The Last Rose of Shanghai(7)
I put my hand on my waist, relieved. No one would assault me in his presence. People respected him, even the Japanese. When shrapnel had scraped the corner of the hotel’s awning during the bombing a little over two years ago, a Japanese officer had bowed deeply from the waist to Sassoon, apologizing for the misfire.
“Good evening, darling. A momentous occasion to see you. I was going to phone. How do you do?” His British English was impeccable; his voice was warm, confident, but as always, arrogant. I was used to that.
We’d rarely had business dealings, but I knew him well from staying in this hotel as a guest with my best friend, Eileen. Those teenage mornings of breakfast in bed, days spent viewing trendy magazines, afternoon teas sampling towers of golden pastries, and evenings filled with private jazz entertainment—how I missed them. Sassoon was sometimes generous, occasionally acerbic, and thoroughly arrogant, but I liked him well enough. He was different from the Chinese I knew. Though always complaining of the pain in his leg, he held the door for me before I entered, pulled the chair before I sat, and filled up my cup with coffee. I found the behavior intriguing. Cheng—my fiancé—and all of my relatives would not deign to fill their own cups; they had servants to do that.
I had no doubt Sassoon would help me out—he had many cases of gin and whiskey to spare since the Japanese restriction on alcohol only applied to the Chinese. But seeing his face reminded me of his perverse passion for nude photos. “I’m well, Sir Sassoon. About our meeting the other day. My apologies. But I assume you’ve heard what happened?”
“The incident. Utterly appalling. You’ll allow me to make it up to you, darling?” His cane clicking against the marble floor, he led me to the Jazz Bar. His entourage followed, a blond lady in a blue evening gown and his bodyguards.
“How would you make it up to me?” I entered the bar. The gramophone was playing Shanghai jazz, a blend of American jazz and Chinese folk music popular with the locals, not American jazz. The bar must have encountered some problems. The stage, where an American band usually played, was empty; the fallboard of the piano was closed. And the bar was smoky and noisy; many people crowded around octagonal tables. All foreigners. A thought occurred to me. The man who’d rescued me might be a guest of the hotel. If I saw him again, I should at least express my gratitude.
“Darling, I’ll be happy to give you a discount on any suite of your choice. Remind me, when was the last time you came here? Last year? You should come more often.” Sassoon sat at the table closest to the entrance—he disliked walking—so I sat across from him where I could look, in envy, at all the shining bottles of brandy, scotch, absinthe, and gin on the shelves.
Even in his effort to compensate, he still intended to make money. That was what Sassoon and I had in common: we were businesspeople, with an instinct for profit. “I’ll be glad to consider it. You know how much I love the suites. And your alcohol. Look at those bottles!”
“Ah. You can have anything you like, darling. What may I treat you to? Martini? Or my drink?”
“I can never say no to your famous cocktail.” He made the best drink, called the Cobra’s Kiss.
“Good choice, darling.” He signaled for his entourage; two sprinted to the shelves behind the counter. “I shall have the Jacobean suite reserved for you tomorrow, if you wish. Remember, the door of my hotel is always open to you.”
“But the world has changed, hasn’t it? I can’t believe it’s no longer safe.”
“Darling, my hotel is the safest place in Shanghai. And you’re my most distinguished guest. You’re an extraordinary woman, shrewd and beautiful. I confess, if you were Jewish, I would marry you.”
He always talked about that—Jewish and Gentile. I didn’t know the difference; to me, they were all foreigners. But marriage with the wealthiest man in Asia? I would be more than happy to accept the proposal if it were genuine and realistic. After all, a marriage might be too hot or too cold, but it was essential, like porridge.
But a union with Sassoon would never happen. For I knew well of this: a marriage between a Chinese and a foreigner would be a cautionary lesson, not a fairy tale. “Sir Sassoon, are you seducing me?”
“Is it successful?”
“I don’t know, but I’m serious. If you were Chinese, I would marry you.”
He chuckled. Rejections were rare for him, thus intriguing. “How disappointing, darling. I do hope you’ll change your mind.” He took a bottle of absinthe from his entourage member’s hand, poured the green liquid in a mixer, and shook it expertly.
I eyed the bottles of brandy, cura?ao, cream, and green absinthe on the table; the strong scent of alcohol was intoxicatingly heady. “Between you and me, Sir Sassoon, I’m having a difficult time filling my customers’ orders. There is no alcohol for my club. I’m sure you know the reason why.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of several men in suits. The Japanese, whom I could identify with one glance, raised their heads toward me. I quickly looked away.
Sassoon leaned over me and said in a low voice, “Those militants. They’ve been ingratiating themselves at the council. I loathe them.”
For that, I would overlook all his flaws. “What’s their business at the council?”
Sassoon, a powerful man, had the ear of the chairman of the Shanghai Municipal Council, the governing body of the Settlement, which consisted of British, American, Japanese, and Chinese members but was largely controlled by the Britons and Americans. When the Japanese conquered Shanghai, they had left the Settlement untouched, and the council was still firmly controlled by the same members. Sassoon poured some green mixture into two stemmed glasses and placed one in front of me. “Some very annoying business. But they won’t dare to do anything foolish.”