The Last Rose of Shanghai(55)

I was in a cold sweat; I couldn’t sleep. I was not as strong as I thought I was.



After two days, I got out of bed and stood in front of the mirror. What a mess I was. My face was pallid, eyelids swollen; my hair was tangled, on my cheek a black blossom of bloodstain. I washed up, put on a clean dress, and went to my club. It would be heartbreaking to see the damage, but I could still revive the business if I worked hard, and many people’s livelihoods depended on me. And Ernest. He must be anxious.

The three-story building looked haunted under the gray sky. People walked by it without a second glance. By now all of Shanghai had learned of the shooting; few would patronize the club at the risk of facing a Mauser.

In the atrium, my managers, the band, several dancers, the accountant, the busboys, the bellboys, and even the cleaning staff greeted me with relieved faces.

“The ballroom has been swept clean, Miss Shao.”

“And Lanyu. We gave her a decent burial.”

“Would you consider hiring more dancers?”

And the accountant murmured, holding a stack of bills: power bills, utility bills, payments for the band, rent, food, and drinks.

I did my best to stay calm. I would take care of my employees. They needed work and needed to be paid. But the moment I stepped inside the dark ballroom—the Japanese had cut off the electricity—I shivered, the image of the shooting clear in my mind.

I rushed out to the landing, where I froze. Two Japanese soldiers climbed up the stairs; they roughly pushed me aside and plastered two long strips of paper on the gilded doors of my club, making a huge X, under which, in red ink, was written the Japanese kanji ENTRY FORBIDDEN, UNDER INVESTIGATION.

They wouldn’t confiscate my club, a joint venture, but they had ordered my business to cease operations.

I held on to the stair banister, feeling dizzy. The drawer of my desk stored the contract I had bargained with Sassoon, the cash, and a few banknotes I’d saved. My club, which I had worked so hard to manage, my livelihood, was only a few steps ahead of me, but it might as well have been thousands of miles away.



In the atrium, I passed my employees, went out to the street, and got in my car. My legs were weak, but I held all my emotions tight inside, trying hard to stay strong.

“Aiyi, Aiyi!”

I rolled down the window of my Nash.

On the street stood Ernest, carrying a canvas bag, his fedora askew, his face flushed with joy. “You’re safe. Thank God. I’ve been waiting for you. I was so worried about you. Are you all right?”

Something in me fell apart. “They sealed up my club, Ernest. My business is gone.”

“You have me.” He looked at me. It was the same look he had when he said something like Love is stronger than death, when he said he’d care for me even if I were married a thousand times.

“But . . .” What would I do without my club? My business. It was my life.

“Let’s go, Aiyi. The boat will leave tomorrow.”

I felt a sting in my eyes. He had helped rebuild my business; he was a partner I had trusted, a man I loved, the man for whom I’d turned down enormous wealth. But an innocent woman had died, I was almost shot, and my club was seized—all because of my obsession with him. I should never have gone this far with Ernest. This distraction, this whim, this dangerous confusion had cost me my business.

I pulled tight my mink coat; my leather shoes felt freezing against my ankles. “I can’t leave with you, Ernest. I’m going home.”

His jaw dropped.

I told my chauffeur to drive.





44


ERNEST


He was freezing. He put on two shirts, a vest, and two jackets over his taupe suit; still a chill balled in his stomach. He spent a sleepless night. Then staring at the rice porridge, his daily breakfast for the past two years, he had no appetite. He stood up, went out to the street, and bought a bowl of soy milk at a stall.

The drink was opaque, bits of yellow soybean shells floating on the top. It tasted bland, no sugar or salt, with a distinct odor of soy, and it was gritty, like a flood of sand over his tongue. He could get used to this taste and texture, get used to her change of mind, too, but what he couldn’t get used to was a future without her. Anxiously, he held the tickets to Hong Kong as the hour of departure ticked closer. He prayed she would change her mind and come to meet him before the tickets would expire. She didn’t.

The ship sailed without them. The shots rang on the street; more and more desperate Europeans crowded at the pier to get out of Shanghai. The cold wind blowing on his face, Ernest bought another two tickets, overpriced, to Hong Kong. He must leave Shanghai to keep Miriam safe.

At the pier where he often stood, he gazed at the river. There were no cruise ships, no gangplanks, no crowds of refugees carrying suitcases, no signs of his parents.

What had happened to them? For almost two years he had been writing to them, but they’d never replied. The Nazis are implementing more abominable plans against the Jews. And Miss Margolis’s sympathetic look. A chill shot through Ernest’s brain and ran down his spine. He doubled over and sobbed.

Growing up, he had locked horns with his father, who was more enthusiastic about mummies and bones than him, who loved Leah and Miriam more than him. A book person like Ernest’s sisters, his father didn’t care for his son’s hobbies of photography or movies. So Ernest had avoided him. When they went to their favorite resort in Czechoslovakia for vacation, his father went skiing, Ernest stayed behind and drank pilsner; when his father drank schnapps, Ernest went skiing.