how the Chinese bury their dead? ” he said, ignoring her.

“No,” she said. “Is it very different from our way?”

“Yes.” He consulted a map on the wall and traced his finger along a route. “Here we go.”

The air seemed thicker here. Claire didn’t want to breathe in, for fear that the essences of the dead would enter into her. She had grown more superstitious despite herself during her time in Hong Kong. In the cemetery, there were tombstones—smallish gray stones with English and Chinese characters interspersed—and paths intricately intercut among the graves, with rough stone steps leading up a hill.

She read the tombstones as they passed.

“ ‘Here lies William Walpole, brother of Henry.’ No other family, I suppose. He died in 1936 at the age of forty-three. And this one, ‘Margaret Potter, beloved.’ I like that one. I think I would want something simple on my tombstone, don’t you?”

Will spoke as if she had not said anything.

“It was very difficult after the war, you know, to catalog the dead. For the most part, they did mass graves. But it was very hard on the families. Not having the body of their loved ones to bury.”

“The ceremony is what comforts, a little, at least, I would think.”

“Yes, these rituals came about for a reason. People need something to focus on, to focus their grief on, and to keep busy. All over the world, rituals are part of death. It makes you hopeful for humans, that they have something in common.”

“In civilized times,” Claire said. “People are different when lives are at stake, not death.”

Will looked up, surprised.

“Yes,” he said. “In civilized times. At other times, all bets are off.”

He grinned.

“My savage mistress,” he said. “You are magnificent today.”

“Can I ask what we’re looking for?”

“An old friend,” he said.

 

They stopped at the top.

“Chinese like their graveyards to be built on hills. They think it’s more auspicious, and being the class-conscious society they are, they are consistent even in death: the top of the heap is still the top of the heap, as it were.”

The gravestones had given way to small structures, some quite elaborate, with turrets and gates and carved doors, resembling small residences or temples. Some had porcelain urns underneath.

“Do those contain ashes or bones?” she asked.

“Bones,” Will said. “The skull is laid on top.”

He was looking carefully at each little house as he passed. Suddenly he stopped.

“Here we go,” he said.

It was whitewashed stucco, with a wooden door that had an iron knocker in the shape of a dragon. Above the door was a sign with gold Chinese characters.

“We didn’t bring anything,” Claire said.

“We’re not here to give,” Will said. “We’re here to take.”

He pushed the door open and stood outside. He seemed to be waiting for something.

“Will!” Claire said, scandalized. “You’re disturbing the dead!”

“I’m quieting them,” he said, and went inside.

WHAT SHE REMEMBERED later of Macau was vague. The heat, of course, a good Portuguese restaurant with wooden benches and crumbling plaster walls, hot, crusty bread, carafes of red wine, something called African chicken, and the
dan taat,
the glossy yellow egg tarts. “You say pataca, I say potato,” he sang to her, changed in this little colony. The cemetery, coming back to the hotel, and Will on edge throughout. The interior of the little shrine had been cool and dark, but with the pungent odor of incense. They had knocked up flurries of dust when they entered.

“This is where Dominick is,” he had said.

“Who is Dominick?”

“A man who was, I think, misunderstood. Not least of all by me. At least, that’s what I think when I am being my most charitable self. But a sad story. In the end, his family didn’t want anything to do with him, and so he is buried here by himself, not with his family in Hong Kong. He wasn’t from Macau but this is where he ended up. An unwilling exile.”

“Did he die during the war?”

“Something like that. Maybe because of the war?” Will raised his voice in a question. “Who knows. It wasn’t that simple.” He ran his fingers along the dusty altar.

“In the end, it doesn’t matter though, does it. Here he lies, and all he’s done and all he did is forgotten by most.”

Then he spat on the coffin.

 

He had taken something from the little mausoleum, something he put in his pocket so casually she dared not ask what it was. But after that, they did nothing else unusual: they ate good meals, napped after tiffin, had champagne at the hotel bar, walked around and looked at Macau, so she assumed that was what he had come for. He reverted to his old sarcastic self. They came back to Hong Kong and he did not mention what had happened at the cemetery again.

SHE WENT to the Chens’ the next week and found Locket missing.

“She gone somewhere!” cried one of the servants. “Don’t know!” But the girl didn’t seem very concerned.

She sat in the room for half an hour before going to the powder room. As she washed her hands, she saw Melody Chen through the sheer curtain. She was sitting outside in the garden, writing a letter and weeping. Quietly, Claire gathered her things and left.

 

The next week, Yu Ling brought the newspaper to the breakfast table. The main story of the day was the queen’s list. Victor Tsing Yee Chen.

“Look, Martin,” she said. “Victor Chen’s got himself an OBE.”

“Really?” Martin said, impressed. “They’re not handing those out by the boatload.”

“Yes, and it has his history.” She scanned the column. “Did you know his grandfather was instrumental in opening up trade between China and the world?”

“Well, you’ll have to give him my congratulations when you go to their house. Is today your lesson day?”

“It is but I rarely see him,” she said. “There’s usually no one in the house except the child and the servants.”

“Well, I’m sure it’s a proud day for him.”

“I never knew they gave such things to foreigners,” she said.

 

But when she went to the Chens’, she ended up losing her temper with Locket. It had been a terrible lesson.

“Locket, if you don’t practice, you will never improve,” she said as she stood up and put on her jacket. Her head was throbbing from the atonal pounding Locket had produced. There had been long silences as Locket strained to read the notes she had clearly not looked at since the last lesson.

“Yes, Mrs. Pendleton,” Locket said as she pushed back from the piano.

“And it’s a waste of my time and yours for you to have a lesson and then not touch the piano until the next lesson.”

Locket giggled and covered her mouth. She had the irritating Oriental habit of laughing nervously when in uncomfortable situations.

“I don’t know if it’s worth it to teach you.” Claire was getting more and more agitated. The girl had stumbled over the simplest exercises and had no instinctive ability to read music. And she with a Steinway!

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Pendleton.” Locket was already by the door.

“And it’s extremely rude for you to stand by the door as if you are waiting for me to leave.”

Victor Chen poked his head in.

“What’s going on here?” His voice was not friendly.

“I haven’t been practicing, Baba,” said Locket. “And Mrs. Pendleton was telling me I should.”

“But what was the talk about manners?”

Claire’s mouth opened but nothing came out.

“Mrs. Pendleton said it is rude for me to stand by the door,” Locket said.

“She did, did she?” He looked at Claire. “You think it’s rude for Locket to stand by the door?”

“I do,” she said finally. “I feel as if I’m being rushed out the door.”

“Locket, you can go to your room now. I’m sure you have studying to do,” he said without looking at the girl. She ducked out gratefully.

“Did you enjoy yourself at dinner the other night?” he said from the doorway, apropos of nothing. “The company was good?”

She nodded. Then she remembered.

“Congratulations,” she said. “On the OBE. Your family must be very proud.”

Victor Chen walked right into the room and up next to Claire as if he hadn’t heard her. He put his head close to Claire’s, as if he were about to tell her a secret. She flinched even before he spoke.

“I hear you’re spending time with Truesdale,” he whispered. He put his hand behind her head and drew it closer, gently, intimately. “Is it love?”

The violence in his voice was palpable. She started back, stumbling a little on the edge of the carpet, and then grabbed blindly at her bag.

“Do give him my regards,” Victor called, as she backed out of the room. “And be sure to ask him if he’s going to come back to work anytime soon. We haven’t seen him lately.”

She ran out of the room and out the door, into the sudden heat.

“And ask him about Trudy!” Victor Chen’s voice filled the hallways of his house. “I’m sure you should know about that.” He laughed, a loud, bitter gasp.

She walked quickly down the path, past her bus stop, past the other buildings, in a panic. Her head was filled with a hot, white sound that slowly diminished as she got farther away. Almost imperceptibly, the sounds of the day, cars passing by, the occasional bird cry, began to filter through again and she slowed her pace. She was drenched in perspiration and her blouse was stuck to her back. She pulled it loose and tried to air out her body. The heat roared up her back and exploded in her head.

 

“Claire?”

The voice came from a distance.

“Claire?”

“Will?” she said, struggling through the dark.

“It’s Martin,” said her husband. “Who’s Will?”

“Martin,” she said. “Where am I?” It was now too bright to see. Her head throbbed from the sudden change from black to white.

“You’re home now. The Chens’ amah found you on the street and brought you home. Yu Ling called me at the office. You woke up, had some water, and went back to sleep.”

“Did I faint?”

“Must have. How do you feel? You’re white as a ghost.”

She shut her eyes. “Awful.” She remembered. “Oh! Victor . . .” she started, then shut her mouth.

“Victor Chen?” asked Martin.

“. . . was so kind,” she said. “I saw him at the end of the lesson.”

“Well, that’s good, then,” Martin said. Then he remembered. “Did you congratulate him?”

“I forgot,” she said. “I just saw him a moment.”

“Oh.” He paused. “Well, I’ll let you get some rest. Do you want anything?”

“No, I should be fine. Just need a moment.”

“The thing is . . .” He lingered. “There’s this project . . .”

“Go,” she said. “No good you hanging around here. I’m feeling better already.”

He pressed his lips on her forehead.

“Darling,” he said, and left.

 

The next day, Melody Chen rang as Claire was about to leave the house.

“I heard you fainted outside our house,” she said. “I just wanted to call to make sure you’re all right.”

“That’s very kind,” Claire said. Then she didn’t know what else to say.

“So, is everything all right?” Melody repeated.

“Oh, yes,” she said. “Sorry. I didn’t . . .” she trailed off. She remembered Victor Chen’s breath hot on her face. She remembered seeing Melody weeping through the window of the powder room.

“And you’re feeling better now?” Melody asked into the silence.

“Yes.” Claire remembered the dinner. “And thank you so much for inviting us to the dinner. We had a very nice time.”

“Oh, of course.” Melody Chen clearly had no idea what she was talking about. She had already forgotten about the dinner. “I’m so pleased.”

The conversation had started and stopped so many times Claire felt disoriented.

“Well, thank you very much for calling. It’s very kind. I was just on my way out the door. . . .”

“Of course,” Melody said. “I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

 

She was meeting Will at the botanical gardens above Central, a steep, winding maze of tropical flora and animals. She had called him for an emergency rendezvous, but he had sounded quite unconcerned with her urgency.

“I just had a call from Melody Chen,” she said when she saw him waiting for her on the corner.

“Hello to you too.” He snaked an arm around her and kissed her hard on the mouth. Possessive. She looked around instinctively. The animals lazed inside their cages, too hot to move.

“The monkeys don’t know you’re married,” he said.

Sometimes she hated his nonchalance.

“Melody Chen called me,” she repeated.

“Something with little Locket? A situation with the Steinway?” he asked, not really interested.

“Something like that,” she said. Suddenly, she was afraid of what Will would do if he found out what Victor Chen had said to her. Or maybe she was afraid of what he would not do.

“Let’s go back to my place,” he said lazily, turning away, sure she would follow. And her insides folded, like always, as she did exactly that.