The Many Daughters of Afong Moy(45)

Along the waterfront they found a bench near a bandbox, looking out over the harbor where several ships sat at anchor in the middle of the bay. She reflected on how she had been prepared for an arranged marriage since she could walk. Like her siblings, she was given over to strangers. She wondered how her sisters must have felt, seeing their husbands for the first time on their wedding days.

Afong knew that in America it was not legal for a white man to marry her and her choice of suitors was limited. There were rarely more than a hundred Chinese men in any given city at one time, most of them seamen, without homes on land. If they had wives and if they fathered any children, they would rarely ever see them.

“You should know,” Nanchoy spoke as though he could read her mind, “I asked the Hanningtons for permission to marry you.”

Afong opened her mouth but could not find the words.

She wanted to scream.

“They didn’t seem surprised,” he said. “I guess it makes sense to them. In case you’re wondering, they said they would have an answer for me tonight at the theater. I think they’re planning something special for us.”

Afong stared at a wrecked ship that had foundered and been left to rot.

“Who knows,” Nanchoy said. “Someday you might even be able to return to Canton as my wife. Perhaps the laws will change. Wouldn’t you like that?”

She imagined the water draining away from the harbor, leaving a ruinous landscape, dotted with sunken vessels, half-buried, covered in seaweed. Fish unable to breathe, dying in the sun. She wondered how far she would have to walk before the mud swallowed her whole.

Nanchoy kept talking, but she was not in the mood to listen.

He stood, shoved his hands in his pockets, huffing, “I wish you would say something. I’ve gone to a great deal of trouble to be here with you. I’ve sacrificed…”

Afong looked away.

He grabbed her chin and turned her face toward him. He leaned in and she felt his breath, which smelled like spoiled tea, rotten like an abscessed tooth.

“Gong waa,” he snapped in Cantonese. “Say something!”

She stared up at him, unblinking. “I do not care what you wish for.”

He slapped her.

Afong flared her nostrils and brushed her hair back to reveal a tear that slowly descended her throbbing cheek, down her neck.

“I’m sorry,” Nanchoy spat out as he adjusted his jacket. “I’ll be better. After all, in this country a man shouldn’t hit a woman until they’re married.”

He took out his handkerchief, wiped his mouth, and then handed it to her.

The bit of cloth smelled like him. She let it drop to the ground and wiped her tear with the back of her hand as he stalked away, leaving her to find her way alone. She did not mind because as he left the clouds parted and she felt the sun come out. She sat there for an hour, content, bathed in warmth, listing to birdsongs. Then she quietly remembered that it was September once again, the time of the Ghost Festival. She watched the tide go out, imagining the waves littered with joss paper, a ghost ship launched from the quay. She wished she could join its offerings of oranges and sugared fruit, her life, provender for wayward spirits. Then she sighed and slowly walked back, taking her time, careful not to trip on the cobblestones.

No one noticed her. No one cared. They were too busy watching angry crowds surround the Bank of Baltimore as more financial panic rippled through the city. Men shouted, tossed bottles and bricks as police arrived with wooden clubs in hand, blowing whistles. After so much time onstage, Afong appreciated being unknown, unnoticed, invisible as she took an oyster knife from a shellfish cart and hid it up her sleeve.



* * *



Afong climbed the servants’ stairs back to her room, closing her door as quietly as possible. She sat on the bed and examined the knife. It was small but weighty, with a handle that fit the size of her fist. The blade was as long as her middle finger.

She looked outside and the sun was setting behind the buildings across the street. She lit a lamp, turned up the wick, and stared into the mirror, knowing she would have to get ready soon. With a deep breath, she loosened her collar buttons. She let her dress fall from her shoulders to the floor. She removed her petticoats and chemise. She stood before the mirror in her stay and pantalets. She touched the contours of her neck with her fingers, turning her head to the right, to the left. She remembered how she helped her mother slaughter chickens. She recalled the clucking and crowing of an animal that could not fathom that its life would soon be over. Afong put the point of the blade against the hollow of her neck, felt the metal against her skin. She envisioned plunging the knife into her throat, feeling warmth spread down her chest, soaking her dress. She wondered what would happen to her body. Chinese laborers who died in the US had their hearts cut out or their bones bleached so they could be returned to their families and properly buried.

Afong heard the door open behind her, watched a shadow cross the wall, saw Nanchoy’s reflection staring at her, shaking his head.

“What are you doing?” His voice sounded more annoyed than surprised.

She turned, holding the knife in front of her.

“You’re going to stab me?” Nanchoy asked. “After all I’ve done for you?”

Her voice cracked and her hand trembled as she said, “Get out.”

He snatched her wrist, twisted her arm until the knife dropped, chiming on the floor. He picked it up then spun her around, pinning her arm behind her back. He put the blade to her throat. She could feel his heart pounding, his heavy breathing, his body pressed against hers. He pulled her head back and she closed her eyes.