Читать книгу The Piano Teacher - Литагент HarperCollins USD, Janice Y. K. Lee - Страница 9

Claire had been waking at the same time every night. Twenty-two minutes after three. By now, she knew it without even looking at the clock. And every night, after she started awake, she would look over at the hulking shape of her husband as he slept, and she would be calmed from the shock of consciousness. His chest rose and fell evenly as his nose reverberated with a gentle snore. He always slept heavily, aided by the several beers he drank every evening.

She sat up, clapped loudly twice, her hands stiff, the sound like two bullets in the night. Martin shifted at the noise, then breathed freely. That trick was one of the few that her mother had imparted about married life. The clock now showed three twenty-three.

She tried to go back to sleep. She had done it once or twice before, fallen back asleep before her body got too awake. Breathing softly, she lay flat on her back and felt the damp linen sheet beneath and the light weight of the cotton quilt on top. It was so humid she could only wear a thin nightdress to bed, and even that grew sticky after a day or two. She must buy a new fan. The old one had sputtered to a standstill last week, caked with mossy mould. A fan, and also some more electric cord. And lightbulbs. She mustn’t forget lightbulbs. She breathed lightly, over the slight rumble of Martin starting up again. Should she write the things down? She would remember, she tried to tell herself. But she knew she would get up and write them down, so as not to forget, so as not to obsess about forgetting, and then she would be up and unable to go back to sleep. It was settled. She got up softly and felt her way out of the mosquito netting, disturbing a resting mosquito that buzzed angrily in her ear before flying away. The pad was lying on a table next to the bed, and she pencilled her list.

Then, the real reason. She reached into the depths of the bureau and felt around carefully for the bag. It was a cloth bag, one she had got for free at a bazaar, and it was large and full. She pulled it out quietly.

Going into the bathroom, she switched on the light. The bath was full of water. There hadn’t been rain for several months now, and the government was starting to ration. Yu Ling filled the bath every evening, between five and seven o’clock when the water was on, for their use during the day.

Claire set the bag down, dipped a bucket into the water and wet a cloth to wipe her face. Then she sat on the cool tiled floor and pulled up her nightdress so that she could place the bag between her legs.

She tumbled out the contents.

There were more than thirty items glittering up at her. More than thirty costly necklaces, scarves, ornaments, perfume bottles. They looked almost tawdry, jumbled together in the harsh bathroom light, against the white tiles, so Claire laid down a towel and separated them, so that each had a few inches of space, a cushion against the floor. There. Now they looked like the expensive items they were. Here was a ring, thick, beautifully worked gold, with what was probably turquoise. She slipped it on to her finger. And here was a handkerchief, so sheer she could see the pale pink of her palm underneath it. She sprayed it with perfume, a small round bottle of it, called Jazz. On the bottle, there was a drawing of two women dancing in flapper dresses. She waved the scented handkerchief around. Jasmine. Too heavy. She did her hair with the tortoiseshell comb, rubbed French hand lotion into her fingers, then carefully applied lipstick. Then she clipped on heavy gold earrings and tied a scarf round her head.

She stood in front of the mirror. The woman who looked back was sophisticated and groomed, a woman who travelled the world and knew about art and books and yachts.

She wanted to be someone else. The old Claire seemed provincial, ignorant. She had been to a party at Government House, sipped champagne at the Gripps while women she knew twirled around in silky dresses. She had her nose pressed up against the glass and was watching a different world. She could not name it but she felt as if she was about to be revealed, as if there was another Claire inside, waiting to come out. In these few hours in the morning, dressed in someone else’s finery, she could pretend she was part of it, that she had lived in Colombo, eaten frog’s legs in France or ridden an elephant in Delhi with a maharajah by her side.

At seven, after she had brewed herself a cup of tea and eaten some buttered toast, she made her way to the bedroom. She stood over her sleeping husband.

‘Wake up,’ she said quietly.

He stirred, then rolled over to face her.

‘Cuckoo,’ she said, a little louder.

‘Happy birthday, darling,’ he said sleepily. He propped himself up on one elbow to offer a kiss. His breath was sour but not unpleasant.

Claire was twenty-eight today.

It was Saturday, and the beginning of summer. Not too hot yet, the mornings had a breeze and a little bit of cool before the sun warmed the afternoons and the hats and fans had to come out. Martin worked a half-day on Saturday but then there was a party at the Arbogasts’, on the Peak. Reginald Arbogast was a very successful businessman and made a point of inviting every English person in the colony to his gatherings, which were famous for his unstinting hand and lavish foods.

‘I’ll meet you at the funicular at one,’ Martin told her.

At one o’clock, Claire was at the tram station waiting. She had on a new dress the tailor had delivered just the day before, a white poplin based on a Paris original. She had found a Mr Hao, an inexpensive man in Causeway Bay, who would come and measure her at home and charge eight Hong Kong dollars a dress. It had turned out quite well. She had sprayed on a bit of Jazz, although she found it strong; she dabbed it on, then rubbed water on it to dilute the smell.

At ten past one, Martin came through the station doors, and gave her a kiss. ‘You look nice,’ he said. ‘New dress?’

‘Mm-hmm,’ she said.

They took the tram up the mountain, a steep ride that seemed almost vertical at times. They held on to the rail, leaned forward and looked outside, where they could see into people’s homes in the Mid-Levels, with curtains pushed to one side, and newspapers and dirty glasses strewn on tables.

‘I would think,’ Claire said, ‘that if I knew people would be looking in my house all day from the tram, I’d make a point of leaving it tidy, wouldn’t you?’

At the top, they found that the Arbogasts had hired rickshaws to take their guests to the house from the station. Claire climbed into one. ‘I always feel for the men,’ she said quietly to Martin. ‘Isn’t this why we have mules or horses? It’s one of these queer Hong Kong customs, isn’t it?’

‘It’s a fact that human labour here often costs less,’ Martin said.

Claire stifled her irritation. Martin was always so literal.

The man lifted up the harness with a grunt. They started to roll along and Claire settled into the uncomfortable seat. Around them, the green was overwhelming, tropical trees bursting with leaves that dripped when scratched, bougainvillaea and other flowering bushes springing from the hillsides. Sometimes, she got the feeling that Hong Kong was too alive. It seemed unable to restrain itself. There were insects crawling everywhere, wild dogs on the hills, mosquitoes breeding furiously. They had made roads in the hillsides and buildings sprouted out of the ground, but nature strained at her boundaries – there were always sweaty, shirtless men chopping away at the greenery that seemed to grow overnight. It wasn’t India, she supposed, but it certainly wasn’t England. The man in front of her strained and sweated. His shirt was thin and grey.

‘The Arbogasts apparently had this place undergo a massive cleaning after the war,’ Martin said. ‘Smythson was telling me about it, how it had been gutted by the Japanese and all that was left was walls, and not many of those. It used to belong to the Bayer representative out here, Thorpe, and he never came back after he was repatriated after the war. He sold it for a song. He’d had enough.’

‘The way people lived out here before the war,’ Claire said. ‘It was very gracious.’

‘Arbogast lost his hand during the war as well. He has a hook now. They say he’s quite sensitive about it so try not to look at it.’

‘Of course,’ Claire said.

When they walked in, the party was in full swing. Doors opened on to a large receiving room, which led into a drawing room with french doors that looked over a lawn with a wide, stunning view of the harbour. A violinist sawed away at his instrument while a pianist accompanied him. The house was decorated in the way the English did their houses in the Orient, with Persian carpets and the occasional wooden Chinese table topped with Burmese silver bowls and other exotic curiosities. Women in light cotton dresses swayed towards each other while men in safari suits or blazers stood with hands in pockets. Swiftly moving servants balanced trays of Pimm’s and champagne.

‘Why does he do this?’ Claire asked Martin. ‘Invite the world, I mean.’

‘He’s done well for himself here, and he didn’t have much before, and wants to do something good for the community. What I’ve heard, anyway.’

‘Hello, hello,’ said Mrs Arbogast from the hall where she was greeting guests – a thin, elegant woman with a sharp face. Sparkly earrings jangled from her ears.

‘Lovely of you to have us,’ said Martin. ‘A real honour.’

‘Don’t know you, but perhaps we shall have the pleasure later.’ She turned aside, looking for the next guest. They had been dismissed.

‘Drink?’ Martin said.

‘Please,’ said Claire.

She saw an acquaintance, Amelia, and walked over. Too late, she saw that Mrs Pinter was in the circle, partially hidden by a potted plant. They all tried to avoid Mrs Pinter. Claire had been cornered by her before, and had spent an excruciating thirty minutes listening to the old woman talk about ant colonies. She wanted to be kind to older people but she had her limits. Mrs Pinter was now obsessed with starting up an Esperanto society, and would reel unwitting newcomers into her ever more complicated and idiotic plans. She was convinced that a universal language would have saved them all from the war.

‘I’ve been thinking about getting a butler,’ Mrs Pinter was saying. ‘One of those Chinese fellows would do all right with a bit of training.’

‘Are you going to teach him Esperanto?’ Amelia asked, teasing.

‘We have to teach everyone but the Communists,’ Mrs Pinter said placidly.

‘Isn’t the refugee problem alarming?’ Marjorie Winter said, ignoring all of them. She was fanning herself with a napkin. She was a fat, kindly woman, with very small sausage-like curls around her face.

‘They’re coming in by the thousands, I hear,’ Claire said.

‘I’m starting a new league,’ said Marjorie. ‘To help them. Those poor Chinese streaming across the border like herded animals, running away from that dreadful government. They live in the most frightful conditions. You must volunteer! I’ve rented space for an office and everything.’

‘You remember in 1950,’ Amelia said, ‘when some of the locals were practically running hotels, taking care of all their family and friends who had fled? And these were the well-off ones, who were able to book passage. It was quite something.’

‘Why are they leaving China?’ Claire said. ‘Where do they expect to go from here?’

‘Well, that’s the thing, dear,’ Marjorie said. ‘They don’t have anywhere to go. Imagine that. That’s why my league is so important.’

Amelia sat down. ‘The Chinese come down during war, they go back up, then come down again. It’s dizzying. They are these giant waves of displacement. And their different dialects. I do think Mandarin is the ugliest, with its wer and its er and those strange noises.’ She fanned herself. ‘It’s far too hot to talk about a league,’ she said. ‘Your energy always astounds me, Marjorie.’

‘Amelia,’ Marjorie said unsympathetically, ‘you’re always hot.’

Indeed Amelia was always hot, or cold, or vaguely out of sorts. She was not physically suited to life outside of England, which was ironic since she had not lived there for some three decades. She needed her creature comforts and suffered mightily, and not silently, without them. They had been in Hong Kong since before the war. Her husband, Angus, had brought her from India, which she had loathed, to Hong Kong in 1938 when he had become under-secretary at the Department of Finance. She was opinionated, railing against what she saw as the unbearable English ladies who wanted to become Chinese, who wore their hair in chignons with ivory chopsticks, too-tight cheongsams to every event and employed local tutors so they could speak to the servants in their atrocious Cantonese. She did not understand such women and constantly warned Claire against becoming one of such a breed.

Amelia had taken Claire under her wing, introducing her to people, inviting her to lunch, but Claire was often uncomfortable in her company, listening to her sharp observations and often biting innuendo. Still, she clung to her as someone who could help her navigate this strange new world. She knew her mother would approve of someone like Amelia, even be impressed that Claire knew such people.

Outside, the thwack of a tennis ball punctuated the low buzz and tinkle of conversation and cocktails. Claire’s group migrated towards a large tent pitched next to the courtyard.

‘People come and play tennis?’ Claire asked.

‘Yes – in this weather, can you believe it?’

‘I can’t believe they have a tennis court,’ said Claire with wonder.

‘And I can’t believe what you can’t believe,’ Amelia said archly.

Claire blushed. ‘I’ve just never –’

‘I know, darling,’ Amelia said. ‘Just a village girl.’ She winked to take the sting out of her comment.

‘You know what Penelope Davies did the other day?’ Marjorie interrupted. ‘She went to the temple at Wong Tai Sin with an interpreter, and had her fortune told. She said it was remarkable how much the old woman knew!’

‘What fun,’ Amelia said. ‘I’ll take Wing and try it out too. Claire, we should go!’

‘Sounds fun,’ Claire said.

‘Did you hear about the child in Malaya who had hiccups for three months?’ Marjorie was asking Martin, who had joined them with drinks in hand. ‘The Briggs child. His father’s the head of the Electricity over there. His mother almost went mad. They tried a witch doctor but no results. They didn’t know whether to take him back to England or just trust in fate.’

‘Can you imagine having hiccups for more than an hour?’ Claire said. ‘I’d go mad! That poor child.’

Martin knelt down to play with a small boy who had wandered over. ‘Hallo,’ he said. ‘Who are you?’

‘Martin wants children,’ Claire said, sotto voce, to Amelia. Despite herself, she often found herself confiding to Amelia. She had no one else to talk to.

‘All men do, darling,’ Amelia said. ‘You have to negotiate the number before you start popping them out or else they’ll want to keep going. I got Angus down to two before we started.’

‘Oh,’ Claire said, startled. ‘That seems so … unromantic.’

‘What do you think married life is?’ Amelia said. She cocked an eyebrow at Claire. Claire blushed, and excused herself to go to the powder room.

When she returned, Amelia had drifted away and was talking to a tall man Claire had never seen before. She waved her over. He was a man of around forty with a crude cane that looked as if it had been whittled by a child. He had sharp, handsome features and a shock of black hair, run through with strands of grey, ungroomed.

‘Have you met Will Truesdale?’ Amelia said.

‘I haven’t,’ she said, as she put out her hand.

‘Pleased to meet you,’ he said. His hand was dry and cool, almost as if it were made of paper.

‘He’s been in Hong Kong for ages,’ Amelia said. ‘An old-timer, like us.’

‘Quite the experts, we are,’ he said. He suddenly looked alert. ‘I like your scent,’ he said. ‘Jasmine, is it?’

‘Yes. Thank you.’

‘Newly arrived?’

‘Yes, just a month.’

‘Like it?’

‘I never imagined living in the Orient, but here I am.’

‘Oh, Claire, you should have had more imagination,’ Amelia said, gesturing to a waiter for another drink.

Claire coloured again. Amelia was in rare form today.

‘I’m delighted to meet someone who’s not so jaded,’ Will said. ‘All you women are so worldly it quite tires me out.’

Amelia had turned away to take her drink and hadn’t heard him. There was a pause, but Claire didn’t mind it.

‘It’s Claire’s birthday,’ Amelia told Will, turning back. She smiled, brittle, red lipstick stained her front tooth. ‘She’s just a baby.’

‘How nice,’ he said. ‘We need more babies around these parts.’

He suddenly reached out his hand and slowly tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. A possessive gesture, as if he had known her for a long time. ‘Sorry,’ he said. Amelia had not seen; she had been scanning the crowd.

‘Sorry for what?’ Amelia asked, turning back, distracted.

‘Nothing,’ they both said. Claire looked down at the floor. They were joined in their collusive denial; it suddenly seemed overwhelmingly intimate.

‘What?’ Amelia said impatiently. ‘I can’t hear a damn thing above this din.’

‘I’m twenty-eight today,’ Claire said, not knowing why.

‘I’m forty-three.’ He nodded. ‘Very old.’

Claire couldn’t tell if he was joking.

‘I remember the celebration we had for you at Stanley,’ Amelia said. ‘What a fête.’

‘Wasn’t it?’

‘You’re still with Melody and Victor?’ Amelia enquired of him.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It suits me for now.’

‘I’m sure it suits Victor just fine to have an Englishman chauffeuring him around,’ she replied slyly.

‘It seems to work for everyone involved,’ Will said, not taking the bait.

Amelia leaned towards him confidentially. ‘I hear there’s been chatter about the Crown Collection and its disappearance during the war. Angus says it’s starting to come to the boil. People have noticed. Have you heard anything?’

‘I have,’ he said.

‘They want to ferret out the collaborators.’

‘A bit late, don’t you think?’

After a pause, when it became apparent that nothing more was forthcoming from Will, she spoke again: ‘I hope the Chens are treating you well?’

‘I can’t complain,’ he said.

‘A bit odd, though, isn’t it? You working over there?’

‘Amelia,’ he said. ‘You’re boring Claire.’

‘Oh, no,’ Claire protested. ‘I’m just …’

‘Well, you’re boring me,’ he said. ‘And life is too short to be bored. Claire, have you been to the different corners of our fair colony? Which is your favourite?’

‘Well, I have been exploring a little. Sheung Wan is lovely – I do like the markets – and I’ve been over to Kowloon, Tsim Sha Tsui on the Star Ferry, of course, and seen all the shops there. It’s very lively, isn’t it?’

‘See, Amelia?’ Will said. ‘An Englishwoman who ventures outside of Central and the Peak. You would do well to learn from this newcomer.’

Amelia rolled her eyes. ‘She’ll grow tired of it soon enough. I’ve seen so many of these bright-eyed new arrivals, and they all end up having tea with me at the Helena May and complaining about their amahs.’

‘Well, don’t let Amelia’s rosy attitude affect you too much, Claire,’ Will said. ‘At any rate, it was a pleasure to meet you. Best of luck in Hong Kong.’ He nodded to them politely and left. She felt the heat of his body as he passed her.

Claire felt bereft. He had assumed they would not meet again. ‘Odd man?’ she said. It was more of a statement.

‘You’ve no idea, dear,’ Amelia said.

Claire peeked after him. He had floated over to the side of the tennis court, although he had some sort of limp, and was watching Peter Wickham and his son hit the ball at each other.

‘He’s also very serious now,’ Amelia said. ‘Can’t have a proper conversation with him. He was quite sociable before the war, you know, you saw him at all the parties, had the most glamorous girl in town, quite high up at Asiatic Petrol, but he never really recovered after the victory. He’s a chauffeur, now.’ Her voice dropped. ‘For the Chens, actually, do you know who they are?’

‘Amelia!’ Claire said. ‘I give their daughter piano lessons! You helped me arrange it!’

‘Oh dear. The memory goes first, they say. You’ve never run into him there?’

‘Never,’ Claire said. ‘Although the Chens once suggested he might give me a lift home.’

‘Poor Melody,’ said Amelia. ‘She’s very fragile.’ The word said delicately.

‘Indeed,’ Claire said, remembering the way Melody had sipped her drink, quickly, urgently.

‘The thing with Will is …’ Amelia hesitated. ‘I’m quite certain he doesn’t need to work at all.’

‘How do you mean?’ Claire asked.

‘I just know certain things,’ Amelia said mysteriously.

Claire didn’t ask. She wouldn’t give Amelia the satisfaction.