Rising Sun, Falling Shadow (4 page)

“It's a little easier to get a table these days, isn't it?” Ko Jia-Li chuckled through a veil of exhaled smoke.

Sunny saw her point. The Peking Room of the Cathay Hotel was nearly deserted. The sight was surreal. Not long before, only celebrities and the ultra-wealthy stood a chance of securing a table for the hotel's high tea, which people still referred to by the old British term of “tiffin.” The art deco gem, situated at the intersection of Nanking Road and the riverside Bund, had been the city's crowning glory. Sunny had recently heard an elderly Shanghailander widow reminisce reverently about the hotel's opening-night gala, thrown thirteen years earlier. According to the old woman, the guest list read like that of a royal wedding. Apparently, Noël Coward missed the party because of the flu, completing his play Private Lives while lying in bed five floors above the ballroom.

“Are you really so surprised?” Sunny asked. “Who is left to even come for tiffin?”

Jia-Li waved her cigarette toward the gilded ceiling. “Still, the occupation hasn't dampened the city's nightlife much.”

“I wouldn't really know. I never got out much, even before.” Between work, school and her apprenticeship with her father, Sunny had never had much opportunity to take in Shanghai's bustling social scene. Besides, even before the Japanese occupation, she had never been interested in the city's myriad nightclubs, cabarets and discreetly welcoming opium dens. The one evening Jia-Li had dragged her out to a nightclub on Broadway, Sunny had not lasted long. She managed to swallow only two sips of her throat-burning martini and eventually found the sight of the gorgeous but aging Russian taxi dancer—who drifted from one table to another, haplessly soliciting men to purchase dances—too sad to bear.

“Trust me, xiăo hè.” Although they were speaking English, Jia-Li still referred to Sunny by her Chinese nickname, which meant “little lotus.” “I would know.”

The nightlife had been Jia-Li's profession for almost half her life. At twenty-eight, she was still one of the city's most sought-after singsong girls. She had worked in Frenchtown's leading brothel since the age of fifteen, when her first boyfriend dragged her into a life of opium addiction and prostitution and then abandoned her to fend for herself. She had battled addiction ever since. Sunny ruefully thought of the many episodes of opium withdrawal through which she had nursed her friend. But Jia-Li had impressed her of late with her longest run of sobriety yet, having not touched an opium pipe in nearly a year.

Eager to change the subject, Sunny asked, “How is Dmitri, ba˘o bèi?” Jia-Li's childhood nickname meant “precious.”

Jia-Li took another drag from her cigarette. She wore no makeup, but it made no difference. With her magnetic eyes and ivory complexion, she was the most beautiful person Sunny had ever seen.

“Depressing.” Jia-Li sighed. “Aside from the Japanese, no one has it better in Shanghai than the Russians. But I think that bothers Dimi. He finds purpose only in suffering and pessimism.”

Sunny had nothing against the scrawny poet whom Jia-Li was dating, but Dmitri had always struck her as gloomy to the point of morbid. She could not see his appeal, but that was almost to be expected with Jia-Li's lovers. Ever since that first boyfriend, there had been a consistently self-destructive pattern to Jia-Li's choices in men.

Jia-Li flicked away her romantic concerns along with the ash of her cigarette. “What about your dashing doctor? How is Franz?”

Sunny smiled sadly. “He works himself beyond exhaustion.”

“And you?” Jia-Li blew out her cheeks. “You worked two full-time nursing jobs while your father put you through his own private medical school. You have not slowed down since.”

“It's non-stop with Franz. He works at the refugee hospital seven days a week. When he's not tending to patients, he's trying to find enough supplies to keep the doors open.”

“That must be a struggle, with Simon in the camps.” Jia-Li nodded in sympathy. “How will all those refugees cope without their American messiah?”

Sunny glanced over her shoulder and then leaned in closer. “Simon is not in the camps,” she whispered.

Jia-Li's eyes narrowed ever so slightly. She lowered her voice, too. “What happened to him?”

“He escaped.”

“Escaped?” Jia-Li breathed out another curling tendril of smoke. “Simon? A fugitive? I can't see it.”

“He was so worried for Essie and the baby.” Sunny told her of Esther's unexpected collapse and Jakob's urgent delivery.

“So he had no choice then,” Jia-Li said with finality.

“No, I suppose not.”

“Still, I don't know how much better off he is outside the camp.” Jia-Li shook her head. “Shanghai is a mess. That is why I choose to keep my head firmly buried in the sand.”

Sunny knew better, but she didn't comment. Instead, she reached for Jia-Li's free hand. “The hospital is the first place the Japanese will look for him.”

“And your home will be the second.”

“True.”

Jia-Li squeezed Sunny's hand. “So what are we going to do with him?”

“I was hoping you might have an idea.”

Jia-Li bit her lip, deep in thought. Her pensive expression only heightened her beauty. After a few seconds, she broke into an amused grin.

“What is so funny?”

“Do you remember that night a few years ago?” Jia-Li asked. “When Simon took us to that fabulous party at Sir Victor's mansion on Great Western Road?”

“Of course.”

“Simon played piano and sang us all those Cole Porter and Irving Berlin songs? Drunk as he was, he wasn't half bad.”

“I don't see how—”

“The Comfort Home could always use another piano player.”

Sunny's jaw dropped. “You are not suggesting that we hide Simon in your brothel?”

“Why not?”

“Aren't the Japanese your best customers?”

“Hardly our best,” Jia-Li snorted. “But perhaps our most dedicated.”

“So why would we ever take such a chance with Simon?”

Jia-Li smiled patiently. “They might be the most tenacious and paranoid race in the world, but you must understand: the Japanese never mix work and pleasure.”

“Still . . .”

Jia-Li patted Sunny's hand. “Not to worry, xiăo hè. I'm only joking about the piano. The Rìběn guı˘zi will never catch sight of Simon. It will be just like with the others.”

 

The path meandered through the sprawling gardens, which were sprinkled with magnolias, gingkos and wildflowers, before leading to the mustard-coloured Spanish villa that was perched on a slope overlooking the grounds. A steady breeze rustled the leaves as Franz and Esther made their way toward the grand house. There were no signs on the premises, but anyone familiar with Frenchtown would have recognized it as the Comfort Home.

Franz had visited the brothel before. On the previous occasion, he had come in search of Jia-Li after his release from Bridge House when he had been unable to find Sunny or Hannah and was frantic. He was returning now against his better judgment, for he couldn't resist Esther's appeals any longer.

“What if I never see him again?” Esther had wondered aloud the previous evening.

“It does no good to think like that, Essie,” Franz said.

Her gaze fell to her lap. “Not only did I ask him to leave, I accused him of endangering our child.”

“And you were right to. It was a rash thing Simon did.” He shook his head. “Just as taking you there to see him would be.”

“Why? No one has even come to search for him.”

She had a point. The Japanese had yet to come to their home or the hospital in search of Simon. Franz found their absence almost as disconcerting as one of their raids. “Trust me, Essie. They will search for him.”

“His own son, Franz. Simon only wanted to see us. To ensure we were safe. And I sent him away.”

The memory of Esther's shattered expression bolstered Franz's resolve as he neared the Chinese guard who blocked the final few steps of the pathway. Over six foot five and at least three hundred pounds, the black-suited goliath would have been an intimidating sight were it not for his gap-toothed grin. “A pleasure to see you again, Dr. Adler,” he said in impeccable English. His gaze drifted to Esther and the baby in her arms, but his smile held fast.

“Good to see you, too, Ushi.” Franz motioned to the others. “This is Esther, my sister-in-law. And little Jakob.”

“Nice to meet you, ma'am.” Ushi turned back to Franz. “How is Sunny?”

“She is well, Ushi. And you?”

“I'm still here,” he said wistfully. “Have you come to see Jia-Li?”

Before Franz could even nod, Ushi turned toward the house, saying, “You will have to wait in the drawing room.”

According to Sunny, Ushi had been a punter, or bodyguard, at the Comfort Home his entire adult life. Jia-Li and he had been close ever since her first day, when he had sat up the whole night beside the bed where she eventually sobbed herself to sleep. Jia-Li viewed Ushi as the big brother she never had. For his part, he had been in love with her for years but had long since accepted that his feelings would go unrequited. Still, Ushi watched over her as ferociously as a mother bear protecting her cubs, something several overly aggressive clients had learned to their dismay.

Franz and Esther followed Ushi as he veered off the main pathway and headed around the building to the rear entrance. They walked up an elaborately carved mahogany staircase and entered through a massive doorway. The drawing room was furnished with elegant French Baroque pieces and decorated with inlaid wainscoting and a coved ceiling. It smelled of pipe tobacco, wood polish and old money. Franz had never been inside any other bordello, but he knew the Comfort Home was far from typical. The mansion had been originally built for the family of a French aristocrat—a major in the army—who had returned home from the Great War a broken man and promptly drank and gambled away his entire fortune. The city's foremost crime syndicate, the Green Gang, had claimed the home as a gambling debt and turned it, under the watchful eye of Madam Chih-Nii, into the most distinguished brothel in Frenchtown.

Franz was studying a large oil portrait of a pretty but stern-faced French woman—and wondering if her husband was the one who had trifled away the family fortune—when Jia-Li swept into the room in a red cheongsam and matching four-inch heels. Her cheeks were flushed, and a few strands of hair had escaped from her otherwise perfect coiffure, but she didn't appear the least surprised to see two old friends, one of whom held an infant, standing inside her place of work.

“We are sorry to surprise you like this,” Franz said.

Jia-Li only shrugged. “Simon will be ecstatic to see you.”

Esther rushed over and placed her free hand on Jia-Li's wrist. “You are truly a godsend.”

Jia-Li laughed. “I've been called many things, but never that before.”

“But you are,” Esther said as she freed the other woman's arm.

Jia-Li straightened her hair and smoothed her dress before leaning forward to peer at Jakob.

“Would you like to hold him?” Esther asked.

Jia-Li's eyes lit up as she took Jakob in her arms. She gently swung him to and fro and nuzzled his nose. After a few minutes of cooing, she reluctantly transferred him back into his mother's arms and glanced over at the grandfather clock against the far wall. “We had better get moving.”

They followed Jia-Li down a corridor. As they turned a corner, Jia-Li almost bumped into two Japanese soldiers who were heading toward them. Esther's finger surreptitiously crept around Franz's elbow, while Franz struggled to keep his face calm as he glimpsed the white armbands that marked the men as Kempeitai. Their faces were flushed from alcohol, and one's shirt was untucked. The other warbled an unidentifiable tune.

Jia-Li breezed past the soldiers as though they were street beggars. Franz hurried after her, pulling Esther and the baby along with him.

Suddenly, a fleshy Chinese woman appeared in the middle of the hallway, blocking it with her wide frame. Franz could almost taste her heavy cinnamon perfume. Chih-Nii's hair was pulled back tightly around an ivory comb, and her face was caked with powder and rouge. She wore a voluminous jade-coloured cheongsam that was embroidered with gold. Her appearance verged on caricature, but Franz knew that the getup was nothing more than a costume. Chih-Nii was among the shrewdest business people in Shanghai. According to Sunny, she had created her persona from the pulp-fiction ideal of the Oriental madam and exaggerated it even further after the Japanese invasion.

Chih-Nii looked from Esther to Jakob and touched a bright pink fingernail to her red lips. “Certainly, not my usual clientele,” she said in a singsong voice. “But all are welcome at the Comfort Home.”

Jia-Li introduced Franz and Esther by their first names only. Chih-Nii tilted her head, squeezing one of her jowls against her shoulder. “So the friends have come to visit my ba˘o bèi? The most prized flower in my lovely garden.”

Franz and Esther shared a nervous glance. Jia-Li shook her head. “I am taking them to the basement.”

Chih-Nii stiffened. She spat some words in guttural Chinese, a marked contrast to her earlier musical tone.

Unperturbed, Jia-Li nodded to Esther. “Simon, the American. His wife and baby.”

Chih-Nii folded her arms over her chest. She muttered further in Chinese before finishing in English. “No one,” she growled. “Could I have been any clearer?”

Esther stepped forward. “This is my fault. I have come here uninvited and unannounced.” She touched Chih-Nii's golden sleeve. “I am so grateful for your help. I have no business being here, but our baby—he came so close to dying. My husband risked everything to see him, but as soon as he arrived, I sent him away. I want to make it right. I must.”

“A sad story, indeed.” Chih-Nii glanced coolly at Esther's hand on her arm. “But Shanghai is bursting at the seams with sad stories. No one can make any of them right.”

“Only this once.” Esther said. “I will never return. I swear.”

“And what about the others?” Chih-Nii snorted. “They will want their wives and babies to visit, too. Mark my words: this can only end badly for everyone.”

Franz wondered how many fugitives were hiding in the Comfort Home. He opened his mouth to intervene, but Jia-Li spoke up first. The two women conversed in Chinese. Franz had the distinct impression that he was witnessing a negotiation.

Finally, Chih-Nii stepped to one side and swept her arm behind her with a flourish. “Go. Go see your man,” she said to Esther, her tone as welcoming as before. “After all, wives are rarely so pleased to find their husbands inside the Comfort Home.”

They followed Jia-Li to the end of the hallway. “What did you promise her?” Franz asked in a low voice.

Jia-Li rolled her eyes. “Nothing. She cannot afford to lose me.”

Ushi met them at the top of a staircase. “He will take you from here,” Jia-Li said as she turned away. “I have . . . appointments.”

Ushi led Franz and Esther down the steps. In the basement, the guard had to stoop his head and neck to clear the low ceiling. He stopped at a door and glanced to both sides before entering.

Franz and Esther followed Ushi into a long, narrow wine cellar that smelled vaguely of must. The guard latched the door behind them and then led them past row after row of bottles: wines, spirits and others that were too dusty for Franz to identify. He stopped at one rack and pounded his fist four times against the wooden frame, barely rattling the bottles in its shelves. Ushi rapped four more times rapidly. A moment later, four muffled knocks came in reply.

Ushi placed his palms against the top shelf of the rack and pressed upward. The entire rack popped off the wall with a click, but not a single bottle shifted as he laid the frame on an angle against the other wall. He grabbed one of the screws that stuck out from the exposed wall and pulled. A short section of the wall slid toward them: a false front.

Ushi pressed a finger to his lips and nodded toward the opening. Franz turned sideways and sidled through the gap, with Esther following. After they had taken a few steps, he heard Ushi slide the wall back into place behind them.

Franz expected to step into the kind of torch-lit dungeons familiar to his imagination from the radio dramas and B movies of his youth, but instead he emerged from the short passageway into a spacious room furnished with a table, chairs and even a basic kitchenette. Two floor lamps lit the room. The staticky sound of a BBC broadcast floated softly from an upright wireless that stood in a corner. Another Chinese guard, imposing though not quite matching Ushi's stature, stood facing the passageway. His arms were folded across his chest, his face expressionless. “You wait,” he grunted.

Jakob whimpered in Esther's arms. She rocked him, trying to hush her son. “Papa is coming,” she soothed.

After a moment, a door swung open and Simon rushed out. He crossed the floor in a few eager strides and flung his arms around his wife and baby, kissing them both repeatedly.

“I am so, so sorry, darling,” Esther murmured when he finally released her.

“Not a reason in the world to be sorry, gorgeous.” Simon stroked her cheek. “I am so happy you came.”

Franz took a step back, feeling like an intruder, but Simon turned to him with a grateful smile and an extended hand. “Thanks, Franz.”

“Your gratitude is misplaced.” Franz shook his friend's hand self-consciously. “If I had any say in the matter, none of us would be here.”

Still beaming, Simon slipped Jakob out of Esther's arms and held him overhead. “How about you, little fella? You wanted to come visit your tate, didn't you?” He studied the baby thoughtfully. “He has your eyes, Essie. Lucky little guy.”

Esther ran her hand through Simon's hair, which had been shorn into a crewcut. She frowned as she assessed his outfit. The blue button-down shirt he wore billowed around him, and his black slacks were at least three inches too short. “I must bring you clothes.”

“Not necessary, Essie.” Simon chuckled and plucked at his loose shirt. “We don't get out much around here.”

“And food?”

“They treat us well. A lot better than we deserve. They're risking a lot to protect us.”

“Who is ‘us'?”

The guard glared at Simon and shook his head once.

“Best if I don't say too much,” Simon said.

Esther nestled her head into the crook of Simon's neck. “If only there was a way that we could all be together.”

“Soon, Essie. Soon.”

Franz took Jakob from Simon's arms. The infant cried as Franz repositioned him against his shoulder, prompting a flood of memories of pacing miles with baby Hannah as she fussed away night after night with colic.

Simon glanced at his son with concern. “Is he hungry?”

Esther wrapped her arms around her husband and pulled him into a tight hug. “He can wait a few minutes.”

Esther and Simon swayed silently in each other's embrace, while Franz bounced Jakob and tried to distract him. The baby suckled on his finger for a moment and then cried even louder. Jakob's howls were just then joined by an urgent pounding that came from down the passageway: two rapid knocks, followed by a brief pause and then two more rapid knocks.

The guard snapped to attention. He shot up a hand to silence the others. “A raid! The Kempeitai!” he spat in a hushed tone as he launched into motion.

Franz glanced helplessly at Simon. His friend's face was calm but his eyes held an unfamiliar tinge of terror.

The guard reached for the radio and flicked it off before dousing one of the lamps. When he turned back to the others, he held a hunting knife. He waved the blade at the baby. “Shut him up,” he growled in a low voice.

Esther grabbed Jakob from Franz. She turned away, pulled at the top of her dress and fumbled with her slip. She jerked Jakob to her chest just as the guard extinguished the other lamp, throwing the room into darkness.

Jakob's howls died away. All Franz could hear was the sound of the baby nursing and the clipped breathing of the others in the room. He had a terrible thought that the Japanese might have secretly followed them to the Comfort Home: that would explain why they had not raided the Adlers' home or the hospital. Did we just lead the Kempeitai to Simon's hiding place? The fear weighed on his chest like piled bricks.