The Many Daughters of Afong Moy(42)

“It rained for weeks and the Chu Kiang overflowed near your village. Witnesses saw him walk directly into the rushing river. Watched him get swept away.” Nanchoy put the note away. “His body was never found.”

Mrs. Hannington tapped Nanchoy on the shoulder, clearing her throat.

He turned to the ladies and smiled.

“She says that she finds American men to be quite handsome. So much taller and…” He struggled to find the words. “She finds them strong and fearless. Able to conquer this great land. Though she hopes to someday find a suitable Chinese husband.”

Nanchoy looked back at Afong as he switched to Cantonese. “I am sorry.”

“Oh, you poor thing,” Trudy said. “A heart is a flower that needs to bloom. Someday, perhaps, when you find your way home.” She winked at Nanchoy. “Who knows? You might find what you’re looking for right here in America.”

Afong bit her lip and tried not to cry. She tried to think of something other than the flooded banks of the Pearl River. But when she thought of horses, she saw them pulling a hearse. When she thought of a rabbit, she remembered how they shrieked and screamed when her mother butchered them. When she thought about a ship, all she saw were sails and steam paddles leaving without her.

“Well, I suppose we should slip offstage,” Mrs. Hannington said. “Come along, Trudy, I have a bottle of sherry waiting for us.”

Trudy waved goodbye as they walked back into the wings.

Afong stood alone in the darkness as the backstage lights began to fade. She thought about Yao Han, imagining him entering the cold water and disappearing. She dabbed at the corners of her eyes with her sleeve. Then she heard the audience fall silent, the footsteps of Mr. Hannington as he took his place on the other side of the curtain, center stage, in the spotlight that would soon be shining on her. Afong knew his words, his showman’s routine, she could quote him in English if she tried, but now she heard nothing, just garbled sounds where a voice should be. A voice that spoke as though underwater. She heard muffled clapping from beneath the waves. The curtains were drawn and she moved to her mark in the spotlight, staring up from the cold, dark bottom of the ocean.



* * *



During the carriage ride back to the City Hotel on Fulton Street, Afong ignored Mrs. Hannington, who sat across from her. The elegantly dressed woman’s cheeks were rosy, and she removed her shoes and stockings while happily humming a minstrel song.

This evening’s performance at Carroll Hall ended with a standing ovation despite a smaller crowd than usual (because Mr. Hannington hired shills to cheer and lead the audience to their feet). But as people applauded, Afong could not smile. She did not bow. All she saw as she looked out at the audience were the bars of her cage.

She thought about Yao Han and wondered if she would have felt this distraught in the Yu home. Would the constriction of her bound feet have spread to all her extremities, all her senses? Until she moved like the other married women she had known—her ah-ma included—as if they were ghosts in their own homes, ever present but unable to leave. Would she choose the path of a barren wife or dejected concubine and eat poison—British opium—dulling her pain until she felt nothing at all? Or would she decide all was lost, no matter where she was or who she was with, and choose the path taken by Yao Han, following his muddy footsteps into a river?

She stared out the open carriage window, her nostrils filled with the wet, grassy smell of horse manure as Mrs. Hannington put her shoes back on and began her usual retinue of warnings and admonitions. “Remember, you never, ever, want to be seen loitering alone on the street,” she slurred. “If the police see a single woman idling near some alley, they assume you’re a woman of ill repute and we don’t want that.”

Afong had heard Mrs. Hannington’s many cautionary tales, the things that might happen to her if she were to leave their custody.

But tonight, she did not care.

When she arrived at the boardinghouse, Nanchoy was there to escort her inside. With his hand on her arm, she understood now why Chinese folk tales about love always ended in tragedy. Maybe that is why she still cared about Yao Han. His stories were the hopeful opposite of poems like “Song of Everlasting Sorrow,” where the highest-ranking concubine in the land is forced to hang herself while her beloved, the emperor, is made to watch. The gods must be lonely in their heavens, Afong thought.

“Would you like me to find you something to eat?” Nanchoy asked, walking slowly so she didn’t have to hurry on her sore feet. “I’m sure I could find something…”

“Thank you. I am not hungry.”

They walked in awkward silence.

“I’m sorry, Afong. I should not have told you.”

She shook her head. “I insisted.”

Afong had been in dozens of newspapers, in more cities than she could remember. She had met the president of the United States in the White House. She performed beneath a spotlight, and people applauded her, but tonight she felt little more than a prop, a clotheshorse. She was whatever she was onstage, and that person diminished with the size of the audience. Offstage she was empty, hollow, unloved.

“Is there anything else I can do for you?” Nanchoy asked.

Afong did not answer.

She took his arm and let him help her up the servants’ stairs and down the hallway to her room, which was across from his.