The Last Rose of Shanghai(37)

“You’ll stay right here and tell me, Miss Shao.” He looked directly at me, his cold eyes level with mine—he was quite short, but his clear contempt made my blood boil. “Where’s the white man?”

“I don’t quite understand what you mean.”

“Chinese are all whores and liars, but I think better of you, Miss Shao. Don’t make me draw my gun.” He turned up a corner of his suit, revealing the round barrel of his black Mauser in the holster.

My brain froze.

“The man who was on a magazine. I hear he works here. There is a warrant for his arrest.”

Arrest? Ernest? “The pianist? He worked here. He was very popular, following all rules. The tax officers know about him.” Hiring him was not breaking the law, I wanted to add. “Is there some kind of mistake?”

I was distracted. People around me had noticed the gun; they gasped and slipped away. On the dance floor the dancers skittered off; meanwhile the band played frantically. This was a disaster. Everyone had realized a Japanese, with a gun, was talking to me. It wouldn’t take long before they all fled.

“I don’t make mistakes, Miss Shao. A few months ago we had a dispute with the Towelhead policemen, and one of our soldiers was killed. The murderer was wounded and escaped. We don’t know who he was. We only know he was a white man with blue eyes, recruited by those policemen. We’ve been looking for him. After months of investigation, we have a witness saying that the morning after the murder, your pianist was seen with a Towelhead on the street. The pianist’s face was bloody, his hand wounded. He has blue eyes. The descriptions match.”

This sounded so farfetched, but Yamazaki wouldn’t need to lie to me. Still I couldn’t believe it. Ernest was not a violent man, and he wouldn’t shoot anyone.

“Where is he?” Yamazaki demanded.

“He left.” Ernest’s hand had healed slowly, but each time I brought up the topic of hiring him back with Cheng, Cheng refused. I was going to risk Cheng’s wrath and rehire Ernest since some customers had stopped patronizing my club.

“Why did he leave?”

“I don’t really know. He wanted more money, maybe.”

“What’s his name?”

I bit my lip. He already knew if he had read the article. Emily had stated Ernest’s name. But Yamazaki wanted the affirmation from me. If I told him, Ernest would be in danger. But if I refused, I would be dead. “Ernest Reismann.”

“Liceman, Liceman,” he murmured in his heavy Japanese accent. “Where’s he from? America? England?”

I lied. “I don’t know where he’s from . . .”

He pulled back his hand and covered the Mauser with his suit jacket. “He will be punished for his crime. Bring him to me.”

“I don’t know where he is.”

“You’ll find him. Then you’ll bring him to me, or I’ll confiscate your club. Is that clear?”

His voice was low pitched, and his tone wasn’t threatening, just casual, but it was the casualness of a man watching a fish caught in the pond of his own garden. He strode out of the ballroom.

I went to the bar and poured myself a glass of adulterated sorghum wine and emptied it. The alcohol ran down my throat; a hot streak burned my stomach. I put my hand on my chest and gasped. I was still alive.

When I raised my head again, the laughter, jazz music, and dancing had ceased. The dark figures at the tables had vanished, and the bright light from the vaulted ceiling showered on the empty dance floor like flakes of pale skin.

My body was so stiff I felt a great pain in my neck. Bring him to me, or I’ll confiscate your club.



Cheng, Ying, and I argued about what to do in my office.

“Give him the foreigner,” Cheng said, a cigarette between his fingers.

I sat on my high-backed chair. “I don’t know where he is,” I lied. “You fired him.”

“If you don’t give him the pianist, you’ll lose your club.”

“You think I don’t know that?” The band was playing “Summertime” in the ballroom, each beat giving me a pounding headache. Should I tell Yamazaki where Ernest lived? If I refused, he would take my club, but if I gave Ernest to Yamazaki, he would kill him.

“I’ll take care of Yamazaki,” Ying said, his hand on a bulge in his jacket pocket. He made me more nervous than ever. The Japanese had fighter jets and guns, and we had nothing. Confronting Yamazaki would get us all killed. Fighting was not a solution. Giving him Ernest was not a solution. Letting him seize my club was not a solution. There was no solution.



I went to Ernest’s apartment the next morning. I trusted him. Busy playing in my club all night, he wouldn’t have had time to conspire with the policemen. But it was necessary to get to the bottom of this.

It was an overcast day, the air pale like smoke. In the alleyway of Ernest’s apartment, I waited long enough to be aware of the stares of tattered beggars. He was not in his apartment. I finally left. The next evening, I went there again and found him. I asked my chauffeur to leave so Ernest and I could be alone in the car. A loyal man whom I trusted with my life, my chauffeur nodded and waited outside on the street.

“Were you involved with a Sikh policeman?” I asked Ernest.

“Jyo? He’s a good man. We came across each other a while ago. Why do you ask?”