The Last Rose of Shanghai(15)

I gave a few more instructions to my managers and went to my office at the end of the hallway. Holding a small mirror, I reapplied red lipstick and powder and carefully arranged my bangs—I had the trendy hairstyle some calendar-girl models copied. I looked fashionable, with my gold leaf earrings and gold necklace, the essential jewelry that signaled I was still richer than most people. But I had a second thought. Unbuttoning the fitted pomegranate-red dress, I put on a Western bra saved in the drawer in my dressing room, the type with padding, and tucked in it a ball of tissue sprayed with perfume so the scent wouldn’t be overpowering.

Today was Ernest’s first day.



“Good afternoon, Miss Shao.” Swinging music burst through my office door as Ernest entered, dressed in his same double-breasted coat with creased lapels. A cloud of stubble traced his jaw; there was thoughtfulness in his movements, as if he were holding something precious but afraid to lose it. But his eyes. They were radiating energy, fondness, and warmth, a powerful tune that made my heart bubble with happiness. Just like that, I wanted to smile with him and talk about music.

But I composed myself. He was, after all, a pianist I’d hired. “I’m glad you came. Today is your first day. Let’s talk about your work. Sit, sit.”

“Thank you for the opportunity, Ms. Shao.” He took off his glove and extended his hand.

He was well mannered and respectful, but I had to say, “Ernest, may I remind you? This is a Chinese club. It might be good for you to know some etiquette. It’s rather inappropriate to shake a woman’s hand.”

“I didn’t know. Why?”

“Chinese people consider touching between men and women an intimate action.”

“Even for business?”

I nodded.

“Hugs?”

A newcomer, he was truly unaware of how people in Shanghai viewed the outrageous nature of that Western custom. Most Chinese were practically hug averse. “That’s for friends, very close friends.”

“Kissing on the cheek then? In Europe, the custom is to kiss three times on the cheek.”

I coughed. Such intimacy was unthinkable in Shanghai; even married couples refrained from publicly demonstrating intimacy. Certainly not between a Chinese and a foreigner.

“So what is the proper social etiquette in Shanghai?” He looked baffled, staring straight at me, another bit of etiquette he needed to learn—we showed respect by lowering our gaze.

“In greeting, we bow or do this.” I folded my hands together and gave him a deep nod.

“I sincerely hope I didn’t offend you, Miss Shao. I only wish to express my respect and gratitude for the employment.”

I had no doubt about that, and I actually quite missed the way he’d repeated my given name in his guttural accent. “Ah. You’ll repay me by playing the stride piano. I’m counting on your music to make my club more competitive. I’ve made a plan to introduce you and publicize your appearance. So people will know how unique your music is. Today, you’ll get acclimated. Sounds good?”

“Of course.”

“Now, let’s talk about your wage. We use three currencies in this city. Usually, foreign employees are paid in American dollars in foreign companies. Some local businesses here are switching to the currency the Japanese issued, but we still use our Nationalist government’s fabi since our employees need that to purchase food. Would you accept that?”

“I’m fine with fabi.”

“You’ll be paid ten Chinese fabi every evening. That’s after the rent. The workday starts at four o’clock in the afternoon and ends when customers leave, generally around three in the morning. Do you have any questions?”

He looked pensive. “You said this is a Chinese club. Do you have any foreign employees? Do any of your people speak German or English?”

“No. All employees and customers are Chinese. And I’m sorry, my four managers speak some pidgin English, but most people only speak Shanghai dialect.” He would be a foreigner, alone, surrounded by the opinionated locals, a stranger unable to understand our language. “Come, Ernest. I’ll show you the piano.”



In the ballroom, the evening session had just started. The band was playing “Summertime,” and as I had hoped, there were already some customers; Mr. Zhang, the knife spinner, had come with his buddies, and they had ordered a bottle of Gilbey’s. They didn’t pay attention to Ernest as we walked to the piano in the left corner of the stage, for which I was glad. I absolutely didn’t want to have unnecessary exchanges with that gangster.

The bandleader, the trumpeter, Mr. Li, came to me near the piano. Glancing at Ernest, who had put on his glove and fluttered his fingers on the keyboard, Mr. Li frowned, not surprisingly, his eyes filled with hostility. He had worked at Lianhua, the film studio, before the war, and now did some moonlighting at weddings and funerals. His band had worked for me for four months. Usually bands didn’t stay long; they came and went. Sickness, better payments, or death.

“Mr. Li, meet your new band member,” I said in Shanghai dialect. I was not an amiable employer; I believed in distance, for Mother had said men’s egos prevented them from taking a woman’s order, so I gave orders with few explanations, which, surprisingly, produced respect.

“Miss Shao, my people work very well together as a band.”