The Last Rose of Shanghai(22)

I held the bowl. “My club produces lucrative tax for his government. And when people dance, they don’t think of revolt. Yamazaki knows it.”

“Aiyi, you should think about starting a family. We’re good families, and girls from good families don’t work to make a living. You are not young anymore.” Peiyu’s game was not going well. She was grumpy. A traditional woman who believed a woman’s role was to be a wife and mother, she disliked that I worked—in an immoral nightclub, no less! She always said I was old, since she believed girls with my upbringing must be engaged at ten, married at fourteen, and give birth to a first child at sixteen. Like her. But I wondered if she wanted me to have children so I could lose my good figure. After five children, soon six, Peiyu had trouble finding her waist.

“When will Emily come for a visit?” I said.

That silenced them all, including Peiyu. Emily Hahn, an American journalist who had moved to Shanghai five years ago, was Sinmay’s mistress, which was hardly shameful for Sinmay, since many Chinese men kept concubines. Emily Hahn, to Peiyu, was just like a concubine, but Emily was American, which irked Peiyu.

“Why did you ask that?” Sinmay’s gramophone voice sounded stuck.

He had broken the “salt and sugar must not mix” rule. And he had paid for it, shunned by some of his artist friends and business associates. Emily Hahn likely suffered similar punishment, but I didn’t really know her very well. I felt a certain camaraderie with her since we both worked, defying the traditional role of women.

“Never mind. I’m tired. I’m going to my room.”

“You want to play? I’m winning.” Ying winked at me. He was kind to me because I was his lender; he borrowed money from me without any intention of paying it back, but I still couldn’t refuse him. Of all my brothers, he was the closest to me, even though he was like a walking firecracker filled with the dangerous gunpowder of youth. He had gotten into trouble fighting, was jailed once, and recently he was seen attending an underground Communist meeting, according to some customers in my club.

“Well—”

“We’re not done yet.” Sinmay gave me a long look, a warning that he’d had enough. “The pianist. Are you going to let him go?”

“I forgot to mention it. His hand is wounded.”

“So he can’t even play the piano.”

I rubbed my forehead. I preferred not to fight Sinmay, the brother who could decide my fate, but he reminded me that my business was always the priority. There was no reason to pay a sweeper at the rate of a pianist.

“I’ll be happy to tell the foreigner to leave, Aiyi,” Cheng said, looking rather smug. It was no secret that he, too, resented my running the nightclub. What kind of man would let his wife flirt with other men? he had asked when I’d acquired the club. But it was agreed between us that I would manage it before our marriage, and after our marriage I would give it to him and stay home. With this agreement, he had a say in every decision about the club.

I took a deep breath. “No. I’ll tell him.”





16


ERNEST


He was working backstage when manager Wang called him to the bar and whispered something in pidgin English. Ernest couldn’t understand what he said, but manager Wang’s worried look concerned him.

Aiyi was sitting at the bar, and Cheng, the well-dressed, handsome man, who Ernest had heard was her fiancé, was smoking a cigarette by her side. An imposing figure with wide shoulders, Cheng wore fine suits and a golden watch. Ernest had seen him a few times and was intimidated by his presence, his wealth, his cultivated finesse, and even his good sense of fashion. It also gave him mixed feelings to see Cheng walk in and out of the ballroom with Aiyi. They seemed a finely matched couple, both with good looks and expensive jewelry. But he noticed the awkwardness on Aiyi’s face and the possessiveness of Cheng—his hand was always clasped on her arm as if to stop her from fleeing.

“Ernest, I owe you an explanation,” she said, holding a highball glass filled with light-colored liquid, her eyes twinkling in the dim light, her face strained.

His heart sank.

“As you might know, my club has been going through a difficult time for a while, and I was hoping your stride piano could revitalize my business. But you were attacked. It’s not your fault, of course. But I don’t know how long your recovery will take, and this club is important to me. Many people’s livelihoods rely on it . . .”

If he lost this job, he wouldn’t have tofu or a bowl of rice with mealworms for Miriam. “It won’t take that long. One more week is all I need.”

Cheng blew out a streak of smoke, looking as though he rather enjoyed the situation. “You have to go now, foreigner.”

Ernest ignored him. “Do you still wish to show customers the stride piano, Miss Shao?”

“Of course I do . . .” She glanced at Cheng.

“One performance,” Ernest said. “One chance. If I ruin it, I’ll leave.”

“But your hand.”

“I’ll deal with it.”

“One week, you say . . .”

“Aiyi.” Cheng was frowning.

“Actually, I can play now,” he said.

She rubbed her forehead.

“Aiyi.” Cheng’s voice was louder.