She was a tall, curvy twenty-three-year-old, the sort of girl who made me self-conscious, the best dancer I’d cultivated. She was flirtatious, and unfortunately, well aware of her worth. If she quit, the other dancers would follow; it would pose a huge problem.
Running a business during the occupation was a constant challenge. There were too many bills and not enough profit. Routinely I haggled with lighting crews, cleaning staff, food providers, and rental contractors. I also supplied my dancers with nice clothes and shoes and paid them to be trained in the latest dance moves. I had yet to pay back the loan to the plaster company that had repaired the roof when the Japanese dropped a bomb on Bubbling Well Road. Then there was a hefty weekly business “tax” paid to the rogues of the enemy government. So many bills to pay.
Ernest’s stride piano, with its spectacular sound and novel appeal, would bring more customers to my club and greatly improve my finances—if he succeeded in delivering the magnificent music with that wounded hand of his.
“This is not going to end well. Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Cheng said, suddenly beside me.
If his warnings could be counted as raindrops, there would be a flood. But what if he was right?
Three gangly boys staggered toward me; they were young, fifteen or sixteen. I had no doubt they received allowances from their grandparents, but I welcomed all kinds of customers.
I slipped off the bar stool and smoothed my dress. With a pearl hairpin, gold leaf earrings, and a gold necklace, I looked sophisticated enough to manage the club but still young enough to be manipulated. A risk I was willing to take; I adored fine clothing and jewelry. “Welcome to my club, young men!”
“Miss Shao, so glad to see you. I saw the advertisement. I hear it’s the pianist’s first show, so I had to give it a chance. But why did you hire a white man?” one asked, his face covered with red pimples like lanterns.
“Everyone says he is a German sausage. Is he any good?” The second one was cross-eyed.
The third with a loud voice echoed, “German sausage? I thought you said you were a vegetarian, Miss Shao.”
I raised my eyebrows. These boys should be ashamed of talking to me like this.
“Fuck off.” Cheng, who had turned around, rolled up his sleeves.
The trio stumbled back, recognizing the tailored suit and fine leather shoes. But I didn’t want them to be scared away. “Cheng, would you rather go to the office?”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
The band was about to start. I walked away, only to face a burly man with a thick gold necklace, who shook his head at me. “Miss Shao, Miss Shao, you shouldn’t have. If you fancy meat, Chinese horses are the best, and an old horse outlasts a young stallion. You know the saying: an old horse knows the way. White men—”
“I’m sorry, but I think they’re going to start now.” I walked to the other side of the dance floor, where I could see Ernest’s face. He looked pale, his hands trembling.
Oh no. I should have given him more time. This would be a disaster.
Mr. Li began to count. Then out rang the song “Let’s Do It （Let’s Fall in Love）。”
Ernest cocked his head, listening. Suddenly, as if he had waited long enough, his fingers struck the keys in a quick, infectious succession, and the rich, luxurious, crystallized piano notes poured out. The band seemed surprised; chagrin appeared on Mr. Li’s face, but he took down his trumpet a notch and Ernest seized the moment, pounding out ascending arpeggios that seemed like they would never end. The air vibrated, explosive with unstoppable scales. A tantalizing sensation erupted, flooding the dance floor with an effervescence of light and dynamics. People whistled, shouting in surprise; Lanyu and my dancers flowed to the dance floor, arm in arm with their partners.
A stream of euphoria coursed through me. This was real jazz. Ernest had done it.
From near the dance floor, the gangly trio was shouting—“Oh, Miss Shao, this is fantastic.”
Then came the yapping of the burly man with the gold chain, pointing at his lap: “This is phenomenal. Look! Miss Shao. It’s big, and it’s so hard. You must come sit on it. It’s not my chair.”
Where was Cheng when I needed him? But I was so happy. Ernest was perfect, and the band knew it. Together they played “Summertime,” then “What Is This Thing Called Love?” with Ernest taking the lead, the band accompanying, all in seamless harmony, and people swung and laughed on the dance floor.
At dawn the music finally wound down. It was the longest session ever. All gin from Sassoon was sold out. Ernest’s piano, as I had hoped, was a huge success. I smiled, and smiled more. And it took me great control to not jump into his arms. So silly I was.