“Lin Ming,” he heard softly, behind him, and he turned to see his qin’ai de Zhuli, his dearest Pearl, waiting. He felt all the trouble and worry ease out on his breath as he moved toward her and took her in his arms, not even caring that they stood in the foyer, in full view. “Shall we go upstairs?” she said.
He nodded. “Yes. Order some wine, and an early dinner.” She clapped for the maid, and he hastened up the stairs, anxious to escape to her room.
In the upstairs hallway, the madam intervened. “You will be buying out Pearl for the night?”
“Yes,” he said, needing Zhuli beside him tonight, along with a warm crock of wine. The world was changing, the seas transforming to mulberry orchards and the mulberry orchards to seas, and he had no way to stop it, and certainly no power to protect Zhuli. But the Osmanthus Pavilion was the one place where that sort of promise was not required.
As soon as they were alone, she took off her robe and heavy earrings, leaving nothing but a clinging shift of apricot silk, and her glow of surprise. He rarely told her ahead of time when he would visit.
Food arrived, dark-marinated razor clams, fresh crab paste with leeks and chewy rice cakes, short ribs, and an herb-scented purée of broad beans. They served each other and ate as loved ones, sharing a cup of wine.
“I reached the age of twenty-eight last week,” Pearl said casually.
He immediately understood. At twenty-eight her lifetime buyout price came down to five thousand. Undeniably there was a current of happiness between them, and an ease, something like what the foreign people would call love. In their most intimate joinings she sometimes whispered that everything of her belonged to him, which always lifted him to the heights.
And she was becoming more affordable now.
She lowered her eyes and went on eating, as if what she’d said was an observation of time passing, no more, when he knew her entire life depended on this turning point. She had asked him to free her, without asking.
He froze, stuck between tenderness and reality. First, where would he get five thousand? And if he got it, how would he protect her and see to her well-being all her life? Because if he bought her out, she would be his, as surely as any bondmaid. War was coming, and even in good times, women like her had no way to survive. Almost all of them ended up back in the flower world no matter how much money the man spent, and grew old there, the way his mother had done. It was an old story in Shanghai.
He took her in the same way they had done it for years and fell asleep beside her as always. When he woke it was six thirty. Normally he slept with her until noon, but today he rose quickly to dress for the early meeting Du had called. Maybe it was the click of his watch that woke her, or the slipping sound of his shoes on the floor, but just before he walked out, he glimpsed her watching him.
They both knew he was answering her, for it was the first time he had ever left without embracing her. He could not buy her out, and there was no use discussing it. She was awake, he knew it, but when he looked at her one last time just before he stepped out the door to leave, she had her eyes closed, pretending to be asleep.
He rode the trolley to the Cathay. Du was never awake at this hour; normally he began his days at noon in the steam baths, drinking hot tea while his back was scrubbed by Flowery and Fiery-it being unthinkable for a stranger to have personal access to the boss in a public place. But everything was different now, for Peking had been taken by Japan, surrendering in near-complete silence. Yes, lives had been spared, architecture saved, and most of the art treasures moved out, but it was still devastating. Lin, like everyone in the clubs the night before, was shell-shocked by it.
Meanwhile, the previous night had set a cash record. Even the most ascetic young students and partisans sought to lose their minds, float their senses, stay out all night-to wan wu sang zhi, play at trifles until one has exhausted one’s will. Why should they do anything else? The dwarf bandits were sure to storm Shanghai next, and nothing could stop them.
There were also more foreign men in his clubs now than ever before, men who had been living in Shanghai with their families, but had now sent the wives and children home for safety while they soldiered on. Gloriously unencumbered, they arrived nightly with fresh young girls, pretty things streaming into the city, running for their lives. Riding the elevator up to the restaurant, Lin Ming decided the girls were a reliable barometer of the war’s advance in rural China, just as the daily influx of Jewish refugees told of the conditions in Europe. Things were coming to a head, and that was surely why Du had called him at this hour.
The older man waited in a small private alcove that was really just a glassed-in balcony, tucked behind a waiters’ station so that even from the main dining room, its existence was not apparent. Inside, it was a large-windowed box cantilevered to look over the river, with its great vessels at anchor, flags flying. Du was eating xi fan, rice porridge, and he immediately filled a bowl and set it next to Lin’s spoon and chopsticks. It was jarring, the hint of family, and Lin had to remind himself that it was an illusion. Aside from sending him to an American boarding school, which had beyond doubt been the forging of him, Du had been no father at all. In control again, reality in place, Lin picked up his chopsticks and reciprocated by serving the boss with meticulous care, choosing from the onions, peanuts, pork bits, and pickled vegetables on the small condiment plates around the table.
When they had finished, Du spoke. “It is only a matter of time, now. But we will be defended-Shanghai is where Chiang will launch the War of Resistance. I have his word. We won’t lie down like the north!”
“Can we possibly beat them?”
“Maybe not, but we can fight to buy time. Factories have to be dismantled and rebuilt, gold and silver bullion moved to safer places.”
Lin felt his face twisting. He had been assuring all of his Americans that even if Shanghai fell, there would likely be no actual battle.
At the Royal, he had gathered the seven remaining Kings into the back room. “It’s coming,” he told them, “no way to deny it. You will have all heard that Peking and Tianjin have given up. Very little fighting. But next they will be coming to Shanghai. So each of you, one man, then another, you must tell me you understand. Because these are new conditions. If you have your fare and you wish to go, you have our blessings, never mind your contract, and please do not waste any time. So.” He turned to Alonzo, the eldest. “Mr. Robbins?”
“Staying here,” Alonzo said with ease. “We’ll hunker down much as we have to.” They all knew he meant him and Keiko.
“Mr. Cole?” Lin Ming said to the French horn player, and Lester answered, “Staying.”
“Mr. Mutter?”
“Staying,” said Errol. “I understand the risk.”
Lin sensed the tightening in Thomas. Fate that his friend’s grumbling brass section should hang on until the end. “Charles and Ernest?” he said to the brothers.
They looked at each other in confirmation. “We stay long as Tails stays,” said Ernest. “We don’t have the money anyway.”
“Mr. Ames?” Lin said to the guitar player.
“Leaving Thursday,” Will said. “Saved the tourist-class fare.” His eyes flicked from Thomas to Lin. “I hope you’ll give me my last paycheck a couple days early.”
“We will. Mr. Pratt?” he said to the trumpet player.