The Last Rose of Shanghai(17)

She stirred and opened her eyes. “Ernest? You’re back. How’s your hand?”

“Good as new,” he said, holding up his bandaged hand. “Those Catholic nuns were the best nurses I’ve ever seen. They gave me seven stitches. Once I heal, I can play the piano again.”

“That’s good to know. I was worried about that.”

Her voice had a soothing rhythm; he wanted to hear her speak forever. “Thank you for bringing me here, Aiyi.”

“I’m your employer. I have no choice. I’m a terrible caregiver, just so you know. You won’t want to be in my care again, or you’ll lose more than a hand.”

But she did have a choice.

“Let me take you to your apartment.” She told the chauffeur to start the car. “How long did the doctor say it’ll take your hand to heal?”

He looked at his bandaged hand, devastated. “To completely heal, it’ll take four months.”

“Four months.” She sighed.

There was no reason she should keep him for four months if he couldn’t play the piano. “I can play with my left hand.”

“I’d rather you not do that. That’s not the stride piano. My plan is for you to be the band’s melody, not accompaniment. Now, usually I wouldn’t offer this, but I’ll make an exception. You’ll have a paid leave for a week, so you can recover and let your hand heal. How’s that?”

If he stayed out of the club for a week, would he be allowed to return? The car’s engine droned, an endless run of moans and groans, like life’s sickening spasms, relentless. But he would make it, with a damaged hand or not. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Aiyi.”





13


AIYI


His insistence. Was he going to get even with Mr. Zhang? I glanced at his hand.

“I just want to work,” he said.

His face was paler than dawn, but he had no rancor, no hint of revenge, not even a wrinkle of anger in his eyes. Here was someone who was nonviolent and insisted on working to receive pay. I wanted to know more about him. So even though I was tired, I asked him about where he was from, what his parents did for a living, how he was trained, and why he’d come to Shanghai.

He told me all. He was from Berlin. His parents were professors in a university. He’d come here because of the war, and he’d started to play the piano at a young age because his mother insisted.

“What did you play?” I asked.

“Classical music, mostly,” he said.

I nodded, still remembering his music in Sassoon’s hotel. “I like jazz better. You know why? We have lost the war to the Japanese. People die every day like flies; everyone is scared. Jazz makes us feel alive; it helps us forget about reality. Classical music is different; it’s about remembering.”

“I can’t put it in better words.” He smiled; in his blue eyes shone the same light, the same indulgence that I had seen when he played in Sassoon’s hotel.

My heart raced. I felt my cheeks grow warmer. I turned my head to the window.

“I’m also interested in photography, as a hobby,” he said.

A popular hobby among the foreigners—Sassoon, for one—but it was expensive since cameras and film were imported. “What else do you like?” I asked.

“Movies.”

The things we had in common. He adored Marlene Dietrich, the German actress, he said, and I loved Katharine Hepburn. I also enjoyed reading movie magazines, which were hard to get, but manager Wang had a knack for finding them for me.

“And skiing,” he said. A coincidence, for Mother, a woman with bound feet, had been an avid skier. “And you.”

“Oh, stop.” I flicked my hand to dismiss him, but I must have been crazy, for I kept thinking about his blue eyes even after he left, the jewels of light that could change and reflect his moods like a magical movie.



The next day, when I was ready to go to work, Cheng, my fiancé, came to my home. He offered to take me to the club. He did this frequently, saying it was to ensure my safety, but I knew it was his excuse to watch me.

A fashionable man, he was dressed meticulously in a purple tweed suit, a black silk tie, black trousers, and black-and-white leather oxford wing tips. “What are you wearing, Aiyi? That thing is so tight it shows your ribs,” he said, standing by his black Buick as I got in.

He was a controlling man. It was his nature to tell me what not to do, who not to talk to, and what not to wear. This always irked me, for Cheng, a man with an excellent taste in men’s fashion, preferred me to cover up from head to toe. It displeased him that I’d wear a sleeveless dress that showed my shoulders or a short dress revealing my calves.

I was wearing a fitted long dress printed with red peonies; it showed my curves and my bare arms, which were currently covered by a short wool jacket.

“If you need new dresses, I’ll send you my seamstresses.” Cheng sat beside me as the car started to drive. He was the scion of a shipping magnate. His family’s fortune was dwindling, like mine had, but he was still rich and well connected through his six sisters’ marriages. With his wealth and good looks—a chiseled face, wide shoulders, and strong muscles from years of horseback riding—he attracted many women. My family had believed I had made an enviable match. They were right; Cheng was a catch.