The Last Rose of Shanghai(74)

“Maybe she’s not in the camp,” Aiyi said. She was naked, pacing in the hot, humid room. She had no fresh clothes, she said; the ready-made tunic he’d bought didn’t fit. “Will you give up?”

“I can’t.”

“I won’t pay for the ferryman again.” She looked irritated.

“What’s wrong, Aiyi? You don’t mean that, do you? Maybe I should try the camp in Longhua.”

“You’re on your own then. It’s near a graveyard. If the Japanese don’t kill you, the ghosts will haunt you.”

He hugged her, coaxing her, cheering her up. “I’m a ghost, too, a foreign ghost, remember? I doubt they’ll go after me. How about giving me one more chance? Give Pudong one last try?”





58


AIYI


It started to rain. My Nash passed Kiessling’s, where Japanese soldiers, who were on every block these days, were drinking beer. Rumor said an entire regiment from Japan had arrived in Shanghai and was preparing to swoop down on the Nationalists and Communists hidden in the central cities in China.

Yamazaki, I’d heard, had been promoted again. His power had grown. A high-ranking official, he now supervised the regiments that patrolled many streets in the Settlement and had control of the entire pro-Japanese government, which was led by the traitor Wang Jingwei. My club was officially out of my hands.

I hid my face in my scarf. Two more streets and I would reach my home. Just one look. I wouldn’t enter it. I missed it. I had never been away for so long. I should talk to Cheng and Sinmay since my wedding date had long passed, but I didn’t have the courage. Then I saw Ying, holding a black umbrella and hurrying on a lane near the street lined with plane trees. I could always tell when my brother was up to something, in the smoke or in the rain. He stopped in front of a European-style villa with tiles and disappeared through a gate where the board above the entry said MAISON IWAI.

It was a Japanese residence, a home only people like Yamazaki would visit. There was only one reason Ying would go there—he worked for them.

I wanted to cry. I thought I had known my brother well—a big spender, a reckless youth with a tendency to resort to violence. But I was wrong. He was not only a rogue; he was a traitor. The worst kind.

The stone lions of my home stood ahead. I told my chauffeur to drive by. A wave of emotion engulfed me. This was my home, where I had been born, played in summery silk tunics and winter fur vests, rode on the backs of servants as horses, and slept on a bamboo couch with a chorus of cicadas. The home where my parents were wed, quarreled, and fought, where the lengthy vigils were held for my mother after the deadly accident.

My grandfather could never have predicted the paths of our lives, his descendants—one a struggling publishing tycoon, one a traitor, and me, a runaway.



When I returned to the inn, it was late in the afternoon. Ernest wouldn’t come tonight, out on his mission to find the American social worker, which had taken all his time. I wondered if he still cared about me.

The weather in May was cool with the light rain, but it grew damp and sticky inside the stuffy inn. A layer of green mold had grown inside my red leather shoes. I left the window ajar, peeled off my dress, and lay on my stomach in my bra and underwear to stay cool.

Someone was knocking on the door. I threw the bedsheet around me and opened the door a crack. But it flew open and Cheng burst into the room.





59


ERNEST


One last try. He went to the back of the building. When he sidled up to the fence near the gasoline barrels, he came face to face with a woman with a plump face and short hair. “Miss Margolis!”

All the hardship, stress, and fear of drowning and robbery in the past weeks went away. He had found her, the woman who held the key to the lives of eight thousand refugees.

“Ernest! You made a big ruckus with my scarf. I thought it was you.” She looked ill, her face pallid, and the skin around her eyes was cut with wrinkles.

“How are you doing, Miss Margolis? Do they treat you well?” He grinned.

“Can’t complain. Daily fresh weevils in rice porridge. Very nutritious. But no hamburgers, no orange juice, no oatmeal. I advise you not to join me,” she said, before a series of coughs stopped her.

“Are you sick? Do they have a medical team to look after you?”

She shook her head. “I’m fine. Just some headaches. But listen. I tossed you the—”

There was a shout coming from the yard. A Japanese soldier entered. Ernest spoke urgently, “Yes, I have your power of attorney. Why did you throw it to me? A refugee from the Heime told me they had not received their daily stew for a few weeks. They’re starv—”

A gunshot. The fence of barbed wire rattled, and Miss Margolis dropped to the ground.

“Miss—Laura!” He smelled the gunpowder.

The brave woman raised her hand and groaned. “Yes. The power of attorney. I was arrested before I had a chance to give it to Mr. Bitker. I was desperate so I tossed it to you. He doesn’t know where I am, and he can’t release the money without the power of attorney. I need you to go to him and give him the paper. Go, Ernest!”

“But I don’t know where he is.” He could see the Japanese soldier raise his rifle behind her, aiming at him. He ducked.