by Emily Hahn
He never did show her that book. She didn’t ask him very often to show it to her after he forgot two or three times to bring it. At least he spared her the unpleasant business of collecting money from the men. Two of them were not so difficult to please as the Frenchman had been, and they had places of their own, so that she did not again have to use her hotel room. (Indeed, there had been a little unpleasantness with the hotel, and Sanyi found her a room in a boardinghouse instead in Peking Road.) If either of the two men who liked her had been properly managed, with tact and intelligence, things would probably have been more profitable for Konya, but he fumbled the affair. Jill was always meeting one of them while in the company of the other, which both of them resented, and in the end they got together and compared notes, and so Sanyi–and Jill, of course–lost both customers.
“In that way,” Jill told Dr. Lionel Levy, months later, “Sanyi didn’t do right by me. He wasted me. I should have done far better at first, situated as I was.”
It was a scrappy, anxious, unsettling sort of life, and Konya himself seemed to realize that they were getting nowhere. In spite of the thousand dollars he claimed to have banked, he chafed and fretted and wondered aloud why things were not going better. Then one afternoon he came in with his face alight.
“I have a new job for little Jill,” he announced. “It will be more fun for my little girl.”
“What is it, Sanyi?”
“I have got you a place at the Casino as a hostess. Now kiss me, little Jill, and thank me nicely. Just think–nothing to do all the evening but wear a pretty frock and look sweet! Why, it is what you would be doing in any case. And you will meet everyone, everyone in town. The whole world goes to the Casino after dancing, for ham and eggs and a last drink. It will be so gay!” He seized her round the waist and danced a few steps, humming. “My own Jill will be the prettiest girl in the room, and Sanyi can come and watch her and know in his heart that she is his and be proud. Come along now, we must find you a new dress. My little countess!”
She smiled tremulously. The old magic still worked.
A few evenings later Jill wrote to Japan, after giving the letter some hours of anxious thought. She did not address herself directly to Botchan. She knew better. She wrote to Hidei, a well-mannered, affectionate little note, announcing her engagement to Konya.
“I have thought of you so often since leaving Tokyo,” she wrote, “and I almost cried that I did not have a chance to tell you good-by. But my departure was very sudden, and it could not be helped. Do please give my kindest regards to your parents, if they are good enough to remember me, and tell them my news if you think it will have any interest for them.” She signed it, “Your former governess, Jill,” and sat back, suffused with satisfaction. It was a tactful letter, an admirable letter; one she could show to Konya himself without embarrassment. And what quiet triumph thus to announce to Botchan that she was going to be a countess!
Stirring out of her reverie, she began hastily to mend a stocking in preparation for the evening’s work. It would soon be necessary to get new stockings, she reflected, and they would have to be a size larger than her old ones. Dancing all night seemed to make the feet bigger somehow, but perhaps the swelling was only temporary.
Though the Casino was open from about eight in the evening, nobody who knew better ever came out to visit it until after eleven at night, and two hostesses were enough to keep these early and desultory people occupied until then. The girls took turns holding down chairs during the dull part of the evening. It was a quiet-looking enough house, with shrubbery masking the large driveway and parking lot, and one small neon sign was considered sufficient to show the public where their favorite early-morning hangout was located. Indoors no attempt had been made to lure people who might care for architectural beauty or decoration of the inorganic sort. The Casino was warm enough and watertight, and that was all its clientele expected of it. The walls were walls, the bar was a good big strong bar, and there were as many tables as M. Novikoff, the proprietor, could crowd into two large rooms, with due if grudging precedence given the square dance floor and the raised platform where the band played. Perhaps someone years ago had hung the fly-specked calendars that adorned the walls and the dusty paper rosettes that swung beneath the naked electric light bulbs with a wistful eye to beauty, but the impulse must have been a fleeting, forgetful one.
Merrymaking Shanghai cared not at all. Merrymaking Shanghai came to the Casino for one of two reasons, or for both: first, it was open all night and so was somewhere to go after the places in town had to close their doors in obedience to the law, and second, there were European girls there. Other places, too, boasted European or Eurasian girls, but they were inside the Settlement and closed down at 2 A.M. Thus the Casino attracted almost everyone who was determined to make a night of it, and single men on the prowl there mingled with entire dinner parties of young people, and other people no longer young, who at midnight were still horrified by the idea of going to bed. One could eat an early breakfast at the Casino and drink a few last drinks, though the liquor had a deservedly bad reputation. One could also dance with a Russian and feel sentimental or amorous, as one often did at five in the morning; one could make a date with the Russian for next afternoon and feel free to forget it if one became less sentimental or amorous after sleeping it off. If the Casino had been cleaned up and draped with satin and lit with soft wall-bracketed lights, M. Novikoff would have had to raise his prices, and he didn’t want to do that. Just as it was, his Casino pleased the public and he did about as much business as he could manage.
“By that time in the morning,” as M. Novikoff would say, “who cares about looks?”
The Casino had a long and honorable history of romance. It was there that the Russians who thronged Shanghai in 1904, naval officers from ships taking refuge from the Japanese, nightly gathered in their jovial strength and forgot their defeats in sweet champagne. The marks of their smashed glasses still showed dimly through the dust that had since gathered around the large fireplace in the hall. It was at the Casino, the old-timers said, that Zaza, a glamorous lady from the Barbary Coast, had stood on the bar and been auctioned off one evening for a colossal sum of Mex dollars. The fame of the Casino was world-wide, one party of American millionaires declaring as they stepped from their tourist liner to the Bund that they had come all the way from New York simply and solely to visit it.
Romance notwithstanding, Novikoff’s laissez-faire philosophy applied to his choice, in general, of hostesses. Perhaps in the days of Zaza the women of the Casino had been fresher and more beguiling, but most men in their sober moments declared that the hostesses had not been changed in all that time, any more than had the calendars and the paper roses. In justice to Novikoff it should be explained that he didn’t so much choose his hostesses as allow them to disport themselves in his dancing rooms. He had the usual arrangement with them; they were paid a certain modest amount and also took a percentage of the profits from any drinks bought by their friends. Their own drinks, when they were allowed to choose them, were better value in cash both for Novikoff and themselves, being compounded of cold tea and a dash of bitters. To make much money by such limited means was of course impossible: the true object and aim of Novikoff’s ladies was to meet generous men at the Casino. A lucky girl might persuade such a client to buy champagne for her. A luckier girl might pick up some lonely fellow who would follow up the acquaintance, even after sleeping it off. The luckiest, or the cleverest, ultimately got themselves taken under somebody’s protection. But this blissful fate was reserved only for the few, for at the Casino as at most other joy spots the competition was keen and ferocious. Shanghai in the thirties was not the happy place it had been in the twenty years preceding. Shanghai was filling up, with hostesses as well as with free-spending foreigners. The European community was so large now that an occasional ex-Casino girl, triumphantly married or at least “protected,” had a good chance of slipping into the bourgeois crowd without
being scorned, but there were many, many girls still waiting at the Casino for their chance, and waiting in vain.
Konya may have had some reason for pushing Jill into this moth-eaten throng. He may have thought it over and decided that her youth and naïveté would show up better in that setting than in any other. It is more likely, however, that the young man drifted into this action as he drifted into most situations, getting into a cheerful conversation with Novikoff at dawn one drunken morning and making his arrangements then and there. He could as well have taken his protégée to one of the Bubbling Well cabarets, where there were blue or maroon carpets on the floor and working companions more suited to her age. Had he done so, Jill would at least have got more sleep. But he did not do so. He hired her out to the Casino with many an encouraging word and kiss.
For the first few days he regretted his impulsive action, for Jill was not a success; she was, in fact, almost responsible for a riot. It was not her fault, for nobody had told her the rules. Konya, in his eagerness to persuade her to overcome her shyness, had neglected all the first lessons of dance-hall etiquette, and Jill set out for the Casino alone in a hired car, her head full of the pictures Sanyi had painted for her of a wonderful party, with herself as belle of the ball. Novikoff greeted her in kindly if absent-minded fashion. He took her into the dancing room, which looked cold and uninviting with all its tables spread and waiting, but empty of clients. It was only nine o’clock. A few girls in evening dress, their faces made up to show plenty of color under the glaring lights, were sitting listlessly in the corner, and as Novikoff led Jill over to them they turned with one accord and raked her with their eyes. Novikoff introduced her. They accepted her name with stony indifference and looked her over more carefully at close quarters, from head to foot. Then they began to talk to each other, leaving her out of the gathering as obviously as if they had taken her by the shoulders and shoved her away from the table.
Though stung by this rebuff, Jill was not surprised. She had learned while still under Botchan’s wing to expect such reactions from women of her own complexion. It was this constant anticipation of snubs that kept her timid and tentative and even, in a sort of way, innocent, for nothing teaches a woman sophistication so quickly as the company of other women. Through the years with Botchan and the recent months with Konya, Jill had gathered within herself a little pool of loneliness. Every refused offer of friendship, every bit of cold neglect or suspicion that she collected from women turned into loneliness, so that the inner pool grew wider and deeper and colder and more bitter all the time. She sat quietly at the table, however, smiling. There was no quality of doggedness in her smile; Botchan had taught her to hide all unbecoming emotions. Jill smiled and waited, knowing that this could not go on forever. Some man would come along in time; some man would talk to her. Before the inevitable happened, however, she was pleasantly startled by the girl who sat next to her. This one, whose hair was a deep, dull black, turned around and asked in a husky voice, “Been here long, kid?”
Her face was narrow and creased, more with habitual grimacing than with age. She grimaced now as she smiled at Jill. “I ain’t never seen you,” she added. “You just come out East?”
“No, I’ve been in Japan. I’ve lived in Shanghai some months, though.” For some odd reason Jill’s usual flow of fibs was not forthcoming, perhaps because it seemed better not to try to impress these girls. “But this is my first time at the Casino,” she added.
“You Russian?”
Jill hesitated but hastily decided again to tell the truth. No doubt most of these girls were Russian; they would expect her to be able to talk with them in their own language. “No, I’m English. Are you Russian?”
“Not much,” said the black-haired girl with tactless emphasis. “I’m American. Well, we’ll have to stick together, kid; we’re the only two here who aren’t Russkies. Not counting the wonks.”
“Wonks?” asked Jill. “What’s wonks?”
Over on the platform four Filipino musicians burst into music. The women all laughed. Wonks, explained a blonde in broken English, were half-castes; a dog of mixed breed was called in Chinese a yellow dog, a huang kuo, a wonk.… Get it?
A few people came in and ordered drinks, and the hostesses sat back and looked hopefully toward them. They were a party, however, with women of their own. Soon after that two men came in and danced with two hostesses, evidently old friends of theirs.
In another thirty minutes the larger room was fairly well filled, and Jill did not notice when M. Novikoff bore down toward her table with a big fat man following close behind him. The American saw, though, and nudged her other neighbor in the ribs and jerked her head toward the approaching manager and his companion. Then both women smiled ill-naturedly and glanced at Jill.
Novikoff, bowing with a phony sort of courtesy, presented the fat man to Jill, who looked at him with disfavor. He was not young, and he should have shaved more recently than he had done. However, since he had been introduced, she could not very well refuse when he invited her to his table. She only hoped that he would not attempt to dance with her. To her relief she heard him ordering a bottle of champagne; he could not, then, be passionately fond of dancing.
“So!” he said, beaming upon her. “My friend Novikoff was not lying to me, then. He said he had a beeyoutiful young lady here tonight, and as he knows I always want to meet beeyoutiful young ladies, he has done me the honor. He is my good friend, Novikoff. A very nice man, is he not?”
Jill agreed that he was a nice man.
“You know him well?” continued the fat man. “Very well? Too well, maybe?”
With a little gasp Jill denied the impeachment. The conversation limped along, aided rather than impeded by the music, and a waiter brought champagne in a pail of ice. From his vantage corner Novikoff smiled approval and encouragement. Jill bit down firmly on a yawn. This was not a bit like a party, she told herself, or if it was she must have been expecting too much of parties. She had never been to many of them.
Wistfully she watched the other hostesses. Those who had found partners were dancing, or sitting at tables, laughing and talking. They all seemed to be having a good time, she noticed. Even the wallflowers were not too badly off, for they talked to each other or just sat comfortably. She envied their calm, cold impassivity. She was in a mood to envy everybody, for the fat man was very heavy weather.
Suddenly she brightened. Across the dance floor she saw a young man with a fine black mustache, like an eyebrow, nodding to her and holding up his glass in greeting. She recognized him; he was one of a few Italians she had met while dining one night with Sanyi, when Sanyi had been in a gay mood, willing to introduce her, to boast about her. They were naval officers, Sanyi had said.… Yes, and there was another one from the same party, again making an evening of it with his friend. Jill waved to them both, smiling with true and bewitching fervor. It was such a glowing smile and it appeared so suddenly that the fat man turned around to see what had brought his partner to life, just as the mustached young man rose and came over to the table.
Gracefully he bowed to Jill. She jumped up with alacrity. Again the officer bowed, this time to the fat man, and Jill swung off with him in the dance, as happy a hostess as the Casino had ever seen.
She had danced twice around the floor, laughing and talking to the Italian, before she noticed what a strange effect her behavior was having on the fat man. The fat man was in a rage. He had sent the champagne bottle back to the bar unopened. He was raving at Novikoff, throwing his napkin on the floor, stamping on it, and giving other signs of dementia.
“My word,” said Jill, wide-eyed, “whatever do you suppose is the matter with him?”
Her partner shrugged and led her over to his table. They ordered drinks, though not champagne, and forgot all about the fat man.…
“My best customer!” Novikoff expostulated to Konya when that young man made his appearance at one in the morning. He made a long, impassioned speech about it. “You had b
etter take your little friend away from here; she is not the type,” he finished. “Such a thing has never before happened in the Casino. I do not know how to explain it to him. Perhaps I will not get the chance; he said he would never come back.”
Konya peered into the large ballroom and saw Jill still sitting with the Italians, laughing and chattering.
“You see,” said Novikoff bitterly. “In three hours they have ordered only two rounds of drinks. What does she think this is? A party of pleasure?”
“I’ll talk to her,” promised Konya. “You wait; it’ll be a different story tomorrow night.”
He strode over to the table of Italians, forcing himself to smile before he got there. From their corner the hostesses watched him closely, but nothing happened that could give more food for gossip. He joined the others, and after a while he took Jill away, out of the group and out of the Casino.
“She’ll catch it,” said one of them, a certain satisfaction in her voice.
It would be exaggerating to claim that Jill became all the rage at the Casino, or the toast of Shanghai, or anything of that sort. As she grew less silly and soft she began to gain her admirers, and she had a coterie of respectable size, but she never became a sensation in the world of dance hostesses. For that work, as the American Babe often told her, you need steel guts.
“Besides, it’s slow compared to most things,” Babe explained. “I don’t go in for this racket all the time myself. I’m by way of taking a rest cure, but one of these days I’ll go back to Honolulu and make real cabbage.”
She explained in more detail. In Hawaii on Saturday night, which was pay night for the sailors and the field hands, an ordinary run-of-the-mill prostitute could make a fortune if she was willing to take as much work as she could get. Hawaii was a wonderful place to make money, Babe said. “But of course you get wore out,” she added.
“Oh, I’d love to stay in Honolulu and bathe there!” cried Jill. “I’ve only just seen it when the ship stopped there. I’d like to see all the island.”