The bustling streets of Chinatown were much quieter than usual—the fear of the sleeping sickness kept most people away. Business in the restaurants and shops was down. The hardworking men and women who came in droves for chop suey on their lunch hours were now heading to Automats and diners far from Doyers, Pell, Mott, and Mulberry Streets. Even the bane of the neighborhood—the white tour guides who brought in buses of “slumming” tourists to hear their lurid, deeply embellished tales of Chinatown’s bloody Tong Wars, opium dens, and “slave girls”—were noticeably absent.
The health department had been out testing the water and food; dirt from the streets; dung from the horses, insects, and rodents—anything they thought might give clues as to where the sickness was coming from and how it was transmitted. Ling had even made a special trip to the library to read up on sleeping sicknesses, hoping to find something helpful. She now knew more than she’d wanted to know about parasites, tsetse flies, and encephalitis. None matched what was happening in Chinatown and on the Lower East Side. There were no presenting symptoms, no fevers, aches, or cough.
People simply went to sleep and did not wake up.
The mayor threatened to shut down Chinese New Year festivities, which were only three weeks away. The Chinese Benevolent Association had gone so far as to hire a reporter to take pictures of the “Chinatown Cleaning Crews”: men in masks and gloves scrubbing down the sidewalks and kitchens, dropping off linens at the various laundries—anything to keep New Yorkers’ fears from escalating into panic and keep the Year of the Rabbit celebration on course.
The tourists weren’t the only ones who were worried. Neighbors who’d always been close suddenly became cautious around one another. Before classes at the Chinese school, the teachers made all the students wash their hands, and nurses checked their eyes, mouths, and skin for any hint of infection. The churches and temples were full. The old men and women went by daily to burn incense, make offerings, and ask for their ancestors’ blessing. Charms against bad luck had been positioned near windows and doors to ward off evil spirits. A rumor went around—no one knew how it started—that one of the diggers who’d fallen victim to the sleeping sickness had mentioned something about their crew discovering bones in an old subway station, and that he was anxious about having disturbed them.
“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.”
e simply went to sleep and did not wake up.
The mayor threatened to shut down Chinese New Year festivities, which were only three weeks away. The Chinese Benevolent Association had gone so far as to hire a reporter to take pictures of the “Chinatown Cleaning Crews”: men in masks and gloves scrubbing down the sidewalks and kitchens, dropping off linens at the various laundries—anything to keep New Yorkers’ fears from escalating into panic and keep the Year of the Rabbit celebration on course.
The tourists weren’t the only ones who were worried. Neighbors who’d always been close suddenly became cautious around one another. Before classes at the Chinese school, the teachers made all the students wash their hands, and nurses checked their eyes, mouths, and skin for any hint of infection. The churches and temples were full. The old men and women went by daily to burn incense, make offerings, and ask for their ancestors’ blessing. Charms against bad luck had been positioned near windows and doors to ward off evil spirits. A rumor went around—no one knew how it started—that one of the diggers who’d fallen victim to the sleeping sickness had mentioned something about their crew discovering bones in an old subway station, and that he was anxious about having disturbed them.
“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?