The Many Daughters of Afong Moy(41)

Afong blinked and saw Mrs. Hannington and her sister smiling, waiting.

“I like it here very much,” Afong said in Cantonese. Since Buffalo, she learned to always say praiseworthy things about the Hanningtons. In the morning after that beating, the bruises were so purple and swollen she struggled to get out of bed and could barely stand, which confused Mrs. Hannington, who grumbled, “Chinese are so lazy.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Hannington have been so good to me, so kind and generous.”

Nanchoy translated and Mrs. Hannington excitedly clapped her hands.

The last month had been exciting, since every week Nanchoy wrote a letter on Afong’s behalf and delivered it to a packet ship bound for China. The return address was the post office in Baltimore, where they expected to spend the winter.

Afong anxiously awaited any correspondence.

Now, while smiling at Mrs. Hannington, Afong said in Cantonese, “Has a letter arrived yet? Has there been any news of home, of my family?”

Nanchoy translated as the two women listened, then he spoke a bit more in his native tongue. “It’s better that we discuss these things later.” He patted his coat pocket.

Trudy seemed to swell with pride and excitement as though she were in the company of royalty instead of the sideshow attraction Afong knew she had become. “Tell me,” Trudy asked, “what has been your favorite part of America? You’ve seen so much of it. I’m most curious what this great land of ours must be like to a girl like you.”

Nanchoy repeated the questions in Cantonese.

Afong turned to Trudy but spoke to Nanchoy. “You can answer her any way you like. But if a letter has arrived, I must insist. I might not see you after the show and I cannot bear to wait.” Afong knew that sometimes he was sent on errands for a day or two, or he would have to leave and accompany Mr. Hannington as a personal valet.

The first time she dictated a letter to send to her mother, Nanchoy took it to a ship and returned that afternoon. The second time, when she asked him to write a letter to Yao Han—expressing how much she missed him, how she wished he might become a merchant and come to America—Nanchoy disappeared for a week. She worried that he might never be coming back. That she upset him somehow. But he said he was sent to help secure another concert hall with Mr. Hannington.

Nanchoy nodded, then turned to Trudy. “Afong says her favorite part of America has been the music. Especially songs played on the piano, which seems like a magical invention.” He then glanced at Afong. “There is good news, but there is also news that will upset you. Let’s not talk about this now.”

Afong’s heart soared. Then she breathed in through her nose and held it for a moment as she braced herself for bad tidings. She worried for the safety of her older sisters. That one of them might have died in childbirth. She worried that her mother might have been cast aside in favor of a second wife.

She glanced at Nanchoy, who glanced at his pocket watch.

“Please,” Afong said. “I am begging.”

“Ooooh,” Trudy squealed. “Ask her—if I may be so bold—what she thinks of American men. Not the Irish, but the natives, the white men who were born here.”

Nanchoy nodded to Trudy as though they were sharing a secret, an inside joke. “A very good question.” He turned to Afong and sighed wearily. “The letter is from your mother. She is well and misses you dearly. She shared that your oldest sister has a child, a son. Both are in good health. She’s been able to visit them. Your father’s business is doing well, but I’m afraid he has no desire to seek your return.”

Afong knew her father had no use for her, this was no surprise. If Nanchoy had bad news, she hoped that was all of it. Telling her something she already suspected was a confirmation, not a condemnation. But as she watched him loosen his cravat, she could tell that was not the bad news.

“Your mother found someone to help her write this, which she hoped you would understand.” Nanchoy hesitated, then he produced a slip of paper from his pocket. “Please, I think it would be much better to have this conversation in private.”

“Tell me!” Afong snapped, then glanced at Mrs. Hannington and smiled again, though it now hurt her cheeks to do so. “Just read it.”

Nanchoy unfolded the slip of paper as he cleared his throat, then looked at her as he spoke. “The thread in the hands of a fond-hearted mother makes clothing for the body of her wayward girl; Carefully she sews and thoroughly she mends, dreading the delays that will keep her far from home…”

As Afong recognized the words, a version of Ming Jao’s classic poem about a mother’s undying love, it seemed as though time stopped. All was silent, except for her breathing, her beating heart. Mrs. Hannington and her sister became statuary, mouths open, mid-conversation. The swirling dust particles illuminated by the gaslights seemed frozen in amber. The only thing that moved was Nanchoy as he spoke.

“I’m sorry, Afong. Your mother is deeply sorry as well, for not being able to help you, for not being able to bring you home, and for not being able to tell you in person that on the one-year anniversary of your departure…”

Afong stared at Nanchoy in fearful anticipation.

“Your friend, Yao Han, took his own life.”

For a moment, she was transported to a grassy meadow back home. Afong was a little girl again, sitting beneath the willow with Yao Han as he recited the Bearer’s Song. Now here, on this stage, she felt the lines of that tragic poem: Even the Maker of All could not bring the life back to my limbs.