And it was mine.
I entered the building. In the high-ceilinged atrium, a chorus of voices rose to greet me. I nodded at the bellboys and restaurant owners who rented the spaces on the first level, crossed the tessellated floor, and went up the marble staircase to the ballroom on the second level. On the landing, one of the bouncers opened the thick wooden doors of my club, and I went inside. Instantly, the sound of music and voices of customers rushed to my ears, and familiar gauzelike vapor rich with imported cigarettes, expensive fragrances, and sharp aroma of alcohol enveloped me. As a habit, I studied everything: the brilliant eighteen thousand light bulbs meticulously embedded in the vaulted golden ceiling—a sight that never failed to make a first-timer gasp in awe—the round teak sprung dance floor aglow with pebbles of light, the band on the curtained stage, the customers in the corners, and the curved wrought iron staircase leading to the third floor.
No one was complaining about liquor, fortunately.
I gave my fur to the coat man, walked down the circular path around the dance floor, and headed to the bar. On the stage, the band started to play the music. The sound of double bass dribbled first, a trickle of dark molasses; the drumbeats pulsated, playful like a lover’s tease. Then with a bolt of pure energy, the trumpet blared. Shadowy figures leaped up in the darkness and rushed to the dance floor. Spinning, swaying, they kicked up their feet, black suits and glittery gowns whirling in a sea of jade green, wine red, and ginger yellow. The ballroom had everything the merriment seekers wanted: all music, all lulling voices, and all joys—loose, dark, as intimate as hot breath.
My customers were Chinese, and I knew many of them: the young men in pressed suits and pants, the modern girls in leather shoes and fitted dresses, the thick-bellied businessmen who recently doubled their wealth by some dubious means, the Western-universities-educated architects with glasses, and even Mr. Zhang, a gangster, who had a habit of spinning a folded pocketknife in his hand. There were also Nationalist turncoats, toadies to the Japanese, nameless assassins, and Communist spies.
They all came for their own reasons, but I would like to think they craved jazz, the foreign music of love and yearning that puritans criticized as erotic and dirty, and the waltz and tango that the traditional stoic men derided as immoral and indecent. And most importantly, they all had money. For entertainment in my ballroom was not cheap: an hour’s rate cost more than a meal for many families and a drink more than a week’s wage for many laborers. But with a fallen Shanghai, many shuttered businesses, rampant diseases, beheadings, assassinations, and daily shootings on the street, what else could you do to feel alive other than dancing and singing some songs from your heart?
I tapped my leather shoes against the teak floor and swung my hips and arms, just slightly so no one would notice. I loved jazz and loved to dance, but as the owner of the nightclub, I had learned to show great restraint of my passion or some unwanted hands would find me. So I never sang, or hummed, or swayed on my own dance floor.
Customers were calling me: “Good evening, Miss Shao.”
“You look lovely, Miss Shao. Where is my favorite whiskey you promised?”
“Have you gotten my brandy yet, Miss Shao?”
I struck a pose, a nice, appealing silhouette that worked well at attracting eyeballs and helping customers spend more money. Being a young female business owner in a man’s world had taught me how to keep a balance between attracting customers’ attention and driving them away. I was good at creating an impression of affability without encouraging their approach. “Don’t you trust me? Of course, I’ll get all the drinks. Soon, very soon.”
Then nodding to a group here and waving to the dancers there, I sat at the bar. By the shimmering lights, I counted the bottles on the shelves. Sixteen. All I had. Including the cheap local rice wine, some soda, and leftover gin. They would last for three days, five at most. Then I would be out of stock, and the market had run out of soda, sorghum wine, beer, gin, and all kinds of whiskey months ago.
My business had started to decline last year, and I had been hoping to sustain it with the sale of alcohol. Now I didn’t know what to do. I had never imagined having to deal with this kind of problem. Three years ago, before the war, I was the wealthiest heiress in Shanghai with the inheritance Mother had left me, and I had never thought to manage a jazz club—working wasn’t meant for someone like me. But the Japanese bombed the city, and the coward Nationalist armies failed to protect us. Victorious, the greedy Japanese took over the city, froze my bank account, and confiscated my family’s fortune. I was poor—I was stunned. I never thought I would need to work, but to survive, I had to learn how to make money.