“I think we should get to know Shan Dao. We might be seeing a lot of him, especially if Tinseng followed my advice and asked Shan Dao to stay with us.” Tinseng had written that Shan Dao was looking for accommodations, as his uncle would not have room for him; Yukying had written back insisting Tinseng adhere to some propriety and invite Shan Dao to stay with them. But when had Tinseng ever listened to good advice?
Cheuk-Kwan stared at them unhappily. “Do you think Tinseng will actually say something this time?”
“Maybe if he saw you being brave, he could be brave himself.”
“So, no, then,” Cheuk-Kwan muttered. “You don’t think he’ll say shit. Why should he? We’re just his family.”
Yukying sighed and changed the subject for both their sakes.
On the other side of the check-in, Laurence waited for them. When they’d made it through, he kissed her cheek then stepped in to greet their guest with the pleasantries his English mother had taught him. Shan Dao met him with Western manners of his own, a hand outstretched. Laurence took it firmly, then led the way, Shan Dao falling in beside him. Already they were discussing alma maters, tutors, the politics of university placements, Pullyblank’s coup over at Cambridge for the Chair of Chinese back in ’53, Cowperthwaite’s invective against free universal primary education—Hong Kong’s literacy rates were abysmal compared to the rapidly improving literacy rates in China. The three siblings watched in undisguised interest.
“You’ve brought another one,” Cheuk-Kwan muttered. “You’ve brought Yingtung an ally.”
“How dare you!” Tinseng hissed. “Shan Dao’s nothing like Yingtung! Tell him he’s wrong, Yukying,” he pleaded, but Yukying held her tongue and smiled.
They had reserved three rooms in the same hallway, and slouched in one of the doorways stood their childhood friend Lim Chiboon, waiting for their arrival. He had changed the least of all of them over the years, his cherubic face still hiding the observant eyes of a journalist and artist, the two professions that kept him occupied.
“What a beautiful piece of art Tinseng’s brought us,” Chiboon commented at her elbow as they followed the others into her and Laurence’s room first. “I think I’ll be staring all trip.”
Yukying covered her giggle with her hand. She’d forgotten how mischievous Chiboon could be; he and Tinseng had been a deadly combination as teenagers, trailing laughter after them like paper lanterns. Back then, she had considered Chiboon’s older brother an ally in keeping their brothers on the right path, but he’d had a career and a family dynasty to rebuild, and she’d been a young woman at home waiting for Laurence to propose to her, so it’d fallen to her to get them out of whatever trouble they’d found themselves in. It’d been a relief when the Lim family had relocated to Singapore; they’d only seen Chiboon in summers then, and when he visited in the years that followed, Yukying could be charmed by their antics instead of held responsible for them. She was more charmed than ever these days. For form’s sake, though, she tutted at him and murmured a platitude about being nice to their guest.
“I’m simply appreciating beauty, jiejije. Speaking of, you look more beautiful every time I see you.” Chiboon plucked at the shoulder of her jacket. “Did you make this yourself?”
“Do you like it?” It was a suited trio pattern she’d ordered from London. The boxy jacket and skirt she’d sewn with leftover yards of lightweight flecked wool; the blouse was crushed rose pink faille, with a neat bow at the collar. She straightened the bow self-consciously.
“It looks off the rack from Bergman’s,” Chiboon said.
“It does,” Laurence agreed loyally, walking back into the room from the bathroom where he’d been putting away their toiletries. “The wives at the club complimented her dress the other day—said they couldn’t believe it was a pattern.”
Yukying and Chiboon exchanged a look of long-suffering fondness for her husband, who had trouble realizing his compliments could sound like insults. Unlike her brothers, Chiboon found Laurence just as endearing as her.
“Ah, jiejie, speaking of sewing . . .” Tinseng called, “I have a jacket—the liner was torn . . .”
“Bring it to my room later,” she said with a smile. “I’ll fix it.”
“And a pair of trousers?” he asked hopefully.
“Whatever you need.”
“See, Shan Dao? Didn’t I say she was the best?”
For an hour, everyone flitted in and out of one another’s rooms, excited by their reunion and all the discoveries the rooms had to offer. The staterooms looked just like the brochure: a full bed (or twin beds, in the other two rooms), a table with two chairs for writing and eating, a set of drawers with vanity atop, a porthole looking out. Laurence was already taking full advantage of the hangers in the slim closet behind the door. There were bags for different kinds of laundry service, and towels folded into swans had been left at the foot of the bed. Yukying would take the pen when she left; she had a collection at home.
After some attempt to unpack, there was the rest of the ship to explore: they wandered in twos and threes through deck upon deck of rooms, pools and libraries and bars, a large ballroom and a grand hall, a gymnasium, a movie theater. At the entrances to various lounges, paper signs announced the night’s activities: horse racing on the radio at 9:30 p.m. in one, a bingo meeting in another, dancing in one of the larger lounges after dinner. In the grand hall music by the ship’s band started at 9:00 p.m., with a celebration of castoff at 10:45 that promised to be resplendent.
“Shan Dao will be asleep for all of this!” Tinseng said. “He has a strict bedtime of 9:30 p.m., 10:00 if he’s really wild.” Tinseng winked at Chiboon. “I, on the other hand, plan to be up all night. What about you, jie?”
“Oh no, I shouldn’t. My joints.”
Chiboon grimaced in sympathy, while Tinseng said, “Last time you wrote, you didn’t mention how the new powder worked?”
Yukying smiled at him. He was always so eager for her to try new things. He cut advertisements and articles out of French newspapers and translated them for her, writing about oils and machines and techniques. She didn’t have the heart to tell him they never worked.
“The powder is good,” she told him kindly, “but a good night’s sleep is just as important.”
By the time dinner started, Yukying was thankful to sit down. She ate the first course of chilled honeydew melon in silence as the rest of her group learned more about the three strangers assigned to their table: an older accountant in a rumpled jumper finally indulging his lifelong dream to photograph Europe, a young banker meeting his mother in Italy, and finally Mrs. Richard Lanzette, a widow whose husband had made her promise to live well after he’d passed.
As the only two women in their group, Yukying and Mrs. Lanzette were expected to have more in common with each other than anyone else at the table; to the men, nationality, age, and experience were secondary to the condition of womanhood. Yukying was all too familiar with being thrown together with women who wanted nothing to do with her—most often at the church Laurence’s family attended, a predominantly British crowd of politicians and their families. After it was clear to Laurence’s mother that she wouldn’t be able to persuade Laurence out of the marriage, his mother had insisted Yukying join at least one committee. After a few stressful attempts, she’d finally found a good Bible study group on Wednesday nights, but she wouldn’t forget the looks from the women on the jumble sale committee anytime soon.
Thankfully, Mrs. Lanzette didn’t seem to be like that. In the course of exchanging the usual pleasantries—Yukying’s husband, Laurence, worked for the British government in Hong Kong, Mrs. Lanzette’s husband had been a professor of semiotics at the University of Chicago; this was Yukying’s first time in Europe if you didn’t count England, which of course you never should; it was Mrs. Lanzette’s third time, but the first without her husband; the salad course was always overrated, didn’t you think?—Yukying got the impression of comfortable loneliness. After sharing a ribald story about a nude costume ball held by the university every year, the elder woman leaned back with her whiskey and gave Yukying a shrewd look.
“So tell me, how do you plan to while away the hours on this tub?”
“I’m excited for the films, of course. I hope they show something with Cary Grant.”
“They’re sure to. Which one’s your favorite?”
Yukying didn’t even have to think about her answer. “Bringing Up Baby.”
“With the tiger? That one’s a romp. I’m partial to Suspicion, myself, I like seeing him play against type. You like comedies, then?”
“Yes, and romances.” Yukying looked down at her saumon poché in hollandaise, but such rich food would surely disagree with her. She ate one of the cucumbers slices instead. “I like knowing they’ll be together by the end. I get nervous otherwise.”
“Why, that’s nothing to be ashamed of, dear. In fact, it’s very understandable. Look at everything there is to be nervous about! Who wouldn’t want a little predictability these days, with Korea, and the riots in Alabama, and—well, I mean, I don’t have to tell you.” Yukying braced herself slightly, but Mrs. Lanzette only added, “We women are more attuned to these things.”
Yukying thought of her conversation with Cheuk-Kwan earlier. “I suppose we are.” Across the table, Cheuk-Kwan and Laurence were arguing about something; at least they were keeping their voices down. “Laurence’s father says it’s natural for women to want happy endings.”
