When I awoke, the burning sensation on my face was gone. I leaped from my bed and pulled at the door.
It wouldn’t budge—locked from outside. I shouted; my butler, who always napped in the garden, answered, his voice blurred from constantly swallowing his saliva.
Sinmay hadn’t thrown me out; he had locked me in.
50
ERNEST
When he finally made it to his apartment, it was empty. He would need to search for Miriam later. He sat down on the bed, groaning in pain. All his bones seemed to crack, and if he lay down, he would be unable to get up. He looked down at the red scarf in his lap and tried to untie it with his shaky fingers. Maybe there was a message from Miss Margolis. His fingers were too weak. It took him a while to loosen the knot and unfurl it.
A piece of paper. With two signatures at the bottom. Actually, it was a power of attorney regarding the execution of a relief loan, valued at half a million dollars, between Miss Margolis and some attorney called K. Bitker. Ernest sat up. Why would Miss Margolis toss him this important paper? Did she wish him to keep it? What was he supposed to do with it?
Too exhausted, he put the paper aside, picked up the messenger bag, and took out the camera he’d saved. A miracle—after all the falls and crashes, it remained intact. He was going to put the bag away when an album fell out. It was thick and wide, dated 1940; the cover showed two naked women sunbathing on a yacht’s deck. He grew nervous. Was Aiyi inside? If he saw her, would that violate her will? She had been adamant about keeping the secret from him. And would he be calm, his eyes on her naked skin?
He walked out of the room with the album. In the communal kitchen, he started a fire in a coal stove. When the flame leaped, he threw the album in the fire. He would never know if her nude photos were inside the album.
When he returned to his room, Ernest checked the bag again. Something else was inside. It was a thick envelope with the hotel’s logo, addressed to him; tied to the envelope with an elastic band was a note, written on the hotel’s stationery, with the signature V. E. Sassoon.
Dear Ernest, if you find this note, then all my fears are confirmed. Curse the Japanese! Take the envelope. It was meant to pay you for the film you showed me. One day I’ll teach you how to do business with this money.
His film. Now that he thought of it, Sassoon owed his survival to him. Had he stayed in Shanghai, he would have been sent to a camp too. Ernest took off the elastic band around the envelope, dipped his hand inside, and took out a stack of bills. His hands trembled.
In all his twenty years of life, he had never seen this. A sheaf of American dollars. All in hundreds. Ten thousand dollars.
The door opened. Miriam entered, dressed in a hooded black jacket he had never seen before. She tossed the Leica on the cabinet, muttering it was not her fault that it was broken.
He could hardly scold her. “Miriam!” He waved the bills in his hand. “Look!”
He was rich—they were rich. He would give Miriam anything she wanted, buy her a warm coat, or two coats, or cigarettes, or milk, or meat. He could give Miriam a comfortable life; they would own things: another Leica, a watch, an apartment, a house, or an automobile. Or maybe he wouldn’t spend it all; maybe he would become a businessman, like Sassoon. But one thing was for sure: he would make a name for himself.
51
FALL 1980
THE PEACE HOTEL
Looking at the wood panels inside the elevator, I can’t help thinking that years ago, I, wearing my favorite mink coat, stood next to Sir Sassoon in the same elevator to his penthouse. He has been dead for almost twenty years but still owes me one hundred thousand dollars. Sassoon, I’ve heard, tried to wrangle back this hotel and his thousands of properties from the Nationalists that returned to power after 1945. I don’t know what he managed to salvage, but the hotel slipped from his control forever. He must have been disappointed, living in the Bahamas under the care of a nurse whom he eventually married. So many memories I can’t forget, so many I’d rather forget.
The elevator stops at the ninth floor, and I wheel out. Ms. Sorebi is already there, sitting on a chair near the window, a few diners around her. I like people to be punctual—Ernest was always punctual. “Thank you for meeting me again, Ms. Sorebi. Do you like this restaurant? Cathay Room has a rich hedonistic history. Emily Hahn, the reporter, used to come here.”
Today Ms. Sorebi wears black jeans and the same leather jacket. She pushes her chair away from the table, leans back, and scans the walls, the ceiling, and then the balcony. A silver bird I haven’t noticed before, tethered on a necklace, flits across her chest—a cross.