Miriam was a typical bookworm. At five, she’d read about the well-behaved bunnies Hans and Grete in Die H?schenschule and entertained herself with the stories of mischievous Max and Moritz in Eine Bubengeschichte in sieben Streichen. By ten, she became an avid fan of Franz Kafka’s Die Verwandlung. Since schools refused to admit Jewish kids in Berlin, she had read and reread Kafka. Ernest had wrenched the book from her, tired of hearing her scream in her sleep. Kafka was not for kids.
Miriam was lonely. If he were not so exhausted, he would spend some time with her, talk to her, or play a game, but his limbs slackened, and sleepiness crept over him. “I don’t know. But Mother and Father will come soon. Remember that.”
“Can I go to the club with you?”
“It’s not for a twelve-year-old girl.”
“I just turned thirteen.”
He had forgotten her birthday. “It’s not for a thirteen-year-old either.”
“But I want to do something. Get a job, like you. Can I get a job? Wake up, Ernest!”
He yawned. “Who will hire a thirteen-year-old? Actually, you should go to school. But I hear the Japanese had shut down Chinese schools, and they are still not allowed to open. Schools owned by the Americans and British might be open, but I doubt there is a Jewish school.” He was about to fall asleep when he felt Miriam’s hand shaking him, and he caught something she said. “What did you say? Opium den?”
“I didn’t know it was an opium den. It was dark inside. Many Chinese were smoking on cots. I thought they were sleeping, but they were holding long pipes. The place smelled so good! Like a flower shop. They almost caught me.”
Ernest sat up. Exhaustion, lack of sleep, and fear pounded in his head. “Did you wander to the Chinese area? I told you not to go out. The streets are not safe for girls. What if, what if—”
“It’s fascinating, the Old City, so different from Berlin. The buildings had curved eaves perched with dragons, like an emperor’s palace in the history books I read. The streets were dirty, and there were many weird things going on. There was a stage for executions or something. I saw a man hanged! Near the temple, some girls were—”
His sleepiness vanished. “Miriam, it’s dangerous. You need to stay inside.”
“I can’t stay here and talk to the cockroaches all day, Ernest.”
“What happens if you get lost on the street? Or . . . or . . . God! I have to get some sleep so I can go to work tonight. But you stay in this apartment. Can you promise me, Miriam?”
He heard nothing for a long moment; relieved, he was falling asleep again when he heard a grunt. “You don’t care about me.”
15
AIYI
Two weeks and five days. That was how long Ernest served the customers. I supposed I should have been pleased, for his humble attitude had appeased everyone—Mr. Zhang and even Mr. Li and manager Wang. But each time I scanned the dancing customers, the drinking men, I was bothered. All my competitors had something to attract customers: Sassoon’s Ciro’s had the fanciest brandy, Del Monte had the exotic Russian girls, and those small dance clubs had cheap admission fees. My club had no signature feature. Stride piano was my plan to raise my club’s competitive edge. But four months would be a long wait.
But I couldn’t force Ernest out; I had promised.
I closed the clothbound ledger in my office. I wondered what had happened to me, this indecisiveness.
My Nash stopped in front of a massive walled building guarded by two gray stone lions with carved manes. From inside the high wall, my old butler called that he was coming and pulled open the double wooden gates painted in vermilion.
This was my home, but it belonged to my oldest brother, Sinmay. Our grandfather had built this fifty-eight-room compound in the late 1800s in a prime location inside the Old City, hoping to house many generations of the Shao family. The compound, encircled by high walls mounted with stone dragons, had four wings in four directions, a central reception hall, and a fashionable swimming pool Sinmay had installed. Sinmay’s residence, the east wing, included a study, a music room, and a salon where he showed off his poetry collection to his literary friends; my room, an individual building near a koi pond, was located at the west wing near the back. The compound was the last legacy my grandfather had left, poorly maintained and in need of a thorough cleaning, but still a jewel in Shanghai’s landscape and an indicator of my family’s standing and past opulence.
It was before dusk, the air a swath of gray, the sky pale like rinsed silk, and the century-old ginkgo trees, pines, and oaks—blackened and leafless after the bombing—looked forlorn with their bent limbs. Near the fountain in the courtyard, in a spot reserved for Cheng, was his black Buick. Next to his car was Sinmay’s black Nash—so he had returned from his trip out of town. It occurred to me that Cheng must have filled Sinmay in on the goings-on at my club. It made me nervous.