The Pianist

The Pianist

One of my closest friends when I lived in Hong Kong (someone I have kept in touch with until this day) was an Irish girl called Siobhán. Siobhán was - and is - a fiery individual, who holds very strong opinions about just about everything. A lawyer (then aged in her mid to late twenties) she was at the time of this story going out with a man called Gary. Gary had left England for Hong Kong a couple of years after leaving school, and had become what we all liked to call the Richard Branson of the Orient, building up a shipping agency from scratch to become one of the biggest players in the maritime industry in Hong Kong - one of the world's busiest ports.

Siobhán had a close friend called Monique, who wasn't French as her name might suggest, but Chinese. A lawyer too, she worked in the same office as Siobhán, for what they like to call in Hong Kong a 'city' law firm - basically a snobby one with oak panelling and all that kind of thing, which charged a lot of money and employed a lot of hard-nosed characters, especially on the litigation side.

Monique was a specialist in tax law and much in demand. She was one of the most beautiful women I have ever met - or seen - but seemingly unaware of just how stunning she was. When I first met her, and had no clue what she did, I have to confess I thought she wasn't quite all there. I don't mean she had that dumb blonde, Essex girl type of vacuity; more that she seemed to be on secondment to planet Earth from Fairyland. She wasn't exactly ditzy in an Annie Hall kind of way; she just seemed to touch base with what the rest of us considered reality on an intermittent basis.

It goes without saying that she was a very good tax lawyer. She was also a very accomplished pianist, who kept a baby grand in the small flat where she lived on her own in Happy Valley. Despite being such a looker, Monique had no boyfriend. She told Siobhán that she'd had a couple when she was at university in the States, but her friend wasn't inclined to believe her. At any rate, she was convinced was still a virgin.

Gary had, rather stupidly in Siobhán's opinion, befriended a Scottish man who had gone to the same school back in England, who had come to Hong Kong to work for a drug rehabilitation group run by a woman who had arrived in the territory twenty years before and had been granted run-down accommodation by the government to do up and use to help heroin addicts off their addiction.

The first time she met this man, who was called Tom, Siobhán had taken an instant dislike to him. Why Gary let him use his nice Mid-Levels flat on his day-off, which included staying the night, she couldn't understand. One evening, which coincided with Tom's day-off, Gary decided to ask Siobhán to invite Monique over for dinner (cooked by the Filipino maid, of course), thinking she and Tom might hit it off.

Much to Siobhán's chagrin, this is exactly what happened, and before she could do anything about it, Monique had not only agreed to go and see a film with Tom, but she had also invited him over to her flat afterwards for dinner. She had even asked him what he would like to have, and the cheeky bugger had said roast lamb. Just who in the world did he think he was?! He might be faintly good looking, as Monique kept telling her, but, as she told her friend, he didn't have much in the way of prospects.

What most attracted Monique to the Scot was that he had dedicated his life to helping the poor; the very reason for which Siobhán considered him to be a loser, even though she'd never said that to her friend. When they met up just after six outside the art-house cinema where the Danish film My Life as a Dog was playing, Monique noticed that Tom had had a haircut and she thought he looked more handsome than ever. Tom may not have noticed it, but Monique had also been to the hairdresser. She might have been dragged backwards through a hedge for all Tom cared; she would have still looked a million dollars.

After the film was over, they took a taxi the short distance to her flat in Village Road. On the way, Monique explained to Tom that she hadn't had the time to do the roast lamb and hoped that instant noodles would do. A tiny part of Tom, it must be said, was put out to hear this (after all, who doesn't like to be treated like a king?), but when he thought of the extra time he would get to spend with Monique and all the opportunities the evening afforded, he quickly swallowed his disappointment.

While eating their noodles, they talked about a number of things and Monique was alluring in her quixotic way - not saying a lot. Not, that is, until Tom asked her about her piano playing: how long she had played for, who she had studied with etc. The Chinese woman suddenly became quite animated, telling Tom that she had received a diploma from the Royal College of Music in London. Genuinely impressed, he asked her whether she might not play something for him. He was surprised when rather than choosing a piece by Chopin or Beethoven, she said she would play the first movement from Schumann's piano concerto.

After she had taken her place on the piano stool, she turned to him and told him Siobhán had said to her that he was a bit wally. Setting aside his anger with the Irish shrew for saying such things about him, and realising that Monique had no idea what her friend meant and appeared to believe it was something complimentary, he decided to take the insult on head-first and subvert it. If such a strategy was good enough for the British Expeditionary Force, which called itself The Old Contemptibles after being slighted as such by Kaiser Wilhelm II, it would be good enough for him.

'I hope you won't be upset if I correct your English,' he said. 'Slang expressions can be a bit awkward.'

'Of course not,' replied Monique, genuinely happy to be corrected.

'Well, it's not "He's a bit wally"; it's "He's a bit of a wally".'

After sorting out this solecism, Tom sat down on the sofa and listened to the famous opening descending attack by the piano. This had to be one of the most ethereal fifteen minutes he had ever experienced. She played very well, with just the right amount of passion and without the kind of gimmicky antics favoured by some soloists. Best of all, there was no grunting and chuntering a la Glenn Gould.

When she finished, he stood up and walked over to her, applauding as he went. She smiled with a hint of surprise on her face - whether because he had responded so warmly or because he was moving towards her, he couldn't be sure. Wasting no time, he took her in his arms and kissed her on the lips. Her lips buckled slightly and he continued to kiss her, his hands moving from her shoulders to her waist.

Knowing he needed to show caution with a Chinese girl who, for all he knew, might still be a virgin, Tom kept his tongue out of the firing line and moved his hands onto her ass cheeks. They continued kissing for some time, Tom noting with delight the increased force with which the beauty was returning the favour.

Without breaking the kiss, he shuffled her over towards the sofa, ready to take things to the next level. Before they sat down, he decided to indicate the pleasure she was giving to him by placing his hands lightly on her breasts. To say he had badly miscalculated would be an understatement.

'I want you to leave now,' Monique told him, striding towards the front door and opening it.

Without another word being spoken, Tom put on his shoes and slipped out into the night. How he had blown that, he thought! But at least he had learnt his lesson - a lesson that would serve him in good stead for the rest of his time in Hong Kong. If you are dating a Chinese girl, the bum is fine. Just keep your hands off her boobs!