The Last Rose of Shanghai(45)

The studio’s door swung open. There was a comfortable dimness and strong scents of fresh carnations, cigar smoke, musk, and lavender. The air was warm, soft like silk. No music, only a low hum from a machine somewhere. Sassoon moved ahead of me, his walking stick stabbing the lush Persian carpet.

I could still back out, excuse myself, renege on the contract, and bolt.

The door clanked closed.

The light was turned on. I faced a bunch of white, fat carnations planted in a glazed blue vase; near it was a small table, a leopard fur blanket on a chesterfield, and a tripod like a spider. It was just Sassoon and me. No one else.

A League of Nations of women gazed at me from the wall. They were all naked, in various poses, with various eyes, and with various lengths of thighs. Some were bold, some coy. My head spun.

“You look nervous.” Sassoon limped to the tripod.

What an understatement. I cleared my throat. “I don’t understand, Sir Sassoon. Why do you like nude photos?”

“Darling, you must not consider me a rotten man.”

“Absolutely not. Only a man of rotten taste.”

He laughed in a roguish way. “You don’t understand men; you don’t understand me. No one does, and I don’t care. You may sit on the lounge.”

I sat as he suggested, but I was not ready to take off my clothes yet; my throat felt raw.

“Here’s the contract.” He handed me a manila folder. Inside was a sheet with the hotel’s letterhead and his signature. He was now a partner of my club, and the funds, one hundred thousand dollars, would soon be transferred to my account.

I tucked the contract inside my purse. My head swam.

“Do you need my assistance with your coat, darling?”

“I’m fine.”

“I’d be more than happy to help, darling.”

“Partner, let me be clear: I shall show myself in front of the camera, not between the sheets.”

He sighed. “I do hope you’ll change your mind.”

“Will you promise me again no one else will see these photos?”

“Even if this building burns down, darling.”

The light, the heat, the camera. I perspired. Disrobing in front of Sassoon was a vastly different matter from getting naked in front of Ernest. What to tell Ernest?

I slipped off my mink coat, unfastened the frogs of my dress, and peeled it off. Then I took off my silk underwear and lace stockings and climbed on the chesterfield. I had one leg flat against the cold leather, one leg up, upon which I rested my shaky arm. My head was tilted away from the camera, my gaze fixed on the carnations leaning in the vase. I had an urge to raise my hand, to shield my face and my body—this nakedness, this exposure.

There was a suck of breath from Sassoon, and I shuddered, afraid he would pounce on me. He didn’t, only wobbled into the white light to adjust something in front of the camera. Then he turned in my direction, those dark eyes looking not amused but rather thoughtful, reminding me of his overwhelming power and the backlash if anything went wrong.

“Ready?”

No. The camera flashed; a sea of carnations swelled, the petals pale as skin. In the following darkness, I was sure a piece of my soul was snatched. What have I done?



Coming out of the elevator, I heard piano from the Jazz Bar, thundering, as if the sky were raining glass shards. Standing near a pillar, I watched Ernest from a distance: a sharp profile, his eyes mad, each note an accusation.

I turned and left as fast as I could.



In my office, I stared at the contract. I would send a copy to the tax office so they would know from now on my club was a joint venture protected by the Settlement law. Yamazaki would be notified. He wouldn’t have the power to confiscate my club, and Ernest would be safe.

Yet I felt sick. I took out a bottle of whiskey I’d saved and drank. I drank until the chairs, the statue of Buddha, and Mother’s photo began to float. I could see the sharp profile of Ernest and my nude photographs rain down on the streets as people looked at them, laughing.





36


ERNEST


People were laughing, drinking, and shouting, but he heard nothing. With great force, he pounded on the piano. His hands leaped from keys to keys, faster and faster, his shoulders shook, and his entire body bounced to the furious rhythm, unleashing a march of fury against Sassoon, against his greed, against his perverse hobby. Nude photography was immoral, and he should have condemned it when he had a chance! He was angry at Aiyi, too, for turning herself into a showgirl, a toy, a fool. He was wrong about her; she loved money more than anything, more than herself. Did she love him at all?

Gulps of air writhed in his chest, sweat burst from his forehead, and a savage fire sizzled in his stomach. His hands raced along on their own, his notes a raging storm. He saw nothing, heard nothing, thought nothing; he was overrun, kidnapped by the very sound he created.

Finally, he stopped and released the captive air in his chest. For a moment he sat, staring at the scars on his hand, the fire dying in his stomach. Tears welled in his eyes.

Someone was calling him. When the light in front of him coalesced, Sassoon’s figure appeared. He looked to be in a good mood, his mustache two happy wings. He asked him to play Mozart. He said he was not a fan of Chopin.

Ernest shook his head. If Sassoon fired him, so be it.