The Many Daughters of Afong Moy(40)

When the song ended, she breathed in the applause, but it was not enough. She opened her eyes and nodded to the crowd. Then she glanced to the wings of the stage and saw Nanchoy in his golden waistcoat, his hair slicked back, clapping.



* * *



After weeks of sold-out shows, Afong began to weary of the perpetual spotlight. The endless routine. The thousands of faces who gawked at her, smiled at her, laughed at her, praised her, but none of them knew her, which only magnified her loneliness. To be so well known and yet so unknown at the same time, the madness of—as Yao Han might say it—being praised for having wings but kept in a cage.

In her mind, home was close enough to see, to smell, to hear, but she could not touch it. Those feelings, that longing, only made her want to retreat, to find a respite from the stage, to remember who she really was. Instead Mr. Hannington paraded her around the city in an open carriage as a form of advertising.

He would stand, waving his top hat, bellowing to the people on the avenues. He pointed with his cane and shouted, “Hear ye! Hear ye! This is your one free look at the Chinese Woman! Goddess of the Celestial Kingdom!” He put his hand on the back of her neck and whispered, “Siu.”

He knew a handful of words in Chinese, all of them commands.

Afong smiled as instructed.

When he let go, she would look back helplessly at Nanchoy, who always walked behind them, passing out leaflets to people on the sidewalks.

During these journeys, Afong paid special attention to landmarks. Not only did it make her feel less like a lost traveler in a strange city, but her observations allowed her to imagine possible escape routes. Where she would escape to was an unanswered question. Nevertheless, when they traveled the streets of Baltimore, she made note of the Peale Museum, the cemetery, parks, the great churches and rectories, the enormous roundhouse that Nanchoy said was where horsecars were made. She remembered the location of the towering Washington Monument, with a man on top made of stone. The column itself was impossible to miss and near the harbor, directly south of where she would be staying. But she also noticed something not seen in previous cities. Breadlines and soup kitchens, and police, breaking up protests and riots.

“It’s the Hessian fly,” Mr. Hannington said when he saw her puzzled look. He swatted at gnats and the occasional buzzing bluebottle. “It’s not just Baltimore. It’s killed wheat crops all over the damn country.” He looked down at a newspaper through the quizzing glass he wore around his neck. Then up at the lines of men, hats in hand, waiting for food. “The price of King Cotton is plummeting as well.”

Afong looked at Mr. Hannington. Despite his fancy, Beau Brummell frock, his elegant haberdashery, his exuberance, this was the first time she had seen him worried, chewing on an unlit cigar, rubbing his beard, grumbling to himself.

Nanchoy followed behind them, wary of the unhappy people.

Despite his concerns, Mr. Hannington said, “We need to hunker down and weather the storm,” so he extended their run in Baltimore, adding more weeks, which became months. He referred to it as “Afong’s going-away party.”

During this time, she had been learning to read English and was increasingly grateful for Nanchoy, his English lessons, his friendship, his companionship, the times they shared meals together. She listened to the stories of his travels, which made her feel closer to home and yet more homesick than ever. Which is why her heart nearly burst the first time she arrived at the concert hall and saw a painted banner that read, THE CHINESE LADY’S FINAL PERFORMANCE.

But when the curtains were drawn and the lights dimmed, when she asked Mr. Hannington if this meant she could finally go back home, he laughed while counting the night’s receipts. “Girl, you’re as innocent as a lamb and twice as dumb.”

Afong understood what he meant by her sixth final performance, though perhaps Mr. Hannington’s ruse was wearing thin as crowds were getting smaller each night.

Onstage, Afong listened to the chatter of tonight’s audience as they waited restlessly in their seats; she noticed Mrs. Hannington standing in the wings. She peeked through the side curtain, then sauntered to center stage with another woman at her side.

“Afong,” Mrs. Hannington said as she took Afong’s elbow. “This is my sister, Trudy, she lives in Mount Vernon and I wanted her to be able to see you up close and maybe even talk to you. We have plenty of time. Mr. Hannington is out front hawking tickets as we speak. You wouldn’t mind, now would you?” Afong barely understood. She smiled and nodded as though she had a choice.

“Look at you! Strange, yet so lovely. Such peculiar fashion—more elegant than the Esquimaux family that Captain Hadlock brought to the city last year—but still, so… primal,” Trudy gushed, touching Afong’s sleeve and her hair, petting her like an animal. “This all must be so thrilling for you! How do you like it here in America? How do you like your new home?”

Nanchoy translated her words.

Afong hesitated as she remembered a reporter asking the same question last year while she was in Buffalo for a performance. She tried her best to respond in English, but her answer came out awkwardly. “It is cold here. I am very sad to be so lonely.”

When Mr. Hannington read her quote in the newspaper, he stormed into her room. Afong was half-dressed, wearing only a chemise and a stay. He grabbed a fistful of hair, jerked her out of her chair, and berated her, beating the back of her legs with a cane.