Sad Peninsula (25 page)

Today the sermon was about the war in Iraq, and the power of prayer. The minister — just a young fellow really, about thirty years old — was telling a story he had learned over the email from a colleague in America. It involved a family in the colleague's congregation who had a son stationed in Baghdad. The young man had given up a comfortable job as an accountant shortly after 9/11 and enlisted in the army, a decision his family supported because they believed it came from God. But now, with their boy posted right in the heart of a worsening situation — suicide bombers and I.E.D.s, sectarian slaughter and those atrocities at Abu Ghraib — the family began questioning whether this was what the Lord wanted for their son. They began questioning whether the
war itself
was what He wanted. “And these are God-fearing Republicans, my colleague tells me,” the minister said. “This family came to him for advice because they knew the questions they were raising were a slippery slope. Before long, they might have begun questioning God's benevolence, or even His very existence. And so what did my friend tell this family to do? To pray. Simply to pray. We can only know a small part of God's intentions for us. But if we choose, we can be in God's presence whenever we wish — simply through the power of prayer. So pray, he told them. Pray every day; soak up the love and light of God. It will provide you with something far greater than mere answers to earthly questions. Use your prayers not to interrogate God, but only to be with Him.”

The minister ended his sermon by telling the congregation to pray there in their pews, and Eun-young did as she was told. She thought she felt it then, the presence that the minister had promised. It
was
God, wasn't it — touching her shoulders and calming that cacophony in her mind, thoughts about Tae's death, about Ji-young's grief, about the
waegookin
and his stares, and that terrible trip to Pusan sixteen years ago?
Is He here?
she asked.
Is God really with me in this place?

After the service, Eun-young hobbled into the lineup in the aisle and waited her turn to shake the minister's hand, nodding at the people who smiled at her and wished her good morning. When she approached the young minister, he reached out and touched her elbow.

“Eun-young, it's so good to see you,” he said. “You've been away for a while.”

“I have, but I'm back,” she replied, and then frowned. “Young man, my niece passed away last week.”

“Oh Eun-young, I'm sorry to hear that. Was she very old?”

“No, just fifty-one. Her mother, my sister, is devastated. She's just — devastated.”

The minister nodded solemnly. “Of course she would be.”

“I've been at a loss since it happened,” Eun-young mumbled. “I've been feeling … feeling …” The minister tilted his head, waiting for her to finish, but Eun-young changed gears suddenly. “Young man, I have a question … I have a question about sin.”

“Yes?”

“It's not about whether God can wash away sin. I already know your answer to that. But I want to ask you what counts as a sin.”

The minster's eyes flickered for a moment over Eun-young's shoulder at the people behind her waiting patiently for their turn with him. They were used to this, the old woman with the scar over her lip who often sought spiritual guidance at inappropriate moments.

“Go ahead, Eun-young,” he smiled, his eyes falling back to her.

“Is happiness a sin?” she asked.

“Generally no — unless its source contradicts how God would like us to treat each other.”

“Is anger a sin?”

“Generally yes — unless it eventually leads us to seek out God's word and follow it.”

“Is solitude a sin? Being alone? Cutting yourself off from other people?”

“You and I have discussed this one already,” he smiled. “Eun-young, God wants us to have community. He wants
you
to have community.”

She found herself weeping, lightly. She pulled at her cheeks with the heel of her hand. “I'm sorry. My niece, my niece died last week. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.”

“It's okay. Hey, it's okay.”

“One last question,” she said, and then paused. “Could forgiveness ever be a sin?”

The minister's face nearly cracked in two from his smile. “
Never
,” he said joyously. “True forgiveness could never be a sin.”

But her frown just deepened.
I don't believe you.
She hobbled off curtly, stabbing at the lobby floor with her cane. One-two, one-two-and-three, and she was back on the sidewalk and heading home.

By the time Eun-young returned to her basement apartment, the minister's words had fluttered out of her mind like birds. When she unlocked the door and stepped inside her mildewy hovel, the certitude and tranquility of church was gone, replaced by a tumult that began brewing inside her. She shuffled over to her little kitchen to begin her lunch, took down a bag of rice from the cupboard and tried to measure some for the rice cooker on the floor. But stopped before the first grains came out. She set the bag back down, began to tremble. Closing her eyes, Eun-young tried to pray once more, tried to find God's presence as she had in the church. It wasn't there. She prayed as hard as she could, but it was like her low ceiling and mouldy walls had sealed Him out.
Even God is not allowed in here
, she thought.
It's a crock — all of it. What I feel is not peace. I feel alone. I should have told the minister that — I feel so alone. If forgiveness is not a sin, then why does it seem so wrong? Maybe if I had known God when I was younger, knew His purpose for me before I was taken to the camps and made into a whore, I would be capable of compassion. But I'm not. I am not capable. I'm sorry, Ji-young. I cannot understand your grief. It's not that I hated Tae, even though she gladly abetted my isolation with her disapproval. It's not that. I cannot help you in your mourning because I cannot understand what it means to love a daughter. And it's because I don't love anyone, or anything. I am like an island floating in the sea, without even a sliver of soil touching the mainland. I have no path to cross over to you.

God is not here. He has never touched my heart. Not once.

B
ut then nights later, weeks later really, the phone rang. The sound was like an intruder, so rare that it was for the phone to ring at all. Eun-young sat up in bed, the sheets crinkling around her. It was the middle of the night.

She didn't get up right away to answer it. But when it didn't stop, she swung her brittle legs around and touched the floor with her feet. The phone rang and rang as she raised herself from bed and limped out into the main room, where the phone sat on a low table next to her wicker chair. She stood before it in her nightgown. There was only one person it could be at this hour.

She answered it.

“Hello.”

“Eun-young …”

“Hello, my sister.”

“I'm sorry to call so late. I've gotten you out of bed, haven't I?” She was speaking in a low voice. Perhaps trying not to wake Chung Hee.

“It's alright.”

“Eun-young … Eun-young …”

“Speak to me, my sister.”

“Why haven't you come? It's been weeks now. Why haven't you come to see me?”

“I'm sorry, Ji-young.”

“I don't want an apology. I want a reason. Why haven't you come to see your sister?”

Eun-young licked her lips, but Ji-young cut her off before she could speak. “I haven't been able to sleep. My doctor warned me about this. He said the sudden death of a loved one can cause insomnia. It can last for months. Did you know that, Eun-young?”

“I did, yes.”

“Of course you did. You know so many things.”

“Ji-young, please …”

“I can't stop thinking about Tae,” Ji-young went on after a moment. “I mean, I realize her soul has crossed over, that she has taken her place among our ancestors. I
know
that. But I can't stop thinking about
her
— her body. I can't stop thinking about my little girl in her
box.
Do you know what I mean? Eun-young, do you know what I mean?”

“I know exactly what you mean.”

“You know so much,” Ji-young repeated. “You are so wise. Why have you kept your wisdom from me? Why, Eun-young? Why haven't you come to see your little sister in her grief?”

Eun-young lowered her head, felt a flush appear around her neck like a wreath. She scoured her brain for all the rationales for staying away.
They are there
, she thought.
Your justifications are there, aren't they? No. No, they are not. They are not there. You speak of God not being in this place, but it is your
reasons
, not God, that have abandoned you. They are not here. You cannot speak your reasons aloud because they are not really here.

“I'll come, Ji-young,” she said.

“Eun-young …”

“I'll come.”

“You promise?”

“I do. I'll come. I'll be there tomorrow.”

J
in
is wearing
hanbok
.

Jin is wearing
hanbok
in some of the photos she's showing me on her camera. She races through them to get to other pictures, from her recent trip to Paris.

“Wait, go back,” I tell her.

“What?”

“Go back for a sec.”

We're on my bed, huddled over the viewfinder. We haven't seen each other in more than a month: After the extended break with her family at Chuseok, Jin went to France for three weeks on business. It's great having her in the apartment again, but also a little weird. Awkward. We're waiting for Paul to leave for the day. He's off to Suwon to hike the fortress there with friends he's made at Bible study.

Jin scrolls back a few pictures. And then there she is, under that tent-like dress in its layers of pastel.

“You're wearing
hanbok
in these ones,” I say.

“Well, it
was
Chuseok.”

“Jin, you never wear
hanbok
. You always said it looks unflattering.”

“Michael, Chuseok was different this year. I told you that. It had to be, coming so close after my mother's death. I felt, how you say,
obligated
to be a bit more traditional.”

“But I've never seen you wear it. You look different. You look …”

“Michael, do you have a problem with me wearing hanbok?”

I bristle. “Of course not. I don't. It's just that …”

A knock rattles my door.

“Come on in,” I sigh.

Paul peeps his head in bashfully, like he's worried we won't be decent. “Hey, you two.”

“Hey, man.”

“Hi, Purposeful Paul.”

His smile curdles a little, like he's not sure if Jin is mocking him. “I'm off to Suwon,” he says. “I won't be back until late. Have a great day, you guys.”

“You too, man. Enjoy the hike. It's fantastic.”

“Yes, have fun down there.”

After he's gone, I turn back to Jin. I want to talk to her about the things I've been noticing, these little slippages in her personality. But I don't get the chance. As soon she hears Paul close and lock the apartment door behind him, she sets her camera on my nightstand and then moves in on me. Her palms run over my thighs, and she kisses my throat.

“Hello there, stranger,” she croons.

Within a minute, our clothes are on the floor. It's been so long since we've had sex, so long since I've had her undivided attention for any stretch of time. It's nice; but again, weird. Passionate, but in the tawdry way of a one-night stand.

After we're done, she throws on one of my T-shirts and goes to use the bathroom; and when she returns, spots something on my floor near the bookshelf. It's the 2004 academic calendar from the University of Ottawa. Tucked in its pages is my application form. She brings them over to the bed and climbs in with me. Hikes up her naked legs and rests the book on them.

“So are we really going to do this?” she asks, flipping.

She said
we.
I cling to the fact that she said
we
.

“I would certainly like to.”

Her expression is an eddy of indecision, so many thoughts swirling around her head.

“So tell me how it would work.”

“Well, it's a two-year program. I'd have a B.Ed at the end. I could probably find some freelance editing during the summers to help keep us afloat.”

“And what would I do?”

“I'm thinking you could apply for a job at the Korean Consulate. Or maybe do some freelance translating. You
are
fluent in French, after all.”

“And how often would we come back to Korea?”

“As often as we can afford. If I'm going to be a school teacher for the rest of my life, I'll have two months off every year. We could spend entire summers back here in big smoggy Seoul.”

She doesn't smile at that. She just sticks out her bottom lip and thinks hard.

“Jin, we'll come back as often as we can.”

“But is that what
you
want?” she asks suddenly. “I mean really, Michael. Are you willing to spend every summer vacation commuting between our two countries?”

“If it means being with you.”

“But wouldn't it be simpler to take Korea — to take
me
— out of the equation completely?”

“That doesn't make any sense,” I tell her. “You're the reason we're even having this conversation.”

“But maybe you'd be happier with a Canadian girl. Did you consider that? Why be chained to Korea for the rest of your life just because you think you're in love with me?”

“
Hey
. I don't
think
I'm in love with you.”

But she turns away then, away from the severity in my tone. “Maybe it would be better if you weren't in love with a Korean. Then you could move home next year with no complications. Did you ever think of that?”

“I don't know what to tell you, Jin. You're the one I want to be with. I have nothing else to say.”

Thankfully, she smiles a little. “Even if you don't like me wearing
hanbok
?”

“I told you — I don't have a problem with you wearing
hanbok
.”

“You think it makes me look ugly.”

“It doesn't make you look ugly,” I say. “It makes you look pregnant.”

She huffs. “Well, I'm not
pregnant
.”

She kisses me between the eyes and then slides out of my sheets to go take a shower.

A
nother month and another month, and I'll still be on this assembly line of English. My classes at the
hagwon
grow more predictable with each new batch of kids. There's the princess in the first row, there's the thug in the back. There's the kid too smart for his own good, sarcastic and demanding linguistic explanations.
Why not “gooder”? Why not caught “blue-handed” when doing something wrong? Why is “losing your temper” bad when “having a temper” is also bad? Why, MichaelTeacher, why?
His essays teem with personality, but I still need to scribble corrections in the margins. No, Louis Armstrong was not the first man on the moon. No, Jesus was not betrayed by Judas Asparagus. He means well. At least he doesn't write ad nauseam about the World of Warcraft or Pokémon. The older kids want to talk about America. They can't believe Kerry lost the election. How could so many people be so stupid? “Bush is crazy man! Crazzzy man!” the kids scream at me, as if I had something to do with his victory.

My life is bifurcated now, between the grind of today and my plans for next year. The application to Ottawa is in the mail and I'm imbued with optimism. I've already begun researching the city, thinking about neighbourhoods to live in and commutes to campus. Does Ottawa have a Korean community? Will Jin be able to get a job? What sort of visa will she need? I plan and I plan. You might say I overplan. I take ideas to Jin looking for clear-cut approval: Let's spend the summer in Halifax: JazzFest and the buskers and day trips down to the South Shore; let's go to Ottawa a couple of weeks before classes start and be tourists, walking the ByWard Market and exploring Parliament Hill. She nods with acquiescence, but there is no commitment behind her eyes. Only distraction. She is deeply distracted. I mention my worries to Paul, but his advice is just a thin gruel of determinism.
Have
faith
that she'll follow you to Canada, Michael. If it's meant to be, it'll be.
I don't want to have faith. I want to fucking kidnap her. I want to make things
happen
. It's no use talking to Paul about this. He doesn't believe that we're in control of our own lives. I wish Rob Cruise were around for me to seek his counsel. He'd know what I should say to Jin to extinguish these reservations, to take charge of our relationship. But I haven't seen Rob since the summer. I don't even know what he's doing for a living this year. I don't even know if
he
took
my
advice, and fled the country.

A
nd let's not forget about my
other
little project. I feel like I've done all the research on the Web that I can. I've read every article, testimonial, bit of history out there for public consumption. The time has come to take this obsession to the next level.

I ask Ms. Kim for a Wednesday off. Any Wednesday, it doesn't matter. I realize that beseeching her for this favour is risky business: my absence from the school, even for a day, could put me on her “bad teacher” radar. She'll have to ask one of the Korean front-counter staff — all of whom are bilingual, more or less — to teach my classes. She'll hate doing this because Koreans aren't supposed to teach Koreans at an English
hagwon
. It goes against the advertising, against what the school has promised all the mothers: Our teachers are the real deal — Western, almost always white, and
native speakers
. Still, it's only for one day. I ask Ms. Kim for this during our prep period in the most diffident voice possible. I have to be careful. She is forever on the look-out for ways that her foreign teaching staff might be ripping her off, always one beat from flying off the handle. Still, she likes me. Considers me obedient and reliable. We negotiate the terms: I won't be paid for the day, and if I'm back in time I should come in and teach my evening classes — for free, as a gesture of thanks. I have no choice but to agree. Why do you need a Wednesday off, anyway? she asks. Personal business, I tell her. Something I can only do on a Wednesday. Thankfully, she doesn't ask for details. What would I say if she did?
Tell me, Ms. Kim, do you have a grandmother?

Wednesday is when Seoul's comfort women gather outside the Japanese Embassy for their noontime protest. This has happened every week, without fail, for the last twelve years. I am off to observe it in the name of research, bringing along a big spiralled notepad like the kind I used when I was a middling journalist. As the subway rumbles me northward, I feel that old hollow sensation in my stomach. These blank pages speak of obligations I've never been comfortable with: to be assertive, to ask tough questions, to bother people, to insist they share their stories, to get it down, to get it right, to get it lucid. I'm determined to lift what I want from these women in the name of telling a good story.

But my visit to the Embassy is an absolute bust. The atmosphere of the gathering is nothing like I had imagined. I expected there to be speeches I could understand, angry chants thrown like stones at the Embassy windows, elderly ladies pounding their chests in anguish as they demand justice. It is nothing like that. There is a perfunctory air to this assembly, a well-entrenched routine. I watch these women sitting behind their long banners and waving their ping pong racket-like signs in the air. The songs they sing are almost cheerful; a few of these ladies are actually smiling. Someone does make a speech, a university-aged girl who has come out to show her support, but it's entirely in Korean and garbled through a megaphone. I roam the small crowd, jotting observations and posing a few limp questions to a handful of people. Hardly anyone speaks English, and the ones who do can tell me nothing beyond what I've already learned on the Web.

I should have brought Jin. She could have been my translator, giving me the confidence to come right up to these old women and put better questions, harder questions to them — to make them reveal the little details about their experience that I can't learn from books or articles. But I haven't even told Jin about this project. I suspect she'd be furious if she knew I was even up here.

I return to Daechi at the end of the afternoon, thoroughly dejected. The apartment is empty: Paul has already left for the
hagwon
. I go into my bedroom and sit at the little wooden desk I scavenged off the street, and slap my notebook on it. I open the ancient laptop I brought over from Canada and turn it on, launching a new document. I look down at the few, scant notes I had taken. I look up at the computer's blank page, all its possibilities.

What the hell, Michael?
I think.
Are you going to be a coward for the rest of your life? Are you going to do nothing,
be
nothing? You
know
that there is a different route into this. You know there is another way.

And in that instant, I feel like I hold the entire thing — every last word of what I want to write — in my mind at once. It's there, as real as anything that has ever happened to me. Real because it is so
unreal
.
Please forgive me
. I beseech this to Jin, to Eun-young, to myself, even to Paul's big benevolent God.
Please forgive what I'm about to do.

And then I begin typing.