He was a maniacal Spirit Warrior but pretended to be a Bushido-biding samurai. He gave perfect forty-five-degree bows, cleaned his hands with a fresh cloth before meals, and used a hand, never a finger, to indicate the direction. He never blew his nose in public or raised his voice. But I knew courtesy was only his garment. He was a dangerous man.
Yamazaki was from Osaka, Sinmay had said. Son of an impoverished rice farmer, he grew up in Japan’s victorious afterglow over their defeat of the Russian Baltic fleet in 1905. At school, he learned about land mines, explosives, and machine guns in science, battle games in PE, military matters in arithmetic, and the principles of bravery in combat and absolute loyalty to his emperor in ethics. At eighteen, Yamazaki joined the Kwantung Army, part of the merciless Imperial Japanese Army, to obliterate China and Korea in his country’s bloody quest to expand their territory. He rose from a delivery messenger to eventually a cavalry officer who confiscated my family’s fortune. Now Yamazaki, Sinmay had said, was involved in supervising foreign businesses in the Settlement.
I had prayed to never see him again. The muscles in my face grew tight, and for a moment I was too petrified to speak.
“Why are you playing this rubbish jazz?” His Chinese was too good for a Japanese.
“Ah. It’s American music,” I replied.
It felt surreal to be in the proximity of a mad dog that would bite any second. But I knew why Yamazaki was patient with me. A typical Spirit Warrior, he believed in hierarchy. His emperor was the highest, followed by the aristocracy, the army, and the peasants, and then at the bottom, the untouchables such as the butchers and the undertakers. Aware of my family’s reputation and my social standing, he had decided to give me, an aristocratic woman from the country his army had conquered, a share of his patience, but not respect.
I wished I had the right to kick him out, but instead I was forced to stay calm for my clients’ sake. They obviously hadn’t realized yet that Yamazaki in his business suit was Japanese, or they would have panicked. With daily shootings and beheadings on the street, the last thing they wanted was to see a Japanese officer in the ballroom.
“Lowlife people’s music.” Yamazaki frowned, scanning the dance floor.
I couldn’t figure out why he would deign to come here. He still remembered me, so he must know he had confiscated my inheritance, and he must know this was my business, too, since I paid a hefty business tax each week to the local tax office. “If you don’t mind, I’ll go tell them to play a different song.”
“You’ll stay right here and tell me, Miss Shao.” He looked directly at me, his cold eyes level with mine—he was quite short, but his clear contempt made my blood boil. “Where’s the white man?”
“I don’t quite understand what you mean.”
“Chinese are all whores and liars, but I think better of you, Miss Shao. Don’t make me draw my gun.” He turned up a corner of his suit, revealing the round barrel of his black Mauser in the holster.
My brain froze.
“The man who was on a magazine. I hear he works here. There is a warrant for his arrest.”
Arrest? Ernest? “The pianist? He worked here. He was very popular, following all rules. The tax officers know about him.” Hiring him was not breaking the law, I wanted to add. “Is there some kind of mistake?”
I was distracted. People around me had noticed the gun; they gasped and slipped away. On the dance floor the dancers skittered off; meanwhile the band played frantically. This was a disaster. Everyone had realized a Japanese, with a gun, was talking to me. It wouldn’t take long before they all fled.
“I don’t make mistakes, Miss Shao. A few months ago we had a dispute with the Towelhead policemen, and one of our soldiers was killed. The murderer was wounded and escaped. We don’t know who he was. We only know he was a white man with blue eyes, recruited by those policemen. We’ve been looking for him. After months of investigation, we have a witness saying that the morning after the murder, your pianist was seen with a Towelhead on the street. The pianist’s face was bloody, his hand wounded. He has blue eyes. The descriptions match.”
This sounded so farfetched, but Yamazaki wouldn’t need to lie to me. Still I couldn’t believe it. Ernest was not a violent man, and he wouldn’t shoot anyone.
“Where is he?” Yamazaki demanded.
“He left.” Ernest’s hand had healed slowly, but each time I brought up the topic of hiring him back with Cheng, Cheng refused. I was going to risk Cheng’s wrath and rehire Ernest since some customers had stopped patronizing my club.