The Last Rose of Shanghai(36)

“Chava!” He cupped his hands around his mouth, shouting. Happiness chugged inside him like an engine. She had received his letter and arrived. He couldn’t wait to embrace her, to dance a hora. But the figure didn’t turn in his direction and disappeared among a group of men in black coats and hats, just as he caught a glimpse of a cadaverous face. She was not his mother.

His heart sank. Where was she? And his father? Had they received exit visas? Had they left Germany yet? They must leave as soon as possible.

But maybe they had left for another country; maybe they were still on the way to Shanghai. They had received his letters, they knew his address, and they would find him.

He turned around, facing the Japanese warship Izumo docked nearby, a massive gray superstructure with gun towers and three immense funnels spilling columns of black smoke. He had seen the warship with the rising sun flag and had rarely paid attention. But now he could see rows of marines in white robes wielding swords in a slow and solemn ceremony, their shouts, strange and piercing, hovering over the turgid river like a cloud.

Izumo was not the only warship on the river. Downstream, far away from the Japanese warship, behind sailboats, sampans, and other ships, were two cruisers: the American USS Wake and the British HMS Peterel. Three gunboats, each belonging to a different country, docked on a river that belonged to none of them.





27


FEBRUARY 1941


AIYI

One evening when I passed the coatroom, I heard some passionate groans coming from inside it. Which only meant one thing.

Dancers: they were always trouble. They were the beacon of my business in good times and the shipwreck in bad. When I’d bought the club, ballroom dancing was already popular, but the business wasn’t stellar as the guests needed to bring their own partners. My hired taxi dancers solved the partner problem and brought in extra revenue. In effect, I created the first professional ballroom dancers in Shanghai, who then became independent breadwinners.

I stood at the counter of the coatroom and coughed. I had a strict rule that my dancers must not act improperly with customers. My club was not a brothel.

The groans ceased, and a figure appeared from inside. Lanyu, the most popular dancer, buttoned the knots at her neck. “Oh, Miss Shao. I was changing my dress.”

I could fire her for this. But she had lost her mother and two siblings during the bombing, and she was supporting her father with her wage.

“Next time, change your dress alone.” I let her go on with her work.

She skidded away, giving me a look of gratitude. I hoped she would make things easier for me from now on.

I was near the bar when I glimpsed a man in a bold chalk stripe suit standing on the edge of the dance floor, facing the stage. The light shifted, shining on his face. A sharp countenance with a sharp jaw, a black mole under the right eye. The enemy of my family, the enemy of my country.

“Miss Shao.” In a few strides, Yamazaki stood in front of me. He looked courteous, and his voice was placid, mild, but fear surged through me.

He was a maniacal Spirit Warrior but pretended to be a Bushido-biding samurai. He gave perfect forty-five-degree bows, cleaned his hands with a fresh cloth before meals, and used a hand, never a finger, to indicate the direction. He never blew his nose in public or raised his voice. But I knew courtesy was only his garment. He was a dangerous man.

Yamazaki was from Osaka, Sinmay had said. Son of an impoverished rice farmer, he grew up in Japan’s victorious afterglow over their defeat of the Russian Baltic fleet in 1905. At school, he learned about land mines, explosives, and machine guns in science, battle games in PE, military matters in arithmetic, and the principles of bravery in combat and absolute loyalty to his emperor in ethics. At eighteen, Yamazaki joined the Kwantung Army, part of the merciless Imperial Japanese Army, to obliterate China and Korea in his country’s bloody quest to expand their territory. He rose from a delivery messenger to eventually a cavalry officer who confiscated my family’s fortune. Now Yamazaki, Sinmay had said, was involved in supervising foreign businesses in the Settlement.

I had prayed to never see him again. The muscles in my face grew tight, and for a moment I was too petrified to speak.

“Why are you playing this rubbish jazz?” His Chinese was too good for a Japanese.

“Ah. It’s American music,” I replied.

It felt surreal to be in the proximity of a mad dog that would bite any second. But I knew why Yamazaki was patient with me. A typical Spirit Warrior, he believed in hierarchy. His emperor was the highest, followed by the aristocracy, the army, and the peasants, and then at the bottom, the untouchables such as the butchers and the undertakers. Aware of my family’s reputation and my social standing, he had decided to give me, an aristocratic woman from the country his army had conquered, a share of his patience, but not respect.

I wished I had the right to kick him out, but instead I was forced to stay calm for my clients’ sake. They obviously hadn’t realized yet that Yamazaki in his business suit was Japanese, or they would have panicked. With daily shootings and beheadings on the street, the last thing they wanted was to see a Japanese officer in the ballroom.

“Lowlife people’s music.” Yamazaki frowned, scanning the dance floor.

I couldn’t figure out why he would deign to come here. He still remembered me, so he must know he had confiscated my inheritance, and he must know this was my business, too, since I paid a hefty business tax each week to the local tax office. “If you don’t mind, I’ll go tell them to play a different song.”