The Last Rose of Shanghai(47)

37


FALL 1980


THE PEACE HOTEL

Memory is a forest; it turns with the seasons. It swells in summer, dries up in fall, dies in winter, and sprouts furiously again in spring. Now, talking to the American about Ernest, about my past, I see the forest of my memory grow lush again.

But how did I let slip my old secret of the nude photos to a woman I barely know? I wish I had kept my mouth shut. So I change the subject. “Shanghai was a mess in the 1940s. It was called a solitary island, abandoned by the rest of the world.”

“I’ve heard of that, Ms. Shao. The solitary island. But . . . you declined Sir Sassoon’s offer? How did you come to own this hotel?”

“I bought this. Four years ago. The hotel was poorly run under the Gang of Four and on the verge of going bankrupt.”

“I see. May I say, Ms. Shao, your entrepreneur spirit is quite ahead of your time, and your relationship with Mr. Reismann sounds incredible.”

I ask carefully, “Do you mean you’ll cover the nudes in the documentary?”

“It was art, Ms. Shao. Of course I’ll cover that.”

“But I’d rather you not.”

Ms. Sorebi digs her hand into her hair. “I’m open to discuss this, if you’re not comfortable with them. One thing I can promise you is that I shall not sensationalize them. I understand it’ll be awkward to deal with scandals at your age.”

I study her, her eyes, her nose, and her lips. A flush of pink, a tinge of excitement, has emerged on her cheeks, and her hand digs in her hair frequently. She’s nervous. “You have a nice hat.”

“Thanks. I love this hat. Let me assure you, Ms. Shao, the nudes are not something you should be concerned about. As far as I can tell, there aren’t any nudes in Sassoon’s collection.”

My heart skips. “Sassoon’s collection?”

“Southern Methodist University in Dallas, Texas, has a collection of Sassoon’s diaries, letters, and photographs. I also found a copy of the magazine that featured Mr. Reismann. It was called Good Friend. It says he was the most popular jazz pianist in Shanghai. I’m intrigued. How did a pianist rise to become a man of wealth and then save many refugees’ lives?”

I turn my wheelchair away from her. “I’m rather tired, Ms. Sorebi. Would you be so kind as to meet me tomorrow?”

She looks at me and then Phoenix.

“I think tomorrow will be lovely, Ms. Sorebi,” Phoenix says to help me.

“Terrific. I’ll take a walk and visit the Embankment Building since I have plenty of time. It’ll be good for research.” She picks up her notebook.

“How long have you been a documentarian, Ms. Sorebi?” I ask.

“Five years. I have two partners. We’re a small documentary firm; we haven’t yet won an Oscar. Making documentaries isn’t profitable, but I enjoy doing the research.”

“Why did you decide to do the exhibit about the Jews in Shanghai?”

“I’ve always been interested in Shanghai. I came here before.”

“For the exhibit?”

“No, not for the exhibit. When I worked on the research in 1977, I was told China didn’t yet welcome foreigners to the city. So I conducted all interviews by phone and met many survivors in person in the US. Many Shanghai Jews came to the US and became prominent professors or lawyers, and it was easy to find them.”

“So when did you come to Shanghai?”

“In the late 1950s as a tourist. I was almost arrested.”

“Arrested?”

She puts on her hat. “Well, I was a silly teenager. I didn’t know much about this country. I just arrived and saw a sign in the hotel’s elevator that said, ‘The People’s Party, Special Passes Needed,’ so I thought it might be a fun evening. It was only two floors above my room, so I took the staircase up. When I got there, there was no music, and everyone stared at me. Two guards in uniforms pinned me to the wall. They thought I was a spy.”

I laugh. Only young Americans could easily confuse the Communist party with a regular party. “You didn’t have to worry. The government won’t arrest you in a hotel.”

“Why not?”

Americans hear all kinds of news about China on TV, but few understand what it’s like to live here. Shanghai today is probably the safest city in the world, where a young single woman can wander at midnight without being harassed. Most people are friendly, hospitable, and full of humility.

Phoenix is clearing her throat. So I say, “I’ll see you tomorrow at the Cathay Room at eleven for lunch. Will that be fine with you?”

“Of course; I’ll be there. And I’ll bring some photos to show you. But forgive me. I have to ask you something that’s stuck in my mind. You know well the value of the hotel. It’s worth millions. Why would you propose to donate it to me?”

I’ve expected that question. “You don’t wish to accept it?”

“Oh, gosh. Yes, of course, I’d love to. It’s just, you know, this is so difficult to believe.”

An interesting habit of hers, making exclamations. “You’ve spent three years on a project that involves the man dearest to me, and you’re the first one who looked into the plight of the Jews in Shanghai. I think you deserve the reward. And don’t forget, you still need to make a documentary and show it to the world.”