The Last Rose of Shanghai(24)
Ernest’s stride piano, with its spectacular sound and novel appeal, would bring more customers to my club and greatly improve my finances—if he succeeded in delivering the magnificent music with that wounded hand of his.
“This is not going to end well. Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Cheng said, suddenly beside me.
If his warnings could be counted as raindrops, there would be a flood. But what if he was right?
Three gangly boys staggered toward me; they were young, fifteen or sixteen. I had no doubt they received allowances from their grandparents, but I welcomed all kinds of customers.
I slipped off the bar stool and smoothed my dress. With a pearl hairpin, gold leaf earrings, and a gold necklace, I looked sophisticated enough to manage the club but still young enough to be manipulated. A risk I was willing to take; I adored fine clothing and jewelry. “Welcome to my club, young men!”
“Miss Shao, so glad to see you. I saw the advertisement. I hear it’s the pianist’s first show, so I had to give it a chance. But why did you hire a white man?” one asked, his face covered with red pimples like lanterns.
“Everyone says he is a German sausage. Is he any good?” The second one was cross-eyed.
The third with a loud voice echoed, “German sausage? I thought you said you were a vegetarian, Miss Shao.”
I raised my eyebrows. These boys should be ashamed of talking to me like this.
“Fuck off.” Cheng, who had turned around, rolled up his sleeves.
The trio stumbled back, recognizing the tailored suit and fine leather shoes. But I didn’t want them to be scared away. “Cheng, would you rather go to the office?”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
The band was about to start. I walked away, only to face a burly man with a thick gold necklace, who shook his head at me. “Miss Shao, Miss Shao, you shouldn’t have. If you fancy meat, Chinese horses are the best, and an old horse outlasts a young stallion. You know the saying: an old horse knows the way. White men—”
“I’m sorry, but I think they’re going to start now.” I walked to the other side of the dance floor, where I could see Ernest’s face. He looked pale, his hands trembling.
Oh no. I should have given him more time. This would be a disaster.
Mr. Li began to count. Then out rang the song “Let’s Do It (Let’s Fall in Love).”
Ernest cocked his head, listening. Suddenly, as if he had waited long enough, his fingers struck the keys in a quick, infectious succession, and the rich, luxurious, crystallized piano notes poured out. The band seemed surprised; chagrin appeared on Mr. Li’s face, but he took down his trumpet a notch and Ernest seized the moment, pounding out ascending arpeggios that seemed like they would never end. The air vibrated, explosive with unstoppable scales. A tantalizing sensation erupted, flooding the dance floor with an effervescence of light and dynamics. People whistled, shouting in surprise; Lanyu and my dancers flowed to the dance floor, arm in arm with their partners.
A stream of euphoria coursed through me. This was real jazz. Ernest had done it.
From near the dance floor, the gangly trio was shouting—“Oh, Miss Shao, this is fantastic.”
Then came the yapping of the burly man with the gold chain, pointing at his lap: “This is phenomenal. Look! Miss Shao. It’s big, and it’s so hard. You must come sit on it. It’s not my chair.”
Where was Cheng when I needed him? But I was so happy. Ernest was perfect, and the band knew it. Together they played “Summertime,” then “What Is This Thing Called Love?” with Ernest taking the lead, the band accompanying, all in seamless harmony, and people swung and laughed on the dance floor.
At dawn the music finally wound down. It was the longest session ever. All gin from Sassoon was sold out. Ernest’s piano, as I had hoped, was a huge success. I smiled, and smiled more. And it took me great control to not jump into his arms. So silly I was.
Word of Ernest’s spectacular performance quickly spread on the streets. Many people who had rarely entered my club came to hear for themselves. Once they did, they told their friends and relatives. Within one month, a crowd formed outside the building every night, waiting to be admitted.
To maximize the profit, I mixed the rest of Sassoon’s whiskey with water and raised the price by a notch. It was hard to believe but nobody seemed to care. The drinks were in high demand, and the dancers took few breaks. Very soon Sassoon’s whiskey ran out, too, but fortunately, I found some alcohol on the black market, so I was able to fill every customer’s orders. Everyone was happy, my dancers were making money, and profits piled up.
And Ernest was tireless each evening, his face shining in the glow of eighteen thousand lights. His hand was fine, and he knew not to exert himself, he said. He was the maker of joys, his music the golden sunlight on gloomy faces. With the passing of each evening, he grew more famous, his name on customers’ lips, his music smoothing the folds on their foreheads.
Even Sassoon phoned to congratulate me after two months. “The stride piano has been quite sensational. I’m rather surprised. You possess admirable business acumen, darling.”
I was very pleased with myself. This was the phenomenon I had been dreaming of, and very soon, my club would reclaim the recognition of the most popular nightspot in Shanghai. Then its value would multiply, opening the door for more business opportunities. I could even sell shares of the nightclub and cash out.