Chris Song’s note: Lü Lun’s “Piano Day” tells the story of May, a Garbo-like beauty who uses her piano sessions to extract tributes from men, ensnaring both T and P in a web of emotional temptation and entanglement. Like Lü Lun’s earlier works, “Piano Day” vividly captures the cosmopolitan atmosphere of Hong Kong from the 1920s to the 1940s, with a touch of Neo-Sensationist style. For T and P, the city reflects their desires and youthful illusions, while urban women like Abi, Kitty, and May become integral to the urban spectacle, transforming the modern social scene into a seductive yet deceptive realm of tenderness and desire.

Acknowledgement: The English translation of “Piano Day”, published below, is part of a project run by the Research Centre for Chinese Literature and Literary Culture at the Education University of Hong Kong (the Centre). The Centre owns the copyright to this translated version.

Upon leaving Church A, the lingering scent of perfume and the gentle soothing atmosphere dissipated with the vibrations of the music. Under the streetlights, which stood like inverted brooms, I saw the faint wisps of smoke that my breath left behind.

After seeing Kitty off to the boat, I couldn’t shake the memory of that meeting at the Noya Café.

In the heart of Victoria City, this beautiful waterfront had become a kind of exhibition hall, adorned with solemn bronze statues, manicured patches of lawn, and a few dormant cars. The remaining stretches of asphalt seemed reserved for the onlookers, like a stage prepared for their leisure. Passing a neat row of cherry blossom trees, I turned onto the street from Des Voeux Road. Under the glow of the lamps, the tram tracks reflected the light, shimmering like twin silver serpents stretching endlessly into the distance.

A tram rumbled past, and then, in the distance, the white letters of “YMCA” gleamed vertically from the corner of a museum-like building, demanding attention. Not far ahead, at the entrance to Garden Road, something blinked its red and green lights—a comical guardian, restraining the madness of the cars and the halting of pedestrians. From inside the military club, beneath a large banner inscribed with the cheerful message “Cheer O!”, a gentle wave of music seeped out. The stone statue in front of City Hall tilted her head towards the sky, a grey-green velvet canvas, and from her outstretched hand holding a trumpet, a cascade of sparkling shards seemed to shoot out. The slopes of Mount Gough shimmered, draped in garments of glittering gold as the night unfurled its beauty—beautiful indeed.

I was completely entranced by the tenderness of the night.

“Cheer O!”—a slogan meant to jolt people to attention. I shivered, feeling a coldness that went beyond mere chill.

Youth should be about the joy of living, I thought, as my mind began to wander.

My thoughts were unanchored, perhaps because tonight my nerves had been stretched too far, like square blocks of wood tumbling in confusion, refusing to fall into place. The bitter melancholy of love… T and P… May… love… Abby… me and Kitty… May’s dancing, her eyes…

The pre-Christmas decorations in the window displays, with their eye-catching floral garlands and scattered coloured paper, reminded me where I was. I stepped over the threshold of the Noya Café.

I heard the familiar sound of a whistle.

The tea in T and P’s cups had sunk to halfway down.

“What would you like? Cocoa?” Abi, the waitress whose makeup P always thought had an artistic, if slightly overdone air, addressed me with the casual familiarity she reserved for regulars. Her rouge seemed a little lighter than usual tonight.

“Smart girl.”

“Isn’t it so? You lot love working late into the night, scrawling away until your pens run dry!” She shot us a glance from the corner of her eye before her shadow dipped low behind the white curtain.

In the lonely light of the café, two gaunt faces, one on either side of me, stared at each other. Their high cheekbones made them seem like figures lifted from an Aubrey Beardsley illustration.

T, his toes barely touching the floor, reclined lazily in his chair, his back pressed to the wall. A programme from some event, its corners crumpled by idle fingers, lay rolled up next to the saucer beneath his coffee cup, slowly unfurling again. P rested his head in one hand while the other absentmindedly stirred his cup. He was whistling—a habit of his whenever boredom took over.

As soon as I entered the room, I felt a comforting warmth envelope me. It felt odd, almost out of place, as though loneliness ought to always be blended with cold. But this warmth, however misplaced, felt like a reprieve. I was just beginning to gather my thoughts when suddenly—

“Not bad, eh?” T’s voice broke through in a burst of admiration. His eyes flicked from the programme to me, a playful smile lingering in his gaze, carrying a hint of feminine allure. T’s comments were often abrupt like that.

I knew, of course, he was talking about May.

“P, still hurting?” I asked. Earlier, when we were leaving, P had complained of a headache. I’d dragged him out tonight, hoping a bit of art appreciation might help him forget. But now, seeing his pale expression, I couldn’t help but ask.

“Same as ever.”

“I told you that sitting too close to the stage isn’t good for you. Watching all that dancing must’ve made you dizzy,” T teased P.

“Oh, don’t start! You’re the one who’s been babbling ‘not bad, not bad’ all the way home, like you were dreaming,” P replied, his tone thick with mockery.

Abi’s slender fingers set the cocoa down in front of me. The gleam of her nails made me think of her lips.

“Abi, has rouge gone up in price? It looks like you’re wearing less of it.”

“Eat it!” she shot back without missing a beat.

“Right! You gave it to P, didn’t you? Ha ha…”

“Ha ha ha ha!”

Abi blushed, though it wasn’t a total defeat—she’d once confessed to us that her favourite book was Dream of the Red Chamber. She quickly shifted the conversation, pointing to P with a light tap on his shoulder. “What’s with this one? Holding his head like that—afraid it’s going to fall off?”

“You’d better feed him some more of your rouge, or that head’s definitely coming off,” T quipped.

“And I’ll make bread out of it for you to eat,” Abi shot back.

“Abi, I’ll tell you—this lad here got dizzy watching a girl dance,” I said, feeling P’s foot nudging mine under the table, as if to stop me. But how could I leave it there? “And you’re the only one who can cure him.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Abi replied, her usual defence at the ready. “I’m no writer, not like you lot, with your sharp tongues like little mice.”

“Not bad at all!” P dropped his hand from his forehead, but his face still held a trace of T’s earlier excitement as he mimicked T’s tone.

It was P who’d discovered the Noya Café, so I knew, of course, he was praising Abi, that clever girl.

After we’d finished discussing the art of Abi’s makeup, May’s waist and legs began to dance in my mind’s eye, swirling in that faint, smoky mist.

…

T was clearly captivated tonight. May’s dancing had stirred something deep within him; I could see the ripples it sent across the surface of his emotions. He had, I suspected, been nursing a secret affection for her for some time. But he was timid, too scared to act on it. Encouraging a man who lacks courage to take a step forward—that can’t be too difficult, can it? I thought to myself.

“She really does have a touch of Greta Garbo about her,” I said, knowing full well that Garbo was T’s gilded screen idol. “Time to make a decision, don’t you think?”

“By your logic, it’s downright reckless.”

“To fall in love, you need courage,” P chimed in.

T remained uncertain, his reserved smile framed by thoughtful eyes.

“Well then, do you admit you’re in love with her?”

T responded with a silent knowing smile.

“Then, if you don’t act on it, you’re only sabotaging yourself.”

“…”

“I reckon she’s easy to approach,” P added.

“Go on. Unless you plan to use your piano lessons as an excuse to get closer to her, fate isn’t going to hand you a chance.”

“We’ll see…”

T still wouldn’t commit.

“You’re both cowards. Honestly, I wouldn’t have believed it,” I said as we stepped outside into the street.

“What do you mean? I need courage too?” P asked, surprised.

“Still won’t admit it? You’ve treated Abi terribly—haven’t even dared to ask for a kiss.”

“Who’s in love with her?”

“Oh, really? Then why does she write you letters? Has tonight shaken your resolve?”

“Can you trust a waitress?”

On the quiet streets, T seemed oblivious to our conversation. Instead, he began to hum a tune, indulging in his own peculiar brand of distraction:

“Oh! I wish I had someone to love me, someone to call me their own…”

It was autumn. At a gathering hosted by X Sports Club, a lively event that brought together members of the press and the literary community, they added some entertainment to lighten the mood. On the programme, under the listing for a performance of “The Prisoner’s Song”, was May’s name. It was our first time witnessing this rising star in action.

“Who does that remind you of?” T nudged me with his knee as May’s voice, sharp as an electric whip, lashed through the room, backed by the sound of the piano chords that reverberated in everyone’s ears.

“Greta Garbo.”

“Exactly.”

During the tea break, we were introduced.

“So pleased to finally meet you both. I’ve known your names for quite some time.” How mesmerising her eyes were, like shooting stars.

She was direct, skipping the usual pleasantries—no “Sir”, no empty phrases like “I’ve heard so much about you”, which people typically have ready to roll off their tongues when meeting someone new. The delicate movement of her lips held an authority that commanded the gaze of those around her.

After the event drew to a close, we found ourselves sharing the same lift. She turned to us and said, “You must come visit me sometime—Venus Road, Kowloon Tong. I’ve got a radio, and if you’re interested, a piano too.”

But we never went.

Kitty once told me that May often mentioned us, the members of the O Society.

Likewise, T frequently gave me similar updates: how he had run into May that day.

In a city where men’s footsteps rarely went unaccompanied by the ornamental presence of women, I knew exactly what T was yearning for. I’d asked him before, “How do you feel about May?” Or “Weren’t you planning to take up piano lessons?”

T would only respond with a hesitant smile.

Last night, T rushed to the newspaper office with a copy of the programme from a concert at Church A, barely containing his excitement. “May’s performing!” he said breathlessly.

Naturally, we couldn’t miss such an opportunity. Throughout May’s time on stage, T’s hands, poised and ready to applaud, never separated. The rhythm and movements of the music seemed to hypnotise him, to completely captivate him. And so, he suggested we head to the Noya Café afterwards.

It all happened about ten days after we last visited the café.

One morning, before I’d even gotten out of bed, T called.

“What’s going on? Another concert programme?” I thought perhaps he’d found yet another performance for us to attend.

No, he wanted to borrow money.

“Borrow money? So suddenly?” There had to be a strange reason behind it, I figured, still not fully awake. Then, in a flash, T’s soft voice reminded me of something related—something Kitty had told me just the night before, as she lay wide-eyed in bed: she’d seen May walking down the street, her hand resting on T’s arm. I didn’t bring it up, but T continued.

“Listen, I’ve done it. I’ve succeeded.”

“In what? Something to do with May?” I feigned innocence.

When he answered “Yes,” my curiosity was piqued. I didn’t mind indulging him in a long account of his success—so long as it involved him getting the money, of course.

And so T began his whispered story, starting with, “You know… ever since I saw her dance…”

“My original plan was to use Christmas as an opportunity—to send her a card. But wouldn’t that be a bit abrupt? And yet, as fate would have it, a week before Christmas, I ran into her on the ferry crossing. She was seated in the cabin at the front, and I was at the back. It was only a ten-minute journey, but we were separated the entire time. As the boat docked and we all prepared to disembark, that’s when I saw her. She greeted me with a smile—the same smile she gave when acknowledging applause on stage. My heart was brimming with a premonition of happiness. First, the card now seemed possible. Second, I had a chance to exchange a few words with her. You can’t deny, what a coincidence that was!

“And then, just as I was trying to match her stride, I noticed something—a hand had taken her arm. It was a young man, about our age. You can imagine the blow that dealt me. Did you think my dream shattered right there? No, not quite… She said, ‘I’ve been meaning to see you, why haven’t you come visit me?’ Frost, can you imagine the weight of those words? I promised her I’d visit within a few days. And the fact she said this in front of that young man—doesn’t that give me every reason to be confident?

“That very night, I wrote her a letter, saying I’d visit two days later. And do you know, I went with a sense of curiosity, almost as if testing the waters. And wouldn’t you know it? I succeeded. That day, she had carefully applied her powder and lipstick—immaculate. She was just as charming as ever. You know, if a woman isn’t interested in a man, she wouldn’t bother with her appearance when meeting him, would she? It’s a clear sign, isn’t it? A love test, if you like!

“But the fact she made the effort, it lifted my spirits. It was only the first visit, so naturally, I didn’t show my hand. I just had a casual conversation and played around on the piano for a while before leaving. Her behaviour, though, was more than I had expected. Her impulsiveness, her romantic nature—it made me nervous, really. But that’s how it all started…

“Since I didn’t want to seem too eager, I waited a day before my second visit. And this time, things took an even more surprising turn. I realised my previous hesitation had been unwarranted. I told her I wanted to learn piano, and she was thrilled. She even suggested I come every other day, since the rest of her days were devoted to studying French. Her allure was overwhelming, and that very night, I resolved to send her a love card. But even I was a bit apprehensive. Can you guess how she replied? She sent back a simple card, but on a separate, personal note, she wrote: ‘I love you.’ Just like that. Extraordinary, wasn’t it? And that was that.”

“And then?” I pressed him, still curious.

“Don’t think I’m over-sensitive or without evidence, but we went for a walk last night…”

He continued, “Oh, and there’s one more thing I forgot to mention—P had actually visited her the day before I did. I only found out during my first visit. That sneaky devil! May’s invited us to see a film tonight, and she insists that P come too. I’m against it, of course, but she’s being stubborn. What can I do? It’s not as though I can use love as leverage, can I? Ha!”

His final words were about the money—his family hadn’t sent it yet, and he needed some for now, hence the loan.

I agreed to meet him at the O Society later that afternoon to give him the money.

As I put down the phone, a strange smile lingered in my hazy thoughts, one that seemed to mockingly trace the lines of his story, only to fade slowly away.

“Frost, my apologies. This morning, when I called, I completely forgot that today is Piano Day. Sorry to have made you come all this way for nothing. I’m sure you’ll forgive me, knowing that my mind had already drifted there. Just leave the money in the drawer of my desk. I have to head across the harbour now.—T”

That was all I found when I arrived at the the O Society building—a note pinned to the door.

In truth, my playfulness had led me there, driven by the mischievous urge to inspect the spoils of love. I couldn’t resist rummaging around a bit.

Opening the wardrobe, a wave of perfume washed over me. Inside were a few new items—hair gel, perfume, an unused jar of cold cream. There was also a gift box of elegant envelopes and writing paper, clearly for a lady. Lady’s wax…

“Wishing you a forever joyful Piano Day,” I wrote on the note I left for him.

T was clearly in love—it was something Kitty and I had already suspected. And it was sweet. Very sweet.

A week after Christmas, I visited Kitty in Kowloon and ran into them on Waterloo Road. “Frost!” It was May who called out to me first. I waved at them, exchanged a few words with T, and then made my excuses to leave. As I slipped away, I gave him a sly congratulatory glance. He responded with a light squeeze of my arm and a playful wink.

The next evening, I took advantage of a free Saturday and headed to P’s flat, eager to share the latest on T’s romantic exploits. I hadn’t seen P in weeks, and I figured T might not have either. But when I arrived at his place, P wasn’t there. Puzzled, I made my way to the Noya Café. Who knows where he could have gone?

To my surprise, Abi asked me, “You’re the one who should know. He really hasn’t been here?”

“I swear, no. Since that Saturday two weeks ago, when the two of you came in together, I haven’t seen even a glimpse of him.”

People fall in love, I mused to myself. But instead of spending time with Abi, P’s vanished, like a ghost. How strange, I thought. What could he be hiding from?

The next day, Kitty came rushing into the newspaper office, her eyes wide with excitement. The first thing she told me was some gossip—someone had seen May arm-in-arm with P, having dumplings in Kowloon City.

“You must be mistaken. Are we imagining things?” I said, though the look in Kitty’s eyes confirmed we weren’t.

“I ran into her yesterday after class, just outside the office. We crossed the harbour together. She told me outright—T’s not someone she could ever love. She said once, in the middle of the street, she adjusted her garter in front of him, and it upset him. Isn’t that a ridiculous reason to break things off?”

“Why didn’t you ask her if she’s fallen for P instead?”

“Who’d have the nerve to do that? With her temper, you wouldn’t dare provoke her!”

As Kitty and I discussed what sort of tricks these fools might be playing, the phone rang. It was T.

At T’s invitation, Kitty and I made our way to the O Society. As soon as we stepped through the first door, we could hear T’s voice, singing something that echoed down the hallway:

“… My love is dreaming. Somewhere in Naples. Far over the sea…”

It wasn’t “The Prisoner’s Song” this time.

Kitty glanced at me with a knowing smile.

When we entered the room, T was pacing around, almost mechanically. The moment he saw us, he gave us a low bow, performing the exaggerated courtesy of a medieval knight.

“How’s the piano coming along?” I asked.

He smiled, a smile wrapped around a soul that radiated happiness.

“Have you seen P lately?” I asked, feigning concern.

“Not much. Isn’t he always at the Noya chasing after kisses?” T didn’t seem overly bothered by P’s affairs. Could I really stir trouble in this scenario? T had invited me here to repay the money he owed. Once I had the cash, there wasn’t much left to say, so we bid him farewell.

His shoes gleamed, polished to perfection, and he wore a peach-coloured silk scarf. T left me with a very different impression that day.

Several days passed before I returned to the O Society.

One afternoon, as I walked down the street, I saw P approaching, with a book under his arm. He was strolling aimlessly, whistling as he went.

“Where are you off to?” I asked.

“To the park, to read a novel.”

“Haven’t seen much of you this week. Where’ve you been?”

“I’ve been acting in a play,” he muttered, sounding completely drained, and without waiting for a response, he walked off.

“Acting in a play?” I turned this strange comment over in my mind as I returned to the newspaper office. Just then, the phone rang. It was T.

Had he gotten his hands on another programme? News about his romance? A request for more money? None of the above. He asked if I could drop by the O Society the next day.

“Is something wrong? Can’t you tell me now?” I asked, puzzled.

“No, just come tomorrow.” His voice—so unusually calm, so unlike the usual softness—made me almost doubt it was T on the line.

Tomorrow wasn’t Piano Day, was it? “Acting in a play.” … Piano Day…

The morning I was meant to head to the O Society, Kitty came by the newspaper office again, her eyes wide as ever, bringing with her yet another strange piece of news. The previous night, she had seen May sitting in the backseat of a car driven by a young man. The headlights of a bus behind them had illuminated the scene just enough for her to confirm it without a doubt. May even turned around to wave.

Had a demon possessed them all? What kind of game were these people playing? Was this a dream? A dream within a dream?

“My mind feels cluttered again, as if heavy blocks were floating aimlessly… P. T. Piano Day… May. ‘Acting in a play’… Kitty’s wide eyes…”

When we arrived at the O Society, there was no song, no medieval knight’s courtesy.

T was still wrapped in his blanket, not yet out of bed. P lounged casually in a chair, his hands stuffed into his trouser pockets, his feet propped up on the desk. He was whistling.

“Aren’t you crossing the harbour today?” I asked.

“Broken up!” P replied, almost gleefully.

“What? Really?”

“See for yourself,” T said, pointing to a letter on the desk.

Kitty and I scrambled to read it.

Dear P and T,

Now that the truth has come out, you are no longer rivals, so I’m writing to you both in a single letter. How pitiful—you’ve both been played by me. The thought of it makes me laugh. You were so proud of your secrecy, keeping things from each other. I must say, I admire that. But honestly, whether or not you kept it secret didn’t matter to me. From the very beginning, I knew you both were selfish, which is why I insisted you keep things quiet and schedule your visits—one person for each Piano Day. T, you were the first to give yourself away. But P, don’t be too smug—you had your days when you couldn’t come either.

Of you two, T, you were the more selfish. The very first night we went out for a walk, you asked me who that man on the ferry was. If you love me, does it matter whom I love? Then, the night at the cinema, when I insisted P join us, you sulked. Did P tell you? When I sent you to the box office to call home, I stole a kiss from P while you were gone.

And when I pulled up my skirt on the street to adjust my garter, you were so terribly offended, T. I truly don’t understand why you’re so narrow-minded. My legs are my own—how could that hurt your dignity? Did you think you’d lose me if someone else saw? Honestly!

Two hundred dollars is hardly an outrageous sum, yet when I asked you each for it, you were both visibly uncomfortable. I thought T would be like that, but P, you surprised me by being just the same. In the world I live in, I’ve never heard of “free romance”. You could take me to restaurants and the theatre, couldn’t you? So why can’t I ask for money from you in return? It’s just another kind of exchange, after all. And I needed winter clothes—two hundred dollars from each of you isn’t asking too much, is it? This was just the first time, and already you balked. If this were to go on, wouldn’t you be paying even more? Is continuing to love me really worth it?

I’m not a literary writer. I can’t analyse love or claim to know what it means. What I do know is that anyone can love anyone else, as long as there’s a price to pay. In other words, the one who loves must provide material pleasures for the other. Perhaps there’s more to the idea of love, but for me, this is how I’ve always felt. You men can take from women what you desire; why can’t women take from men what they want? I really don’t understand why you’re so miserly about this! What else is a man’s money for, if not to spend on a woman? Today is Saturday. My cousin is bringing over a motorcycle this afternoon. We’re going for a ride, and then he’s coming with me to the office. Interested in the piano? Don’t be shy—you’re welcome to drop by.

No parting gifts, but if you like, come by for a kiss at X.

—May.

Kitty was laughing so hard she could barely stand upright, her body shaking with uncontrollable amusement.

“Brilliant!” I couldn’t help but say.

“I couldn’t write something like that if I spent an entire day trying,” T muttered to himself.

“Maybe you should just head back to the Noya,” I teased P, nudging him playfully.

“Ah, it’s a mess. Abi gave me a letter a week ago and I still haven’t replied.”

“A waitress you can rely on? What’s going on with you, P?” Kitty tugged at my arm, pulling me away.

“Going for a walk?” I gave T a deliberate shove. “Aren’t you both on the same Piano Day schedule?”

T waved me off. “Get out of here!”

Inside, the heavy blocks in my mind—those square, wooden thoughts—seemed to finally settle, forming a weighty, suffocating grid.

As we stepped out the door, faintly, the sound came again:

“Oh! I wish I had someone to…”

Kitty glanced at me and smiled.

First draft on the Christmas Day of 1929 at the Water-Facing Study in Kowloon. Published in the inaugural issue of Island on 1 April 1930.

How to cite: Song, Chris and Lü Lun. “Piano Day.” Cha: An Asian Literary Journal, 14 Oct. 2024, chajournal.blog/2024/10/14/piano-day.

Lü Lun 侶倫 (1911–1988) was an important writer in early Hong Kong literature, known for his essays as well as his short and long novels. He also worked as a film screenwriter and a literary magazine editor. His notable work includes the novel The Alley of Poverty 窮巷. In the early stages of his career, his writing focused primarily on themes of love and romance. During the middle period, influenced by the Japanese occupation of Hong Kong, his work shifted to themes of war. In his later years, he turned to depicting urban life.

Chris Song (translator) is a poet, editor, and translator from Hong Kong, and is an assistant professor teaching Hong Kong literature and culture as well as English and Chinese translation at the University of Toronto. He won the “Extraordinary Mention” of the 2013 Nosside International Poetry Prize in Italy and the Award for Young Artist (Literary Arts) of the 2017 Hong Kong Arts Development Awards. In 2019, he won the 5th Haizi Poetry Award. He is a founding councilor of the Hong Kong Poetry Festival Foundation, executive director of the International Poetry Nights in Hong Kong, and editor-in-chief of Voice & Verse Poetry Magazine. He also serves as an advisor to various literary organisations. [Hong Kong Fiction in Translation.] [Chris Song & ChaJournal.]