Literary antics in pre-war Shanghai
In his worldly and wordy new book, Shanghai Grand: Forbidden Love and International Intrigue on the Eve of the Second World War, Canadian author Taras Grescoe resurrects the life and career of New Yorker writer Emily “Mickey” Hahn. Along the way, he diverts his focus to a host of other people, numerous points in time and a plethora of odd places, all in service of bringing to life a seething, enthralling city full of “preposterous scoundrels, wayfarers, and quickchange artists.”
Though no longer a household name, Hahn is something of a literary star when she and her sister arrive in Shanghai in 1935. Wasting no time, she becomes acquainted with Sir Victor Sassoon, the “richest white man in the Far East,” and owner of the luxurious Cathay Hotel, around which Shanghai society revolves. In short order, Hahn falls for Chinese poet Zau Sinmay, a married man who introduces her to opium, which leads to addiction. She, in turn, manages to make him famous (as Pan Heh-ven) in a series of New Yorker vignettes chronicling his adventures as a “true cosmopolitan” and an “unapologetically” Chinese man.
Amid the hoopla and some cameos by Charlie Chaplin, Ernest Hemingway, Martha Gellhorn and others, serious issues abound: Mao Tse-tung’s communists are holed up in the countryside and the Japanese view their neighbour as a delectable play area. In 1937, they pounce, and Grescoe, ( Bottomfeeder, The Devil’s Picnic), chronicles it all, including the tragic: The Chinese dropping bombs on Shanghai itself. Whatever Shanghai was before the Japanese arrival, it is no longer.
Grescoe has done a herculean amount of research to produce Shanghai Grand, and the book, which reading at times like Erik Larson ( Dead Wake: The Last Crossing of the Lusitania), staggers under its weight. He opens with a trip to Sinmay’s grave — leading one to think he may be the star of the book — but switches focus quickly to Sassoon, then Hahn and whomever is walking past an event he wants to mention. Sinmay and Hahn’s love affair comes across more pedestrian than passionate and never reaches a level worthy of the title “forbidden love.”
A magnificent book lurks here, one involving more of the irrepressible Hahn. But that is not Grescoe’s book — what he has accomplished is good, but not grand. James Macgowan is a frequent contributor to The Star’s book section.