The Last Rose of Shanghai(35)

“From now on, I’ll go where you go, I’ll lie where you lie, I’ll love what you love.” His voice was the most beautiful music to my ears, and I ran my hands over his bandaged hand, his arms, his hard muscles, his pale shoulder. I laughed.

“But I don’t want you to go anywhere. You’ll stay in the apartment I rented, won’t you? If you move to another place without telling me, I won’t be able to find you. Besides, it’ll be a waste of money. I already paid for another year.”

“I’m not moving anywhere, but I’d like to work. I’ll find another job.”

“You can’t. Not yet. Let your hand heal first. Take two months off, or as long as you need. I’m serious. It doesn’t look good,” I said. “And you’ll do as I say, because once your boss, always your boss.”

He chuckled. “Marry me, Aiyi.”

Now I could see Mother’s photo and Cheng’s angry face. Since I was little I’d been told that I, a woman, belonged to my parents before marriage and would belong to Cheng after marriage. To Cheng, I had committed an unforgivable sin. “I can’t.”



In my club, I went about my routine. When guests asked about Ernest, I said he was taking a break, assured them of his return, and encouraged them to buy more drinks. The customers were disappointed, but my promise was enough to make them keep coming, and the dance floor was full each night. I had also secured more alcohol from the black market.

It was difficult to face Cheng. Out of guilt, I listened to him with great patience and even put on the Chinese bra to please him. Cheng’s gaze, as usual, was critical, but his reticent nature spared me from many moments of awkwardness. I might be wrong, but I didn’t think he suspected me of deceiving him.

In my office, looking down at the Japanese military jeeps racing on the street, I swung my hips, humming jazz tunes. My club was enjoying a gratifying revival of popularity, and I had found myself a new obsession in Ernest. It was unconscionable, and it was possible that potentially serious consequences awaited me. But who would say it was wrong to indulge in a song from your heart during the winter days of your life?





26


ERNEST


On a humid November morning, he walked toward the waterfront, the wind tousling his long hair behind his ears. He glanced at a restaurant’s glass window. A man with shoulder-length curly hair and a beard glanced back. He rubbed his chin. He had not shaved for two months; he looked clean at least, older and distinguished, like a man in his thirties. Not bad for a pianist.

Since he’d gone with Aiyi to the inn, he had seen her again several times. Each time after their meeting, he dreamed of her: her supple body, her smooth porcelain face, and her teasing smiles. She had insisted he take a break from work, providing him with financial support so he could heal his hand completely. Following her advice, he had gone to the hospital again. The Catholic nuns had taken a liking to him. They taught him French, told him about good French restaurants in the area, and sent him away with extra bandages, aspirin, and even laudanum. His hand was healing like a miracle. The muscle contraction subsided, the trembling stopped, and the stiffness faded away.

Miriam was still at school. When the winter break started next month, she would come to stay with him in the apartment, which was pest free thanks to his good care and diligence. With all the time he had, it became a habit to walk to the wharf where the ocean liners docked, where he would meet his parents when they arrived. He didn’t know when they would arrive because he’d never received a reply from them. Still, each day he waited with eagerness, with hope. To pass time, he brought his Leica with him. Unwilling to waste his last film, he took few pictures, only exploring the city through the viewfinder, where the images of Packards and Buicks and the flow of the people calmed him.

He had been in Shanghai for close to a year, and he would turn twenty in a month. He liked this city, clothed in gray smoke mixed with odors of peanut oil, engine fumes, and women’s perfume, and noisy with human voices, rickshaw squeaks, and trams’ thunderous clunks. How strange the world was. In Berlin, he’d been forbidden to play the piano; here he was known as a pianist. In Berlin, he’d been haunted by nightmares and pain; here he was free to dream, free to love. He had thought to return to Germany eventually when he first arrived in Shanghai; now he would not leave. This city was his home now—she was his home.

He could speak some Shanghai dialect, some simple Chinese phrases, and even some expletives. Chinese was a challenging language, with erratic tones and messy grammar, but he supposed German was equally exhausting to a foreigner. Strangely, to him, English—which he had learned from his father—was sensible, with a reasonable degree of bewilderment.

When he arrived at the pier, a horn from an ocean liner sounded. His heart racing faster, he dashed to the edge of the pier, watching intently. The river hadn’t changed since his arrival, still a roiling yellow sluice, a parking lot for banana-shaped skiffs with cages of chicken, coal-stained sampans loaded with barrels of petroleum, and commercial boats. On the distant wharf across the river, where an ocean liner docked, a stream of refugees carrying suitcases walked down the gangway.

He caught sight of a yellow dress and cried out in elation. “Mother! Mother! Chava!” That sunflower-yellow dress was her favorite; she had been wearing it on the train platform when she saw them off.