The Last Rose of Shanghai(33)

“Come on. It’s not that bad. You still have your job.”

She sniffled, and her husky voice was drenched with sadness. “Actually, I just lost it.”

I didn’t know what to say.

“I guess the saying is true: salt and sugar should not mix. Remember that.” She laughed, her mouth open, pink tongue visible, and her voice, untrammeled, all sadness.

Sinmay walked in, his long robe swaying. “There you are, my love. You look like you need a good smoke. Shall we?”

“I can’t live like this anymore. I want to leave. You must go to Hong Kong with me, Sinmay. I beg you. If you don’t go with me, I’ll die.” Her short hair bounced around her ears, her lipstick flat like a scar.

Sinmay whispered in her ear. There was agony in his eyes, I believed. As selfish a brother as he was to me, he loved Emily—but he was the father of six children, the firstborn son of the Shao family.

It dawned on me—they were trapped. Emily was miserable in Shanghai, and Sinmay was miserable for her. Is this what happens when you choose someone who’s not your kind? I took the invitations and left.

In my bedroom, I started a fire in Mother’s incense burner and threw them all into the flames.





24


ERNEST


A few days later, Ernest finished his work and stepped down onto the tessellated floor in the empty atrium. He was ready to head out when someone called him from behind. Cheng descended the marble staircase, his black-and-white leather wing tips smacking against the stairs like an out-of-tune song.

“You’re fired,” Cheng said.

Ernest thought he must have heard wrong. The business was doing well, and Aiyi was pleased. “I don’t understand.”

“You’re fired. Understand now? Do not come here again.”

Ernest was worried. He needed this job to support Miriam, and he didn’t want to leave Aiyi either. Cheng, who disliked him, must be suspicious, and Ernest had no love for his boss’s fiancé, either, a petulant and possessive man. He wished he could ask Aiyi, but she was said to be under the weather and hadn’t come to work since their kiss. “Does Aiyi know this?”

“If you see her again, I’ll kill you.”

Cheng rolled up his sleeves.

He was acting like a spoiled schoolboy. If they must fight, so be it. Ernest took a step forward. “If I win, I’ll stay.”

Cheng’s blow was quick and heavy; Ernest shook it off. A kick from Cheng struck his stomach, making him groan. But he got even when he thrust his leg under Cheng and tripped him. Cheng fell flat on his back, cursing.

Grinning, Ernest extended his hand. “Peace?”

Cheng’s eyes were murderous, but he took his hand, the bandaged hand, and instead of getting up, he pulled Ernest down and slammed on it with his elbow.

Ernest screamed, rolling on the floor, blinded by the excruciating pain. Through his fogged vision, Cheng’s handsome face appeared above him. “Fuck off, foreigner.”

Ernest got up and staggered out on the street. It was a cold morning; the predawn air flew around him like dark water. He had lost the fight and lost the job, the job that supported Miriam. And the apartment. Would he be evicted? He had no savings left.

And Aiyi. He had not had a chance to see her since he kissed her.



He was stumbling down the street when he heard a gentle voice say, “Tough day?”

He looked up; the Sikh policeman who had arrested him was smoking by the tram stop.

“Good morning, sir,” he replied warily. “Everything all right?”

“Couldn’t be better. Don’t worry. I’m not here to arrest you. They have the best samosas on this street. Cigarette?” He glanced at Ernest’s bandaged hand. Blood had drenched the gray dressing, staining his sleeves.

“Thanks.” Ernest shivered. The pain in his right hand was unbearable, and his fingers were numb. He tucked his hand close to his stomach and took the cigarette with his left hand.

The Sikh lit it for him with a fancy silver lighter. “Wipe your face. You’ve got blood all over it.”

The Sikh might be the bulkiest man in Shanghai, but he had the gentlest voice. A good policeman, despite all that had happened between them.

“I’m Ernest Reismann, sir.”

“Jyotiraditya Mirchandani. Call me Jyo.”

“Jyo.” Ernest smoked, staring at the street where one-wheelers, bikers, and tofu vendors began to emerge. Coming toward him was a truck loaded with Japanese soldiers in khaki uniforms, holding their rifles with bayonets. “I lost my job today.”

“Tough day.”

The truck passed; several soldiers fixed their gazes on his face and bloody bandages.

Jyo pulled his arm. “Turn around and keep walking, Ernest.”

“What’s going on?”

“Nothing to be alarmed about. There was a skirmish between the Japanese soldiers and the members from the council last night. Luckily we were there, but a fellow officer shot a soldier. The Japanese are investigating. It has nothing to do with you, but it’s better to stay out of their sight. Avoid them if you can.”

Ernest nodded. They were now in an alley. “Don’t go. Let’s finish this cigarette.”



In his apartment, it occurred to him that the next day was Miriam’s bat mitzvah. So he got up early in the morning, washed up, and put on his last good oxford shirt, taking great care with his right hand—it was swollen and painful. He feared another trip to the hospital was needed.