The Last Rose of Shanghai(98)

“I’m sorry, but I’m dying to know. Was that the last time you saw Mr. Reismann?”





80


JUNE 1944


AIYI

I became a widow, a mother, a burglar, a thief, and an occasional garbage-bin diver. I did all tricks without shame, for life in the dank stone-arch-gate room, alone with a child, was hard. There were days when my stomach knotted in pain from hunger and Little Star screamed for food, days when I scrubbed our lice-infested hair with the kerosene from the lamp, days when I fled from the hooligans who tried to rape me, days when I reminisced about jazz and the luxury of my old life.

Let the war end, I prayed. Yet there were few signs of peace. On the street skittered the news of Japanese victories against the Nationalists and the Communists, all dispersed by the puppet government. No one knew anything about the war between the Americans and the Japanese. And the foreigners had all vanished from Shanghai. For half a year, I’d encountered not a single European or American on the streets.

Sometimes I thought of my encounter with Ernest and regretted my coldness. Yes, he had let me go, but yes, I was responsible for his loss. I should have told him that I had given away our daughter and apologized to him.

One night, a clunk from the courtyard awoke me. It was after the midnight hour; the buildings were quiet, and the alleyway was submerged in sleepiness.

I gently unhooked Little Star from my arms and slipped off the bed. My feet brushed against a low plastic stool. I picked it up. I had never faced a burglar before. Whoever was out there was not a Japanese, who would have made a ruckus.

The faint breathing from outside grew heavier as it came toward the bedroom. I swung the door open and flung the stool around. I couldn’t see what was in front of me, but I hit something.

There was a groan.

“What are you doing?”

“Ying?”

“Who else did you think it was?”

“I thought it was . . . Why did you come at this hour?” I fumbled for the matchbox, found it, and then looked for the kerosene lamp at the foot of the bed. But I couldn’t find it. Little Star must have been playing with it. Then near me came another groan, and the bulk of Ying collapsed to the ground. “Did I really hit you that hard? What’s wrong with you?”

He didn’t answer, so I lit a match. The light shone on Ying’s ghastly pale face. His left shoulder was soaked.

“Is that blood? Were you shot?”

He closed his eyes. “Lower your voice, Aiyi. You’re going to get us all killed.”

“You shouldn’t come here.” I had an idea about what he had gotten himself into, and I hated him for it. Finally, I found the lamp. I lit it, went to check the front gate to the alleyway, and pushed the latch to make sure it was locked firmly. Then I returned to Ying.

“Are you going to help me? Give me the opium. Here. In the bag.” He kicked a green canvas satchel near his feet, which I hadn’t noticed earlier.

“No.”

“Please.”

Begrudgingly, I unbuttoned the satchel. Inside was a boxy leather bag, a pair of binoculars, a small bag of peanuts, and a pistol. Already I could smell the unique flower scent. I held a small amount of mud-like putty, the size of a red date.

He grabbed the putty and bit into it. With the putty, he wouldn’t feel a thing. “Now take the bullet out.”

I folded my arms across my chest. “Why should I help you? So you can go out and shoot our people again? I know you work for them.”

“I don’t work for them.” The putty was working; his voice was swelling, losing its edge.

“I saw you walk into their building. I know what you’re doing. I know who you are.”

“Do you?” In the faint kerosene lamp light, he was smiling, and it was not the energetic, comical smile that he used to give. “I’m not going to tell you anything more. But I’m not a traitor. I only want to save my country. I will never betray my country.”

Should I believe him?

“Will you get the bullet out?” He gazed at the light, and I could see he, like Emily, my father, and many addicts before him, was swimming in the transitory realm of fog and oblivion.

I held the kerosene lamp, leaned closer, and dipped my right thumb and forefinger into his shoulder. Soft flesh closed on me; blood spurted. I felt the metal among the viscous pool alongside hard bones and dug out the bullet.



Near dawn, when the alleyway stirred with squeaky rickshaws, Ying awoke. There were still traces of drug on his face, but his eyes were alert. He groaned, examining the knot I’d made on his shoulder, and shook his head. “You are doing a poor job as a nurse, and as a maid. Where did you get that costume?”

“It’s my protection. I couldn’t find anything else to wear. Are you going to tell me how you got shot?” Little Star stirred near me.

He was still groggy as he recounted events in a low voice. He had received important intelligence that a Japanese truck was loaded with sophisticated radio equipment transported from Japan. Ying and his resistance force had ambushed the truck and successfully detonated it, destroying all the equipment, but many of his people died. He’d blown his cover and was shot. But it was worth it, he said, for during the ambush, he had learned key information regarding the war.

“What information? Can you tell me?”