The Last Rose of Shanghai(49)

Miriam shrugged again. “I’m going back now.”

“Don’t forget the bag and coat.”

Miriam took the coat and slung the bag over her shoulders. When he opened his arms to hug her, she sprang back and walked away.

She had grown up, she was a woman now, she was shy, he told himself, watching her tall figure walk away.



He had just reached the high-rise apartment building called Hamilton House, with the US flag and the Union Jack fluttering in the open windows, when a parade came in his direction. Trumpets, horns, and drums were playing “The Stars and Stripes Forever,” a familiar tune he had heard the American sailors whistle in the bar.

It was a relief, a boost of confidence, to see the armed forces. So Miriam was right. With the Fourth Marines, the Americans were protected at least. He rushed to the sidewalk, stood behind three businessmen carrying file cases, a girl carrying a violin case, and an old woman walking with a cocker spaniel, and watched.

The leading man in the parade wore an olive officer visor. Ernest recognized him; it was Colonel William Ashurst. He was singing, his face pale and etched with worries. Behind him were the Fourth Marines, all fitted in their jackets with utility pouches tucked snugly around their waists. As they marched, they each pulled the strap aslant across their chests, holding what could be a semiautomatic Garand rifle or maybe a Thompson submachine.

The rhythm of the trumpets, the drums, and the singing lifted Ernest’s spirits. He walked along, following the parade, waving at the colonel, who didn’t pay him attention. When the regiment reached the wharf at the river, the singing stopped. The colonel saluted and shouted, and the regiment jumped into a large white liner behind the cruiser USS Wake.

Someone in the crowd cried out, followed by a string of sobs. Someone else shouted, “God bless you! Goodbye!”

It was a farewell parade. Ernest overheard someone say that the Americans were to sail for the Philippines.

His heart dropped. First the Seaforth Highlanders, and now the Fourth Marines. He glanced at the Japanese warship Izumo, the funnels pumping smoke and the deck lined with swordsmen and uniformed soldiers. Downstream under the gloomy sun, the gray American and British vessels, empty without their forces, looked like no more than two paper ships.

He must leave before war broke out. But what about Aiyi? He still wanted her—he would always want her. But would she want him? Would she leave Shanghai with him?





39


AIYI


At dinner, Sinmay was complaining that women had become low, for he had heard from his associates that Sassoon had bragged at a banquet that he snagged a prominent woman in Shanghai to be a model for his nude photography.

I fled the table before he flew into a rage. It seemed unlikely he would know it was me, and Sassoon had promised not to show my photos. But I had forgotten to demand his silence. Did he reveal my name? What had I gotten myself into? I had wanted to save my club and protect Ernest, but I could be drowning in people’s spit soon.

The months since I had posed for Sassoon had been an endless slog of torment and tears. When Peiyu wisely notified my relatives that my wedding was suspended due to the mail delivery problem, I could hardly feel any relief. Each day I thought of Ernest and longed to see him and explain; each evening I was tempted to take a detour to the hotel. Yet his furious piano playing burst in my head. He wouldn’t forgive me; he would lash out at me, like Cheng, like any Chinese man who owned a woman’s body. It was over between us. I didn’t sleep well or eat well. I cried myself to sleep.

At the club, I covered myself up with long tunics and a coat and did my best to run the business, which had declined since Yamazaki’s visit. I had put out some promotions, which had attracted desperado customers looking for cheap entertainment, but many chose to stay away. I withheld the news of the partnership with Sassoon from the public, waiting for his payment. But his bank account was under Japanese inspection, I heard, which meant it was frozen. I had a terrible premonition that my plan had gone awry.

Then I got a phone call from Emily, who told me to meet her at the wharf.



“I want to say goodbye before I leave,” she said, a leather suitcase near her feet. Around us, throngs of porters, their backs bent low with suitcases, yelped and teetered, and passengers in black coats rushed to the gangplank of a two-story steamer to Hong Kong.

The sky was gray, and so were the clouds. Even the steamer, belching with noises, was masked in gray. But the water was bright muddy yellow, on top of which floated wreaths of black trash and sodden paper lanterns poor families tossed in to guide the souls of their deceased family members.

My eyes moistened. I had so much to tell her: my photos, my torment—I hadn’t seen Ernest for months, and I felt I was dying. I wanted to ask for her advice about what I should do with Ernest. She was the only person who would understand me, the only friend I could have. “Why leave, Emily?”

“You gave me the physician’s address.” But I never meant she should leave Shanghai. “It’s time for me to go.” She looked different, wearing a white silk blouse with ruffles at the collar, a deep-red wool jacket, and wide-legged black trousers. On her head was a stylish red velvet bicorn hat with a bow. She was not sniffling, her lethargic gaze replaced by the discerning calm I loved to see. “The treatments were horrible. I still curse you.”

“Does Sinmay know you’re leaving?”