“Other countries have not.”
“All the more reason.”
“Why do you say ‘we’? What has this to do with me?”
“Your father is what it has to do with you. We have to help him see the importance of pressuring Chiang on this.”
“I don’t help Papa Du see anything,” Lin said, using his father’s popular local nickname. “He does what he wants.”
“He wants to beat Japan, doesn’t he?”
“No question.” Du had donated millions to Chiang for the war effort.
“If we take a stand against Germany on the Jews, the West might come to our aid against Japan.”
“Maybe,” Lin said, and also thought, but maybe not.
“There is no reason for the Jews to be persecuted,” said Kung.
Lin nodded; he himself had always had high regard for Jews, starting with Hiram Grant, one of his first recruits, a saxophone player long gone back to America. Hiram wore a gold Star of David around his neck which he never took off, and insisted that he was Jewish, though he was not. Hiram’s grandmother had been taken in during Reconstruction by a Jewish family in Ohio, who sent her to college and financed her education. She educated her son in turn, and he educated Hiram, who was conservatory-trained. All of them considered themselves members of the tribe of Israelites, and wore its golden symbol around their necks. Hiram revered Jews. They had given the priceless gift of an education to his grandmother, the same gift Du had given to Lin Ming; the difference was that his father used it to control him, while the Jews in Ohio set the Grants free.
He knew it was right to stand with Kung on this. It was a kind of filial piety-going beyond his father, whom he could never venerate, to do something for his country, and for all the world’s people. “Here is what you do. Invite the boss to a late-night dinner, you and him and Sun Fo.” He saw Kung nod as the implications clicked into place; Sun Fo, a big supporter of Jewish rights in British Palestine, was also the son of Sun Yat-sen, the founder of the Chinese Republic, and therefore royalty. He was someone Du would take time to meet. “Then once you are there-”
“-persuade him to insist Chiang Kai-shek pressure the Nazis about the Jews,” Kung finished. “He ought to do it, you know-he is Master of Shanghai. He has ten thousand Jewish refugees in the city already, maybe twelve. More all the time. They are under his protection.”
“The trouble is, he does what he wants.”
“You’re right.” Kung puffed on his cigar. “But I have to try. Because if anyone can make Chiang go to the Nazis about this, it is Du.”
“And if anyone can make Du go to Chiang, it is you,” Lin answered. They squinted, barely able to see each other through the cloud of smoke, but they understood each other perfectly.
Eddie Riordan made his ticket money, and by the twenty-sixth of July, the Kings were without a drummer. Thomas scrambled things once again, moving Alonzo’s slapping bass into the forefront for its percussive feel. There were eight of them left, and the lineup was top-heavy, with two reeds and three men on brass. Cecil Pratt, the trumpet player, would probably be the next to go, since he had been saving, but even then, they would still be out of balance. Thomas was bailing a sinking ship, and he knew it.
After midnight the theater became more relaxed, as it always did, the security at the front door a little less stringent, and this was the hour when Morioka walked in. They were in the middle of a Duke Ellington piece called “Blue Ramble” when Thomas recognized his blocky shape in the archway to the lobby. So did everyone else, for no sooner was he seated than Thomas saw Floor Manager Zhou and Wing Bean move into position.
Thomas played through the sweat, bending over the keyboard and the slow prance-rhythm of “Blue Ramble,” propelled by the paddling, naughty-sounding circles blown by Charles and Ernest on their layered saxophones. Luckily the song was simple melodically-until that one moment in the twelve-bar B section when they came to the sudden sustained chord, six voices with a growling ninth on the bottom from the valve trombone, played by Errol Mutter. It was the key to the song, the unexpected ninth, the twist of fate, the turn, the dissonance. It was the misstep, the instant that changes the course of a life, and it came just at the moment Morioka walked in. They played to the end, and he called a break. Quickly the ballroom floor and stage emptied as dancers returned to their tables and musicians went off to refresh themselves.
The lights flickered up and Morioka rose and walked through the tables, Zhou and Wing Bean hovering as close as possible behind him. But once Morioka reached the empty dance floor, they could not stay so close behind, so they hurried around to the side of the stage where they could idle near a table and, from ten meters away, hear fairly well.
Morioka obliged them by talking loudly. “Mr. Greene, I give compliments.”
“Thank you.”
“I very like the jazz.”
“Thank you for listening.” Thomas felt himself shaking, as his voice pitched up a notch to match the Admiral’s.
“Jazz records, I get from diplomatic pouch.” Suddenly Morioka lowered his voice and spoke in a whisper, imperceptible from the distance at which Zhou and Wing Bean stood, his lips barely moving: “According my spies, some Chinese are watching you. They want to use you to kill me.”
“Diplomatic pouch? Lucky man,” Thomas said, in the same loud voice they had been using. Then, in the same thread of a whisper, he answered, “I know.”
“Yes. So I bring you this.” Admiral Morioka said at high volume, and held out a heavy, shellacked seventy-eight in a paper sleeve. “I present you.” In a whisper he said, “I will invite you somewhere. Say you will go. Do not go. Understand? Do not go.”
“You’re too kind. A new record?” Thomas peered at the label, and whispered, “I understand.” When he raised his face, he said, “Count Basie Orchestra! Several of my men came from his band.”
“Is it so?” Zhou and Wing Bean had edged closer, putting an end to the whispering. Morioka went on, “Now they have a new saxophone player, the name is Lester Young. I never hear any sound like this before! Please. Take this. Listen this musician.”
“All right,” said Thomas. He turned the disc over: “One O’ Clock Jump.” Count Basie Orchestra. “Lester Young. I will listen to him. Thank you.”
Morioka made a slight, crisp bow, and turned away.
Zhou and Wing Bean bore down on Thomas instantly. His insides were shrieking, but he managed to speak calmly. “You heard him. He complimented my playing, and gave me a new record.” He held it up. “Told me to listen to this saxophone player, Lester Young.”
They appeared to accept this, and he finished out the night in a state of controlled panic. What really shocked him was that this plot, this ultra-secret plan Lin Ming had warned him about, had already been penetrated by Japan. He knew that until he had it sorted out, he should tell no one of the words he and Morioka had just exchanged, not even Lin.
But he did hurry straight home after closing, so he could crank up the parlor gramophone.
The first half minute of the twelve-bar blues was a long, frisky piano intro, building atop a light, sibilant drum line. But then the whole orchestra came in, and on top of it the most fully expressive saxophone solo he had ever heard, touched with pleasure and regret. He rocked back on his heels in awe, and cried out for more when it ended far too soon.
This Admiral was a music lover, the real thing. As soon as the song was over, Thomas set the needle back to the beginning, exhilarated, certain this moment would always stand as a before-and-after mark in his understanding of music.
A wry trumpet line came in, and by the second or third listening, Thomas felt sure he recognized Buck Clayton’s sound. It could be Clayton; he had finally left Shanghai after many months of saving while playing Yellow Music in an all-Chinese club. They are fixing to have a war here, he had said to Thomas over tea and blintzes at Rosie’s on Rue de L’Observatoire, two days before he left, and I want no part of it. He had sat across the table as urbane and perfectly dressed as ever, but gray from worry. “I put it to the rest of the Harlem Gentlemen, those who are still here playing the tea dances at the Canidrome, and they all agreed with me, all except one,” said Clayton. “They’re all leaving.”