The Last Rose of Shanghai(18)
But I had only felt a cousinly connection with Cheng. When I told Mother about that, she had said that was enough, for marriage was a business that would run smoothly without romantic love. I believed her, so I rarely thought to question my eventual marriage. I liked Ernest, a foreigner whom I had never imagined befriending, and I was attracted to him in some ways I shouldn’t be, but I would never risk anything to ruin my future with Cheng.
“I’ll wear a different one tomorrow.” Cheng also had an explosive temper. I’d rather not provoke him.
“And a bra, Aiyi.”
He meant the traditional bra, a triangle piece of cloth that flattened my breasts. He knew I hated it, but arguing with him only aggravated him. “Fine.”
He took out a packet of cigarettes. “So what did I miss? A knife incident? Why did you hire a foreigner?”
He must have heard this from my managers, and he must be irritated because I hired Ernest without first consulting him. As my fiancé, Cheng felt entitled to my business. “He can play the stride piano; I was going to tell you. He’s very good at it. It will help my business thrive and make more money.”
“It looks like your customers didn’t like him.”
The apathy in his tone. “They will, once they hear his music.”
Cheng looked offended; he was always like that, getting angry when contradicted. “This isn’t over. There will be more trouble if he sticks around.”
I was quiet the rest of the way to my club, for Cheng had made me nervous. What if he was right? The last thing I needed was to see more bloodshed, which would drive away the modern girls, the fashionable young people, and other customers. Sassoon’s alcohol wouldn’t help.
When I stepped into the ballroom with Cheng, I froze. Ernest was already there, and he was doing something he shouldn’t.
14
ERNEST
He could still make himself useful. Helping customers to their seats, delivering their drinks—if he’d understood them, he would have taken their orders too. When the customers went to the dance floor, he took a broom and swept away the peanut shells, the sunflower seeds, the ash, and the cigarette stubs.
He asked to deliver drinks to the man who had stabbed him, Mr. Zhang—he was seated with two men with their shirts unbuttoned. Manager Wang looked stunned, but Ernest nodded, assuring him there would be no trouble. Reaching the round table where the men sat, Ernest bowed, remembering Aiyi’s instruction of the Chinese custom, offered the tray of glasses and a bottle of gin they’d ordered, and poured for him.
Mr. Zhang muttered, “Guizi.”
A slur, Ernest could tell, but he didn’t feel threatened. “Good evening. My name is Ernest Reismann. I’m at your service. If there’s anything I can do for you, please let me know.”
He could tell Mr. Zhang didn’t understand his English, but all the same, Ernest stood there, pouring his drinks. The man looked rather surprised and then pleased. In fact, all the customers looked surprised and pleased.
Mr. Zhang had another folding knife visible, but he didn’t use it.
“Ernest, are you sure you want to do this?” Aiyi asked him backstage. She looked shocked, standing next to a well-dressed, handsome man with thick black eyebrows, a fine jawline, and fierce black eyes. Her companion was frowning at him.
“Is there a problem?” Ernest said.
“No. It’s just the foreigners usually do not serve the Chinese food or drinks. It’s, you know, beneath them.”
He shrugged. “What does it matter. People are strange. Some think they’re superior to others because of their wealth, their pride, the history of their country, their religion, or their looks. I’m just a man from Berlin, a guest of this city. I do my best to look decent, and I hope, if possible, to be a friend of this city. I’m more than happy to serve the customers in your club until my hand heals.”
She tilted her head, looking incredulous. “Of course. You’re welcome to help out.”
She looked like she was going to say something else, but the well-dressed man took her arm and they walked away.
So Ernest worked as a server, a bartender, and a busboy. Mr. Zhang didn’t bother him anymore, and the other customers and the staff in the club seemed friendlier, often asking him about his hand. “Good as new.” He raised it like a flag, a flag of peace.
While keeping busy, he listened to the conversations of the customers and mouthed their words, tuning to the rising and falling tones, like her name. But of course, nothing was as special and endearing as her name. Whenever he saw her, his gaze followed her. It would perhaps do him good to keep his feelings under wraps if he wanted to keep the job, but it was hopeless. He felt like he was a different man. He laughed as loudly as he wanted; he could jump off a cliff on a dare.
He counted the days until he could play the piano again. When the band played, he listened with great focus and memorized every song. “The Entertainer,” “On the Sunny Side of the Street,” “Memories of You.” Swing, ragtime, jazz, all the popular American music he had heard of but was not familiar with. He noted the pentatonic scale, the main melody, and the free improvisation of the clarinetist, the trumpeter, and the violinist. The fiery beats made his heart pound; he tapped the floor with his feet, and his good left hand struck invisible keys in the air. His mind roared with the outpouring of energy and the thrilling chorus of the instruments.