“I’m afraid I don’t speak Mandarin…”
“Don’t worry,” Laura jumps in. “I’ll help.”
Feng says something in Mandarin that has Laura laughing and glancing at me.
Is she making fun of my garish shirt and torn jeans?
“She says you’re handsome,” Laura translates. “And very lucky to have me.”
I offer a smile. “Tell her I agree.”
Laura conveys that. Feng waves us inside, gesturing as she speaks.
“She’s been watchingWed at First Sight,” Laura explains as we enter the house. “Every episode, even if it’s in French. She says you dance salsa like a god.”
Feng adds something, gesturing to Laura to relay. Laura shakes her head.
“What?” I demand. “You must translate everything, if you really want to help.”
Feng grins, pokes me in the chest with a gnarled finger, and says in English, “Sexy. Good for my Laura.”
“Why, thank you!” I bow theatrically. “Xièxiè.”
The interior of the house is simple and uncluttered. In a stark contrast to the Yangs’ Parisian apartment, all the furniture here is old, though well-kept, and mostly in traditional Chinese style. Even the TV is antique—blocky with a protruding butt. Which might explain why Feng’s daughter Hua is such a sucker for everything new…
On the dining table is a spread of colorful, fragrant food. My stomach growls involuntarily. Feng beams at the sound and pats my arm like I’m a starving child she’s about to rescue.
We wash our hands, and then the meal begins. The food—delicate dumplings, spicy stir-fried greens, and delectable pork—tastes even better than it looks. Feng and Laura engage in a lively conversation. Laura’s Mandarin is good. She has to stop and think sometimes, and she uses French words here and there, but overall, she’s fluent.
As soon as my hunger is satisfied, my thoughts rush to the photocopy of Laura’s sketch that’s burning a hole in my pocket.
Patience, Antoine.Let them talk their fill.
Finally, the conversation lulls, and Laura reaches for her backpack. She pulls out her sketchbook and flips to the page with the rose-and-ribbon design. She shows it to her grandma, before gesturing around us and asking something. Feng tilts the sketch toward the light.
Her eyes narrow, then widen in recognition. “Oh!” She taps her finger on the page and says something in Mandarin.
“That rose is on the front of the old music box she bought at the flea market a long time ago,” Laura translates, shooting me a euphoric look.
My heart leaps. I clench my hands under the table to keep from pounding it in triumph.
Feng speaks again, and Laura translates, “The music box never worked. The mechanism must’ve deteriorated too much. But other than that, it was in a pretty good shape. The craftsmanship was remarkable.”
“Was?” I echo.
Laura asks her grandmother a question in Mandarin. Feng shakes her head, her eyes suddenly wistful. She launches into an explanation. I don’t like the apology in her tone. I don’t like it at all.
“She gave it away back in March to her dear friend and trusted housekeeper, Ting Jie,” Laura translates. “No, wait, I should say ‘Jie Ting’ for you. In China, the last name comes before the first.”
I hate the news so much my mind resists. “What?”
“My grandmother gave the music box to her housekeeper,” Laura repeats slowly.
I force a smile to cover my disappointment. “I mean… why?”
Laura translates that. Feng chuckles, gesturing as she replies.
“She says Jie always loved it,” Laura explains to me. “She’d admired that music box for years. And since neither my mom nor I care for antiques, Grandma gave it to Jie as a gift for her fiftieth birthday.”
