The Many Daughters of Afong Moy(37)
Was he real at all or am I addled from falling, hitting my head?
Did he say something about my family?
Am I still dreaming?
Her growling stomach answered and she knew she had missed supper.
She drained her cup, set it aside, and opened her leather valise, which she kept next to the bed in case there was a fire or she had to flee, or both. Inside she found scraps of surplus cloth that she could use to bind her broken toes and support her feet. She looked for her lotus shoes, grateful and relieved when she found them. During her first month on tour, Mr. Hannington took her footwear each night, making it harder, if not impossible, for her to get very far should she attempt to run away. But Mrs. Hannington put an end to that and brought them back one night. “Don’t tell.”
Where would I go?
Afong did not have an answer as she carefully rewrapped her feet by candlelight, feeling bones shift as she cinched the fabric tight, locking everything in place with a needle and thread as her ah-ma taught her. Afong winced with each knot.
“How much pain you can endure shows what kind of wife you will become,” her ah-ma once said, pointing to her own lotus shoes. “It shows that you will be able to work hard, to cook, to give birth to many children, and take care of them. To a future husband, your ability to suffer only makes you more attractive.”
As the moon disappeared and it began to rain, Afong thought she must be the most beautiful girl in the world by now.
* * *
When Afong’s head began to clear, she changed into a button collar and a simple green dress, which was her favorite because the hem was long enough to hide her shriveled toes, her broken arches. She still felt strange in this upside-down world where men wore trousers and women wore dresses, instead of back home where long gowns were reserved for men and women wore pants rolled up to the knee.
Too hungry to sleep, she blew out the candle, peeked outside her room, and surmised the hour must be quite late as everyone was already settled in for the evening. She limped down the hallway and descended the servants’ stairs, wincing, gripping a railing to keep from falling. At the landing, she spied the dining room. Her stomach rumbled and she hoped that there might be a pot of soup or a plate of biscuits and jam left out for her, as some boardinghouses provided. If not, she would find a larder where she could at least find a piece of bread. When it came to meals, she had become accustomed to the boardinghouse diet, which consisted of hard tack and stews. She tried not to dwell on memories of her ah-ma’s steamed dumplings dipped in vinegar, spicy turnip cake, and the sweet fried gao her family ate every Lunar New Year. She tried to be grateful for any food at all as she traveled, even if the only chicken she ever saw was little more than legs and pinfeathers, and the only fruit she had eaten in months had been prunes. Once she was served rice pudding, which she found confusing and disgusting, but the others practically licked their bowls clean.
As Afong touched the simple unvarnished furniture in the dining room and looked around, she realized this was one of those establishments where boarders rushed downstairs at the sound of the dinner bell. Where they ate quickly, eyeing each other warily, gulping their food like stray dogs until there was nothing left.
Her heart sank and her stomach grumbled again, as there were not even crumbs on the floor or beneath the table. The door to the kitchen had been locked and barred.
She heard the ruffle of a newspaper.
A man spoke in Cantonese, “Sik zo fan mei?”
Afong turned and saw him in the drawing room. Deprived of his golden waistcoat, he looked like an American dandy in his tightly fitted tailcoat, bespoke trousers, and linen cravat. He sat in an overstuffed chair that looked as though the upholstery had been ripped and resewn numerous times.
“Yes,” she said in her native tongue. “I am quite hungry.”
He wore spectacles, glinting in the lamplight, and was reading the Baltimore Saturday Visitor. He pointed to a plate on the table next to him.
“It’s not much. Just bread and sausage. A few slices of apple.”
“What are you doing here?”
“At the moment, reading a sad poem called ‘Tamerlane,’ about death and young love, written by a mysterious, anonymous Bostonian.” The man set aside the newspaper. “But beyond that, I’m staying here.” He smiled. “I suppose the Hanningtons would have put me elsewhere if there were more convenient vacancies that aligned with their thriftiness. But for now, we are sharing the same roof.”
He stood and offered her a seat. “I’m Nanchoy Eu Tong. I’ve been hired as the Hanningtons’ new interpreter and also as your English tutor. Won’t you please join me?”
Afong felt overwhelmed, and not just because of hunger. Hearing someone speak to her kindly, sweetly, in her own language was like a lullaby.
Most of the boardinghouses she stayed at were regarded as promiscuous establishments—places where both men and women were allowed—though the women usually lived on a separate floor. She even stayed at a few houses where married couples lived, newlyweds without a home of their own.
Despite the abundant company, Afong always found boardinghouses to be lonely affairs. No one else spoke Chinese, of course, though they all seemed to recognize who she was. They gawked at her, gushed their curiosity. Laughed and nodded when she tried to speak English. But befriend was a term she had not employed in the two years since she arrived in this country.