Ernest stepped inside the elevator decorated with redwood panels and inhaled the scents of expensive cigar and perfume. The operator, in his beige uniform, pressed the button for the eleventh floor. When the elevator stopped, he passed two masculine Chinese men in hotel uniforms rolling on the wine-colored carpet with a brand-new vacuum cleaner, a noisy round machine attached to a broomstick.
At the penthouse’s door, the bodyguards in black suits let him in. The first thing he saw was a mahogany Steinway with redwood panels, near a burgundy chesterfield and lush golden curtains. It was warm in the room, with a blast of air humming from a massive radiator grille. The penthouse was spacious; it must take up the entire floor.
Sassoon was seated near a cabinet with shelves of whiskey bottles, clothed in a blue-gray British uniform, a brown Webley in the holster. A man with a mustache, his doctor it seemed, was massaging his leg.
“Good afternoon, sir. Thank you for receiving me. Is that a pilot’s uniform?” Sassoon’s uniform imbued him with a grave expression of authority.
“Of course it is. I was a pilot. I volunteered for the British Royal Flying Corps during the first war. My plane crashed and smashed my leg. That’s why I need this cane for the rest of my life. But I would fight for England if I could walk again.”
“Of course you would.” Sassoon, threatened by the Japanese, must have decided to arm himself.
“Once a pilot, always a pilot. I can still shoot with precision with this Webley. So, Ernest, they said you had something to show me?” The billionaire was eyeing his camera.
Ernest gave him his Leica. “I believe these photos might be important to you.”
Sassoon grunted, took it, and limped to his studio. After a while, he limped back, gave him back the camera, and sat. There was disbelief, worry, and mounting anger on his face. “Damn it! Damn the Japanese! Get out! Get out! All of you!”
The doctor went out with his kit, and Ernest took his leave as well.
In the lobby, a gramophone played Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata; two guests in gray suits were checking out at the front desk. The burgundy chesterfields were empty, and the scents of withering carnations and roses in unchanged water permeated the air.
Rushing toward his apartment, Ernest heard a shout. Not far from him, a Japanese officer wielded a Mauser at the colossal figure of Jyo, who pointed a Webley at the officer.
“By the authority of the Shanghai Municipal Council, I order you to put down the gun! Put down the gun!” Jyo shouted.
Ernest froze. He’d never had a chance to warn him about the weapons.
A shot was fired.
Screams pierced Ernest’s ears; a flood of people swarmed around him. He fought to find his footing, to go to his friend. But more armed men surged to the street. Through the flying coats and hats, he caught a glimpse of his friend sprawled on the ground, his turban soaked.
In his apartment, Ernest took off the camera and stuffed it in a canvas bag he had packed. Then he waded through the crowded streets to the wharf. The earliest departure was in three days; he bought three boat tickets. Without a delay, he headed to Aiyi’s club.
41
AIYI
I only needed one thing: the five hundred American dollars in my desk’s bottom drawer, the profit I’d saved. But maybe some banknotes as well. Maybe some dresses from home too. I couldn’t start my new life without my favorite dresses. I would also warn Sinmay about the attack, so he would take actions to protect Peiyu and the children. And Cheng and Ying.
Eloping with Ernest would work. In Hong Kong, I would not be haunted by the nude photos and I could forget about haggling for the price of apples or watching out for loose dancers. In Hong Kong, I would have Ernest, and we would go to the movies.
But as my Nash turned on Bubbling Well Road, the thrill of seeing Ernest began to cool. My club. It was my life; I couldn’t just abandon it. And Cheng. I didn’t know what to say to him. Then all my thoughts evaporated when I arrived at my club—in front of the building was a military jeep with the rising sun flag.
Yamazaki had returned. After all these months. My legs trembling, I stepped out of my car. It was about five o’clock in the afternoon, a good hour in the ballroom. Yet no sound of jazz.
The doors to the ballroom were open, no guards or bouncers. Thick smoke, mixed with the smell of alcohol, floated inside the club. On the stage, the drummer hit the crash cymbal and out came the broken notes of “Summertime”; all the dancers, including Lanyu, were hunched at the edge of the dance floor. Under the glittering eighteen thousand lights paced Yamazaki in his damned uniform, his eyes glazed and face red like roasted meat.