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.