‘My mother had always loved brushing my hair, as had Ah Lai. Even when Ah Lai and I were together in her village she would brush my hair morning and night until it positively shone. The locals used to gather around to look at it and occasionally one or two of them were allowed by Ah Lai to touch it lightly. I think she used touching my hair as a return for a favour granted. To these simple village folk, with my blonde hair and blue eyes I was almost like a creature from another planet. Cutting my hair would be the final farewell to my childhood.
‘Curiously, I had absolutely no idea how this might be done. My mother had always trimmed my hair and after she died Ah Lai would do it. In Harbin I’d either done it myself, or one of the girls in the club would trim the ends for me. I still had about half of the money I’d been given the night the Three Musketeers of the French Concession had visited the General’s Retreat, when Big Boss Yu had christened me No Gin. I would need at least two evening gowns for the show and I anticipated this would take most of my carefully hoarded money. I also felt that as Big Boss Yu was my protector, and because of the lock of hair he’d requested in Harbin, I would need to ask him about cutting my hair. On my way home that night I asked Ah Chow if I might have an appointment to see Big Boss Yu, and he said he would ask.
‘The following evening he took me along the Bund to a fairly modest building where Big Boss Yu kept an office. I was ushered into what was not, by Shanghai standards, an overly imposing office. The furnishings, though, were elaborately Chinese – lots of ebony and mother-of-pearl inlay and overstuffed chairs upholstered in an oyster-coloured brocade. Two large, painted scrolls hung on the walls, one of a branch of ripe persimmons and the other featuring a mountain and cliff scene with gnarled trees growing from the cliff face. But what demanded my immediate attention were the seventeen giant grandfather clocks that lined every wall, varying slightly in design though all quite obviously from the same manufacturer. They each registered a different time and the entire room was filled with a cacophony of ticking. Mr Yu sat behind a large ebony desk, the only object on it a wonderfully complicated-looking silver pen-and-ink set designed as two male peacocks.
‘I bowed my head. “Good afternoon, loh yeh. I thank you for allowing me to see you.”
‘“Sit down, No Gin. What brings you to see your old uncle?”
‘I looked up into his lined face and purple-ringed eyes. It was impossible to guess his age. “It is perhaps a matter of small consequence. They wish me to cut my hair for the new-season show opening at the Palace Hotel. I have come to ask your permission.”
‘He was silent for a moment, then asked, “Why do you think a man would be concerned about a young woman’s hair?”
‘“I am aware it is a subject of little concern, my lord. It is only that you requested a lock in Harbin and I thought perhaps . . .”
‘But he interrupted before I could complete the sentence. “You are very perceptive, No Gin. I will let you know.” With this he offered me tea, which I knew to politely refuse, bowing and turning to go but unable to take my eyes off the clocks. He must have been aware of my curiosity. “The clocks, they tell the time in every major capital city in the world. They are a gift from a Japanese company. I receive a new one every year.”
‘The following evening Ah Chow drove me to what I took to be a Taoist temple and on the way instructed me to ask for the incense master, telling me that all had been arranged. “At the end you must give him this,” he instructed. It was a red-and-gold li tze, or “lucky money” envelope with a peach-and-pine design for longevity on the outside, and judging by its thickness it contained a considerable amount of money.’
Nicole Lenoir-Jourdan’s story was becoming more and more intriguing, and I wished Jimmy was here to listen to it first-hand.
‘I entered into the semi-dark of the building to be met by a young acolyte in a white-and-red robe. I greeted him and asked if I might see the incense master. He nodded as though he had been expecting me. As I passed the altar I bowed three times to Kuan Yin, the Goddess of Mercy. She was very old and made of wood that had once been painted in the gaudy colours Chinese peasants so love. But now only a glimpse of yellow, cobalt and red clung to the dark, incense-stained statue. I had entered a Taoist temple on two occasions with Ah May, my present amah, and of course with my first amah, Ah Lai, on many occasions in her village, so the surroundings were familiar, although I knew this to be no ordinary shrine.
‘I was ushered into a small room and asked to wait, and presently a most venerable old Chinese man wearing an ash-grey robe and a knotted turban of red cloth entered the room. I bowed. “Greetings from my taipan, Yu Ya-ching. I am sent by him, loh yeh.”
‘“You are she,” he said, looking at me carefully. “Come.” He led me back into the main temple behind an intricately patterned screen, which had also seen better days and was torn and carelessly patched in several places. Here, too, was a smaller statue of Kuan Yin with an incense lion beside it, a curl of dove-grey smoke rising from its mouth.
In the customary manner I lit three joss sticks and bowed slowly three times once again, which I sensed somewhat tried the patience of the old man. “What is it you wish to know?” he asked.
‘“Will the cutting of my hair cut off my luck, loh yeh?” I asked. Then I hurriedly added, “But this is of little importance, my lord. I must know if it will affect the fortunes of my taipan?”
‘“I will read the water mirror. Stand still, and look at me,” he commanded.’
Before I had the chance to even ask the question, Nicole Lenoir-Jourdan turned to me to explain. ‘Reading the water mirror is simply a very close scrutiny of the face, used to decide what divining method the incense master will choose. After some little time looking into the rheumy eyes of the old man, he said, “Lu ssu bird!”
‘The lu ssu bird, also known as the rain bird because it is said to be able to forecast rain, is a tiny finch that was kept in a cage behind the altar. The incense master now reached for one of a number of bamboo flasks each set into a cubbyhole contained within a box-like shelving structure with the cubbyholes facing outwards, much like a wine rack. He opened the lid and I saw the flask was filled with a large number of bamboo slivers, a bit like a container of fiddlesticks, although burned on each sliver was a line of Chinese characters – ancient calligraphy beyond the understanding of any Chinese layperson.
‘The incense master up-ended the flask, sending the bamboo slivers scattering to the floor at his feet. Next he lifted the bamboo cage and placed it on the altar, opening the door to allow the tiny bird to hop out. The lu ssu bird hesitated for only a moment, then fluttered to the floor, picked up one of the slivers and flew up to rest on the incense master’s outstretched hand. He took the sliver of bamboo from its beak and gently placed the tiny bird back into the cage, closing the door behind it.
‘Then, searching within his grey robes, he produced a small leather case, opened it and removed a pair of pince-nez, which he carefully adjusted on the bridge of his nose. He held the sliver of bamboo so that it almost touched the spectacles and examined it for some time. Then he looked up at me, removed his pince-nez, returned them to their case and concealed it, once again, beneath his robes.
‘“You may cut your hair, but the left plait must be removed first and immediately destroyed. The right plait must be washed and re-plaited, and this you must give to your taipan. When he returns it to you your good fortune will end.”
‘“And his good fortune, my lord?”
‘“It is good for now, but it will sail away across the seas and return again later to his dragonhead.”
‘I bowed to him, then bowed three times to the Goddess Kuan Yin, and presented the li tze with both hands. Jack, you must understand that Chinese fortune-telling is ninety per cent ritualistic superstition. I didn’t believe the old man for one moment. What I had done by going to the Taoist temple was simply out of respect for Big Boss Yu. While I was obliged to present my right plait to him, I had already decided to se
nd the left one to Ah Lai, my old amah in Manchuria. Then, just as I was leaving, the old man said, “Sadness in your life, death. A man with a limp.” I knew he couldn’t possibly know of the recent death of my father, or that he had had a permanent limp. I had told Big Boss Yu of my father’s death and conceivably his senior assistant, Chang Kia-yin, may have mentioned this to the incense master when he made the arrangements for my visit, but even this seemed a highly unlikely deduction to make. What none of them could possibly have known was that my father possessed a permanent limp. I suddenly felt compelled to follow precisely the incense master’s instructions.’
Just as I was wondering how a girl’s plaits could bear such importance, Nicole Lenoir-Jourdan said to me, ‘Jack, the business of the hair may seem to western eyes a very small thing. You may well wonder why I would include it in the story. But in China it is often the minutiae that in the end are important, and the main thrust of our lives of little importance. There is a Chinese saying that goes like this: “When a single hair of the brushstroke is out of place, the painting is spoiled.”
‘My visit to the incense master was not to be the end of a long day. Ah Chow next drove me to a hair salon on Avenue Haig on the boundary of the French Concession. It was owned by Madame Peroux, a famous Shanghai hairdresser from French Indochina, who, as it turned out, was French in name and Chinese in appearance. She was delighted when I spoke to her in French. “Such beautiful hair, Mademoiselle Lenoir-Jourdan. It is a shame to cut it – it will never be as good again. How old are you?” she asked.
‘“Sixteen, madam.”
‘“Sixteen years to grow it like this, and I must cut it! How very sad.”
‘“It interferes with playing the piano,” I said, trying to sound practical.
‘“No, no, ma chérie – I can braid it so.” She took my plaits in both her hands and made an arrangement so that they appeared to sit in a circle with a clever twist at the back and all of it on the top of my head out of the way. “No?”
‘I laughed. “I look like a Brünnhilde from the Black Forest, madame. No, it has been decided. I cannot change my mind.”
‘“At sixteen it is no shame to change your mind, mademoiselle. At sixteen it is compulsory to do so at least twice on everything you decide to do. No?”
‘“It has been decided by Big Boss Yu, madame.”
‘Madame Peroux sighed, the magic name putting all further argument aside. “To be a woman, it is a terrible burden,” she clucked, then reached reluctantly for the scissors.
‘“First the left plait, please, Madame Peroux.”
‘“As you wish, ma chérie.” She removed the left plait carefully.
‘“Please, madame, will you give it to me now?” I could see the puzzled look on her face. “Now, please,” I demanded, holding out my hand and looking at her mirror-image face. She handed me the plait, preparing to remove the right one. I moved my head away and twisted around to face her. “I must destroy this immediately. Do you have a furnace, madame?”
‘“You cannot, mademoiselle – impossible!” she declared, horrified at the suggestion. “This is beautiful hair – a wigmaker will pay a fortune. You must keep it for your grandchildren.”
‘I rose from the chair and turned rather rudely to face her. “Please show me the furnace,” I demanded.
‘“No, I cannot. This is a good neighbourhood – banker Li Ming, the taipan of the Bank of China, lives at number 650. Burning hair will smell bad, and he will complain.”
‘“I will tell Big Boss Yu – he will fix it,” I said confidently, using authority I didn’t possess. I walked to the back of the salon and out into a small yard where I expected to find an earthenware stove burning charcoal. In those days small traditional stoves where servants prepared their food were so common at the back entrances of business premises in China as to be considered ubiquitous. As I expected, it was there. I walked up to it, startling the servant standing over it preparing a pot of rice by stuffing the thick blonde plait directly onto the glowing charcoal. The plait seemed to fizz into a shower of coloured sparks, the sound almost as if I was burning something alive. Then it was swallowed up in flames. I had no idea hair was so flammable. I have to confess, Madame Peroux was right – the smell that rose up with the smoke was simply atrocious.
‘I returned inside and apologised profusely for my boldness and poor manners. “I have been to see the incense master at the Taoist temple. I had no choice but to follow his instructions or I would bring bad fortune to my taipan.” I smiled, attempting to disarm her. “Madame, just one more small favour – before you remove the right plait, will you wash it, dry it and re-plait it and only then remove it, please?”
‘I knew the complaint about the smell of burning hair was simply an excuse. Being Asian herself, she nodded, though somewhat grimly, not at all pleased with me. I could well understand her annoyance. Western hair was in Chinese eyes wondrously fine and, unlike coarser Chinese hair, would fetch an excellent price. She was, after all, a Chinese businesswoman and saw the potential for making a fair dollar. She was naturally disgusted to see such an easy profit go up in flames.
‘The smell of the burning hair pervaded the salon, and no doubt the entire neighbourhood, so that there was little further conversation between us. She washed and dried my hair, and re-plaited the right side of my head before removing the splendidly shining plait. Then she braided several strands of hair into a small rope and tied one end while repeating the process at the other. She handed me the elegant-looking plait in silence.
Then she dampened my remaining hair and snipped away for some time, transforming it into a very smart-looking French bob. Madame Peroux explained that I should return once a week to have it trimmed and restyled. When I went to pay her she waved me away. “It has been taken care of, mademoiselle.” I apologised again, and thanked her for the plait.
‘She shrugged philosophically. “I am Chinese, Mademoiselle Lenoir-Jourdan.”
‘I returned home and stopped on the way to buy a rather expensive box made of persimmon wood with a lucky dragon’s head carved into the lid, and placed the plait inside. When Ah Chow dropped me off in the Chinese City I handed it to him. “Please give this to Big Boss Yu. The incense master says it will bring him good joss.”
‘Ah May opened the door and screamed, then burst into tears, backing away from me. “Aieeyaaa! What have you done!” she cried, unable to control her shaking.
‘“I have grown up, Ah May,” I replied, holding her to me.
‘“The people in the street will mourn for you,” she said.
‘So much for changing my name on the poster announcing the new season at the Palace Hotel. It appeared at the very bottom of a list of artists who would be visiting Shanghai over the following six months. My inclusion almost required spectacles to read, and stated: “Featuring nightly the delightful new star Lily No Gin as ‘Shanghai Lil’.” I was to learn that despite his great charm and easygoing ways, Sir Victor Sassoon expected to have his way in all things. He’d only been present for a little more than an hour and the importance of my name on a show poster was of the utmost lack of concern to anyone, yet he’d persisted. It was this attention to detail that made him one of the most powerful and richest men in the world.
‘As these things invariably happen, audiences seemed never to hear my stage name when it was announced but proceeded to clap immediately after “Shanghai Lil” followed it. Whether I liked it or not, that was how I was known for the next two years.
‘There is always a party after the opening of a new show, and I was looking forward to both with a mixture of anticipation and dread. I had, after all, been locked up in the tiny house in the Chinese City for three weeks. Apart from Poppy and members of the dance orchestra, who were regulars at rehearsals, I saw very few people. The Russian doorman, Zhora Petrov, known to his Russian friends as Georgii, had become a friend and the hotel staff had come to regard me almost as one of their own. But I lacked any real European company except
for the dreadful Mrs Worthington with her daily battering of clipped and rounded words. Ah Chow would be waiting the moment I finished rehearsals. I dreamed of some day walking out of the hotel to find no big black Buick waiting for me.
‘I forgot to mention that I had been put on a salary – small but not ungenerous considering I was an ingénue. A week before the opening Ah Chow took me to a tailor, where I was allowed to pick the material for three evening chum sarm, the traditional Chinese dress for a woman of quality. I chose a glistening black for one, and for the second a red trimmed with gold, the traditional Chinese colours of celebration, and a brilliant peacock blue for the third – all of them in silk, although only the peacock blue carried a sheen to it.
‘My mother had always told me that dressing well was about understatement – a beautiful woman is the jewel and not the baubles, bangles and beads she wears. Nothing should distract the eye from her.’ At this point, Nicole Lenoir-Jourdan looked up. ‘Not, Jack, that I believed myself beautiful, but from a very early age my mother had taught me how to carry myself with a sense of pride. She would say, “Remember, Nicole, less is more. Always remember you are half-French – dress to show yourself, and not your wealth.” My gawky figure of a year ago had filled out somewhat, and I think I looked pleasing enough to the eye and, with my new French bob and a little bright lipstick and eye shadow, I felt I looked at least twenty.
‘So, of course, opening night was a very exciting occasion. The ballroom was essentially for dancing but it was also a supper club and featured a warm-up for half an hour at seven p.m. and then at ten o’clock “Champagne Hour” – the main show, when the house dispensed free Bollinger to the seated patrons – with dancing interspersed in between.
The warm-up act on opening night was a Chinese acrobatic troupe, while the star of the ten o’clock was, improbable as it sounds, a German Lieder singer whose name I forget but who proved a great initial attraction for the German Shanghailanders, most of whom turned up to hear her sing and then promptly left. The German star spoke no English and lasted for only the first week of a six-week engagement, being promptly dismissed by Sir Victor following a tongue-lashing she delivered to the audience in her native German for not devoting to her their undivided attention. I went on as the final act, wearing my peacock-blue chum sarm, singing cabaret and playing the grand piano with the orchestra occasionally called upon to accompany me. The idea was to warm up the audience for the late-night dancing that was to follow.
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