The Last Rose of Shanghai(9)

“Sir Sassoon, when I was attacked in your hotel the other day, this man helped me. He was arrested for his gallantry,” she said.

The charitable man, the third Baronet of Bombay, a Baghdadi Jew—Sir Sassoon—was sitting right in front of him. His luck was turning. Ernest smiled. “I’m Ernest Reismann, sir. It’s an honor to meet you. I hope this is not too rude of me, but do you need a pianist? You have such a fine Steinway. I just arrived in Shanghai, and I’m looking for a job.”

The old man poured some green liquid into a glass in front of him. “I’m glad you helped Miss Shao, young man. She’s a good friend of mine. But everybody asks me for a job. There are so many of you, and you keep coming. Refugees! I’m done with charity. I’ve given you my Embankment Building, donated a $150,000 grant to small business owners, and supported people like you for five years, before Anschluss! Now you need to make a living on your own. Ancient Chinese, they were very wise. They said, ‘Don’t give a man fish; teach the man how to fish.’ Young man, learn how to fish.”

The words drenched Ernest like cold water; all his giddiness vanished. He felt the dead weight of his feet, the soreness of his legs, and the empty stomach that had growled and now mercifully stopped. For days he had heard brusque refusals, degrading curses hurled from strangers. Now this. “Of course, sir. Sorry to bother you.”

“Well.” Her voice came again. “Don’t go yet. Perhaps you’d like to have a drink?” She lifted a cocktail glass.

He felt a lump in his throat. With all her attractiveness, this was the true beauty of hers—treating him with dignity. Yes, he would like to have a drink, a strong drink to quench all the disappointments, a strong drink to collect his thoughts so he could stand straight again. But he didn’t have a single penny.

“Sure. What are you drinking?” he said.

“The Cobra’s Kiss, Sir Sassoon’s treat.”

He turned to the old man; he had nothing to lose anyway. “Would you mind if I have a sample of your cocktail, sir?”

“You can certainly take a sip, young man, but how would you pay for that?” Sassoon’s voice was all annoyance.

Ernest picked up a glass in front of him and drained it before he regretted it. The cocktail, a hot, murderous fire, burned his throat—just what he wanted. “I’ll pay you with a piece of music, sir. May I have your permission to play?”

Sassoon’s eyes narrowed—the man didn’t like him, he got it—and there came her voice again. “I love the piano, Sir Sassoon. I’d love to hear that.”

“Go on then, if it pleases the lady,” Sassoon grumbled.

Ernest tipped his head and strode toward the piano. His recklessness had earned him a chance to play for her; that was all that mattered. And he wanted to play well; he wanted her to remember his piano, remember him before he left this bar. For he was tired down to his bones, and he was unsure how much more he could take.

He reached the piano, sat on the bench, took off his glove, and lifted the mahogany fallboard. His naked fingers touched the cold keyboard; a shiver raced down his arm and the familiar feelings of fear and resentment, mixed with anger, sprouted in his chest. It had been almost four years since he last touched a keyboard, since his piano was seized. His arms that used to strike out powerful arpeggios and silky legatos were soft from lack of practice. Before him was the nightmare again: the hand he was afraid to show in public, the grooves on his skin, and the crooked pinkie where the bones had been shattered and healed wrong.

All he could hear was the near silence in the bar, the huffs and puffs of the drinkers. He couldn’t see her, but she was listening, watching.

A new sensation—a fiery burst of tenderness mixed with a familiar ache—powered through him. He inhaled deeply, let his shoulders drop, and gazed down at the keyboard. Notes of Beethoven, Debussy, and Chopin, bouncing, tingling, streamed through his mind. He could no longer hear the crowd, or smell the cigarettes, or see the silver dots printed on the fallboard. He was in a bar, but he might as well be standing on a peak of the Harz mountains or in the center of the Leipziger Platz.

His heart full, he lifted his hands.

This song was for her.





8


AIYI


Notes swept the air, a trickle as delicate as spring mist; then gradually, they grew to be a wave of gentle legatos. The air bubbled in a fountain of sounds, soothing, putting me at ease, and then suddenly they leaped, the rhythms exploding in a passionate deluge of fire, and staccatos, accents, and arpeggios boiled one after another. The air grew incandescent; the bar roared with booming chords. A battle raged in my head; my body grew hot, bound by an infectious cord of excitement unknown to me before. It was a joy to stay there, to be held captive, to ride to the peak, and to be torn apart. But the music was kind; it sought no destruction, only comfort, as its magnificent cascade slowed and eased and dipped, gently like a rock falling into the embrace of a river, to a tender drip. When the notes murmured and finally faded in the air, a pocket of silence descended.

I let out the breath I’d been holding. I had heard different types of music: the energetic jazz that sent the dancers in my club into a frenzy and the melancholy folk music played by the street musicians using three-string violins. But not the classical music played on the piano, the Western music usually only available on gramophones. The foreigner who’d rescued me was full of surprises. A refugee. A bold man bargaining a free drink from Sassoon, and a pianist.