The Last Rose of Shanghai(29)

He looked at his hands; he was not used to this, the emptiness of his hands, which had grasped Miriam’s since they’d boarded the ocean liner. But he shouldn’t worry. Miriam would be happy and safe at school. There was nothing more satisfying than knowing he had taken care of his sister.

He turned around, humming. When he came to the Cathay Cinema with flashing neon lights, he stopped. Sassoon’s cinema was advertising Gone with the Wind, boasting it had the best picture quality with English subtitles. Aiyi loved to read magazines with movie stars, he remembered. He wanted to get something for her.

He squeezed past the boys selling cigarettes and legless beggars scooting on the ground and reached a glass frame. Inside were magazines in English, French, and Italian, and near them were posters of the beauty Marlene Dietrich in Shanghai Express and the American movie stars Clark Gable and Vivien Leigh in Gone with the Wind.

Then he saw it. A magazine with a picture of—him! “Shanghai’s Newest Sensation: The Pianist of the One Hundred Joys Nightclub,” the headline said. Beneath the headline: “The Chinese club overtook Ciro’s to become the most popular spot in Shanghai.”

He laughed. He had never been featured in a magazine before, and side by side with the glamorous Marlene Dietrich. What more could he ask for? Miriam was in school, and he was featured in a magazine. He had found a stage in this city. All because of the girl with a name of love.



The next day he went to the club early and walked straight into her office. She was alone, sitting on a tufted high-backed chair. Facing her were two ornate black antique chairs, a framed jade carving, and a bust of Buddha in the corner. The office appeared androgynous, with a serious air of the imperial dynasty’s flair, but it carried her scent.

“There you are. Have you seen this?” He gave her the magazine he had bought.

“Ah. Emily actually wrote it and took a picture of you.” She held the magazine. “I didn’t know. But that’s her style. She does it her way. Now you’re famous, Ernest.”

“Will you go to the movies with a famous pianist? I have tickets. Gone with the Wind. I see the posters and murals of it everywhere. The star is not Hepburn, it’s Vivien Leigh, but I think you’ll like her. She’s beautiful, like you.”

She swept her bangs to the side and smiled.

He loved to see her like this, and he held her gaze, his heart humming. A space filled with infinite happiness seemed to grow between them, transforming into a bridge of delicate, unsung notes.

“But I can’t, Ernest.”

“Why?”

“My fiancé will kill me.”

He shrugged. “It’s just a movie.”

“I don’t know. I haven’t seen it. I hear the main character was married more than once. It’s quite unusual, isn’t it? Chinese movies would never feature a divorcée, or even a widow remarrying. People here like innocent heroines.”

This was another lesson on Chinese perception of women and beauty, he supposed. “Who cares. I’d still care for you even if you married a hundred times.”

“Don’t say that. It’s bad luck. I’d be stoned by my brothers if I married twice. Also, I’ll be honest with you. We can never go to the movie theater together. It’s almost like a taboo.”

“That’s disappointing.” But he didn’t want to leave her yet. He picked up a picture frame on her desk; inside was a black-and-white portrait of a woman wearing a tunic. She had a small face, her expression serene. “Who’s this?”

“My mother.”

“She’s beautiful. You’re beautiful, like her.”

“Are you trying to get a raise?”

He chuckled. “Will she come here? Will I meet her?”

“I lost her a few years ago.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“I’ll meet her again in another form.”

“What do you mean?”

“Reincarnation. She was a Buddhist.”

“Buddhist. Do you go to church?”

“Temple. They were all destroyed in the bombing. But it doesn’t matter. The temple of faith resides in our hearts.”

“So you’re never going to go to the movies with me.” He put the frame on the desk, walked to her side, and, boldly, he took her hand. The air was warm, maddening, like an anticipation, a prelude of something breathtaking. He ran his fingers on her arm and played “The Last Rose of Shanghai.” He didn’t exert much force, using long fingers to produce quieter and softer notes. He could feel the smooth fabric of her dress, the suppleness of her body, and the tensing and loosening of her muscles.

He tried to remain stoic, to concentrate on playing, but he began to perspire. His fingers slid and lingered; he didn’t know whether he was playing legato, or piano, or forte. And he could hear her, too, her sweet thoughts, her breath, her passionate “Yes.”

He held her face and kissed her as she parted her lips and invited him in. He was drunk with happiness; it seemed the purpose of his life was fulfilled at that precise moment, with the taste of her on his tongue and the sound of her gentle groan in his ears. She was open, with unstoppable energy, her hands combing through his hair, her breasts rubbing against his chest. Then she hoisted herself up to sit on the desk. The tightness of her embrace and the longing in her eyes sent an electrifying fire down his spine. He kissed her chin, her neck, her shoulder, and all the way down to her soft breasts, but it was not enough. His skin tingled with an urge to feel her, skin to skin, tongue to tongue. He bent over, lifted her dress to her stomach, and kissed the soft skin of her inner thigh.