I think my story would have been different if I had never heard jazz at my best friend Eileen’s house. Once I heard it, I became an ardent fan. There was no popular music in Shanghai, in the sense of music as you know now. Recorded music didn’t exist in our culture when I was born. I begged Mother to send me to the high school where Eileen was enrolled, St. Mary’s Hall, a private girls’ school run by American missionaries, so I could hear more of the music. Mother doted on me, so even though everyone else in the family objected, I was enrolled.
At school, I feigned sickness during Elizabeth Barrett Browning and Emily Dickinson and hid in a spacious red-brick auditorium, listening to Louis Armstrong and Duke Ellington, marveling at their sensational record sales. I decided what to do with my life: become an entrepreneur like Elizabeth Arden or Coco Chanel. So it was apt to say that literature taught me Western tradition, but American jazz inspired me to become a businesswoman.
While still in school, I made my first investment, a secret investment, in a record company run by a cousin, with my sizable allowance. The company failed, and I lost all my money.
Then tragedy struck: Mother died in an accident, a heavy blow after the death of my father the previous year. After her funeral, I wept as my siblings, one by one, left my life. My second brother joined Chiang Kai-shek’s Nationalist army to hide in the heartland; my third brother severed the family bond to become a Buddhist monk; my fourth brother died of fever; and my only sister ran away with a tycoon selling porcelain toilets in Hong Kong. When the nightmare of war started, Eileen fled to Hong Kong, the maids who pampered me were relocated, and I was left with two brothers, a fiancé, and no bank account.
I purchased the jazz nightclub with the help of my cousin, the same cousin whose record company I had invested in, and began to work. I had been struggling, managing it for two years, when I met Ernest. My life was changed forever.
11
AIYI
All was going well.
After many phone calls and inquiries on the day I hired Ernest, I finally heard that one of Cheng’s cousins kept a piano for his second wife’s daughter, so I borrowed it from him and had it swiftly transferred to my club.
Sassoon, to my delight, delivered the alcohol to my club three days later. Gordon’s Distilled London Dry Gin. Gilbey’s. And Old Taylor from America. Their fragrance perfumed the air as my managers carried them to the storage room and displayed them on the shelves at the bar. Holding a highball glass filled with gin adulterated with water to save the alcohol, I examined the piano—a small instrument in oak, not a Steinway like the one in Sassoon’s Jazz Bar—and toured around the empty tables that I hoped would soon be filled up with eager customers. Ernest’s stride piano and Sassoon’s imported gin and whiskey. This could be the turn of my business.
I gave a few more instructions to my managers and went to my office at the end of the hallway. Holding a small mirror, I reapplied red lipstick and powder and carefully arranged my bangs—I had the trendy hairstyle some calendar-girl models copied. I looked fashionable, with my gold leaf earrings and gold necklace, the essential jewelry that signaled I was still richer than most people. But I had a second thought. Unbuttoning the fitted pomegranate-red dress, I put on a Western bra saved in the drawer in my dressing room, the type with padding, and tucked in it a ball of tissue sprayed with perfume so the scent wouldn’t be overpowering.
Today was Ernest’s first day.
“Good afternoon, Miss Shao.” Swinging music burst through my office door as Ernest entered, dressed in his same double-breasted coat with creased lapels. A cloud of stubble traced his jaw; there was thoughtfulness in his movements, as if he were holding something precious but afraid to lose it. But his eyes. They were radiating energy, fondness, and warmth, a powerful tune that made my heart bubble with happiness. Just like that, I wanted to smile with him and talk about music.
But I composed myself. He was, after all, a pianist I’d hired. “I’m glad you came. Today is your first day. Let’s talk about your work. Sit, sit.”
“Thank you for the opportunity, Ms. Shao.” He took off his glove and extended his hand.
He was well mannered and respectful, but I had to say, “Ernest, may I remind you? This is a Chinese club. It might be good for you to know some etiquette. It’s rather inappropriate to shake a woman’s hand.”
“I didn’t know. Why?”
“Chinese people consider touching between men and women an intimate action.”
“Even for business?”