Yukying wished she wasn’t so distracted. But how could she think of anything but what she’d seen last night? It’d kept her awake until close to dawn as she’d stared at the ceiling trying to think of explanations. Shan Dao and Mr. Grodescu had been in the room together, alone. Shan Dao had left the room rolling down his shirtsleeves. Mrs. Grodescu had come back to check on her husband; he had left her alone, uncharacteristically.
There were perfectly innocent reasons for all of that. She shouldn’t jump to conclusions.
She trailed a little behind Laurence as they walked, half-listening to his recitation of Frommer’s.
But there had been the first night, too, when Tinseng had been at the dance and she’d seen Shan Dao in those nice clothes sneaking back into his room. Where had he been then?
Had he been meeting with this other man?
Perhaps she’d misunderstood the relationship between Shan Dao and Tinseng. True, Tinseng had asked her how she’d known she’d been in love, which was very unlike him. He’d spoken like he’d been sure of his feelings. But it was presumptuous to think Tinseng had expressed those feelings to Shan Dao. It might even be presumptuous to assume Tinseng had admitted his feelings to himself; he could remain very ignorant if he decided he’d rather not know.
But even if he and Tinseng weren’t together, even if Shan Dao couldn’t see how Tinseng felt about him, how could Shan Dao be so reckless? Even talking about these acts could be enough to land Shan Dao in jail and bring scrutiny to everyone around him, which would mean disaster for Tinseng, surely. She couldn’t understand what Shan Dao was thinking. He seemed so conscientious and thoughtful. She must be wrong.
But if she wasn’t . . . if Shan Dao was putting Tinseng in that position . . .
“May I carry that for you?” Laurence asked, startling her.
“Hmm?” How long had her thoughts been wandering? She looked around and realized they’d already walked blocks away from the pier.
“You keep adjusting your bag. Is it too heavy? Here, let me—”
“Oh, thank you.” She handed the bag over and sighed. “I’m sorry. I slept poorly last night.”
“Your back again?”
“A tension headache. I woke up and walked around the ship.”
“Wake me next time, I’ll walk with you. Also,” he looked around, “Do we get a taxi or take the train? Which beach did you and Tinseng agree to last night? Carcavelos?”
That had been what they’d decided; veterans of the cruise had recommended it. But this morning there’d been a note under the door in Tinseng’s distinctive scrawl, informing her the plan had changed to Tamariz Beach. Perhaps it was coincidence. But Yukying thought about Mrs. Grodescu’s comment last night and didn’t think so.
“Actually we thought Tamariz would be less crowded.”
Laurence shrugged. “As long as they have cabanas to rent, I don’t care.”
She kissed his cheek, thankful her husband wasn’t one of those overbearing types, and guilty that she was taking advantage of it. She told herself again she was overreacting.
If praia do Tamariz lacked in size, it insisted on impressing in views. To the east, Portugal’s white stone forts jutted into the water on their precipices and peninsulas. From her chair at the front of the cabana, Yukying watched the sun sparkling on the water and the huge variety of people vacationing from all over the world. Laurence couldn’t be happier reading his book and sipping colorful drinks brought to him from the hotel that rented the cabanas.
Cheuk-Kwan, Chiboon, and Shan Dao joined them at eleven. Shan Dao made Tinseng’s excuses while he settled into the cabana chair next to Laurence, then looked over curiously at Laurence’s book. Laurence held out the spine for Shan Dao to read aloud: “The Second World War, Volume Three—The Grand Alliance.” His mouth thinned as he saw the author. “Winston Churchill.”
“The third in his six-volume set,” Laurence explained. “Published in 1951. I finished the first two years ago, but never seem to have the time to read the rest. I brought the other four and mean to finish them all by the end of the trip.”
“Churchill was—” Shan Dao started, but Laurence held up a hand to stop him.
“You’re shaking the wrong mulberry tree,” Laurence informed him. “I’m not the political one. That one and his brother are,” he pointed out to the water where Cheuk-Kwan had already submerged himself in the Mediterranean.
“You aren’t political,” Shan Dao repeated slowly, “But you work for the British government.”
Laurence turned a page. “That’s right.”
“You have little interest in the way imperialists rule your country?” Shan Dao asked archly. “You follow without thought?”
“I’m told it’s one of my strengths,” Laurence drawled, catching Yukying’s eye and smirking just for her. The first time Laurence had truly stopped following his parents without thought, it had been to defend his love of her. She blushed even though they’d been married for four years.
“There are better perspectives, even from the west,” Shan Dao insisted, as if he could not believe Laurence’s attitude and thought perhaps it was simply that no one had brought it up with him before. “Klaus Epstein’s essays, for instance.”
“That depends on the perspective Yingtung’s looking for, doesn’t it?” Chiboon said from his spot on the sand; he had brought a beautiful blanket—from a state called New Mexico, he’d said—and had settled next to Yukying’s chair with a huge spread of magazines from New York he’d promised to share. He looked up from one with Liz and Richard on the cover and said, “For perspective on the English he takes those orders from, there’s little better than the man they revere like Jesus.”
Shan Dao blinked at this reframing. “Insight rather than perspective?” Laurence inclined his head. “Then, let me know what insight you gain.”
“What?”
“Let me know. I’ll be living under them soon,” Shan Dao said, and turned to his own book. Yukying, Chiboon, and Laurence all exchanged raised eyebrows—was that confirmation he planned to stay in Hong Kong?—but no one was quite brave enough to comment.
With everyone settled in, Yukying walked to the north end of the beach and gathered a small feast from the vendors lined up along the outskirts. Thankfully, most of the handwritten signs had English as well as Portuguese. She bought pão com chouriço, espetadas, and rissóis de camarão, and a few other items she didn’t know the names for, pointing at what looked good and hoping for the best. She also bought croquettes, which were Chiboon’s favorites in Hong Kong, and this variation looked so delicious she couldn’t help buying three servings.
By the time she returned, Tinseng had finally joined them, and Cheuk-Kwan was back, too, drinking water. They fell on the food the moment they saw it. A few moments later, food in their mouths, they whirled away, chasing each other into the water. The cabana’s cloth sides flapped in their wake, and a stunned silence was only broken by Chiboon’s groan.
“They ate all the croquettes.” Chiboon sounded truly pitiful as he pouted at the grease-stained paper plate. “Rude, so rude.”
Smiling, Yukying reached under her chair and brought out a hidden plate.
“These only have potato,” she said. “For Shan Dao, too, because he’s vegetarian.”
Chiboon nearly wept his thanks, while Shan Dao had almost no reaction at all, except to search her face. What was he looking for? Did he know she had seen him last night? Did he think she might be cold to him because of it, or did he think this was some kind of trick? She reminded herself not to make assumptions and pushed some food into his hands.
