The Last Rose of Shanghai(62)

A thud came in the distance. The ground trembled. “What’s that?”

“Miss Shao?”

His hearing was not good. Or maybe I was going insane. I bit into the egg.

Another thud. “Did you hear that?”

I dusted off the flakes of eggshell on my coat and stepped out of the dining hall. It was not my imagination. The ground was indeed shaking. My Nash, parked near the fountain, was rattling; the two red lanterns strung on two ropes across from the courtyard to the central reception room, which Peiyu had installed for good luck to welcome the new year, were swinging. The red tassels swayed, and the golden letters spun, a swirl of confusion. I rushed toward the fountain and opened the gate.

Outside, the dawn air was pungent, sickening with burning oil. I had smelled the air like this before, when the Japanese attacked the city. But the street appeared normal, a rickshaw puller dozing near the alley. Then I saw a bloom of black explode from the direction of the river.

It was happening. The attack on the Settlement, like Ernest said.

His apartment was some distance away from the river. He should be safe, and if he knew better, he would stay away. But what if he was not?

I dashed back inside, almost crashing into my chauffeur, who’d just awoken. “Quick. Let’s get in the car. Take me to the Settlement.”

“What’s going on?” He started the engine.

“Just take me there. Let’s go.”

We rushed out. The closer we approached the river, the thicker the fumes grew. The street seemed to be rising, slithering with rickshaw pullers, people in long robes, and Europeans in their suits, fleeing in all directions. A tank with the Japanese flag was grinding bikes, rickshaws, and automobiles underneath. Black smoke, rolling with swarms of sparks, billowed; the air, pierced with the shrill alarms of wrecked cars, gunshots, and shrieks, spluttered. The sky, a fiery furnace, exploded.

My car stalled, surrounded by hysterical people and overturned vehicles. It was too dangerous to go farther, and anyway, Ernest had no reason to go near the river. I was just thinking about turning around when something dropped from the sky and slammed against the roof of a black Chevrolet ahead of me. A bone-shattering sound; the car jolted. And I saw on the Chevrolet’s roof a face—Ernest’s face.



I flung open the door and ran toward him.

“Ernest!” Through the billowy smoke, I saw him roll off the car and onto the ground and disappear among the frantic crowd. I pushed forward, dodging another Chevrolet crashing into a Packard, where a man in flames tumbled out with suitcases.

“Ernest! Ernest!”

He was gone. There was no sight of him. A thunderous explosion set off around me. A coil of metal, hot oil, glass, shards, and severed limbs shot in the air. The ground shuddered; gasoline, smoke, and fire unfurled in the air, rumbling like a black train. A sharp pain stabbed my neck; something wet and sticky was trickling down my dress. My eyes stung, my throat burned, and strangely, I heard no screams or gunshots; a wave of voiceless sound had filled my ears instead, as if I were underwater while the world burned in a silent heap. It was mercifully peaceful.

I stumbled, limped, searched among the running figures. Now and then I grabbed some shoulders to see if they were Ernest. They were not. They were saying something, their mouths open, tears running down their smoke-smudged faces, but I heard no voices. With all my strength I gave a loud yell of Ernest’s name, and then magically, the wave in my ears receded and I heard something.

It was pouring generously like wine into a glass, and it smelled pungent and felt warm.

Gasoline.

A Buick screeched beside me. The door swung open; inside sat Cheng. “I’ve been looking for you. Get in!”

“The gasoline is leaking. I need to find him.” I was hot. So hot. My face. My back. My legs and arms. The heat, the awful sound, and the smell. Ernest must leave before it was too late.

“Who?”

The crowd, rushing toward us, banged the hood and kicked the fender, demanding we get out of the way. “Ernest. He jumped out of the window. He’s somewhere here . . .”

Cheng reached out, and with his savage strength, grabbed me and thrust me inside the Buick. “Let’s go home.”

“I can’t. I need to find him.”

Cheng grasped my shoulders. His face was smudged with sweat and smoke, his fedora askew. “I went to your home. Your butler said you came to the waterfront area. I came as quickly as I could. What were you thinking? You’re going to get killed!”

He kept talking, his lips moving, his face pink with anger. He had searched everywhere, everywhere, worried to death about me. “Did you know what you were doing? Why would you come here?” I had never heard him talk so much, so fast, so frantic, and I could hardly understand him, my mind hooked on the image of Ernest as he slammed against the roof of the Chevrolet. I had thought my club was my life, but I was wrong. I had thought it was possible to live a calm, safe life with Cheng. I was wrong again. Ernest wouldn’t give me a decent home or decent social standing, but he was the only one I wanted. If he died, I would not be able to live.

“I want him, Cheng.” It dawned on me. After all these months.

Cheng’s handsome face froze; then he threw his fedora at the window and kicked the seat in front of him. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!”

“Listen to me. The gasoline is leaking. I must turn back. I must get Ernest out before it explodes. Turn back!”