The Last Rose of Shanghai(23)

She looked troubled but smiled. “One performance, Ernest. I’ll give you that. But not tonight. I must introduce you properly. How about the day after tomorrow? I’ll put an advertisement outside the building to make sure people will notice.”

Cheng grabbed a highball glass on the counter, gulped the drink down, and slammed it on the bar top. Then he stormed away. Ernest looked at Aiyi. She put a finger on her lips.

Happiness coursed through him—she had sided with him over her fiancé. Maybe she didn’t care for Cheng at all. “But may I make a request, Aiyi?” he said in a low voice, hoping the music was loud enough so no one else would hear him. Everything about her was fascinating: the way she rubbed her forehead when she was thinking, the way she talked, the way she walked.

“What?”

“If my performance is successful, will you go to the movie theater with me?” Through the haze of smoke and lights at the bar he could see the curve of her slim body. He was in love with her, and he could hardly control himself. He longed to be a drink in her hand, to enter her, to be inseparable from her.

“Are you taking advantage of my kindness?”

“That’s my master plan.”

The veil of aloofness slipped off, and a smile rippled across her face. She was the girl listening to his piano in the Jazz Bar again. He wished he could kiss her. Just a kiss.

She stood. “Good luck, Ernest. If your performance goes wrong, I’m afraid you’ll need another master plan. Want a drink?”

“Sure.” He took the highball glass from her hand and gulped down the liquid. “Good wine.”

Her jaw dropped, and she started laughing. And all of a sudden he heard the people at the bar laugh, too. He licked his lips. It was not wine, only cold water.



He listened more attentively to the band that evening than he used to. Jazz was about forgetting, she had said. It was more than that. Jazz was the music of joy, of youth, of personality; it was the music of sweat and tears, of heart and soul. Jazz was freedom.

He itched to play.



On the evening of his performance, Ernest checked his face on the cymbal to make sure it was clean. He had donned his best suit and a black oxford shirt, which he had washed and hung to dry on the headboard in his apartment the previous evening. His shoes were also mud free.

He stepped onto the stage with the band. Through the smoke, he could see Cheng standing on the edge of the round dance floor, smoking, carrying the superior air of a man accustomed to wealth. Even though it was too dim to see the expression on his face, Ernest could feel the sting in Cheng’s eyes. Aiyi was sitting at the bar, browsing a clothbound ledger. Then she turned to the round tables around the dance floor and frowned.

He followed her gaze. Only a few heads bobbed in the dark; several men crossed their legs and leaned back in boredom. Her club was indeed having trouble. Would his piano really revitalize her business?

As the band settled in their seats, Ernest sat at the piano and stared at his bandaged hand. He had not worn his glove since the stabbing. He probably wouldn’t wear it again; he had no use for it. He was not going to let the scars ruin his future. That was all he cared about, his and Miriam’s future. He flexed his fingers. The scar tissue tore at his wound, the dressing crammed between his fingers, and a sharp pain shot through the nerves straight down his arm. But his fingers were still flexible, and it was wonderful to touch the keys. He took a deep breath, let his shoulders drop, and listened to Mr. Li count, waiting for his chance, the rhythm of freedom, the metronome of life.





17


AIYI


I tucked the ledger into my purse and looked around the ballroom. I wore my usual steely expression to give myself authority, but I was so nervous I could hardly sit. Ernest’s hand was not completely healed. Forcing him to exert himself might backfire. If he failed, he would need to leave, which would be a sad blow to me, for I would never admit to Cheng or anyone, or even myself, that I had grown attached to Ernest—his humble ways, his boldness.

Someone called my name. I searched among the faces moving in the dark, smoky air. Many customers wore Western suits and trousers; a few adhering to traditional Chinese ideas had on long robes or boxy jackets with mandarin collars. I knew their faces, the regulars. They must have seen the advertisement I put out and decided to give Ernest’s stride piano a chance. Mr. Zhang had not visited the club for a few days. I hoped he was gone now.

I turned to my taxi dancers, all trained in popular ballroom dances such as foxtrot, Charleston, waltz, tango, and swing. They yawned in their section near the stage, sunflower seed shells scattered at their feet. Lanyu, the most popular dancer on the customers’ demand list, was cracking a handful of seeds between her teeth, shells dropping from her mouth like dust. She had complained she was not making much money the other day.

She was a tall, curvy twenty-three-year-old, the sort of girl who made me self-conscious, the best dancer I’d cultivated. She was flirtatious, and unfortunately, well aware of her worth. If she quit, the other dancers would follow; it would pose a huge problem.

Running a business during the occupation was a constant challenge. There were too many bills and not enough profit. Routinely I haggled with lighting crews, cleaning staff, food providers, and rental contractors. I also supplied my dancers with nice clothes and shoes and paid them to be trained in the latest dance moves. I had yet to pay back the loan to the plaster company that had repaired the roof when the Japanese dropped a bomb on Bubbling Well Road. Then there was a hefty weekly business “tax” paid to the rogues of the enemy government. So many bills to pay.