An Empty Room, page 7
While I wait for the order, twilight fades into night. The tips of their silhouetted noses vaguely glisten. Their expressions are already invisible.
“The 26th, it was October the 26th that day. The afternoon air-raid siren started at one o’clock and the all-clear was announced around three o’clock. Your trip home would take no more than an hour. But when you came home it was already seven o’clock. Where were you during the other three hours?”
Silence.
It’s now completely dark in the living room. The silver doesn’t shine anymore.
“Alice, remove the tea set.”
I feel pardoned and hasten to the kitchen to clean up. The clinking of cups and saucers is music to my ears. I cherish these antiques and often feel pleasantly moved by their delicate refinement.
“Alice, are you finished? You can turn on the light now.”
I dry my hands and turn on the light — everything’s the same as it was before. This is merely a dream.
Another day. The three of us watch the gardener mow the lawn; we enjoy the fragrant smell of fresh-cut grass. But Aunt soon finds the smell too strong and starts to itch. She goes inside to take a bath.
I take the chance to whisper in Uncle’s ear, “What day was that?”
“What day was what?”
“The air-raid siren.”
“Oh, that was World War II, forty, fifty years ago.”
“You were just married then.”
“Just married. Every other day or two days the air-raid siren would blare. But it didn’t necessarily mean there would be bombing.”
“When it was clear, where did you go?”
“Nowhere.”
“During those three hours?”
“Ah … it was like this. When there was a siren and the all-clear wasn’t heard until after three o’clock, you didn’t have to work for the rest of the day. Some people would wait for the sound of the siren and once inside the shelter keep looking at their watches for fear that there would be an all-clear before three.”
“But you came home at seven?”
“I always came home immediately after work — that was the case every day. If there was an air-raid siren and I didn’t have to work for the rest of the day, I’d go home directly.”
“What about October 26th, between four and seven?”
“I was home.”
“But Aunt said you didn’t go home until seven?”
“I was home by four.”
“How can that be?”
“It cannot be clearer. I came out of the shelter and looked at my watch. A few minutes to three. Of course it meant I didn’t have to work. So I took a bus and came home earlier than usual. The wooden fence in the backyard was broken and I went to assess what repairs were needed . . .”
“You did the repair?”
“No, I had to hire someone.”
“What happened next?”
“I put my briefcase in the study and went to the living room. No one was there. I walked upstairs and didn’t find your Aunt in the bedrooms either. The doors to the kitchen and the bathroom were open. The door to the basement was closed. So I assumed that she wasn’t home.”
“Did she go somewhere?”
“Where could she have gone? She had mentioned that she wanted to learn how to make pickled cucumbers from our neighbor behind our house. So I went next door and Miss Toby said she had indeed come, but that was at noon the day before. Miss Toby also said that Mr. James’s dog Hairy had some puppies and maybe she had gone to see them. I thought that was unlikely . . .”
“So Aunt was at home?”
“But she wasn’t. Mr. James invited me in to see the puppies. I thought the puppies were dirty but didn’t say so. I only said that we didn’t know how to raise animals. Mr. James suggested that we go fishing and he showed me his fishing set. I said that I didn’t smoke a pipe. He said that had nothing to do with fishing. I said that the fish wouldn’t bite so easily and it would take too long to catch anything. He replied that waiting was the interesting part . . .”
“Where did you go next?” I asked, deliberately cutting him off.
“I didn’t go anywhere. I looked at Mr. James’s collection of plant samples. There were even some beautiful imitation plants made of glass that looked nearly the same as the real ones. He also had a butterfly collection. There were several varieties that I had never seen before, incredibly beautiful . . .”
“What next?”
“I went back home.”
“About what time?”
“About . . . not sure. I didn’t look at my watch as it was getting dark.”
“Where was Aunt?”
“She was sitting against a pillar on the front porch. Her hands were cold.”
“She questioned you, I assume?”
“She said, ‘So you are back then?’ and I said, ‘Yes, I’m back.’”
“What next?”
“Nothing.”
“How can you say nothing?”
“Because nothing else was said.”
“Why, then, did she ask you again, just a few days ago?”
“Of course it wasn’t the first time you heard that. For forty years she’s asked every now and then.”
“Why don’t you explain?”
“In the beginning, I thought why ask about such a simple thing and why answer it, so I said nothing. I thought if I didn’t say anything she would stop asking. Later, as she asked more frequently, I thought if I answered she wouldn’t believe me. She would say: ‘If it was really nothing, why didn’t you say that before?’ How can I respond to that?”
“And you never asked why she wasn’t home that day?”
“No. I suspect she must have been waiting on the front porch by four o’clock. I didn’t know because I entered from the backyard. I guess this is what happened.”
“Now what?”
“Now?”
“I mean if she asks you again, are you going to answer her?”
“I cannot explain myself clearly now.”
“Don’t you feel uncomfortable during afternoon tea?”
“Oh, yes, very uncomfortable.”
“If you explained yourself, you wouldn’t feel so tortured.”
“It’s too late. I can never clear it up.”
“But you told me just now as if it had happened yesterday. You have a very good memory. You don’t have to wait till she asks. Simply go to her and explain.”
“She won’t believe me. She will never believe me. She’ll think that I’ve been concocting this tale for many years. As for Miss Toby and Mr. James, one is dead and the other moved to Canada. Maybe he, too, is dead. Even if he is still alive, who can remember what happened between four and seven o’clock forty-some years ago on October 26th?”
“That doesn’t matter. You don’t need a witness. Let the truth out and you won’t have to suffer anymore!”
“Even as an observer you must have felt tortured?”
“Yes, me too.”
The gardener is gone, leaving behind a flat carpet of a lawn. It suddenly occurs to me that Aunt might suspect Uncle and me of talking about her behind her back. So I quickly enter the house. Aunt usually needs a nap after a bath. I tiptoe back downstairs.
“How is she?” Uncle asks.
“Asleep. It’d be better if you find an opportunity to tell her tomorrow.”
The next day nobody mentions afternoon tea. If either Uncle or I proposed it, it would have seemed like a conspiracy, making it even more difficult to convince Aunt. She might even suspect that Uncle and I had planned to entrap her. That would put my status and future at risk.
Without urging Uncle on, I let things take their own course. I even try not to talk to Uncle when Aunt isn’t present.
Two weeks later: a clear day after a rain. Birds chirp all morning into the afternoon.
“What a fine day!” I say, stretching myself.
Uncle glances my way.
Aunt looks out the window. “Alice, it has been quite some time since we had our afternoon tea, has it not?”
“I bought some Dutch biscuits a few days ago.”
“It’s still early. We shall have our tea in a little while. Tea, of course, not coffee.”
When I turn around, I see Uncle’s back as he walks out of the living room.
I walk outside onto the porch and bask in the sunshine, deep in thought.
Of the three of us, I must be the only one who feels excited. Aunt doesn’t know that her husband is going to prove his complete fidelity and innocence. Uncle has to prepare his defense and must be nervous. I only pray that there’ll be no complications with my role here; nobody knows for certain when the servant will become the master. They are old and I’m not getting any younger. If no other legal heir suddenly emerges, my status seems secure. I’ll raise my dogs and cats and make my own pickled cucumbers. Oh, Lord, forgive me for thinking these thoughts. I pray for Uncle and Aunt, wishing them health and long life. I don’t have any money right now. If I did, I would ask the priest to hold a mass for my benefactors . . .
“Alice, are you making the preparations?”
“What time is it?” I ask, even though I’m wearing my watch.
“Four o’clock.”
“I’ll start making the tea.”
It could be a coincidence: Aunt looks particularly well; Uncle’s thin hair is neatly combed. I could’ve changed into another dress, but am afraid that Aunt will make some connection in retrospect and suspect that I had learned earlier than she did what she should have known long ago. Her serious concern for forty years has no significance to me whatsoever.
The silver is polished to a shine and the china looks sparkling new. I haven’t broken anything in the three years I’ve lived here. I urge Uncle to prove his innocence so that: first, Aunt can finally feel relieved that her husband hasn’t failed her in any of his deeds; second, Uncle can free himself from this embarrassing situation — the resolution of a forty-year-old suspicion can at last clear his name as a perfect gentleman; and third, I’m reaching my limit having to bear the oppressive silence. Aunt should face her husband alone in dealing with their past. Obviously she’s wanted a third party to play witness, though I really cannot play this supporting role any longer. Please no more of this unfortunate supporting role.
Aunt and Uncle, as usual, are sitting across from one another in the middle of the oval table. I sit at the lower end; the seat at the upper end is vacant. I’ve pushed the flower vase aside so that there’s more room for the tea set. Suddenly, I become worried that Aunt won’t ask the question today or ever again. Would this be good or bad? If she doesn’t ask, we’ll be spared the torture, but the forty-year-old suspicion will never be resolved. So it would be better if she asks today. If she asks another time, Uncle, as usual, will not move nor speak, as if a chair sitting in another chair.
It’s still bright outside, night still far away. If it rains, it will get dark sooner, and the sound of the rain will make Aunt feel agitated.
What if Uncle doesn’t reply? And feels that his pride would be too injured to explain something that doesn’t need explaining? Shall I then speak on his behalf? Could I? Aunt would ask: Why should you speak for him?
“You are right. They are good,” Aunt says, chewing a biscuit.
“Right about what?” asks Uncle.
I quickly return from my thoughts and pick up a biscuit.
“That these biscuits are better than those made in Denmark.”
“You don’t say. Let me try one.” Uncle reaches for one as Aunt pushes the plate toward him.
“Today’s tea is good, too!” Aunt praises.
“Do you know how I made it?”
“I don’t know, but it has such a nice aroma!”
“It reminds me of a landscape in spring!” Uncle rubs his hands before picking up his cup again.
“Spring may come again, but the spring of life will never return!”
Old people talking about spring is no different from old people singing. I must stop that singing. “Well,” I explain, “it was a schoolmate, a Chinese man, who taught me. They call it hong-cha, ‘red tea.’ You boil the red tea leaves then add dried rose petals, making sure that the lid is covered tight to keep the aroma in. As for what they call lü-cha, ‘green tea,’ you pour boiling water directly onto the leaves. The heat should be turned off when the water just begins to simmer. Jasmine can be added. I guess the principle is not unlike matching red wine with meat and chilled white wine with fish . . .”
“Exactly, it is about matching — harmony!”
“Indeed, it is the same for people,” says Aunt.
I stand up to refill their cups.
“Your schoolmate, that Chinese man, what happened to him?”
“He went back home.”
“Did you often have tea together?”
“We were in college.”
“He was meticulous in what he did, was he not?” Aunt says, watching me.
“So it seemed.”
“He must be meticulous, and that is why you still remember him.”
“I only remember that you add rose petals to the red tea.”
“Rose — the Chinese may not even know what roses really are.”
Aunt looks tempted to sing again. I have to change the subject quickly. “Aunt, do you think we’d better buy some more of these biscuits?”
“Nothing tastes as good as before the war. Biscuits and fruits have become more and more tasteless!”
“Perhaps it is our taste buds that are fading,” says Uncle.
“I refuse to believe that!”
“Actually, I think it’s mainly the quality of the wheat and flour,” says Uncle.
“Yes, chemical fertilizers and growth hormones may increase production, but the natural qualities of cereals and fruits are compromised.” I have to say something to agree with him.
“Even flowers don’t smell sweet anymore. Oh, the flower sellers in those days. A couple of flower sellers in the street and the entire neighborhood is filled with sweet smells.”
Outside the window it was turning dusk, the living room slowly darkening. Time to hold my tongue. Uncle, I see, is gently rubbing his hands.
Aunt raises her cup and then puts it down. A silver spoon turns around in a saucer.
“That day, I remember it was October 26th, the air-raid siren began at one o’clock in the afternoon and the all-clear was heard at three. You came home at seven o’clock. Minus the hour on the road, there were three unaccountable hours. Where had you been . . .”
Uncle stops rubbing his hands. Silence.
I cough softly, covering my mouth.
Silence lengthens and lengthens visibly. I have to occupy myself by pouring them more tea. The spout of the teapot bumps the edge of their cups. I mutter an apology.
“October 26th, 1944. The siren sounded at one in the afternoon and the all-clear was heard close to three. It would take no more than an hour on the road. It was after seven when you came home. Where had you been during those three hours . . .”
Uncle.
I turn my wristwatch around to see what time it is but cannot see clearly.
Perhaps Uncle prefers my absence. I leave them to go to the bathroom.
I stand in the darkness of the bathroom, leaving the door ajar.
There isn’t a sound.
I look at my watch up close and see that it’s 6:55.
Then it’s seven o’clock. I wash my hands and return to the living room.
“Alice, please turn on the light.”
Fellow Passengers
it was lightly raining one early morning in autumn. A few people waited at a remote bus stop in a suburb of Shanghai.
I boarded the bus and picked a seat near the window. Outside the window right below me a man and woman were saying their good-byes.
Woman: “It’s time to board the bus. We’ll never finish this conversation.”
Man: “My sister isn’t evil incarnate. She does have good intentions at times.”
Woman: “Good intentions? She has good intentions, indeed.” The woman slashed her hand slowly across her neck and added, “I wouldn’t believe that if you killed me.”
Man, after a pause: “Tempers flare easily, you know. My sick mother isn’t going to get better. Forgive her.”
Woman: “Sick? I’m sick, too. You mother and sister together are capable of all sorts of tricks.”
Man: “That’s why I’m always afraid to come home. . . . ”
Woman: “I wouldn’t care if you didn’t come home again. They already laugh at me as if I were a widow.”
Man: “Now that’s obscene.”
The city was separated from the suburbs by a river. Many who worked in the city only went home on weekends. Most of these commuters were cheerful. I suspected that the man and woman were newlyweds. The woman couldn’t bear to part from her husband so she rose early to see him off in the rain. From their brief conversation it was apparent that the woman didn’t get along with her in-laws. The man obviously couldn’t do much about it. Even though they were newlyweds, even though their periods of separation must have brought them even closer to each other, they had more worries than happiness. That she and her mother-in-law and sister-in-law had to live under the same roof was the main cause of their sad domestic situation. In the confines of their home, they couldn’t avoid each other and could barely live with each other. I could tell from their pale and weary faces that they hadn’t slept well the night before. When the husband came home, the woman’s complaints of the past week would naturally pour out of her, her voice rising to a fervent pitch. His mother and sister would also complain to him and would make a list of his wife’s wrongdoings, perhaps even delving into trifling details. Why couldn’t they live in separate homes? Perhaps there was a housing shortage or perhaps they didn’t have the money to rent another place. Complicated affairs often have simple explanations.
