Ying, who had disappeared for months, came on the sixth day of the vigil and stood by the coffin; his eyelids were swollen, his face wet, and his lips pinched in a rigid sign of anger. His grief was heavy, dangerous like an ax.
I wanted to lean on his shoulder and weep, yet I wanted to pound on him and tear him into pieces too. For all those months while I wallowed in miserable pregnancy at home, he had paid little attention—he didn’t even know about the baby I gave away. He was gone doing his seedy business, a stranger I barely knew, a rogue aiding people like Yamazaki.
I sat and tossed a sheet of gilt paper into the cauldron, evading people’s gazes. When they circled in the hallway, I followed them. I was mute, head lowered, and those chants, oh, those monotonous, alien, grave chants, they sounded like a sentence from heaven.
After forty-nine days of mourning, when Cheng’s soul left, Cheng’s mother sent a servant to my room, asking if I was pregnant.
I wasn’t.
She let her words be relayed, heavy and clunky, like a loaded freight train, that given the circumstances, it would be best if I could move out.
Cheng’s mother gave me nothing; she kept all that was Cheng’s. Our marriage had been swift, and I was not entitled to his inheritance and properties. I couldn’t afford to start another legal battle anyway. For the second time in a few months, I packed. I stuffed into my two leather suitcases all my clothes and the jewelry and gifts Cheng had given me. I had no money.
Outside Cheng’s mansion, I came to an oak tree. It was early April, the air damp and chilly. I wore my black mink coat; in my hands I carried the suitcases. Alone, I had no chauffeur, nor an automobile, nor a servant. In front of me passed rickshaw pullers, toothless beggars, hunchback street vendors, and a dour-looking Imperial Japanese Army soldier. Cheng’s chauffeur, out of pity, stuffed ten fabi into my hands so I could use it to take a tram or a rickshaw.
I didn’t know what else to do, so I climbed on a bus.
74
ERNEST
Today Yamazaki would come to view the drafted proposal. Ernest sat at a desk by the window. He was ready, the proposal in a manila folder, a pistol in his drawer.
He had purchased the gun on the black market, determined to take matters into his own hands when necessary. But he must be careful. He couldn’t afford to make a mistake.
“Shouldn’t he be here by now?” Mr. Schmidt asked, taking off his tall hat. He had grown plump and bought an automobile and an apartment near the racecourse. He sat with Golda and several associates in the meeting room; everybody looked worried.
“He’s late,” Golda said.
“What if he declines the proposal?” Mr. Schmidt asked.
“We’ll draft another one.” Ernest felt sick at heart thinking about killing Yamazaki. He hadn’t told anyone about the pistol. The less they knew, the better.
“I hear there’s a rumor that the Japanese had a fallout with Meisinger.” Golda was smoking a cigarette on the leather couch covered with a leopard print fur blanket. Her red hair curled delicately, framing her face like an elegant wave, her green eyes alluring. In her boredom, she had been playing different roles: a prim British governess, a jealous Paris courtesan, and today a Chinese singer. She wore a traditional Chinese fitted dress with a slit near her thigh, her skin shining like pearls, but all he could think of was he had seen the same dress on Aiyi. Maybe not the same dress. Maybe not the same color. Maybe not the same style at all. He should go find her at Cheng’s house.
“Yamazaki is evil; don’t forget that,” he said.
“He’s evil, but courteous. Isn’t that curious? They didn’t send us to the internment camp. They let us run our businesses, allow us to purchase apartments,” Mr. Schmidt said.
There was a tinge of admiration in Mr. Schmidt’s tone that irritated Ernest. Mr. Schmidt was too blind and deaf to know what was happening. The Japanese left them alone because they were busy warring against the Chinese in the hinterlands and the Americans in the Pacific. They didn’t forget them, though, or Yamazaki wouldn’t come asking for a partnership.
“A courteous tiger is still a tiger.” Ernest stood and put his hands in his trousers’ pockets. He was dressed in his favorite attire, a gray single-breasted jacket with a tapered waist, a gray tie, and black leather loafers. With all his wealth, he didn’t wear any jewelry, only a Rolex watch. He was strong, his body straight and healthy, his face sculpted, his eyes sober.
From the street came a loud screech. He jerked. Two Japanese soldiers jumped off a truck and rushed inside his building. Something was wrong.