“Just the one introducing him, telling me about his move and wondering if he could come along. But that isn’t very surprising, is it?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if he showed up with an arm missing and forgot to mention it.”
“Laurence.”
“Well, I wouldn’t.”
He crossed their stateroom and plucked the capris out of her arms.
“Why do you fold clothes so poorly?” He asked, folding it for her and placing it in her drawer. Others (her brothers, mostly) would only hear reproach in his tone. But they were hypocrites, her brothers. They grew up in the same home she did; they should know words could hide all manner of intention.
She watched as Laurence shooed her aside to unpack the rest of her suitcase for her and understood that each emotion was its own language. Laurence spoke Mandarin, Cantonese, English, and a little French. But unease and insecurity were his most native tongues, and he’d never learned to speak tenderness. Tinseng spoke his giving and ambition fluently but struggled to speak a word of vulnerability. Cheuk-Kwan spoke every dialect of anger and panic, and his protectiveness always muddled his tongue.
She wondered what languages Tinseng’s friend spoke.
“Did he mention any prospects when he gets to Hong Kong?” she asked.
“He didn’t say much of anything. Tinseng did all the talking for him. An odd choice for him, don’t you think? Strong and silent? Wouldn’t he want someone who could keep up?”
“Tinseng has a funny heart. He likes people who have the things he admires.” The things he thinks he lacks, she thought but didn’t add; that seemed like too much of a secret to share.
“Do you think they’re—” Laurence started, then stopped.
“Hmm?” she said, distracted by holding up two dresses in the mirror and trying to decide which to wear tomorrow.
“Do you, uh . . .” He cleared his throat. “Do you think they’ll want to sit together at dinner?”
“Oh, yes. You know A-Seng. Once he’s got his mind on something, he never lets go.” She decided on the blue dress, and sighed. “I hope A-Kwan will be able to adjust.”
They turned and grimaced at each other—no further words needed.
“He’ll adjust,” Yukying said again, firmer this time. She’d make it happen if she had to commandeer one of the ship’s kitchens and force a reconciliatory meal down both their throats.
“They should send you to Saigon,” Laurence said, kissing the crown of her head. “The Buddhists and Catholics would have come to an agreement weeks ago with you to set them right.”
“Laurence, please.” She hated when he spoke of politics so cavalierly. He’d inherited the trait from his father, and it scraped against her own upbringing. “Don’t make light. The situation is so bad there.”
“It will calm down,” Laurence said with unearned confidence. “They’ll announce an agreement any day now, Diệm will give concessions and let the Buddhists have their flag, and that will be that. He doesn’t want to lose American support.”
With piercing clarity, she saw herself around her childhood dinner table listening to her mother’s commentary on the war and all its players. Her mother had always prided herself on being honest in front of her children; she was equipping them to survive the real world, she’d say when their father tried to rein her in. Yukying heard her mother’s voice echoing in hers when she said, “We should be more worried. The Americans can hide their ambition behind Diệm for now, but someday they’ll grow tired of it. Look what happened in Cuba last year. Some people eat more than their share and still covet their neighbor’s bowl.”
“Yukying.” Laurence sighed, pursing his lips.
“No politics on the trip. Yes, I remember.” It had been her idea in the first place. “I haven’t told A-Kwan that rule yet,” she admitted.
“I hadn’t noticed,” Laurence deadpanned. She met his eyes in the mirror. The impulse to laugh was there, but they didn’t indulge it. They’d never been that sort. Instead, their shared amusement lingered like perfume as they continued unpacking in the quiet content of two people finally at ease.
Sleep stole her away the moment she laid her head down. One moment she had been reading by lamplight, the next she woke in the dark. Laurence lay asleep by her side. A sound in the hallway startled her. People walking back from dancing—that must have been what had awakened her. She blearily checked her watch to find it was just past midnight. She rolled over and watched Laurence in the dark for a moment; his face always looked so young in sleep. She sighed and shifted for a few minutes, then gave up and slid out of bed.
As she came back from the bathroom, she noticed the bag of laundry by the door. Laurence had forgotten to put it out, and she’d wanted tonight’s dress pressed for the Lisbon casinos. Setting her water down, she grabbed the bag and opened the door slowly so she didn’t wake Laurence.
As she set out the bag, movement three doors down caught her eye. She looked up to see Shan Dao walking back to his suite. He wore different clothes than at dinner: dark slacks and a tapered white button-down shirt. The clothes flattered his height, quite unlike the bland gray suit he had worn to dinner. He didn’t look her way as he slipped into his room, closing the door with a gentle click.
Strange, she thought, didn’t Tinseng say he went to sleep at 9:30? But she could think of a dozen reasons why someone would stay up: the excitement of vacation, the discomfort of an unfamiliar mattress, the rocking of the ship. Besides, maybe Tinseng had been exaggerating about his habits, and he only went to sleep earlier than Tinseng—not a difficult thing to do.
Yukying left the bag outside and went back to bed. It was best to forget about it. If she needed to worry, someone would tell her eventually.
1 词牌名 - a poetic verse set to a common folk tune.
2 One never knows if they only know how to eat bread (mian bao) and not noodles (mian tiao); a.k.a., they’ve forgotten their roots.
CHAPTER TWO
Nine Days Ago. June 16, 1963. At Sea.
Yukying considered herself an expert in the tricks the ocean could play—she’d lived near water her whole life—but as she stared out from the bow that first morning, she found herself humbled. No matter where she stood on the deck, the ocean stretched out all the way to the horizon, daring her to consider how small she was. The ocean knew all, and she knew nothing.
When she had walked upstairs earlier, she’d noticed Shan Dao a few chairs over, looking out at the view. In the morning light, some of his severity lessened; he wore light gray slacks and a white polo, and his upper body was wrapped in a beautiful knit shawl, tucked into the crooks of both his arms. It looked incongruous on a man, more the soft kind of layer one expected on a woman. Then Yukying scolded herself for thinking that way; Shan Dao could wear anything he wanted, of course.
She did not speak with him, but they acknowledged each other silently, and when she sat, it was one recliner chair over from his—enough space to imply that she would not bother him, but close enough for him to know she would not reject his company. It was pleasant. It was rare to feel so at ease with a stranger. Eventually, the rest of the ship woke up around them, and by mutual silent agreement, they got up and walked down to breakfast together.
Tennis was first on the agenda that morning, according to her brothers. Yukying followed them to the courts, planning to put in a short appearance before searching for Mrs. Lanzette’s sewing circle. Once again she was left with Shan Dao, who seemed to be there against his will; he appeared unaware that Tinseng was showing off for him.
“You don’t play?” she asked. He did not. He could play football if pressed, but (here he smiled self-deprecatingly) chess and go were his sports. In return, he didn’t insult her by asking what sports she played but instead asked about her hobbies. Cooking, she had to admit, was as much a hobby to her as a household chore. It was different for her than for the British housewives of her acquaintance, she told him. Those women showed their love other ways, if they showed it at all, and talked of cooking mostly as labor; she knew her experience of kitchens was vastly different than that of Europeans.
“Not all of them,” Shan Dao said. “There are farmers and workers there too. The rich who live in Hong Kong don’t represent them all.”
