Aiyi had her chauffeur walk into the apartment with him and Miriam; Aiyi didn’t come in. It would cause some gossip if she, a Chinese woman, were seen with him inside the building, she said. But she would like him to start to work in three days since she needed time to find a piano.
“She’s pretty, Ernest, but I don’t think she likes me,” Miriam said, after the chauffeur left.
“Of course she likes you.”
“She’s cold.”
“Aloof, maybe, not cold. But she’s very kind once you get to know her. How do you like this, Miriam?” He went to the window and shook the latch. It was stuck. Still, it was a room with a roof.
Miriam’s wide eyes looked desperate. “There’s only one bed.”
“So?”
Her face turned pink. Miriam was tall, like him, with long legs and broad shoulders. “I can’t share the bed with you, Ernest. I’m almost thirteen.”
The age of growing up, and he would be glad to give her some privacy, but they were not in Berlin anymore. “Then you better not kick me in my ribs. You want Pfannkuchen?”
“You have money, Ernest?” She pressed down her trapper hat. She looked happier.
“Let me see.” He picked up the suitcase and dug through their valuables, a Montblanc pen and the Leica he treasured. He took out the pen.
He sold the pen for ten Chinese fabi on the sidewalk, and then they searched for Pfannkuchen. But there were no bakeries nearby, only makeshift stalls selling bolts of silk, posters, and albums, and shops selling knitted handbags. Finally, Miriam settled for some soup in a shop.
Four cents bought them two bowls of buckwheat noodles, the best meal Ernest had had since his arrival. He drained the rich brown broth flavored with ginger, garlic, scallion, and flakes of fish. Watching Miriam’s lips shining with soup fat, he felt his heart was bursting with happiness.
He loved the city, the smell of fried peanut oil, the constant squeaks and honks, the quiet alleys, and the luxurious, bright hotels. He had a job and an apartment now. One day, he would buy forks and spoons, scissors and shaving blades, coats and vests; he would get Miriam snacks and shoes, pancakes and noodles. He would survive.
He would play the piano in her club. Aiyi, first down then up. He wanted to know more about her, her joys, her fears, her hobbies, her favorite food, her favorite drink, her favorite color.
There is a kind of love that strikes like a thunderbolt; it blinds you, yet opens your eyes to see the world anew. Within its light, a pathway was illuminated.
10
FALL 1980
THE PEACE HOTEL
Two women walk to my table, one Chinese, the other a foreigner. The Chinese, my niece, wears a pair of round sunglasses that shields her face with its burn scars; the other, I can see, is the documentarian. She appears to be in her thirties, tall, wearing a large cowgirl hat, a brown leather jacket with a long fringe on the sleeves, a brown handbag with similar fringe—even the hem of her vest peeping from under the jacket is decked with a thick border of fringe.
“Aunt.” Phoenix—my niece but also my attorney, my counselor, and my private investigator—taps my shoulder. “This is Ms. Scarlet Sorebi, the documentarian. She just flew in from Los Angeles yesterday.”
Close up, the documentarian’s face has a nice softness, but her bright eyes hit me like headlights in fog. I’m nervous again, but I shouldn’t be. After all, it’s unlikely she’ll refuse my offer. “It’s a pleasure meeting you, Ms. Sorebi,” I say.
“The pleasure is mine, ma’am.” She takes off her hat and sits down on a chair across from me; the fringe of her handbag sweeps the air, narrowly missing my face, but she doesn’t notice. She’s polite, expressing her gratitude for the paid airfare and the stay in the hotel and her excitement about this meeting. She doesn’t ask, but she must wonder why I flew her all the way from the US.
I squeeze out a smile. Maybe I’ve been surrounded by too many soft-speaking business associates, or maybe I’m too set in my ways and not accustomed to talking to strangers anymore, but I have a hard time catching up with her. Her cowgirl attire is undoubtedly a distraction, for in my opinion, people who wear this sort of costume have yet to grow up. And her voice is crisp, a pitch too high, as if she has a habit of talking over others; her accent is tinged with the dreadful Southern drawl I’d hoped never to hear again.
A wave of sadness, unbidden, engulfs me. I blink away the tears on the verge of rolling out—Ms. Sorebi is staring at me.
I hurry to speak. “My apologies. I didn’t catch your words.”