The Piano Teacher (9 page)

“Hullo,” she said. “Caught in the rain too? ”

“Would you like a seat? ”

She sat down. In the damp, he smelled like cigarettes and tea. A newspaper was spread in front of him, the crossword half-finished. A fan blew at the pages so they ruffled upward.

“It’s coming down like cats and dogs. And so sudden! ”

“So, how are you? ” he asked.

“Fine, thank you very much. Just coming from the Liggets’, where I’ve borrowed some patterns. Do you know Jasper and Helen? He’s in the police.”

“Ligget the bigot? ” He wrinkled his forehead.

She laughed, uncomfortable. His hand thrummed the table, though his body was in repose.

“Is that what you call him? ” she asked.

“Why not? ” he said.

He did the crossword as she ate her bun and sipped at her tea. She was aware of her mouth chewing, swallowing. She sat up straight in her chair.

He hummed a tune, looked up.

“Hong Kong suits you,” he said.

She colored, started to say something about being impertinent but the words came out muddled.

“Don’t be coy,” he said. “I think . . .” he started, as if he were telling her life story. “I imagine you’ve always been pretty but you’ve never owned it, never used it to your advantage. You didn’t know what to do about it and your mother never helped you. Perhaps she was jealous, perhaps she too was pretty in her youth but is bitter that beauty is so transient.”

“I’m sure I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about,” she said.

“I’ve known girls like you for years. You come over from England and don’t know what to do with yourselves. You could be different. You should take the opportunity to become something else.”

She stared at him, then pushed the paper bun wrapper around on the table. It was slightly damp and stuck to the surface. She was aware of his gaze on her face.

“So,” he said. “You must be very uncomfortable. My home is just up the way if you want to change into some dry things.”

“I wouldn’t want to . . .”

“Do you want my jacket?” He looked at her so intently she felt undressed. Was there anything more intimate than really being seen? She looked away.

“No, I . . .”

“No bother at all,” he said quickly. “Come along.” And she did, pulled along helplessly by his suggestion.

 

They climbed the steps, now damp and glistening, the heat already beginning to evaporate the moisture. Her clothes clung to her, her blouse sodden and uncomfortable against her shoulder blades. In the quiet after the rain, she could hear his breathing, slow and regular. He used his cane with expertise, hoisting himself up the stairs, whistling slightly under his breath.

“In good weather, there’s a man who sells crickets made out of grass stalks here.” He gestured to a corner on the street. “I’ve bought dozens. They’re the most amazing things, but they crumble when they dry up, crumble into nothing.”

“Sounds lovely,” Claire said. “I’d like to see them.”

 

They got to his building, and walked up some grungy, industrial stairs. He stopped in front of a door.

“I never lock my door,” he said suddenly.

“I suppose it’s safe enough around these parts,” she said.

Inside, his flat was sparsely furnished. She could see only a sofa, a chair, and a table on bare floor. When they stepped in, he took off his soaking shoes.

“The boss says I can’t wear shoes in the house.”

Just then, a small, wiry woman of around forty came into the foyer. She was wearing the amah uniform of a black tunic over trousers.

“This is the boss, Ah Yik,” he said. “Ah Yik, this is Mrs. Pendleton.”

“So wet,” the little woman cried. “Big rain.”

“Yes,” Will said. “Big, big rain.” Then he spoke to her rapidly in Cantonese.

“Tea for missee? ” Ah Yik said.

“Yes, thank you,” he said.

The amah went into the kitchen.

They looked at each other, uncomfortable in their wet and rapidly cooling clothes.

“You are proficient in the local language,” she said, more as a statement than a question.

“I’ve been here more than a decade,” he said. “It would be a real embarrassment if I couldn’t meet them halfway, don’t you think?” He took a tea towel off the hook and rubbed at his head. “I imagine you’d like to dry off,” he said.

“Yes, please.”

She sat down as he left. There was something strange about the room, which she couldn’t place until she realized there was absolutely nothing decorative in the entire flat. There were no paintings, no vases, no bric-a-brac. It was austere to the point of monkishness.

Will came back with a towel and a simple pink cotton dress.

“Is this appropriate? ” he asked. “I’ve a few other things.”

“I don’t need to change,” she said. “I’ll just dry off and be on my way.”

“Oh, I think you should change,” he said. “It’ll be uncomfortable otherwise.”

“No, it’s quite all right.”

He started to leave the room.

“Fine,” she said. “Where should I . . .”

“Oh, anywhere,” he said. “Anywhere you won’t scandalize the boss, that is.”

“Of course.” She took the dress from him. “Looks around the right size.”

“And there’s a phone out here if you want to ring your husband and let him know where you are,” he said.

“Thank you,” she said. “Martin’s in Shanghai, actually.” And she went into the bathroom.

The bathroom was small but clean, with a frosted-glass window high above the toilet. It was the wavy, pebbled kind, with chicken wire running through it. Next to that, there was a small fan set into the wall with a pull string attached. It was humid, with the rain splattering outside, and the musty feel of a bathroom that hadn’t gotten quite aired out enough after baths. Next to the tub there was a low wooden stool with a porcelain basin on top. Claire leaned forward into the mirror. Her hair was mussed, fine blond strands awry, and her face was flushed, still, with the exertion of climbing up the hill. She looked surprisingly alive, her lips red and plump and wet, her skin glowing with the moisture. She undressed, dropping her soaked blouse to the floor, which sloped slightly to a drain in the middle. She toweled off and pulled the dress over her hips. It was snug, but manageable. Why did Will have a dress lying around? It was very good quality, with perfectly finished seams and careful needlework. She went out to where Will was sipping from a thermos of tea.

“Fits you well,” he said neutrally.

“Yes, thank you very much.”

All of a sudden, Claire couldn’t bear it. She couldn’t bear this man with his odd pauses and his slightly mocking tone.

“Something to eat, perhaps? ” he said. “Ah Yik makes a very good bowl of fried rice.”

“I think I’d better leave,” she said.

“Oh,” he said, taken aback. She took satisfaction in his surprise, as if she had won something. “Of course, if you’d rather.”

She got up and left, putting her shoes on at the door while Will stayed in the living room. When she turned to say good-bye, she saw he was reading a book. This infuriated her.

“Well, good-bye, then,” she said. “I’ll have my amah return the dress. Thank you for your hospitality.”

“Good-bye,” he said. He didn’t look up.

That night, after dinner, she couldn’t relax. Her insides seemed too large for her outside, a queer sensation, as if all that she was feeling couldn’t be contained inside her body. Martin was still away, so she put on her street clothes and got on the bus to town, bumping over the roads, elbow out the window, open to the warm night air. She disembarked in Wanchai, where there seemed to be the most activity. She wanted to be around people, not so alone. The wet market was still open, Chinese people buying their cabbages and fish, the pork hanging from hooks, sometimes a whole pig head, red and bloody, dripping onto the street. This was the peculiarity of Hong Kong. If she walked ten minutes toward Central, all would be civil, large, quiet buildings in the European classical style, and wide, empty streets, yet here, the frenetic activity, narrow alleys, and smoky stalls were another world. All around her, people called to one another loudly, advertising their wares, a smudge-faced child played in the street with a dirty bucket. A pregnant woman carrying vegetables under her arm jostled her and apologized, her movements heavy and clumsy. Claire stared after her, wondering what it would be like to have a child inside you, moving around. A young couple with linked arms sat down at a noodle stand and broke out loudly in laughter.

Next to her, a wizened elderly lady tugged at Claire’s arm. Dressed in the gray cotton tunic and trousers most of the local older women seemed to favor, she had a small basket of tangerines on her arm.

“You buy,” she said. She smelled like the white flower ointment the locals used to fend off everything from the common cold to cholera. One of her teeth was gray and chipped, the others antique yellow. The woman’s brown face was a spider web of deeply etched lines.

“No, thank you,” said Claire. Her voice rang out like a bell. It seemed as if her foreign voice stilled the bustle around her for a moment.

The woman grew more insistent.

“You buy! Very good. Fresh today.” The woman pulled at Claire’s arm again. Then she reached up and touched Claire’s hair like a talisman. The local Chinese did that sometimes, and while it had been frightening the first time, Claire was used to it by now.

“Good fortune,” said the old woman. “Golden.”

“Thank you,” said Claire.

“You buy! ” the woman repeated.

“I’m not looking for anything today, but thank you very much.” The hum around her resumed. Claire continued walking. The old woman followed her for a few yards, then shambled off to find more promising customers.

Why not buy a tangerine from an old lady, Claire thought suddenly. Why not? What would happen? She couldn’t think of why she had declined, as if her old English self, with its defenses and prejudices, was dissolving in the humid, fetid environment around her.

She turned around but the woman had already disappeared. She breathed deeply. The smells of the wet market entered her, intense and earthy. Around her, Hong Kong thrummed.

 

And then, suddenly, he was everywhere. She saw Will Truesdale waiting for the bus, at Kayamally’s, queuing up at the cinema. And though he never saw her, she always lowered her head, willing him not to notice. And then she’d peek up, to see if he had. He had a way of seeming completely contained within himself, even when he was in a crowd. He never looked around, never tapped his feet, never looked at his watch. It seemed he never saw her.

 

When she went for Locket’s lesson on Thursdays, she found herself looking for Will Truesdale. She heard the amahs laughing at his jokes in the kitchen, and she saw his jacket hanging in the entry foyer, but his physical presence was elusive, as if he slipped in and out, avoiding her. She lingered at the end of her lesson, but she never saw him or the car.

 

Then they were at the beach the next weekend. She hardly knew how it had happened. She had come home. The phone rang. She picked it up.

“I’ve a friend with one of those municipal beach huts,” he said. “Would you like to go bathing?” As if nothing had happened. As if she would know who it was by his voice.

“Bathing,” she said. “Where? ”

“On Big Wave Bay,” he said. “It’s a perk for the locals but they don’t mind if we sign up as well. It’s a lottery system and you get a cottage for the season. A group of us usually get together to do it and swap weekends. It’s quite nice.”

She shut her eyes and saw him, Will, the difficult man with his thin shoulders and gray eyes, his dark hair that fell untidily into his eyes, a man who stared at her so intently she felt quite transparent, a man who had just asked her to go bathing with him, unaccompanied. And she opened her eyes and said yes, she would join him at the beach that Sunday. Martin was away for three weeks and he had telegraphed from Shanghai to let her know he would be delayed for some time. He was taking a tour of major Chinese cities to see their water facilities, which he expected to be very primitive.

 

And so, it was water. She wondered why she hadn’t thought of it before. How it rendered everything changed. She was a different woman in a different sphere. And Will! The way he plunged in, without a thought, his limp gone, dissolved into the current. He was a fish, darting here and there, swimming to the horizon, farther than she would ever go.

They were the only non-Chinese people at the beach. The water was still warm from the summer, the air just starting to crisp. The hut was a simple structure with wooden cupboards; inside were communal woven straw mats. The sand was fine and speckled with small, black withered leaves. Families picnicked around them, chattering loudly, small children scrambling messily in the sand. He wanted to go out to the floating diving docks, some two hundred yards out. When she said she couldn’t, that it was too far, he said of course she could, and so she did. Out there, they climbed onto the rocking circle and sunned themselves like seals. He lay in the sun, eyes closed, as she surreptitiously watched, his ribs jutting out, his body pocked with unnamed scars of unknown origin. He wore short cotton trousers that were heavy with water. He wasn’t the type to wear a bathing suit.