“No, that was very impressive,” T. K. Soong said. “Why don’t you play something else, Peter? On your own, perhaps.” I felt like a terrified schoolboy being set a test. I nodded and placed my fingers on the keys. In the polished façade of the upright I saw Honey’s white jacket as he joined the small audience. I began to play some Bach — a partita I had always been fond of — but not long after I started, I realised that I would not be able to finish it: I had forgotten how it ended. Ignoring the panic now swelling within me, I closed my eyes and allowed my fingers to be guided by instinct. Cunningly, I repeated bars here and there, until finally I could keep up the pretence no longer. I allowed the piece to end, pianissimo, hoping that no one would notice, although to my ears it sounded horribly brutal.
“Interesting interpretation,” Mr. Soong said. “I like Bach very much. Play more.”
I smiled, and played a little Scarlatti sonata, something less clever than the Bach, but which I was certain I knew. I went on to Liszt’s cheerful transcription of “Die Forelle,” which was greeted with scattered applause. When I turned around I found Mr. Soong seated at the edge of his voluminous rosewood chair; he was smiling and slowly clapping his hands. I glanced at Honey, whose face was set in studied indifference; my eye caught his and he smiled, his thin lips seeming to twist into a cruel little sneer. All this time, Johnny had been perched on the edge of the upright, watching my fingers on the keys. Occasionally he would look at the people behind me and smile tentatively — at Snow, perhaps? I wasn’t sure — and then glance at me with a look of untainted optimism. He was thrilled simply to be there, and that, in turn, made me feel the same.
“Shall I sing?” I asked Mr. Soong, knowing he would agree. I had the wind in my sails now and nothing was going to stop me. I began with a bit of Dichterliebe, which I thought I did remarkably well, given that I was accompanying myself. And then I went on to some folk songs — French and English, bright wholesome tunes, full of fun. “Thank you,” Mr. Soong said, smiling, as he stood up. And then, as he walked away laughing, “How young people are nowadays.” I regaled the remaining audience with some recent songs by Cole Porter and Ivor Novello, and was pleasantly surprised to find that some knew the words and sang along. The whisky had gone to my head too, I’m sure. I was singing an old English folk song, “I Know Where I’m Going,” when I realised that there were only two people left listening to me — Johnny and Snow. All evening I had been looking out for her — partly to thank her for her kindness to me on the day I had been bitten by the snake, and partly because I could scarcely remember her face. I wanted to assure myself that, really, she wasn’t as extraordinary as I remembered her to be; that it was the poison in my blood that had played tricks with my vision. But throughout the party she had been surrounded by other guests, many of whom appeared to be admirers. I could not get close enough to her to examine her face, yet now she was right in front of me, watching me intently as I played the piano. I became conscious of my voice, of its ridiculous Englishness and incongruous baritone amidst the softness of Oriental tones.
“That was very pretty,” she said. “My father approves of — indeed admires — your musical abilities, as we all do.” She spoke in a very direct manner, open and forthright, unlike the charmingly veiled way in which the other young women in the room spoke. It was impossible to tell how old she was. Her face was distinctly pubescent, yet there was something in her features that made her seem harder than a mere teenager — a quality of manliness, I thought. The way she carried herself, too, lent her an air of maturity.
I bowed my head to hide the flush that had inflamed my cheeks. “Thank you,” I said. “Do you play the piano? Yours seems an unusually musical family.”
She laughed. “Considering we are Chinese, you mean.”
“No,” I protested, “that’s not what I meant at all.” I felt at once tainted with the same horrible brush as had smeared Frederick Honey. I rose from the stool, the tide of anxiety rising ever higher inside me; my cape was caught under the legs of the stool, and I struggled to free myself. “I merely meant that you seem exceptionally appreciative of good music, and that’s very rare.”
She smiled, looking unconvinced. “Of course,” she said as she sat down. “We are unusual, you’re right. People in the Valley generally can’t afford the luxury of music.” When she brought her fingers to the keyboard I saw they were long and slightly stiff, but perfectly formed. She played slowly, a rustic, even crude melody that sounded entirely foreign to my ears. It was the loveliest thing I had ever heard.
“It’s a Malay folk song,” she said, “a love song. Not very smoothly transcribed, I’m afraid.” She said it unapologetically, smiling peacefully.
