“Ghosts,” the old men whispered in back rooms and over cups of tea.
“Ghosts.” The women nodded in the greenmarkets or sitting on benches in Columbus Park.
But Ling’s mind wasn’t on ghosts or sickness just now. Last night, she’d witnessed an incredible transformation. Think of something you want, Wai-Mae had said, as if Ling’s emotional state was the necessary force that made the shoes manifest. Was an energy field created by all the thoughts and desires floating through dreams, and, if so, was it more concentrated in that particular part of the dreamscape? Did a person’s longing or fear or greed, when applied, bend and shape the universe of the dream somehow? And could you do more than transmute one object into another?
Could you will something into existence through your emotions?
Should you?
At the opera house, Uncle Eddie sat on the edge of the stage, putting the finishing touches on a costume.
“That smells good,” he called, seeing Ling. “Come. Share with me.”
He took the knapsack off Ling’s back, opened up the bamboo basket, and offered Ling a dumpling. She bit down, enjoying the squirt of spicy, soupy juice in her mouth as she looked over the traditional headdress for the Dao Ma Dan, the female warrior role. Elaborate beadwork took up the front, and long brown-and-white-striped pheasant feathers curved around each side like whisper-light horns, and Ling admired its beauty. Onstage sat a grouping of red chairs whose various placements, Ling knew, could indicate a seemingly endless variety of meanings, from a bed to a mountain to a mausoleum. Everything about the opera was steeped in symbolism and tradition. From outside in the street came the sound of girls singing jazz slang from a song that was popular on the radio—just some kids stealing a light moment among the dreariness.
“Ah. Modern youth,” her uncle said. “They listen to jazz records and stay out half the night. No one cares about the opera anymore. Why aren’t you out there with them, terrorizing the streets of Chinatown?”
Ling fingered another sticky dumpling from the basket. “I have more important things to do.”
“Eating dumplings with an old man. Very important.”
“I might have a new friend,” Ling said, and she hoped it didn’t sound quite as defensive as it felt. “A, um, a pen pal. She’s coming over from China to be married.”
Uncle Eddie raised an eyebrow. “That’s very difficult.”
“She says it’s all been arranged,” Ling said, putting the dumpling in her mouth.
“Well. It’s good, then, that you can help her to become familiar. When I first came to this country, I knew nothing. And I didn’t speak a word of English.”
He opened his wallet and retrieved a worn photograph of himself as a young man of eighteen, his expression very serious, his long hair braided in the traditional queue.
“Have I ever shown you this picture?” he asked.
Out of respect, Ling shook her head, though her uncle had shown her his picture more than once.
“Well,” Uncle Eddie continued, “that’s me when I was just about your age. I only planned to be here for two years to make money for my family in China. But then they passed more and more laws. If I left the country, I couldn’t come back again. So I stayed. With so few Chinese coming over, it was very hard to run the opera. I worked for my cousin at his restaurant for many years.” Her uncle put the picture back in his wallet. “I never saw my mother and father again.”
Ling’s stomach tightened at the thought of losing her parents. Her mother and father might be overly protective, but they were hers, and she couldn’t imagine being without them. Beside her uncle’s picture was his resident permit, which all Chinese were required to carry. To be caught without it could mean prison time or deportation. Ling had been born right there in Chinatown. She was considered a citizen. But under the Chinese Exclusion Act, her father never would be. As for her Irish mother, the moment she married an “Asian alien,” she’d given up her chance to become an American citizen. Ling lived with the worry that some small mistake could cost them everything, that she could be torn from them as her uncle had been from his own parents.
“She’ll be interrogated when she arrives,” her uncle said, reaching for another dumpling. “At Angel Island, I was asked nearly six hundred questions.”
“Six… hundred?”
“Oh, yes. Day in, day out, they tried to break me: Who lives in the fourth house on your street in your village? Do you know how to work a clothing press? Are you a laborer? Do you smoke opium? And the medical examinations.” He wiped his fingers and shook his head in disgust.
“Why all those questions, Uncle?”
“They hoped to prove that I was only a paper son, who bought his way in with false papers. They wanted to find a reason to keep me out. But…” Her uncle’s smile was triumphant and a little rebellious. “Here I am.”
Ling fished another dumpling from the basket and breathed in the musty, cozy smell of the old opera house. Most theater was performed at the Bowery Theatre these days, but for the New Year, they were using the old opera house on Doyers Street. Her uncle had been cleaning and pulling things up from the basement for weeks now. Flats of scenery from shadow-puppet shows were leaned up against racks of costumes and rows of masks. “What opera will you do for the New Year?”
“The Royal Consort of the Emperor Finds Eternal Happiness in Paradise.”
“I don’t know that one.”
“It hasn’t been performed here in, oh, fifty years or so. It’s a love story. And a ghost story, too.”
“All your favorites,” Ling said, smiling. In his day, Uncle Eddie had been one of the most celebrated Dan of his generation, nearly as good at playing the female roles as the world-famous Mei Lanfang.
“Yes, all my favorites. With luck, we’ll see it performed. Luck and an end to this sickness. How is your friend George?”
“The same,” Ling said, pushing away the dumplings. Earlier, she’d lit a candle for George at the Church of the Transfiguration, and offered prayers at the temple, too, covering all the bases.
“He’s young,” her uncle said. “The doctors will find what’s causing this sickness very soon. And then they’ll find a cure. I’m sure of it.”
Ling nodded, grateful for her uncle’s reassurance. “Uncle,” Ling said, “could the sleeping sickness make it hard for my friend—my pen pal—to come to New York?”
“It could, indeed. I hope that she has friends or relatives in high places to help ease her way. Matchmakers, you say?”
“Yes. O’Bannion and Lee.”
“I’m not familiar with that firm. If you’re looking for a Lee, you can always ask at the Golden Pearl,” Uncle Eddie said. Anyone with the surname Lee could have mail from China sent there for collection, Ling knew. It functioned as a family name–specific post office as well as a store. “Chang Lee would surely know. He’s been here longer than I have.” Uncle Eddie shook his head. “A girl has to be careful: Some of those matchmakers are not reputable. The girls come thinking they’ll marry, and end up as servants instead. Or worse.”
“Her uncle arranged everything,” Ling said, but now she was worried. What if this O’Bannion and Lee wasn’t a reputable firm after all?