Janice Lee - The Piano Teacher

“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.

WHEN CLAIRE WENT to the Chens’ the next Thursday, she noted a driver sleeping on a bench in the garden, newspaper over his head, the maids chattering gaily as they washed the windows, and breathed a sigh of relief that Victor Chen was apparently not at home.