Excerpt from Whispering Shadows by Jan-Philipp Sendker, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

"I suspect a Filipina maid cooks for you. And on Sundays, when she's off, you go out to eat."

She suppressed a grin.

"And your husband . . ."

She interrupted him. "I've divorced."

"And your ex-husband couldn't even prepare a decent congee for you?"

When had a man last made her laugh?

"You know Hong Kong well, and you speak very good Cantonese."

"You mean, very good for a gweilo."

"No. I mean very good."

"Thank you."

"Where did you learn it?"

"In Hong Kong."

She looked at him, how he bent over his bowl spooning his soup into his mouth and slurping as though he were Chinese.

"You were born here, right?"

"What makes you think that?"

"Because . . . Because . . ."

"Because I slurp my soup, can cook Chinese food, and speak Cantonese?" he retorted. "That should actually prove the opposite. Or have you ever met a foreigner who was born here or grew up here because his father was in Her Majesty's Service or worked for a company here who spoke Cantonese or Mandarin or had even the slightest interest in the culture and history of Hong Kong?" He poured more tea for her and for himself before continuing. "No. I was born in Germany. My mother is German and my father is American. I first came to Hong Kong in 1975 via Vietnam and Bangkok. I've lived here ever since."

"On Lamma?" she asked, astounded.

"No, in the city. I moved to Lamma only two years ago. Shortly after my divorce."

"Don't you feel it gets too lonely here?"

He shook his head gently.

"Do you live here on your own?"

He looked her straight in the eye. There was that expression again, that she had felt so intensely before: vulnerable, open, and raw, a kind of nakedness that was unfamiliar to her.

"Some days, yes. Some days, no."

She remembered the child's shoes in the hall. She wanted to ask a question, but his look told her that it would be better to stay silent.

"And you?" he asked her, after a long pause. It was an invitation that she could not refuse. He was the first person in a long time who was paying attention to her without wanting anything in return. Without demanding a cheaper flight, an upgrade, a pay raise, a day off, or money for a new computer game. The first person for whom she did not have to slip into a particular role: not be the mother, the ex-wife, the boss, or the daughter. He simply sat across from her listening, leaning his head to one side then the other, sipping his tea and asking her questions. She told him about the Catholic school she had attended in Hong Kong and about getting her degree in tourism in Vancouver. About how difficult it was to earn money from a small travel agency in the age of the Internet and to bring up a child at the same time. About the evenings she fell asleep, exhausted, in front of the television, and Josh or Tita woke her at night in front of the flickering screen. About the Sunday dinners with her mother, a burdensome duty that she, like most Hong Kongers, could not escape. She talked about the failure of her marriage. About her husband, who had had a Chinese mistress and child on the other side of the border for years and not told her a thing. Who had supported this woman and their child throughout his marriage to her. That was the real reason why they had never had enough money, why they had to sell the small rental apartment in Kowloon Tong and, later on, even their car, though the business at World Wide Travel had still been going well. She had never really thought about it, or, looking back on it, perhaps she had not wanted to. She had trusted her husband and there had always been good reasons for his many business trips to China. So he claimed, at least, and she had not wanted to doubt him, not even when the first rumors of his infidelity had reached her. She had defended him: to her friends, to her mother. She had believed him, she had wanted to believe him, but he had deceived her, cheated on her, and betrayed her. He had gone behind her back and lied to her. She said all this without self-pity. That was the risk that human beings took when they trusted other people; that was the price they paid. Later, her relations had whispered among themselves that she had brought this on herself; she had been so naive, so trusting. She had had no contact with her family for months because of their opinions. She would not have done any differently today. Believing and hoping. Over and over again.

Excerpted from Whispering Shadows by Jan-Philipp Sendker. Copyright © 2015 by Jan-Philipp Sendker. Excerpted by permission of 37 Ink/Atria Books. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.