The Last Rose of Shanghai(8)
“Of course they won’t.” I picked up my glass. The first sip gave a sharp sting to my tongue. Strong brandy. I hadn’t tasted anything like this for months. It would sell well in my club. “I have a favor to ask. Would you sell me some of your alcohol stock? Say, some gin and whiskey? Ten cases each. Or any amount you’re willing to part with.”
He leaned closer, the shoulder pad of his fine suit licking my shoulder. “Darling, I shall be happy to help you. But what do you say you come visit my studio first?”
I pulled back. He hadn’t forgotten.
“Well, darling.” He poured himself some more of the Cobra’s Kiss. “May I remind you again. You have a perfect figure, and you’re young and beautiful. Why not show it off now? Nude photography is art.”
It was awkward. Nude photography, no matter how tasteful he claimed it was, for me, was just another name for pornography. I would never agree to it, not for hundreds of dollars, and definitely not for some gin. I also had a feeling that it was more than my photographs Sassoon was after, womanizer that he was. But I was a woman with good morals. While I would be glad to tango with him in a ballroom, I would not tumble with him in the bedroom.
However, if I refused him outright, displeased him, I might as well forget about the alcohol.
“Well?” His black eyes were close, too close.
I smiled. “Let me see, Sir Sassoon. You’re Asia’s richest man—of course, you always get what you want.”
“I do.”
So did I. “Sadly, I’m a businesswoman, not a model.”
He groaned, slapping his hands on the silver-crusted cane, his mustache sagging. He would be grumpy and morose for a while, and I would give him some grace, some time to think, mollify him, and then negotiate the alcohol. I stretched out my legs and turned my head to the side, and that was when I saw, through the hazy air, punctuated by wafts of pale smoke and pearls of light, a man at the entrance of the bar who raised a gloved hand and waved at me.
7
ERNEST
It was the girl he had helped the other day. She looked up at him, her wide black eyes dancing with surprise, her face glistening with light. She had one elbow on the table, her body turning slightly, showing off a slim and curvy figure wrapped in a long green dress embroidered with bamboos, a slit near her thigh revealing a sliver of her pearly skin.
He snapped upright and strode toward her. Such a pleasure to see a familiar face. His job hunting had been a disaster. Who would have known the music halls, theaters, and cabarets were closed? Several cinemas and dance clubs were open, but as soon as people saw him, the doors were shut.
He had learned that there were about eight thousand Britons, two thousand Americans, and another few thousand Russians and other Europeans in Shanghai, and now the city was overrun with thousands of Jewish refugees. Each day, Ernest walked past grim-faced European refugees spreading their valuables on the street, shawl-wrapped German hausfraus selling their fur scarves or necklaces to middle-aged Russian women who seemed to have established themselves in this city, and desperate Austrian men peddling sausages and knocking on people’s doors. It dawned on him: war-torn Shanghai, with a flood of Jews and thousands of displaced Chinese refugees, simply didn’t have jobs left for a newcomer like him.
This was the fifth day of his job search and he was feeling discouraged again. But then he heard the distinct swinging rhythm of music coming from the green-pyramid building, Sassoon’s hotel. It was similar to American jazz, with the orderly chorus of a trumpet and piano, but imbued with a smooth rhythm, sung by a sweet feminine voice. Exhilarated, he sprinted up to the landing and strode through the revolving door he had left a few days ago. Following the music, he passed a brightly lit Rolex store, the Jasmine Lounge, a café, and found the source—the gramophone in the Jazz Bar. And right next to the gramophone was that lovely face of hers.
“Hello! We meet again,” he said in English, reaching her table.
A smile appeared on her face. “You got out!”
“I got away.” She was still beautiful, still sophisticated, with a reserved look, almost distant. But she remembered him.
“Good for you.”
“Are you okay? No one bothers you, I hope?”
“No. And I’m glad. Can you imagine? Getting attacked not once but twice?”
Her voice had a gentle feminine lilt, like the jazz singer he’d just heard. Ernest smiled, unable to take his eyes off her, her red lips, her smooth face, her bright eyes.
She continued, “I was hoping to see you again so I could thank you. There are not many foreigners like you. I’m grateful for your help. What brings you here? Are you a guest of the hotel?”
In fact, her voice sounded more melodic than the jazz singer’s. “Oh no. I heard music.” It had stopped. A man in a suit was bending over the gramophone on the counter; someone shouted in the corner of the bar. Ernest turned to look and froze, a thrill running through him. In the dark bar filled with cigarette smoke and absinthe and men’s shadowy figures, the instrument dearest to him was sitting near a stage—a piano.
“Do you know him, darling?” said the old man across from her. He had a fresh white carnation pinned on his suit; a walking stick, like a royal scepter, rested near his hand. He looked to be in a bad mood, his glance mirthless, almost hostile.