“Of course people will see them. I put my photos up for display. It’s art.”
I nearly dropped my fork. Imagine. Nude photos of me hung on a wall for everyone to see.
Sassoon sighed. “Fine, darling, if you insist. I shall honor your wish. Your photos will be private. I shall be glad to be your business partner even though you break my heart. You’ll still consider being my marriage partner in the future?”
I nodded. “Of course I will. When will you consider drafting the contract?”
“I shall have it drafted in a few days. And you know my penthouse is the safest place in China. No one could enter it without my permission.”
That I believed.
He extended his hand, and I shook it. “I’ll see you when the contract is ready.”
I had just let go of the chance to become Asia’s wealthiest woman, yet I had no regret. With the contract, I would be able to protect my business and Ernest. If Yamazaki threatened me to turn in Ernest, I could refuse.
34
ERNEST
On a late afternoon, he was about to enter the hotel when he saw Jyo’s familiar giant figure on the sidewalk, his hand on his Webley, watching two Japanese soldiers hopping onto a motorcycle. Before Ernest could call out, Jyo turned around and disappeared.
The Sikh police had been ordered to disband, Ernest was aware, and he wondered how his friend still possessed his gun. At least Jyo was safe.
Ernest slipped through the revolving door and headed toward the Jazz Bar at the end of the lobby. He stopped midway, catching that lovely face of hers standing in front of the elevator wearing the black mink coat with tuxedo collar, her hair styled in neat ringlets around her face, her lips—the lips he had longingly kissed—the color of a red rose. Her quiet beauty was catching light, attracting the gaze of the guests, but her most avid admirer, it appeared, was Sassoon, who took her arm, his mustache flying wide like wings, and ushered her inside the elevator. Ernest faintly heard the murmur of studio across the lobby.
He wouldn’t have given it a second thought had it not been for Aiyi’s nervous smile, the unusual jittery movement of her hands, and the triumphant look on Sassoon’s face, like the one he often had when he marched toward the elevator with those scantily clad Russian dancers. The thought jumped into Ernest’s head, blinding him, like a camera’s flash.
Suddenly he disliked the Briton, his fine black suit; his long, thick eyebrows; his suaveness and confidence; and even his friendliness. Ernest skidded toward the elevator just as it started to close, just as she raised her head and caught sight of him. No! Come back.
As if hearing his thoughts, Aiyi took a step forward inside the elevator, but the door clicked shut.
35
AIYI
I was glad the door was shut, glad Ernest couldn’t stop the elevator. And the look in his eyes, as if he knew. For a moment I thought to confess my plan to him. Yet that would be a disaster. What man would like to imagine his lover naked in front of another man?
“He saw us,” I said.
“Ernest? He plays good piano but also has a sharp mind. One day he’ll be a great businessman,” Sassoon said.
“Did you tell him anything?” I asked.
“Of course not. You must trust me, darling. I am a man of my word.”
The elevator stopped at the eleventh floor, and Sassoon, in his usual intriguing manner, held the door open with one hand. “Shall we?”
I stepped into his penthouse, the safest place in Shanghai.
The studio’s door swung open. There was a comfortable dimness and strong scents of fresh carnations, cigar smoke, musk, and lavender. The air was warm, soft like silk. No music, only a low hum from a machine somewhere. Sassoon moved ahead of me, his walking stick stabbing the lush Persian carpet.
I could still back out, excuse myself, renege on the contract, and bolt.
The door clanked closed.
The light was turned on. I faced a bunch of white, fat carnations planted in a glazed blue vase; near it was a small table, a leopard fur blanket on a chesterfield, and a tripod like a spider. It was just Sassoon and me. No one else.
A League of Nations of women gazed at me from the wall. They were all naked, in various poses, with various eyes, and with various lengths of thighs. Some were bold, some coy. My head spun.
“You look nervous.” Sassoon limped to the tripod.
What an understatement. I cleared my throat. “I don’t understand, Sir Sassoon. Why do you like nude photos?”
“Darling, you must not consider me a rotten man.”
“Absolutely not. Only a man of rotten taste.”