The Last Rose of Shanghai(88)

He must be careful, or he would get all his people, unprotected, stateless, killed.

“May I offer you some pilsner?” Ernest walked to a cabinet at the end of the table.

Yamazaki declined.

“Some sake then?” He looked at Mr. Schmidt, who had swiftly laid out two small cups he hadn’t known they had.

Yamazaki accepted it. He held the small cup with two hands as if it were a great offering. For a long moment, the well-mannered murderer commented on the cold weather, explained mono no aware, described the Japanese art of gardening, and asked Ernest if he had seen the cherry blossoms in Tokyo.

All the bullshit. Ernest was disgusted, but the man wouldn’t come here for no reason. And finally, after five cups of sake, Yamazaki spoke with deliberateness.

He came, he said, for a business opportunity. The great empire of Japan was in need of eager partners who would support them in their ambitious expansion in Asia—surely, he had heard of the empire’s Greater East Asia Co-prosperity Sphere? He had been informed of Mr. Reissman’s growing prowess, and the Japanese government wanted to form a joint business venture with him, specifically regarding the shipping company he’d just acquired. And, would he forgive his ignorance that he didn’t know until now that Germany had revoked the citizenship of the refugees like him? It must be of great sorrow to be a ronin.

Ernest felt sick at heart. Never in his wildest dreams did he think of becoming a partner of the Japanese, but Yamazaki’s request of a joint venture, masked in casualness, was more threatening than an order. He had to go along with it before he could map out a strategy. “Of course. I shall have a proposal for the partnership paperwork drafted up.”

Yamazaki bowed before taking his leave.

Ernest shot to his feet, anger boiling in his chest. The murderer of his sister was right in front of him, yet he couldn’t kill him and was forced to consider him to be his business partner.

Mr. Schmidt, in his sleek black suit and tall hat, dressed up like Sassoon, finished the rest of the sake. “The shipping company is important and lucrative. It’s not a surprise they want to have a hand in it.”

“If they become a partner, they’ll eventually take full control of the shipping company, the navigational routes, and the ships.”

Mr. Schmidt sighed. “I know. But we don’t have a choice, do we? If Yamazaki wants your entire company, we would probably need to hand it over too.”

It hit him. Stateless, without protection, he could lose his company and everything he owned. He turned around to look at the clean, spacious room, the solid black furniture, and the piano in the corner. In spite of himself, he went to the piano, removed the fur that covered the fallboard, and opened up the fallboard. His fingers stiff, he hovered above the keys and played Debussy, Chopin, and then Aiyi’s song in his mind. He had sworn that he’d never wanted to hear Beethoven again or touch the keyboard again; its music had cost Miriam’s life.

He stared at the star-shaped scar on his hand and the stab wound—a thick bar of shiny flesh in the center. With his diligence and fortitude, he had risen to be a prominent businessman and supported the people in need. And now the Japanese wanted to take it all away.





73


AIYI


It was my idea. I wanted to visit Peiyu. Word had come that after my wedding she had sold my family home and moved into a stone-arch-gate building in the Concession to make ends meet. These buildings, meant for poor laborers, prostitutes, and low-income servants when Shanghai had been still a mud town, were notorious for being unsanitary, with a lack of fresh air and sunlight, a hotbed for beriberi and diseases.

I couldn’t imagine Peiyu living in such squalor. I planned to invite her to live with me, for Cheng’s mansion was large enough to house her and her children. I also hoped she would loosen her tongue and tell me who had taken my daughter, for I had started to think of her.

But Cheng didn’t want to go to the stone-arch-gate building. He had rarely set foot in any place paved only with packed dirt, and he worried he’d catch diseases. But when I said I’d go there by myself, he gave in and offered to ride with me in his Buick.

The traffic was light for the afternoon. On the street lined with fur shops and hat boutiques, a Japanese officer in his uniform was walking with his dog, a white terrier.

Cheng’s chauffeur slowed down. A precaution. A few days before, a young man had been shot for walking too slowly in front of a soldier; now everyone tried to step out of the way of any Japanese. For the Japanese had lost patience with us Chinese. Fanatically loyal to their emperor, Hirohito, they had believed they could bomb the Nationalists into submission, but instead the war dragged on, and our resistance force had, surprisingly, gathered steam. More and more Chinese turned to the resourceful Communists for help. Some bold Chinese with guns would open fire from the rooftops at the patrolling Japanese or assassinate Japanese soldiers in restaurants. Now the Japanese suspected every civilian was a spy or an assassin.

Rumor also said the Japanese were losing the war against the Americans, who routed them on an island chain called Midway. It was heartwarming to hear of the Americans’ victory, but I was also aware that as egotistical as the Japanese were, they would vent all their frustration on innocent people in China.

Cheng was complaining next to me. He would be late. He had just set up a meeting to sell his father’s coal-burning steamer. The deal was important for him, for he was struggling with the shipping business without the guidance of his uncle, who had died of pneumonia.