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.
“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.”