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?
“Well. I’m sure it’s fine. What is not fine is the state of this opera house,” Uncle Eddie said, gesturing to the messy theater. “The Year of the Rabbit will be here soon, and I’m hopeful there will still be a reason to celebrate. I’d best get to work. Thank you for the dumplings.”
“You’re welcome, Uncle,” Ling said, gathering the basket and its top back into her knapsack and reaching for her crutches.
“Ling,” her uncle called as she opened the door onto the blustery day once more. “Have the dead told you anything about this sickness?”
Immediately, Ling remembered Mrs. Lin’s odd warning in her dream: It isn’t safe. She’d thought the warning had been about Henry. But could it have been about the sickness, somehow? Had Mrs. Lin known what was causing it—a water source, or meat from diseased farm animals? That was the trouble with dreams; they could have all sorts of meanings.