The Piano Teacher

September 1952

CLAIRE WAS WAITING for the bus after Locket’s piano lesson when Will Truesdale drove up in the car.

“Would you like a lift?” he asked. “I’m just off work.”

“Thank you, but I couldn’t put you out,” she said.

“Not at all,” he said. “The Chens don’t mind if I take the car home for the night. Most employers want their cars left at home and the chauffeur to take public transport home, so it’s very convenient for me.”

Claire hesitated, then got into the car. It smelled of cigarettes and polished leather.

“It’s very kind of you.”

“Did you have a good time at the Arbogasts’ the other day?” he asked.

“It was a very nice party,” she said. She had learned not to be so effusive, that it marked her as unsophisticated.

“Reggie’s a good sort,” he said. “It was nice to meet you there too. There are too many of those women who add to the din without adding anything else. You shouldn’t lose that quality, that quality of seeing everything new, for what it is. All the women here…” he trailed off.

He drove well, she thought, steady on the steering wheel, his movements calm and unhurried.

“You’re not wearing the perfume you had on the other day,” he said.

“No,” she said, wary. “That’s for special occasions.”

“I was surprised that you had it on. Not many English people wear it. It’s more the fashionable Chinese women. They like its heaviness. Englishwomen like something lighter, more flowery.”

“Oh, I wasn’t aware.” Claire’s hand went unconsciously to her neck, where she usually dabbed it on.

“But it’s lovely that you wear it,” he said.

“You seem to know a lot about women’s scents.”

“I don’t.” He glanced over at her, his eyes dark. “I used to know someone who wore it.”

They rode in silence until they arrived at her building.

“You teach the girl,” he said as she was reaching for the door, his voice suddenly urgent.

“Yes, Locket,” she said, taken aback.

“Is she a good student? ” he asked. “Diligent? ”

“It’s hard to say,” she said. “Her parents don’t give her much of a reason to do anything so she doesn’t. Very typical at that age. Still, she’s a nice enough girl.”

He nodded, his face unreadable in the dark interior of the car.

“Well, thank you very much for the ride,” she said.

He nodded and drove off into the gathering dusk.

And then, a bun. A bun with sweetened chestnut paste. That was how they met again. She had been walking up Potter Street to where there was a bus stand, when it started to pour. The rain, big, startling plops of water, fell heavily and she was soaked through in a matter of seconds. Looking up at the sky, she saw it had turned a threatening gray. She ducked into a Chinese bakery to wait out the storm. Inside, she ordered a tea and a chestnut bun and, turning to sit at one of the small circular tables, spotted Will Truesdale, deliberately eating a red bean pastry, staring at her.

“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.

It was hot, hot. The sun hid behind clouds for brief moments and then blazed out again. There was no cover. She wished for a cold drink, a tree for shade, both of which seemed impossibly far away on the shore.

“We should have swum out with a thermos of water,” she said.

“Next time,” he said, eyes still shut.

“Tell me your story,” she said, after allowing herself a minute to digest what that meant. She was still vibrating with the strangeness of the situation-that she was out at the beach with a man, intentions unknown.

“I was born in Tasmania, of Scottish stock,” he said mockingly, as if he were starting his own autobiography. He sat up and crossed his legs-a swami.

“Why? ” she said.

“My father was a missionary and we lived everywhere,” he said. “I’ve only been to England once, and loathed it. My mother was a bit of a bohemian and she had some money from her family so we were set in that way.”

Hong Kong was full of people like Will, wandering global voyagers who had never been to Piccadilly. Claire had been just once, and there had been an old man in tattered clothes who would shout “Fornicators! ” at everyone who passed.

“And how did you learn? ”

“School, you mean? Taught at home-good basic education of the Bible and the classics.” He held up his hands so that they blocked the sky. “It’s all you need, really, isn’t it?” His voice was sarcastic. “Solid background for life.”

“So how did you come to be a chauffeur? ”

“A couple I knew before the war, I used to live in their flat while they were living abroad. They came back after, and found me this job with their cousins. I didn’t know what else to do. No interest in going back to an office. And I’ve very few skills,” he said. “But I do know Hong Kong like the back of my hand.”

“And how did you end up in Hong Kong? ”

“My parents were in Africa, and then in India. When they retired back to England, I stayed on as an assistant manager at a tea plantation, then got tired of that after three years and was on a ship to a variety of places and ended up in Hong Kong. Just picked it out of a hat, really. I came here like everyone else, not knowing anything, and sort of took it from there.” He stopped. “Of course, that’s the story I tell all the ladies.”

She could not tell if he was joking or not.

“Oh?”

They were still lying on the too sunny floating dock, waves rocking them, sky an ethereal blue above them.

“How was India? ” Claire asked.

“Very complicated.”

“And Partition? ”

“After I left, of course. They needed us out. But undoubtedly a mess in the interior. Trains carrying tens of thousands of corpses back and forth. Humans capable of doing the worst to each other.”

Claire winced. “Why?” She had never heard anyone talk about historic events in such a personal way.

“Who knows.”

“And life there before all that? ”

“Rather incredible. We’ve carved out quite a world for ourselves, you know, still. Society’s rather limited of course. Women-our women-were in short supply.”

“You never married? ”

“No,” he said. “I never did.”

There was silence.

“Is the inquisition over? ” he asked.

“I haven’t decided,” she said.

He hadn’t asked a single question about her life. They lay silently and let the sun beat down on them.

They went to eat, hot, salty chicken drumsticks from a Chinese vendor who sold them bottles of soy milk as well. There were little stalls clustered around the small village where you could buy a woven mat to lay on the sand, a bathing suit, a cold drink. Will watched her eat. A mangy dog ambled through the tables and chairs.

“I can’t eat much,” he said. “I’m all messed up inside from the war. I was a big chap before, if you can believe it.”

Her stomach leaped inside of her as he moved closer.

He took her hand and guided it to his mouth and took a small bite. His grip was firm and sandy.

“It comes up again, sometimes,” he said. “Like bile.” He chewed slowly, made a grimace.

After they ate, they walked back to the car. He leaned over to open the door for her. His limp was apparent. Human again. She turned to him, back against the door, and he pushed her shoulder back and kissed her, a fluid movement that seemed inevitable. She was encircled in his arms, his hands on the car. A physical kiss, one she felt intensely, his lips pressing hard on hers-she felt like she was drowning.

She told herself: This is Hong Kong. I am a woman, displaced. A woman a world away from who I am supposed to be.

He stood up and looked at her. He traced her profile with his finger.

“Should we go? ” he asked.

“Do you like me? ” she asked on the car ride back, her hair full and thick from the sea salt. She didn’t know where they were going.

“I haven’t decided yet,” he said.

“Be good to me,” she said. It was a warning. She wanted to save herself.

“Of course,” he said, but there was no conviction in his voice.

After a few moments, he asked, “Do you think you’ll be teaching the girl for long? ”

“I haven’t any idea. She shows no enthusiasm but her parents seem keen on the idea of her learning to play.”

“You like her, though? ”

“Well enough. I have no affinity for children.” She said this automatically, something her mother had always told her.

“You’re too young. You’re a child yourself,” he said.

“You like children? ”

“Some children,” he said.

A few weeks later, she asked, “Why me? ”

“Why anyone? ” he answered. “Why is anyone with anyone? ”

Desire, proximity, habit, chance. All these went through her mind, but she didn’t say a word.

Then, the cruel.

“I don’t like to love,” he said. “You should be forewarned. I don’t believe in it. And you shouldn’t either.”

She stared at him, the sting sharp, but she didn’t change her expression. She knelt down and retrieved her clothes and went into the bathroom to dress. Claire often didn’t speak around Will, never knowing what to say. She didn’t want to give too much of herself when he gave so little, but when they were lying together in bed, she felt awful, sharing this intimacy with someone who didn’t really seem to care. And then going home to Martin. With him, the private was mundane, a chore, some heavy breathing and shoving, not at all pleasurable or romantic. With Will, it was something else entirely: fraught and unexpected and excruciating. And like a drug. She had never known it could be like that. She closed her eyes and tried not to think of what her mother would say if she knew.

He would drive her home on Thursdays after the lesson. The amahs had started to talk, she knew it, from the way they would look at her and smirk. She ignored them, except for when she asked them for a cup of tea. She had resorted to taking one sip, and then asking for more sugar, or more milk, so they’d have to go back and fix her cup. It was petty, she knew, but the only way to redress the indignity of their sideways glances.

Today, Will opened the door with a flourish.

“Where to, madam? ”

“Oh, shut up,” she said, climbing in. “Let’s go to your place.”

“Let’s go out, do something,” he said. “What about dinner on the water? There’s a sampan restaurant I go to sometimes. They row you out, cook you a fish? ”

“I have to have dinner at home,” she said. “Martin’s home tonight so I haven’t much time.”

“Or let’s go up to the Peak and look at the stars.”

“Are you even listening to me?” she said, exasperated. “I don’t know that I even have time to go to your flat today.”

“Whatever you want, darling,” he said. “I’ll just drive you home, then, and you can go fix Martin a delicious meal.”

“Stop the car,” she said.

He drove up onto the side of the road and turned off the car.

“As directed,” he said.

“Why do you,” she said, suddenly furious. “You, you always do whatever I say to do, and then… it never seems like you’re doing anything but what you want to do.”

He looked at her with amusement.

“I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about,” he said.

“You do,” she said. “You know exactly what I’m talking about, but you’re pretending… Oh, never mind.” She raised her hands in surrender.

“Just take me home,” she said. “You’ve ruined it.”

There had been times when Claire felt that she could become a different person. She sensed it in herself, when someone made a comment at dinner, and she thought of the perfect, acerbic reply, or something even racy, and she felt her mouth opening, her lungs taking in air so that she could then push out the words, but they never came out. She swallowed her thought, and the person she could have become sank down again, weighted by the Claire that was already too evident in the world. She sensed it when she held a glass at a cocktail party and suddenly felt the urge to crush it in her hand. She never did. That hidden person had ballooned up and deflated so often, the elasticity of her possibility diminished over time.

But then came Will. She could say to him all the things she thought, as long as it didn’t have anything to do with them, and he didn’t find any of it surprising. He didn’t have an idea of what she should be like. She was a new person-one who could have an affair, one who could be ribald, or sarcastic, or clever, and he was never surprised. She was out of context with him. She was a new person. Sometimes she felt that she was more in love with that new person she could be, that this affair was an affair with a new Claire, and that Will was just the enabler.