The Piano Teacher

May 13, 1953

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.

The sound of water splashing, Will humming a song in the tub, the door slightly ajar, a humid milky-sweet fragrance escaping the bathroom. Claire sat at his desk, heart pounding. She opened the drawer to his desk quietly. A bank book. She opened it-a modest balance. Some letters, tied together with red postal string, with names and addresses she did not recognize. London postmarks, scribbly writing. Some stamps, a pen, a book of matches from the Gripps. And then, a photograph. Four people, in evening dress, laughing, with cigarettes and drinks in hand, at a party: a picture of privilege. Will, Melody Chen, and another man and woman, both Asian or Eurasian, Will the only European. The woman who was not Melody (Trudy?) was very striking; she dominated the photograph, although she was slight, in a slim, short dress, with her vivid face and short, simple hair that somehow emphasized her femininity. It was hard to tell who was with whom; they all were linked together familiarly. Claire traced Will’s face with her finger. He looked so boyish, so innocent, his face all smooth cheek and bright eyes above his dinner jacket, bow tie loosened and hanging.

Will came into the room, wrapped in a towel, rubbing his head with another. He stopped when he saw her in front of the open drawer.

“What are you doing rummaging through my things?” he said.

She couldn’t read his tone. She decided to be unapologetic.

“What’s this?” She held up the photograph.

“A picture,” he said.

“I can see that. It’s of you and Melody and some other people.”

“Yes,” he said. “It is.”

“Did you used to see her socially? Who are the others?” She tried hard to make her tone conversational.

“Sometimes, Claire, you can be so provincial.” He let out an exasperated whistle. “But yes, I’ll say it for you. I used to see Melody at parties, not just in the backseat of the car I drive.”

“But it’s so strange,” Claire said. “What happened?”

“Do you feel my fall in social status? Does it bother you?” he said. He was mocking her, mean.

“I just want to know about you!” she cried. “Why must you make everything so ugly?”

“There’s a lot there, Claire,” he said. “You don’t want to know.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Claire,” he said. “Just stick to pilfering from the Chens and leave the larger stuff be.”

She felt immolated from within. Her face stung with a blush that rose so quickly she felt almost faint. She hadn’t been sure he had known. She had stopped the stealing long ago but he knew how to turn the knife. She slapped him, hard. He didn’t move. As she got her clothes on and left, he stood still, watching her. The silence between them was so long it waxed and waned in its intensity, and then felt ridiculous. The other questions-Who is the other woman? Why does Victor Chen care?-so big she could not bring herself to ask them. She closed the door behind her quietly. Slamming it would have seemed childish. She hated him, did she not?

On the street, she didn’t know where to go. She hailed a taxi to go into town. It was still bright daylight, and in Central, everyone seemed to have a purpose to their walk. She got out on Queen’s Road and wandered among the frame shops and jewelry stores. She stopped in front of a window. The display glittered out at her, necklaces and rings and bracelets, even a small diamond tiara. The Chinese were quite showy with their jewels. In the reflection from the glass, her face floated in front of her, an Englishwoman, attractive but wan. Someone whose lover had just been cruel, someone who didn’t know what to do about it. She tried to position her face so that a diamond necklace would be reflected around her neck. She crouched, to make it the right height.

Then she stood up, straightened her blouse, and walked to the Star Ferry, where she would wait for the bus that would take her home to Martin.