The Last Rose of Shanghai(106)

He ran out of the alleyway, laughing; he could feel the keys under his fingers, hear the sound of the piano, and smell the air of music. He had wasted much time, so much time.



He went to Goya, asking for permission to leave the area. The gaunt, detestable man asked for a payment and berated him when he had none to give. Ernest went to the metal Garden Bridge, where a Japanese soldier in the sentry tower inspected a caravan of trucks entering the area, and asked for permission to leave. The soldier sent him back to Goya.

He would keep trying.



Three days later, when Ernest walked toward home with a loaf of bread under his arm, the Chinese youth in suspenders appeared again. The man looked up, catching his gaze. Ernest gripped the bread with two hands—many robbers and thieves these days. Then a prick of memory stabbed him. He jerked and went back to the youth, his heart pounding with excitement.

“Excuse me. You look familiar. Do I know you?” Then he remembered. He had seen the youth in her club. He was always beside Cheng, drinking and smoking.

The man pressed down his cap and squinted at him. “What are the chances?”

“You’re . . . Ying. That’s your name, isn’t it? Yes. That’s you! Aiyi’s brother.” He was a hard man, his gaze sharp with hostility. “This is the designated area. What are you doing here, Ying?”

“None of your business.”

“Do you know where your sister is? I’ve been looking for her.”

Ying struck a match and lit his cigarette. “Why should I tell you?”

He cleared his throat. “I’d love it if you can do me a favor. I’d love to see her again.”

“Why should I do you a favor, foreigner? Haven’t you done enough damage already?”

Ernest didn’t know what to say, but he couldn’t walk away from the last connection to her. “So, I noticed you’ve been here a few times. Did someone you know get thrown in jail? Can I help you?”

Ying looked at the jail and then him. Suddenly, his hard eyes flashed with interest. “You can certainly help. I need a tank. Will you steal it for me?”

“A tank?” It was inconceivable to steal a bike, let alone a tank.

“I don’t have men left. You’re the only one I got.”

“Me?”

“How’s this, foreigner? If you steal the tank for me, I’ll tell you about my sister.”

“What do you need a tank for?”

“To end the war, foreigner.”

Ernest tried to laugh. “I wish I could help, but I don’t know where to find a tank.”

“At the base. I’ll tell you everything you need to know.”

“The military base?” He would be shot the moment he walked in the base. He didn’t know how to drive a car, let alone a tank. He glanced at the row of shanties, the jail’s brick building, and the metal railing of the Garden Bridge at the end of the street. “Look, I know you want to end the war. It’s a fine idea; I’d like to see it end too. But it’s suicide.”

“If you want to see her, you’ll do it.”

“I can’t.”

“Coward.”

Ernest sighed and was going to say something when Ying swung his arm and locked his hand around Ernest’s neck. “It’s all because of you, foreigner. She ruined her life for you. She was a sweet girl, but she changed ever since she met you. Her husband died for her, do you know that? Her husband, he was like a brother to me.” His voice was full of resentment, and something intense flashed in his eyes.

“Cheng died?” The memory of the godlike youth lingered in his mind. His strikingly handsome features. His fine suits and a purple tie. The last time he’d seen him, Cheng had beat him and kicked him out of the club. He was a fierce rival, whose manliness and wealth Ernest thought he could never match, more of a man than he had dreamed of becoming, and he had never asked, out of selfish reasons, why Aiyi chose him over Cheng.

“Fuck you, foreigner. You want to die in this filth? Go ahead. We’re all going to die anyway.” Ying withdrew his arm.

Ernest coughed, rubbing his neck, yet a lump of pain lodged in his chest and refused to leave. The price of life, the loss of a man like Cheng, her grief, his grief. He wanted to scream to repel the foulness of war, the indignity that plagued them, and he ached to see her, to comfort her, to hold her hand, to say something like love is stronger than death or say nothing at all.

He turned around, facing the shanties, his attic room, the military base with the fence of barbed wire in the distance. He had no weapons, no experience; he would infiltrate the enemy base alone and charge at death alone, but he was no longer lonely.

“How do I break in?”





88


FALL 1980


THE PEACE HOTEL

I clutch the photo with two hands. “These are precious, Ms. Sorebi. Thank you for showing them to me. I’ve been looking for my daughter for many years, but sadly, she is not my daughter.”

“Are you sure?”

“But look at her, how beautiful she is. You were right. My Little Star was about four years old.”

“Little Star? Oh. I see . . . That explains the resemblance. Well. My apologies. But it says it’s 1946. Shouldn’t she be six?”