The Last Rose of Shanghai(11)

But this was all wrong. I was engaged, twenty years old, a businesswoman, and I should never feel this way about a foreigner. I must have had too much of the Cobra’s Kiss. Tomorrow when I awoke I would feel different, and I wouldn’t even remember who Ernest Reismann was. And with Shanghai being so vast, we would perhaps never cross paths again.

But I would like to see him again.

I could hire him, now that Sassoon had declined him. And I could find him easily. The location of Sassoon’s Embankment Building, where Ernest stayed, was near my family printing press before it was forced to relocate. But Ernest was a foreigner, that in and of itself should be an important warning to stay away. I would be asking for trouble, for it was unconventional for a Chinese woman to keep foreigners as staff, and the patrons of my club, the locals, had a tendency of viewing the foreigners as enemies.

But I wanted to hire him. Ernest—the best pianist I had ever met—could play the stride piano, which my instinct told me would be a sensation in my club and revitalize my business. If Ernest caused trouble, if it didn’t work out, I would let him go. It was business, after all.

Would I dare hire him?

I lowered the window, loosened my dress’s spiral knots at my neck, and let my carefully curled hair unfurl like a bedsheet. Just for a moment.





9


ERNEST


In the dark, he lay on his bunk. Aiyi, Aiyi, Aiyi, he mouthed, first down then up, Aiyi, Aiyi. It sounded like he was climbing on a strange scale of tones, but it grew on him, lingering on his tongue with a warm echo, a shape, a strength that fitted his mouth perfectly. It was the name of beauty, the name of love, and each time he repeated it, the vision of her face bloomed in his mind like a hot summer sun. But this was silly. He had just arrived at this alien land; he was jobless, penniless, and homeless. The last thing he wanted was to fall in love.

He closed his eyes. In his sleep, he was on the train’s platform, and his parents’ anxious faces appeared, their voices drumming in his ears. “Ernest, take good care of your sister,” said his father in his earth-colored coat, and, “Ernest, have a good life and marry a good Jewish girl,” said his mother, eyes swollen from crying, face mapped with fear and anguish.

He woke up, his face wet with tears. They’d had only two exit visas for the four of them, so the decision had been easily made. And now he listened to the breathing of Miriam from the top bunk, his youngest and now only sister.

The committee had sent him a final notice; he was to leave the shelter the next morning. Yet to his despair, he hadn’t found an apartment—or a job.



At the first light of dawn he squeezed through the crowd in the hallway, one hand holding the suitcase, the other grasping Miriam’s arm. Nodding at the fellow refugees, he asked how to get in touch with them. Mr. Schmidt shook his head; the others sighed.

“Then may peace be with you,” he said, giving them all the cheer he could muster. When he came to the lobby, it was more crowded than ever. A wave of new refugees had arrived, all carrying suitcases, hair unkempt, faces grim. They were fleeing for their lives, they said, for Jews in Berlin were sent to camps and Jews in Austria were deported to Poland.

Stunned, Ernest didn’t know how he made it to the sidewalk outside. His parents. Did they receive exit visas yet? Were they sent to camps? And next to him, Miriam rubbed her eyes, yawning. “Where are we going? It’s so early.”

The cold morning air clawed at his face; he shivered. His parents were stuck in a war zone, and he didn’t know where to find a safe shelter for Miriam. He didn’t know where to go.

Two rickshaws passed him, loaded with refugees; behind them, Mr. Schmidt, seeking shelter in a church, climbed into a truck. A brown car pulled up and stopped near Ernest. He heard a shout but couldn’t make it out. Then from the car stepped a Chinese man in a black jacket and a black cap, who waved frantically at him. Ernest stared, unable to comprehend a word.

Then he heard a name. Her name. Shao Aiyi.

He dashed toward the car and peered through the window just as it rolled down, and staring at him was that lovely face of hers.

“Hello, stranger. I’m glad I found you before you left. I was wondering if you’d like to play the stride piano in my club?”

“What?” He didn’t know she owned a club. Had she mentioned it yesterday? The chauffeur stuffed something in his hand. A postcard with a band on a stage flashing neon lights. At the bottom of the postcard was an address in Chinese and four English words: One Hundred Joys Nightclub. “Oh yes. Of course. I’d love it.”

A beautiful smile bloomed on her face, and she glanced behind him at his sister and their suitcase. “Then come in. I’ll take you both to your dorm.”



The so-called dorm was an apartment located on the west side of the Settlement, south of the Suzhou Creek, a few blocks from the nightclub. Aiyi said she provided her employees a wage and lodging, since finding a place to sleep was always a challenge with the flood of refugees fleeing from the north. All her Chinese employees, the band and the ballroom dancers, lived in the Old City, which was unsuitable for him because he was a foreigner. So she had taken ahold of her best friend’s uncle and rented his apartment.

“And don’t worry, I’ll deduct the rent from your wage,” she said.

It didn’t seem important how much his wage was—he had a shelter for Miriam! The room measured about twelve feet by twelve feet, with no heater, no fireplace. But it had a bamboo bed, a wall calendar, a wooden stool, and a chipped cabinet with twelve lidless square drawers. The shared kitchen was at the end of the hallway, the communal toilet near the staircase. Many Chinese lived inside the building, but some rooms were boarded up.