She tilted her head, looking incredulous. “Of course. You’re welcome to help out.”
She looked like she was going to say something else, but the well-dressed man took her arm and they walked away.
So Ernest worked as a server, a bartender, and a busboy. Mr. Zhang didn’t bother him anymore, and the other customers and the staff in the club seemed friendlier, often asking him about his hand. “Good as new.” He raised it like a flag, a flag of peace.
While keeping busy, he listened to the conversations of the customers and mouthed their words, tuning to the rising and falling tones, like her name. But of course, nothing was as special and endearing as her name. Whenever he saw her, his gaze followed her. It would perhaps do him good to keep his feelings under wraps if he wanted to keep the job, but it was hopeless. He felt like he was a different man. He laughed as loudly as he wanted; he could jump off a cliff on a dare.
He counted the days until he could play the piano again. When the band played, he listened with great focus and memorized every song. “The Entertainer,” “On the Sunny Side of the Street,” “Memories of You.” Swing, ragtime, jazz, all the popular American music he had heard of but was not familiar with. He noted the pentatonic scale, the main melody, and the free improvisation of the clarinetist, the trumpeter, and the violinist. The fiery beats made his heart pound; he tapped the floor with his feet, and his good left hand struck invisible keys in the air. His mind roared with the outpouring of energy and the thrilling chorus of the instruments.
His passion for jazz swelled. He learned the music had arrived in Shanghai during the late 1920s when many American musicians came there during the Great Depression. Aiyi’s favorite song, “The Last Rose of Shanghai,” was composed during that time, by Buck Clayton and Li Jinhui, a Chinese composer. After the musicians left, their songs were recorded, copied, and fused into traditional Chinese ditties. Inspired by jazz, the music industry in Shanghai, once almost nonexistent, flourished in the 1930s. Songs blending the notes of jazz and folk tunes were broadcast on the radio and composed for films, a new breed of female singers rose to fame, and companies were founded to produce gramophone recordings.
Ten days had passed when one evening he noticed something. “Why does your band never play your favorite song, Aiyi?”
She put a finger on her lips.
No one in the club knew what her favorite song was.
One day, Ernest finished his work near dawn. On the way to his apartment, he bought a block of tofu and some bits of coal from a peddler in order to boil some water since the tap water in the kitchen was unsanitary. Ten fabi a night was still his payment, thanks to Aiyi’s kindness, but he was barely scraping by, feeding Miriam and himself. The other day he had bought a cup of rice. When they were ready to eat, Miriam had found ticks and two squirmy mealworms in her bowl. He dared her, and she swallowed the invaders, giggling. Life was hard, but as long as they were together, they could glean small jewels of joy from a bowl of rice with mealworms.
He was humming when Miriam, in her beige shearling trapper hat, opened the door. She was barefoot, holding a fly swatter. He lifted his hands. “Look what I got.”
“Tofu? I told you I don’t like it. It tastes like dirt.”
Miriam was moody. Since they moved to the apartment, he had told her to stay inside for safety. It might be out of his fear or him being overprotective, but after Leah, he was not going to take any chances. Miriam had agreed, especially seeing him wounded, but the confinement was taking a toll on her.
He placed the coal bits and food in the cabinet. “Look, I have a job now. When I get paid more, I’ll get you better food.”
“Can we talk, Ernest?”
“Later, maybe? I’m tired. It’s been a long night.” He took off his shoes and coat and dropped on the bed with a groan. He was spent, unable to keep his eyes open. After all these days, he still couldn’t get used to staying up all night. “Wake me up at noon, will you?”
“I don’t have a watch.”
“Fine. I’ll get up myself. Do you want to go back to sleep, too, Miriam? It’s still early.”
“I can’t. Too many rats and cockroaches. Do you know how many cockroaches I squashed? Thirty-four!”
To cheer Miriam up, he had started a human-against-pest game.
“That’s good. Keep it up, second lieutenant.” He yawned and closed his eyes.
“Ernest? Ernest! Don’t go to sleep. Talk to me. I have no one to talk to. I have nothing to read. I can’t understand what people are saying. This is so boring. I don’t like this life. How long are we going to stay here?”