The Last Rose of Shanghai(67)

I think I’m growing used to her way of exclaiming.

“Ms. Shao, you must think I’m such a pest, but the most unforgivable thing you mentioned . . . Would you tell me what it is?”

The room is cold. I wind the cashmere scarf tighter around my neck. “I think there are a few answers to that. Before I tell you, I’d like to hear what your interviewees told you about me.”

“They said an uncommon relationship developed between you and Mr. Reismann, which put some refugees in danger. That was during the Japanese occupation, I was reminded. They also mentioned an unfortunate tragedy that you were involved in. And Mr. Reismann was never the same again. But no one seemed to have a clear memory of how the tragedy happened. So my assumption is there might be a misunderstanding.”

I control myself. I want her to like me, I really do. “Misunderstanding? Or do you believe it was all my fault, just like what they told you?”

I regret instantly my sharp tone. People say old age tames us and dulls our tempers, but old age for me is like a key to a Cadillac that permits me to wreak havoc.

She runs her hand through her hair. “When I was documenting for the exhibit, I rarely thought of accusing anyone, Ms. Shao. My only intention was to show the refugees’ suffering. Mr. Reismann suffered; we all understand that. Believe me, I have as much respect for you as for my other interviewees.”

But they all love him, only him, and I was in the shadows, the other, the one they shunned, despised. It has been like this for years, and nothing has changed. “Do you know why some people in China only drink tea, not coffee?”

“Why? Everyone in the US drinks coffee.”

“People here say coffee will cause cancer, that’s why. You know what happens when people believe something? They believe they’re absolutely right and nothing will change it.”

She rubs her temple. She’s struggling. She wants to trust me so she can receive the donation of the hotel, but she has heard too many inconsistent stories about me. “I’m confused, Ms. Shao, my apologies. I understand the past is traumatic for you to reflect on, but would you help me? Mr. Reismann’s documentary must be important to you. What can I do for you?”

This is what I want—to have her ears, to place the story of Ernest’s struggle into her hands, to free myself from the past, but I don’t know why I nearly lost myself. I can’t blame the refugees who didn’t know me; the truth is I’ve been blaming myself for all these years. I feel the prick behind my eyes. “I suppose we’re both responsible, Ernest and me. Had it not been for him, none of the tragedies could have happened. I would not regret what I have done for all my life, and I would not be sitting here talking to you.”





52


JANUARY 1942


AIYI

The Chinese New Year came at the end of the month. It was the Year of the Horse, with the element of water. An unlucky year, as water indicated tears. For the past seven weeks I had been locked inside, I shouted, screamed, and pounded on the doors, but no one listened. Food and water were delivered at the door, which was chained and left only wide enough for me to reach out. I had nothing to do. I slept day and night, and I paced from the purple-tented bed to the rosewood chair.

To keep sane, I played jazz in my head: “Summertime,” “They Can’t Take That Away from Me,” “Crawl Charleston,” and my favorite, “The Last Rose of Shanghai.” I laughed and cried, remembering how Ernest used to play that for me, and me humming those notes of joy, swaying my hips, stomping the floor. Music, once my livelihood, my passion, now the hymn of freedom, my medication.

Each week, my pragmatic sister-in-law, Peiyu, reminded me of my wedding at the end of February. Sitting on a chair outside my room, sipping her soup, she tried to talk sense into me. “You understand, you can’t find a better husband than Cheng. He’s the only heir of his family. Once his mother passes, you’ll be the matriarch; you’ll be entitled to all his wealth, his family’s shipping business.”

“If you like his money so much, you should marry him.”

“Don’t be silly.” A slurp of soup. “Would you like to have some sweet rice ball soup with red dates? We ran out of dried longyan. Everything is so expensive. The inflation is killing us. The same fish costs five cents in the morning, fifty in the afternoon!”

Finally, she sighed and left, her small lotus feet padding across the stone ground, the squeaky toddler trailing behind her. She was two, or three, not that I cared.

Ying’s voice came one afternoon. “So what did I miss? You cheated on Cheng with that pianist. Is it true?”

I pressed to the door. “I’m going crazy, Ying. Can you let me out? Do you have the key?”

“Fuck.” He sighed. “Look, he shouldn’t have hit you, but this is about your future. You know well we don’t decide whom to marry. We owe our lives to our parents. You and a foreigner. What the hell were you thinking? When is your wedding again?”

“I want to get out. Let me out, Ying.”

“It’s not up to me. By the way, your lover came to see you.”

“Ernest? He came here?”

“No. I was talking about Cheng.”

He had come once, giving me a resolute statement that there would be no annulment, and his mother would not be told of my request. The wedding was still on. In two weeks.