Tinseng’s smile was shameless, and his lie was unconvincing at best. She knew he was lying, and he certainly knew he hadn’t gotten away with anything. But he had an air of desperation that felt like he needed her not to call him out. It made her wonder. She’d rarely ever seen Tinseng lose his airy, uncaring demeanor. He let very little matter, so that very little could hurt him. Usually his lies were smooth and easy to believe; whatever he was protecting must be precious.
Yukying decided to let it be for now. She’d never seen anything work on Tinseng except a large dose of guilt, and she didn’t want to use her only card just yet. She let him peel away at the park and walked back through the train station to the cabana alone.
It had been an hour since she left, maybe a little less. Laurence and Chiboon hadn’t moved an inch. She showed Laurence the postcards she’d bought, and they spent a pleasant time writing to their friends. When they finally left, they stopped to mail the correspondence so it bore a stamp from Lisbon. The post office was full of travelers with a similar agenda, the lobby full of wide-brimmed hats and beach bags, the smell of tanning oil and sun-warmed flesh. Laurence’s hand sweated in her own as they waited, and she squeezed it every so often, just to see him smile. At least one thing was still uncomplicated.
After the intense day, Yukying took a well-deserved nap. She woke up feeling like the world had reset itself while her eyes had been closed. As she showered and reapplied her makeup, she reasoned with herself. This was still a vacation. Her brother’s drama, whatever it was, didn’t have to interfere with that. He clearly didn’t want her involved; perhaps she should listen.
With that in mind, she wandered in search of Mrs. Lanzette’s sewing circle. It moved around the ship like a weather pattern, and this time she found them in one of the bars, having entrenched themselves at a table until dinner.
The ladies were quicker to accept her into the fold today; she only had to endure a few beats of awkwardness before conversation started again. They all knew by now that she spoke English fluently, so at least the rude comments in front of her had stopped. Mrs. Lanzette drew her into the conversation but Yukying politely kept herself apart, focusing on her dress until the teenager from America, Miss Duncan, leaned over.
“Pardon, but what pattern is that? It’s exceptionally pretty.”
“Thank you,” Yukying said. “It’s from the fall ’61 Vogue Knitting . . .”
By the time Chiboon found her, she and Miss Duncan had become fast friends. The group watched warily at the man interrupting what was clearly a woman’s space, but Yukying assured them, “You can trust Mr. Lim; he’s darned his share of stockings. He was placed with cousins in the war,” she continued. “Six girls.”
The ladies chorused low murmurs of understanding and relief. The excuse didn’t have to be believable; it just had to be repeatable. Some of them might know, or suspect, the truth. Some might even accept him for it, were all else equal. But the truth was illegal, and so the charade was necessary. It is what it is, Yukying thought as Chiboon pulled up a chair next to her.
“I wish I’d had stockings to darn,” mourned Mrs. Biddle, who worked a story of surviving the Blitz into every conversation, “We ran out in ’40. My sister tried dyeing her legs with tea bags, but it never looked right. I never bothered; who had the time with the war on?”
“Tea bags, horrible,” Chiboon sympathized. “Did she ever try gravy?”
“No, but her friend did. A horrid disaster.” She didn’t sound very mournful. Chiboon got a gleam in his eye Yukying knew well. She left her friend to pry gossip from an eager Mrs. Biddle and turned back to her work. After realizing what a good audience Chiboon was, the other ladies eagerly shared their wartime workarounds and follies. When he bored of that, Chiboon mentioned he wrote for a magazine and made his audience work for his pseudonym, demurring until finally revealing his name with modesty so false Yukying’s silent laughter fouled up three stitches.
She let the conversation flow around her as she thought about the morning’s surprises. It was unfortunate Mrs. Grodescu wasn’t here now. Before she could convince herself out of it, she heard herself ask Miss Duncan, “I believe the Grodescus sit at your table, is that right?”
“Grodescu? I’m not sure. Mother?” Miss Duncan tapped her mother on the shoulder. “Which ones are the Grodescus?”
“Grodescus? The Polish woman with the French husband. Honestly, Eloise.” Mrs. Duncan shook her head and returned to the other conversation.
“Oh, that woman.” Miss Duncan rolled her eyes, but only once her mother couldn’t see. “Sorry, I feel like I’ve met every stinking person on this ship—how am I supposed to keep them all straight? I ask you. Anyway, yes, I remember now. What about her?”
“I heard she excels at shuffleboard, and I was hoping to convince her to play with me. Did they happen to mention their plans for today?”
“Hmm. The beach, for sure. One of the ones in Estoril. And then tonight a club. The famous casino, I think. Everyone wants to go there, that’s all the boys are talking about. Can I tell you something?” Yukying didn’t have the time to answer either way before Miss Duncan barreled on. “Some of them are going to try to sneak in with fake IDs.”
“How daring,” Yukying said neutrally, not sure what reaction Miss Duncan wanted.
“How stupid, you mean. You know the worst part? They’ll probably get away with it, and then they’ll be really insufferable. How come boys can get away with everything, and I’m stuck here knitting a jacket?” Miss Duncan asked with disgust.
“I don’t know,” Yukying said, looking down at her own knitting. It was a very good question.
“Laurence,” Yukying said a few hours later, “what do you want to do tonight?”
“I don’t know, darling,” he said distractedly as he sat at the vanity putting on cufflinks for dinner. “A club or something, wasn’t it?”
“Do you care which one?”
“Why? Have one in mind?”
“What about Casino Estoril? Chiboon mentioned it at dinner the first night.”
“The one your brother mentioned he and Shan Dao are going to?”
“Yes, but we’ll hardly see them.”
“It’s fine if we do. It has to be,” he insisted when she started to protest. “He’s coming home. He’s living with us. He’s important to you. Besides, he has the right to be protective. I, I know I have a lot to answer for.”
She crossed the room and wrapped her arms around his shoulders.
“He doesn’t get to make that judgment.” She met his eyes in the mirror. “I do.”
“What judgment will you make, then, Empress Wu Yukying?”
“That you are going to look very good on my arm tonight.” She kissed his temple, then his cheek. He turned his head so she could kiss him properly, with a hand sneaking to the back of his head to steady him. He pulled her into his lap and they kissed there for long minutes, languid and unrushed. When they finally pulled apart, Laurence trailed a finger down her neck, tracing the collar of her dress.
“In that case,” he said, “should I bring out the tuxedo?”
At night, the park in front of Casino Estoril served the purpose of red carpet and grand staircase, a long dark stretch that muted all surrounding distraction as taxis used the circular drive to drop off their fares: locals, high rollers, and tourists alike stepped out in their splendor before the dazzling neon building with its imposing modern blocks, wanting to see and be seen. Through the front doors, a cacophony of excess awaited, ready to swallow everyone whole.
Yukying’s deep violet evening gown floated just above the ground. The rich color stood out against her pale skin, the material lush after the grit of the beach. While the gown itself came from a shop, she’d hand-embroidered a gold sash pinned around the middle, pulling in her frame and accentuating her waist, narrow even by Hong Kong’s standards and absolutely diminutive compared to the Americans on board, who’d been far better fed during the war. Laurence wore a classic tuxedo, the lines impeccably pressed. He was no one’s idea of beauty except for Yukying’s—the only reason he gained attention back home was because of his family name—but even he glowed a little tonight, offering his arm as they stepped out of the taxi and up the steps.
