That evening, I went up to the building’s rooftop with a glass of brandy mixed with soda.
The streets were dark, the night pregnant with silence. With the shifting lights from windows, I could see the faint contours of houses and villas, the palisades of shops, and the foggy domes of plane trees. There was no rustling of night creatures or rumbling of machine guns or clunks from railroads—a rare moment of quiet, peace, filling my heart with the wonder of the otherworldly dawn of what-ifs. What if I didn’t have to choose? What if there were no Japanese in Shanghai?
28
ERNEST
Ernest walked up to the landing of Sassoon’s hotel, the same landing he had stepped on last year, and slid through the revolving door. The lobby looked just as he had remembered: golden, elegant, sparkling with marble and glittering with expensive decor. Once again, he came here looking for a job. His hand had healed completely, and he was anxious to play the piano. But when they were in the car, Aiyi had said, for his safety, it would be best if he worked in another place.
There, just a few paces from him, the old man, clad in his usual top hat and tails, holding the walking stick, limped across the lobby. Sassoon had a camera hanging around his neck and was followed by an assistant hauling a tripod.
“Good afternoon, Sir Sassoon,” Ernest said with an easy smile. However brusquely Sassoon had treated him, he bore the man no ill wishes or rancor.
The man stopped. “Young man, I’ve met you before. You look familiar.”
“Yes, indeed, sir. I asked to play in your Jazz Bar last year. I’m a pianist.” His eyes were on Sassoon’s camera. It was an old-version Leica. His own camera was superior.
“Do you need a job? Wait. Aren’t you working for Miss Shao?”
“Not anymore, sir. And yes, I’m looking for a new job.”
Sassoon smiled. There appeared, perhaps only an illusion, a leap of friendliness in his sharp eyes. “I’m glad you came here. Ciro’s could use a pianist like you, but my American band just left Shanghai. Perhaps you’d be interested in playing in the bar? Classical music or jazz, whatever you like. The stage is yours. Five American dollars a week. You’ll need to find your own lodging, sadly, since my Embankment Building is no longer a dorm. How does that sound?”
That was much more than what he’d received in Aiyi’s club. It must be because he was now a famous pianist. And with the soaring inflation and the exchange rate now favoring American dollars, one dollar could fetch one hundred Chinese fabi. Ernest grinned. “When do I start?”
It was just as Sassoon had promised. The Jazz Bar was his stage, where he played anything he liked. Reading the scores he found in the piano bench, he played Schumann’s Kinderszenen, Mozart’s C-minor fantasia, and then Chopin’s nocturne in E-flat major. Chopin’s fine tune opened a window on his memories: his last recital in a music hall, playing this piece, his head pelted by beer bottles and insults, but his hands never missing a note. He was thirteen then. After that he was never allowed to play in music halls again.
The crowd in the bar was different from that in Aiyi’s nightclub. Many were British or American, who listened with the rapt expression of an audience who appreciated classical music. During the breaks, Ernest mingled with them, asking them about the war in Europe. When he had worked in Aiyi’s club, he hadn’t heard anything about the war, and English and German publications were difficult to obtain. Countries were crumbling under Hitler’s assault, they said. France had signed an armistice and surrendered last year, and London was bombed for months. Britain, in desperate need of manpower, had ordered the Seaforth Highlanders in Shanghai to sail to Singapore, and from there they’d leave to join the fleets in the Mediterranean.
Ernest was shocked. If the Seaforth Highlanders withdrew, British citizens in Shanghai would be left without protection, and the military power of the Settlement, bolstered by the British force and the American Fourth Marines, would be greatly weakened.
The ripples from the war in Europe, it seemed, had reached the shores of Shanghai.
Sassoon often came to listen to the music with a gaggle of Russian showgirls dressed in scanty, shimmering costumes. They were stunning, their glances sensual heat, their limbs dazzling sweeps; men in the bar gulped and stared. Sassoon showered the women with lavish gifts: perfume bottles, fur coats, leather bags, and chocolate. At midnight, the group squeezed in the elevator while people sighed and whispered about Sassoon’s studio with its darkroom and the photos he took.
“What kind of photos do you take, sir?” Ernest asked him when he came to the bar again. He was beyond excited. Sassoon, a fellow photographer.