The Last Rose of Shanghai(66)

He walked out of the room with the album. In the communal kitchen, he started a fire in a coal stove. When the flame leaped, he threw the album in the fire. He would never know if her nude photos were inside the album.

When he returned to his room, Ernest checked the bag again. Something else was inside. It was a thick envelope with the hotel’s logo, addressed to him; tied to the envelope with an elastic band was a note, written on the hotel’s stationery, with the signature V. E. Sassoon.

Dear Ernest, if you find this note, then all my fears are confirmed. Curse the Japanese! Take the envelope. It was meant to pay you for the film you showed me. One day I’ll teach you how to do business with this money.

His film. Now that he thought of it, Sassoon owed his survival to him. Had he stayed in Shanghai, he would have been sent to a camp too. Ernest took off the elastic band around the envelope, dipped his hand inside, and took out a stack of bills. His hands trembled.

In all his twenty years of life, he had never seen this. A sheaf of American dollars. All in hundreds. Ten thousand dollars.

The door opened. Miriam entered, dressed in a hooded black jacket he had never seen before. She tossed the Leica on the cabinet, muttering it was not her fault that it was broken.

He could hardly scold her. “Miriam!” He waved the bills in his hand. “Look!”

He was rich—they were rich. He would give Miriam anything she wanted, buy her a warm coat, or two coats, or cigarettes, or milk, or meat. He could give Miriam a comfortable life; they would own things: another Leica, a watch, an apartment, a house, or an automobile. Or maybe he wouldn’t spend it all; maybe he would become a businessman, like Sassoon. But one thing was for sure: he would make a name for himself.





51


FALL 1980


THE PEACE HOTEL

Looking at the wood panels inside the elevator, I can’t help thinking that years ago, I, wearing my favorite mink coat, stood next to Sir Sassoon in the same elevator to his penthouse. He has been dead for almost twenty years but still owes me one hundred thousand dollars. Sassoon, I’ve heard, tried to wrangle back this hotel and his thousands of properties from the Nationalists that returned to power after 1945. I don’t know what he managed to salvage, but the hotel slipped from his control forever. He must have been disappointed, living in the Bahamas under the care of a nurse whom he eventually married. So many memories I can’t forget, so many I’d rather forget.

The elevator stops at the ninth floor, and I wheel out. Ms. Sorebi is already there, sitting on a chair near the window, a few diners around her. I like people to be punctual—Ernest was always punctual. “Thank you for meeting me again, Ms. Sorebi. Do you like this restaurant? Cathay Room has a rich hedonistic history. Emily Hahn, the reporter, used to come here.”

Today Ms. Sorebi wears black jeans and the same leather jacket. She pushes her chair away from the table, leans back, and scans the walls, the ceiling, and then the balcony. A silver bird I haven’t noticed before, tethered on a necklace, flits across her chest—a cross.

“Emily Hahn? I remember seeing some of her photos.”

“She was a friend.” I haven’t talked to her for almost forty years, and I don’t know if she’s dead or alive. A wave of sadness laps toward me that even my medications can’t help. Maybe this is too much for me to handle—the memories, the documentary, and the documentarian.

“My niece can’t make it today. It’ll be just you and me,” I say, trying to smile. “Have you tried any Chinese food here? It’s rather good.”

“We have Chinese food in LA. But I’m sure the food is different here.” She hesitates.

“Are you all right? How did you sleep? You must be exhausted after the flight.”

“To be honest, I didn’t sleep well. Our meeting, the donation, and the documentary. It was a lot to think about. I meant to ask you yesterday, but I didn’t want to be rude. What did you do that was most unforgivable?”

“I’ll tell you all today.” I take the menu from the waiter’s hands. The sheet looks like a canvas covered with ants. I put on my glasses, squint, and hold the menu at arm’s length. What I need is my magnifier, but I’ve forgotten to bring it. Finally, I give up and, with the help of my memory, order eight dishes. “The Chinese dishes here are modified to suit Westerners’ taste. But if you want something authentic, you can ask to see the Chinese menu. Do you speak Chinese?”

She laughs. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Ms. Shao.”

“I didn’t mean to test you. But did you learn a bit of Chinese while working on the exhibit?” I give the menu to the waiter and see manager Yang waiting smartly near the bar. He’s curious about the American, her hair, and her eyes.

“I can say fan dian, hotel.”

“It also means restaurant.”

“Really.”

“The Chinese language is an ambiguous language. The same word can mean two different things. Like jiao tang. It means church, but also synagogue. The word ai ren means wife and lover.”

“Thanks for telling me that. What a big difference, wife and lover! What else should I know?”

“Chinese has many words for wife, such as qizi, furen, taitai, airen, laopo, and neiren. There might be more, but I can’t think of them now.”

“My goodness! This is fun!”