The Last Rose of Shanghai(26)

Ernest staggered to his apartment, his eyes sore from lack of sleep, his right arm throbbing with pain from playing for almost twelve hours straight. It occurred to him how terribly he had ignored Miriam. With the warm weather, she wouldn’t be wearing her trapper hat. But he had not even noticed. She had wanted to talk to him, but he had refused. He didn’t pay attention to her; he was uncaring; he was not a good brother.

The smell of burning peanut oil made him nauseated, and his head ached. It was afternoon. Soon he would need to go work in the club, but he couldn’t play the piano while Miriam was missing. He slumped on a rock in front of his apartment building and dropped his head between his legs.

The image of Leah, bloody, unresponsive, appeared in his mind, and tears poured out of him. He had never told Miriam how Leah died, and in silence, in tears, he had grieved with his parents. He was determined to keep Miriam from the eyes of evil in this world, because Miriam, his innocent, quiet, bookworm sister, should have a life of joy and fairness. But what had he done? If something happened to Miriam, if she were beaten, or abducted or raped or murdered, like Leah, he would never forgive himself.

“Ernest.”

He raised his head sharply. There. Miriam, like a dream, stood in front of him, hugging her shoulders, topless. She didn’t have on her skirt or shoes, only her underwear. Blood trickled down her nose.

“Miriam! Thank God! You’re here! Where were you? What happened?” He ran to her.

Her large eyes were filled with tears. “A thug took my stuff, Ernest. He had a knife.”

“Good God.” He enfolded her in his arms. “Oh, God. I thought I lost you. I thought . . . I was so worried. I told you not to go out. I told you.”

“I’m sorry.” Miriam sobbed, her head on his shoulder. “I wanted to get a job like you. Why can’t I be like you? But no one wanted me. People aren’t nice to me. I tried. I tried so hard. I’m so scared. I don’t know what to do.”

“It’s fine now. I’m here, Miriam. I’m here for you. I’ll figure something out for you so you’ll have things to do, okay? I’ll find a school for you.”

Her eyes widened. “There’s a Jewish school, Ernest. I passed it. Will you enroll me?”

He took off his shirt and wrapped it around her. He held her close to his heart so he would never forget how precious she was to him. Gratitude and relief made him tearful again. “I will. I’ll do anything for you.”



The next day after work, he took Miriam to Shanghai Jewish Youth Association School. Founded by Sir Horace Kadoorie, a wealthy Jew in Shanghai, the school was located on the far west end of Bubbling Well Road, miles away from where he lived. It was a one-story building with a courtyard surrounded by a high brick wall. The school taught first grade to eighth, with courses in religion, music, Chinese, and English. Miriam’s English was not proficient enough, so she would be put in the sixth grade. But this was the end of the spring semester; she would need to wait to enroll and attend classes in the fall. Enrollment included the registration fee, a monthly fee of five American dollars, and a fee to a host family the school arranged—it was too dangerous for children to commute. A sum of twenty American dollars. Given the accelerating inflation and fluctuating exchange rate between the Nationalist currency and American dollars, he estimated it would be the equivalent of six hundred Chinese fabi.

He was in luck, for after all these months of work he had saved just about six hundred Chinese fabi.





19


AIYI


I went to Sassoon’s hotel a few weeks after speaking to my brother. In the bright lobby, I encountered no hostile foreigners this time, to my relief.

It was easy to spot Emily Hahn, slouching on a burgundy chesterfield near the Jazz Bar, scribbling something on a notepad, her lipstick dark, her eyebrows two dramatic arcs.

Emily, a reporter originally from St. Louis, had published many essays about Chinese people in the New Yorker, shedding light on China, an unfamiliar country to many Americans. The only female foreign journalist I knew, she managed to establish her literary reputation among the privileged—and opinionated—Chinese scholars like Sinmay and became the go-to essayist for many foreign publications by writing insightful articles as an American in Shanghai. She had been reporting in Nanjing about the massacre there and also writing a book about the Soong sisters.

Referred to as Big Bottom by Peiyu, Emily was not beautiful to traditional Chinese eyes: her face was too full, her profile too sharp, and she was too tall and fleshy. She didn’t have the coyness that Shanghai girls were trained to learn. Her wantonness, as many remarked, was legendary—first Sassoon, then Sinmay. And if I was old to Peiyu at twenty, Emily was ancient at thirty-five.

But I didn’t mind what they said about Emily. I had hoped she could be my ally, or a friend—I’d have liked to have a friend, for since Eileen left for Hong Kong, I had been very lonely. When I saw Emily at Sinmay’s literary salon six months ago, I had attempted to befriend her by introducing my seamstress to her. But Emily, talking about writing a biography about Madam Soong and her sisters, looked irritated. She blew out a stream of smoke in my face, mocked me, calling me a brainless and boring girl, and shooed me away.

I was not quite ready to forgive her, so I stopped at a good distance from the chesterfield, waiting for a right moment. Then suddenly, she threw down the pen. Her shoulders quavered; a sob escaped her.