Ōng Tshian-hòh, whom Aoyama affectionately calls Chi-chan, is the deuteragonist of the novel and a complex foil to Aoyama’s naivete. She is a round character whose depth is gradually revealed, challenging both Aoyama’s and the reader’s initial perceptions. Her most defining feature is her calculated performance of politeness and accommodation, a self-protective strategy Aoyama repeatedly links to Chi-chan’s expression, which she refers to as a “Noh mask” (44). This mask is an essential tool for navigating her precarious position as an Islander woman serving a Mainlander of high status. It allows her to manage Aoyama’s often demanding requests and volatile emotions while concealing her own thoughts and feelings. Her inscrutable smile and impeccable competence are forms of emotional armor, shielding her from the vulnerabilities inherent in their unequal relationship. This constant performance highlights The Fragility of Friendship Across Power Divides, as it underscores the impossibility of true, reciprocal intimacy when one person must constantly be on guard.

Beneath the mask, Chi-chan is exceptionally intelligent, resourceful, and deeply knowledgeable about Taiwanese culture, history, and languages. Her erudition, which Aoyama initially finds surprising, points to a rich inner life and a complex past that Aoyama’s colonial gaze cannot fully comprehend. Chi-chan’s resistance to Aoyama’s paternalism is subtle but persistent. She asserts her boundaries through quiet, strategic actions, rather than through direct confrontation. For instance, she initially refuses to dine at the same table as Aoyama, citing their unequal dynamic. She only acquiesces after Aoyama reframes their relationship to call themselves equals. She gently deflects Aoyama’s more intrusive questions with practiced ease and guides her travels in a way that satisfies Aoyama’s curiosity without allowing herself to be fully exploited. This elevates her from being a passive subject of colonial dynamics into an active agent who skillfully manages her circumstances to maintain her dignity and autonomy.

Chi-chan’s backstory as the daughter of a concubine, educated by her mother’s worldly friends at a café, reveals the source of her sophisticated survival skills. She intimately understands social hierarchies and navigates them with a pragmatism born out of necessity. Her decision to resign as Aoyama’s interpreter is the culmination of her struggle for selfhood. It is a powerful act of agency, a refusal to continue playing a role in a friendship that, despite Aoyama’s genuine affection, is built on a foundation of misunderstanding and inequality. Her final explanation to Aoyama is devastatingly precise: “The truth is that gentle Aoyama-san never once asked me: Do you want this protection?” (229). With this, she articulates the novel’s central theme, rejecting a “friendship” in which she is seen as an object of pity and protection. By severing the tie, she reclaims her identity and asserts the impossibility of true connection across an unacknowledged power divide.

Mishima Aizō is a minor but crucial character who serves as a foil to Chi-chan and a catalyst for Aoyama’s self-realization. As a wansheng, a Japanese person born in Taiwan, he occupies an ambiguous space within the colonial hierarchy. He first appears as a rigid, unhelpful bureaucrat from Taichū City Hall, a stark contrast to Chi-chan’s accommodating and resourceful nature. His adherence to protocol and his initial refusal to indulge Aoyama’s requests for local food stem from a pragmatic desire to maintain professional boundaries and avoid the potential troubles that Aoyama’s whims might create. His demeanor reflects a keen, if unstated, awareness of the risks involved in blurring the lines between colonizer and colonized.

While his role is limited, it is pivotal. Toward the end of the novel, after Chi-chan’s departure, Mishima becomes the voice of unfiltered truth. Freed from the need for politeness that governs Chi-chan’s interactions, he directly confronts Aoyama about her behavior. He accuses her of “intellectual arrogance” (245) and of judging the island based on her subjective whims, rather than a genuine understanding of the Islanders’ perspectives. His statement that “There is nothing in the world more difficult to refuse than self-righteous goodwill” (247) perfectly encapsulates the novel’s critique of benevolent colonialism. In this moment, Mishima moves beyond being a simple bureaucrat to become the character who finally forces Aoyama to face the uncomfortable truth about her own perspective.