Tales from Old Shanghai 01

He didn't love me enough to save me from my fate.

Man after man, night after night. Martin didn't save me from that. My American has saved me. My American saw me for what I really am beneath that whore's veneer and he cherishes me and he cares for me and he coaxed me and he held me and he comforted me when the pain broke through at last and I cried all night in his arms and he brought me back from that dark night of the soul that I was sinking into beneath that smiling whore's veneer that was only a shell.

My American bought me and he took me away from that life and he doesn't care about my past, he doesn't care about the other men. He cares for me and he loves me. I don't love my American but I'm grateful to him.

"I know you loved me, Martin," I say again, sadly, and my heart is breaking all over again. "But sometimes love by itself isn't enough."

"I love you," he whispers again, as if that's everything and perhaps it would be if he takes me from here, if he takes me with him and keeps me always and his hands take mine, both of mine and he holds them as if he's drowning and my heart fills once more with hope. "I love you so much. I've never stopped loving you. I'll always love you."

"I love you, Martin," I say, and my hands clutch at his as they clutched at him when we were lovers, as they clutched at him when I was his. Only his, and how I want to be only his. "I've always loved you. I always will love you, but you weren't there when I needed you. I had to live, Martin. I had to survive and for a girl like me, with nothing, there's only one way to survive here in Shanghai."

My eyes well now with tears. "Forgive me, Martin. I had to live... I had to..." Inside my heart, I plead with him to take me back, forgive me and take me with him, take me from here. Take me with him and keep me and I will be forever happy.

He says nothing, as he said nothing on that Sunday afternoon two and a half years ago. As he said nothing when his friends took me before his eyes, using me, one after the other. He says nothing, as he said nothing on that last time he came to me, that last time he took me and he silently used my body and then he walked out and left me as one leaves a whore.

As he left me without a word. As he left me without hope. As he left me with nothing but the taste of him in my mouth, his wetness on my thighs and the money he threw on the floor as he walked out the door without once looking back.

"I love you, Martin," I say, once more, desperately, and my eyes beg for him to understand that those other men, his father, his father's friends, his own friends, all the men since then, even my American, they were nothing to me. They were nothing, they are nothing. Less than nothing. They bought my body, they paid to use me, their money kept me alive when there was no other choice for me, but it is Martin who holds my heart in his hands. It was always Martin.

It will always be Martin and I try once more. I try so hard.

"Martin," I breathe, and all my love for him is in those words. "Oh, Martin, I love you, I do love you, I love you so much, Martin. I'll always love you, now and forever," and I gaze up at him, willing him to ask me to leave with him now, to take me by the hand and walk out of here with me and if he does, I'll go with him. I'll leave my American. I'll break my American's heart without a second thought. I'll betray him. I'll forgo my gratitude. I'll leave everything behind me and I'll go with Martin. I'll go anywhere he wants and I'll go for love, only for love.

I'll be Martin's concubine if he wants that of me. I'll marry him if he wants me. I'll be his whore if that should be his desire. I'll walk out of here to be Martin's whore and my eyes say that, but he says nothing. He looks into my eyes and he holds my hands in his and he holds my heart and he always will but he says nothing and my heart sinks, sinks and then shatters anew, for I know now that he never will.

"Hey, fella. Find your own girl," my American says, and Martin releases my hands. He releases my hands but my heart will never be released.

"Got a little something for my Valentine girl," my American says, and he does.

It's a ring, an enormous diamond ring and he's smiling that big happy-puppy smile as he places it on my finger and I'm not sure that I believe what's happening. It's a mistake, it has to be. I've said no to his offers before, but he's down on one knee now, in front of everyone, holding my hand in his, kissing my fingers and the music quietens, the band plays softly now, watching.

Everyone is watching.

Life in Shanghai is a show, and here, this evening, we are now the night's main act.

"Chuntao, dahling," my American drawls. Loudly, and his voice carries to the far walls, carries over the music, carries over the murmuring voices of our audience. "I'm gonna make an honest woman outa you. Will you marry me, dahling girl?"

He grins at Martin but it's not a humorous grin, it's a shark's grin, a wolf's snarl, a tiger's showing of its teeth, for my American is a predator through and through and he brooks no competition. I am sure he knows, he's seen my hands in Martin's. He's seen my face, the unshed tears, the desperation and he knows. He knows what Martin is to me and yet my American, he wants me still.

My American's voice is loud, a challenge, carrying easily over the soft background music and the now muted voices around us and every eye is on us. On the huge American kneeling before the beautiful Chinese girl. On the beautiful Chinese girl in the black silk qipao and the glittering diamonds with the sparkling eyes. On the tall blonde Englishman, young, handsome, elegant; the antithesis of my American in almost every way.

My American glances around but his eyes return to Martin and then to me. "And anyone that don't like it can bite my big Texan balls, coz you're sweeter than stolen honey, babe, and ah just don't give a hoot what these goddamn limeys think of a good 'ol American boy marryin' a cute little sing-song girl like you, coz far as 'ahm concerned, ah'd rather watch you walk than eat fried chicken for the rest of 'ma life. Ah love you babe, 'an ah want you to be ma wife forever."

"Yes," I say, "oh yes," for in the end, what else is there for me, and I succumb to my fate. My American has said this before everyone, publicly. My American is willing to marry me and he has said so before everyone, where Martin won't even walk out the door with me and make me his whore.

Better an honoured wife, even to an American whom I do not love, better that than continuing the precarious existence of a flower girl, a sing-song girl, a Peach Blossom to be used fleetingly by any man who is willing to pay for her. Used until she is too wilted and faded to be desired.

Maybe Martin does love me, but he isn't strong enough to defy his father, he isn't strong enough to defy convention, he isn't strong enough to defy his upbringing. He isn't strong enough to marry a Chinese whore.

He isn't strong enough to walk out of here with me and make me his own whore and even now, all he would have to do is reach out with his and I would go with him but he doesn't. He doesn't and because he doesn't, I have no choice to make.

My American loves me. He knows I don't love him. He knows my background. I am sure he knows who Martin is. He knows some of my pain. He knows I'm a whore. He knows that many men have used my body before him and still he doesn't give a good goddamn. Still he wants to marry me and he's said it before the world and in that moment, almost, I love him and I'm in my American's arms, weeping with gratitude.

Weeping with regret for a love now lost forever.

"Drinks are on me," my American calls out, loudly, one huge arm around my slender shoulders and the club goes wild, the band strikes up, the girls are surrounding me, examining my ring, showering praise on me for hooking the American, men are slapping my American's back, shaking his hand.

Some of them are even jealous.

I catch Martin's eye for just a moment as he walks away from me and then he is gone. This time I know he is gone forever and my heart's been ripped apart anew.

Three days later I am on the SS President Hoover, First Class, my American, my new husband, my first husband, for we are married now and he will be my only husband, he's beside me, leaning against the railings, one arm around me and my heart mourns as the ship pulls away from the quay. The tears flow from my eyes as I leave my beloved homeland forever.

Never again will my eyes see Shanghai. Never again will I see the Whangpoo flowing through Shanghai. Never again will I lay eyes on the beauty and majesty of the mighty Yangtze where it flows into the sea. Never again will I see my family, for they have disappeared without trace into the maelstrom of war that engulfs my homeland.

Never again will I see Martin.

But how could I forget? How could I ever forget?

How could I ever forget the bitter pain of this never ending love?

"I never saw him again," I say, looking at that painting of he and I. "Never, but I loved him always."

I turn towards her, my cheeks wet with tears. I take both her hands in mine. "My story is yours now, Tien-Chien," I say. "And the painting will be yours too when it is time."

"Grandmother," Tien-Chien says, and she's holding my hand, the tears flowing down her cheeks. "Oh Grandmother," and now it is my hand that squeezes hers.

"He died in the war," I say. "He never married, there was never anyone else after me and he was put into a camp by the Japanese and he died there. I contacted his sister, Emily, long ago, a long time after the war. He and his father, they both died there in Shanghai. They were together to the end at least. Emily's mother died in Hong Kong during the war. Emily was back in England well before then." I pause, remembering. "Her husband died in Singapore when it fell to the Japanese. There was no luck in that family, she lost everyone, as I did, and when we talked, she and I, we had a lot in common in the end. More than either of us knew."

"Your parents?" she asks. "Your little brothers and sisters? Your Uncles and Aunts? Your cousins?"

"I could never find them," I said. "Your great-grandfather tried, your grandfather tried, others tried for me, but China back then, with all the fighting. Nanking was destroyed by the Japanese, so many people died, nobody knows what happened to my family. They vanished as if they had never been. The house was destroyed, everyone that knew them gone. There was nothing. We tried again, after Nixon, after you could return. Your grandfather took me back to search, we hired people to look but nothing remained. Nothing at all."

Where our family house had once stood, there were now apartment buildings, ugly towers of grey concrete, soulless roads crowded with buses and trucks spewing diesel fumes and smoke and it was hard to know if it was even the right place, for everything old had gone. There was nothing left of my childhood. Nothing whatsoever and I close my eyes momentarily, once more experiencing that loss, that emptiness.

"China was like that back then. I'm not alone, Tien-Chien, don't feel sorry for me. I was one of the lucky ones. Millions died in the war and the fighting afterwards, between the Kuomintang and the Communists and there were the famines, the prison camps, the executions. There were so many like me, left alone, losing everything. Everyone. So much loss. So much pain and sadness. So many tragedies."

I wipe the tears from my eyes. "I had good fortune, Tien-chien. I survived. Your great-grandfather loved me, he brought me here; he married me. Gave me your grandfather and your great-uncles and great-aunts and I'm blessed with my grandchildren and my great-grandchildren."

She takes one of my hands, places it on her stomach; rests her hand on mine.

"Great-great grandchildren too, Grandmother," she says, and she's smiling with tears in her eyes. "Your first great-great grandchild. Keith and I are going to tell everyone else this evening but we wanted you to be the first to know. Our Valentine's Day gift to you, Grandmother. Her Chinese name will be Chuntao."

I'm shocked for a second, she's not married. Her and that young man of hers, Keith, who's American-Chinese, they're living together, but they're not married and then I laugh at myself. That I should be shocked, I whose body was used by a thousand men in so many ways, long before I was her age. That's funny.

"A girl?" I ask.

"Yes, grandmother, a girl," she says, and I smile.

"It is a beautiful name," I say. "And such a beautiful Valentine's Day gift for your great-grandmother. She'll be as beautiful as her mother."

"As beautiful as her great-great-grandmother," Tien-chien says, and we both look at that painting on the wall.

"Pass my painting on to her, Tien-chien," I say. "And tell her my story."

"I will, Grandmother," Tien-chien says. "I'll write your story down to go with your painting," and her hand holds mine.

I look at my painting, I gaze at my younger self and at Martin as we were so many years ago, eighty years ago now, and I know that this story of love will not be forgotten, that it will outlive me now. I'm blessed that I have those memories of him still and that I've shared them with this great-granddaughter who's almost an image of my younger self. I gaze at that young couple, so in love, so filled with their love and while I live, how could I ever forget?

I can't, and I know that I never will. I know I love him still. I love him after all these years. I love him as much now as I did then, when we were together for those few brief months in Shanghai, and I flick my music on and Tracy Huang's voice begins to sing her version, the cover of this old song that I love so much, this old song from those long ago days in Shanghai that expresses everything I feel for my love so much better than my own poor words can ever convey and I sing with her, very softly.

Tien-chien knows this song, I've played it often over the years, she knows now why and knowing, she sings with me, her voice as beautiful as mine once was and the tears flow down her cheeks as they flow down mine.

Never can I forget, and her hand squeezes mine and I squeeze back and I dry my tears and then I laugh and for a moment, I'm that young girl in her boarding school bedroom talking to my friend in those few short years of life in Shanghai, talking to Hua, comparing men, talking about sex and what it might be like and what men like in girls like us and I'm no longer thinking of Martin, no longer sad.

"Remind me tomorrow to teach you a few tricks to use on that young man of yours after little Chuntao is born," I say. "Something to make sure he stays interested."

"Grandmother!" she says, shocked, and then she laughs, and her laughter is tinkling music as mine once was.

As I remember myself laughing in those long ago days when we laughed together, Hua and I.

As I remember myself laughing with Martin. Martin and I, holding hands in the winter snow, walking down that long lane to the building in which that room lay. Laughing together as we walked the streets of the French Concession, drinking coffee, eating croissants, making love, every moment a moment of love. Every gesture, every thought, everything we did together an act of love, and I will never forget. Never.

"Okay," Tien-chien says, in that American way that still seems strange after almost eighty years. "I bet you do know a few."

"Your great-grandfather didn't marry me just for my pretty face," I say, smiling, because he didn't.

I might be ninety eight now, but there's nothing wrong with my memory. I smile, remembering some of those first little tricks I picked up from those books Hua and I read with such interest together, never imagining how we would put that knowledge to use. Those little tricks that I first practiced on Martin with such innocent delight as we made love together and how he enjoyed them.

Tien-chien laughs again and we sit there together, my hand held by hers while the song plays to its end and from the wall, Martin looks down at me, smiling.

I smile back, for I know that somewhere, Martin still loves me and he's there, waiting for me and soon, very soon now, we'll find each other and this time, he will be strong. There will be no father, no family, no friends to come between us. He'll see me walking towards him, then running, as I did back then when I was young and eighteen and so freshly in love. He'll smile at me as he's smiling at me now from our painting. He'll take me in his arms and we'll be together again, together as we once were, but this time, this time it will be forever.

This time our love will never end.

And of course there's that final note on the story from Chloe: I do hope you've enjoyed this story -- if your feedback says it's worth it, I plan this to be the first of a series of stories set in Shanghai in the same period although I can't promise more tear-jerking romances. There are some anomalies here and there (the song "Never Ending Love" was recorded in 1961 for the movie, but the sound is that Shanghai sound). In general I've tried to stay consistent with the time period, right down to Ferrero lingerie photographed by Boris Lipnitzky, and if you look at Ferrero's creations, wow, Victoria's Secret get out of the way. This guy did all that back in the 1930's, which goes to show there's nothing new under the sun.

"Shanghai Nights" was however from the time period this story is set in and Zhou Xuan was a famous Shanghai singer at the time. Jiang Qing is of course Madame Mao, the Chinese Communist Revolutionary, actress, and a major political figure during the Cultural Revolution. She was the fourth wife of Mao Zedong and she did actually play Nora in Ibsen's "A Doll's House" in Shanghai in the late 1930's, as in the story.

The street names, the cinemas, the clubs, the hotels, the movies, the movie stars and actresses, the singers, the odd gangster, they're all real, along with some of the public figures in Shanghai from the time that I've slipped in here and there. Lest you think the schoolgirl whores are pure fiction, well, no. It's a little earlier but in the 1850's, a British vice-consul took as his mistress a pupil at a Protestant girls' missionary school. When he was transferred, he took the girl out of school and moved her with him. The only person who seems to have objected was the head of the school, who reported him to the Bishop of Victoria in Hong Kong. The Bishop denounced the vice-consul's actions from the pulpit, embarrassing him enough to return the girl home after which he no doubt acquired a suitable replacement. So no, not total fiction.

In writing this, I've relied heavily for background on books about Shanghai in the 1920's and 1930's (but don't blame them for any mistakes -- I wrote this in a rush of words and while I tried for as much historical accuracy as I could fit in, I wasn't fanatical about my research or the historical accuracy, although I've worked the story around the Battle of Shanghai and the subsequent Rape of Nanking by the Japanese as that city fell.