Trudy and Victor Chen sit inside Chez Sophie, a small French restaurant in Causeway Bay, and watch the rain fall outside.

“It never seems clean here, even after the rain,” Trudy says. “The water washes the grime off the streets but it’s back two instants later. Hong Kong is just dirty. Always has been. Can’t live anywhere else, though. This filthy city is home.” She rubs the arm of her chair, red velvet, the fabric starting to shine from constant use. “I’ve always loved this restaurant,” she says. “As a child, Father used to take me to the Sunday brunch here every week, and I’d buy a new dress to wear.”

Victor harrumphs.

“Every week?” he says. “You were spoiled, weren’t you?”

“Spoiled?” she asks. “Don’t worry, Victor. I’m sure this war will beat every last shred of privilege out of me.”

“People will show their true colors.”

“They already are, Victor, dear cousin, and people are already commenting on it. I’ve heard people call us collaborators. Isn’t that what you call those who get too close to the conquerors?”

“Collaborator is a dirty word, Trudy. I’d be careful how you use it.” Victor sips Cognac, his face reddening. Trudy lounges in her chair, sleek in a tan wool skirt and ivory blouse. A half-empty coffee cup sits in front of her.

“But that’s what we are, aren’t we, Victor?” Trudy asks, needling him. “Isn’t that what they call people like us?”

“Don’t be naïve,” he snaps. “You are providing English lessons and etiquette. You’re basically a governess to the good general, educating him in the ways of the Western world that he is so interested in, despite himself. And I am merely doing my best to provide a smooth transition so that our people do not have to suffer. Never say something so stupid again. Not everything is so black and white. Should we spite ourselves and alienate the very people who might help us through this difficult time? Trudy, you are no longer a child.”

“But Otsubo is so . . .”

“You do not have to concern yourself with him other than to give him English lessons and try to fulfill his requests.” His face turns shrewd. “I would say you should comply with every request, no matter what it is or how veiled it is.”

“He is a pig,” she says quietly. The waiter comes and silently refills her cup. She puts sugar and milk in, takes a sip.

Victor studies her face.

“You’ve changed,” he says. “Is it the Englishman? Has he inculcated you with his timeless values, the right way to do things, honor and all that rubbish the English are so good at spewing? And yet, when it comes to their responsibilities, they always find a reason why they can’t fulfill them, and they always sound so good when they do. They’ve refined it to an art. They sound good and do nothing.”

“Who don’t you hate, Victor?” She thinks privately that his speech is undermined by his Oxford accent.

“You are more Chinese than anything else, Trudy. You will always be viewed as foreign in any other country. You belong in Hong Kong.”

He lights a cigarette, doesn’t offer her one. She knows he’s always disapproved of her smoking in public. He thinks women should be demure and quiet when out.

“These are going to be currency too now, you know,” he says, inspecting the lit tip. “Things are going to be different, and getting a foothold in the new world is going to be like building a foundation on quicksand. You have to be adaptable.”

Trudy puts her hands on the table and leans forward. If she could, she would bare her teeth and hiss.

“I’m busy, Victor. Why did you want to see me?”

“I just want to be sure we’re on the same side,” he says. “Being as we’re family and all.”

Trudy laughs.

“You’ve never felt so familial before, I’m sure.” She hesitates. “Maybe I’ll go into Stanley instead. Will said . . .”

“Don’t be idiotic, Trudy. You can get a lot more accomplished out here than you can by being in a prison. And make no mistake, that’s what it is in there, a prison. Why would you give it up?”

“But Will . . .”

Victor laughs.

“I didn’t know you were so sentimental, my dear. And of course, there’s the matter of your father.”

Trudy tenses. “What of him?”

“I didn’t want to say anything but . . . he is not well.”

Trudy’s face doesn’t move. “He’s never said anything to me.”

Victor looks at her as if she were stupid.

“And you think he would?”

“I don’t believe you.”

Victor waves his hand. “It doesn’t matter to me in the least.” He catches himself. “Of course, I am concerned with his welfare and I thought you had a right to know.”

In the restaurant, the pianist comes in and sits down. He starts to practice. Trudy and Victor sit across from each other, each unwilling to make the next move.

“Debussy,” Trudy says.

“Yes.”

They sit, two chess players, looking at anything but each other. Victor smokes his cigarette down to the stub and crushes it in the crystal ashtray. He speaks first, oblique.

“The Players are already hard to get. The Japanese are bringing in their own brands, Rising Sun and rubbish tobacco like that. It’s going to be all about transportation and access to imports. The channels are going to get narrower. Goods will be dear.”

Trudy looks up. “Goods like, say, medicine, you mean?”

“Well, of course. That’s just one example. Good-quality medicine. American and British pharmaceutical companies are certainly not going to be shipping goods to conquered territories. At least not legally. People are going to have to be clever.”

“And you’ve always been clever, Victor. And criminally unsubtle.”

He throws up his hands. “I’ve always been called something. But I’m just trying to make sure you understand the entire situation. Food is going to be in very short supply. It’s not just a matter of silk stockings and good port.”

Trudy stands up. “Excuse me, I just have to powder my nose.” She walks gracefully over to the powder room and the door closes silently behind her.

Victor waits, tapping his pack of cigarettes on the tablecloth. When she emerges, she is fresh-faced, with a new coat of lipstick, woman’s armor.

“People will think we’re in love, Victor. This illicit meeting in an out-of-the-way restaurant.” She smiles at him.

“Having an affair?”

“You don’t fancy me?”

Victor considers her teasing more seriously than he should.

“You’re like a sister to me, Trudy. Melody has always been very fond of you. She asked me to take care of you while she was gone, make sure you were all right.”

“That’s funny. She told me to go to Macau, to be with my father.”

“He does need someone to help him out, take care of him.”

“He has Leung.” Her father’s devoted houseboy, with him for forty years. “He’ll take care of him better than I ever could.”

“Didn’t you hear?”

Trudy’s face falls. “No, what?”

“Leung was knifed in the lung. Seems he was trying to prevent some Japanese private from taking your father’s Rolex. It was touch and go for a while, but then he finally succumbed. These soldiers know just where to put the knife.”

“Father would have told me,” Trudy says. “He would have contacted me.”

“You know how it is with your father,” Victor says soothingly. “He doesn’t want to be a bother to you. But don’t worry, Trudy. I took care of it. I have a woman from Shanghai living with your father, cooking and taking care of him. He didn’t want you to worry. I didn’t want you to worry. I only brought it up because . . .”

There is a long pause. Trudy looks up and smiles at Victor, brittle. She reaches slowly across the table for the pack of cigarettes and takes one out. Victor does not offer a light so she goes into her handbag and gets a lighter. Her hands are shaking. She inhales deeply and blows the smoke at Victor.

“Otsubo . . .” she says. “He adores me. Thinks I’m some exotic flower.”

“I know,” Victor says. “You should make sure that lasts.”

He looks at her searchingly with narrowed eyes, then turns away, satisfied.

“I’m having a garden party next week,” he says. “You will be the hostess. We are family, so people won’t talk. Bring Otsubo and tell him to invite whoever he wants.”

Trudy nods, so slight a movement it is almost unnoticeable.

“I think we’re finished here,” Victor says. “But one more thing, Trudy. When you decide to do something, you should do it all the way. There’s nothing worse than indecision, or ambivalence. That’s the kind of thing that endangers lives. But you’re a smart girl—you know what I’m talking about. Have a good day.”

He tosses some bills on the table and walks out.