The Calligrapher's Daughter (22 page)

After unpacking my trunk, which Joong had delivered, I spent the morning with Dongsaeng. At seven years old, he’d grown up to my hanbok ties, his hair closely shaved in the required schoolboy cut. I marveled
at all he showed me: his favorite rooster in the pen by the kitchen garden, the rock he fell on by the pond that caused the dragon-shaped scar on his knee, bamboo canes he saved for sword fights with schoolmates. I noticed a larger chicken coop and counted numerous hens. I also saw that the azalea, peony and iris gardens had been demolished in favor of cucumbers, squash, beans, peppers, potatoes and cabbage. Dongsaeng led me to his study to examine his schoolwork. “And see!” He handed me a crumpled sheet. “I wrote you a sijo.”

These lines moved me to the same gratitude I’d felt with Mother, and I was astounded by their sensitivity from one so young. “Wonderful! How beautifully you write.” I crouched by his desk. “I’m sorry you were sad. I’ll keep the poem forever. Thank you, Dongsaeng.”

He shrugged. “Who cares?”

I tweaked his ear. “Such talk! Are you studying for entrance exams?”

“Yes, it’s easy. See?” He held up his last teacher’s report showing high marks in all subjects. His round face gleamed, his chin puffed with pride.

“And Khang Chinsa-nim? Are you behaving with him?” Before I left for Seoul I’d unabashedly copied my mother’s childhood example and listened outside Ilsun’s study to hear Chinsa-nim’s lessons whenever I could.

He made a sour face. “Old fart.”

“Dongsaeng!” I rapped the back of his hand.

He slapped my hand from his, making me wonder where he’d picked up his sullen ways. “Never smiles! Never says anything good about me! I know Abbuh-nim thinks I’m smart. Why is Chinsa-nim so stingy?”

“It’s his job. He does things the old way. You know, too many compliments will ruin your character. See how you’re behaving now.” I said it
mockingly, but he avoided my eyes, his lips turned down, and he rubbed ink on his stone.

“I’ll leave you to your homework.” I decided that if he was good, I’d buy him a fountain pen as a graduation gift.

I started to tell him this, but he pouted. “I thought you’d come home and we’d do something fun.”

“Mother needs help. It’s my duty, and yours is to study hard.”

“You’re just like all the other grownups.”

I smiled at his petulant acknowledgment of my new status and left for the stream to help Kira wash clothes.

Beyond the bamboo grove that bordered the backyard, a small mountain stream ran fast and deep after spring monsoons. By the time the sun rose hot with summer, the flow trickled more modestly but remained clear and cold. On the opposite bank of the narrow creekbed, bees and insects hummed, darting in and out of wild grasses and chickweed tangled in a rocky meadow that sloped up toward hilly woods. Balanced on her wide brown feet, Kira squatted over a flat stone half in and out of the stream, beating clothes with a laundry stick. I tied my skirts and rolled my sleeves to join in.

“You shouldn’t. Your hands will lose their softness.”

“Don’t be silly. There’s work to be done.”

“Aigu! Such a shame. From princess to washerwoman in two days.” Kira’s sandy voice rang with teasing.

I soaked some clothes and scrubbed them against the stone. “Not princess at all. Just a student in a different kind of classroom.”

“How scary to get swallowed by the iron demon and spat out. To think that you’ve done this twice! Very brave.”

“Oh Kira, not at all. It’s like a very fast cart ride, maybe not as bumpy. It is smelly, though. One day you’ll see.”

“Never! My own two feet or, when I’m old, on the back of my grandson. That’ll do for me.”

“And I hear news that certainly one day grandsons will be coming!” An uncharacteristic redness swept down Kira’s tanned neck. I touched her wet hand. “I’m happy for you. A wedding date?”

“After Harvest Moon,” mumbled Kira, blushing thoroughly.

“Blessings for the marriage. A good man. Works hard.”

“Hardly works!” We laughed and talked, singing silly laundry songs as we pounded and washed. I climbed off the rock to fill two water buckets upstream, wading in delicious coolness. A splash cast a shadow, or perhaps it was glare from the noontime sun, and I saw a sinewy gray fish dart past me to slip between Kira’s ankles. I remembered my mother’s pregnancy dreams and wondered what sort of omen had at that moment passed between us.

Kira hefted a heavy basket of wrung clothes onto her head, and we walked downstream along the bank, our skirts still tied above our knees, picking careful steps between clumps of weeds and sharp stones. Kira said that the past two winters had dealt them only minor illnesses and none-too-severe snowstorms. As we neared the bamboo grove, something made me look ahead. I saw the dust-blue of a soldier’s uniform disappear behind a rocky outcrop. I stopped. Kira bumped into me, and the buckets sloshed. I could see by Kira’s eyes that I hadn’t imagined it.

“It might be the same fellow I saw two weeks ago,” she whispered. “See if his face is pockmarked.”

“Who is he?”

“A kid. He yelled something. I think it was lewd.” Kira spoke only enough Japanese to get by in the marketplace.

I tightened my grip on the buckets. Beads of sweat formed on Kira’s forehead beneath the weighty basket. We walked forward slowly.

“Who is it? Excuse me, what do you want?” I called in Japanese. The path curved in front of us and we were footsteps away from seeing who was behind the rock twenty meters ahead. “We have no money. Just water and laundry.”

He leaned against the rock, not such a young man, his trousers unbuttoned, stroking himself. His lips grim, he stared at our bare legs through black slits of eyes, his scarred cheeks bobbing in and out of deep shade.

“Bastard son of a pig!” said Kira. She pushed me. “Don’t look, Ahsee!”

I saw his hand work faster and the two points of his canines as he laughed out loud. “Son of a pig!” I screamed in Japanese as Kira pushed me to run.

“I’ll be waiting for you next time, whores!” he yelled.

We ran to our west gate, panting, the water splashing, and I turned in time to see his blue-gray back slipping into the far woods. Inside, Kira
bolted the gate firmly and unloaded her basket, her fingers shaking. The sound of wind filled my ears, but no breeze struck my face, surprisingly wet with tears. My back to Kira, I dipped my fingers in the bucket, wiped my face and stood tall. “Nothing but scum!” My harsh tone surprised me.

Kira hunched down, her head between her knees. “Shame! Shame!”

I squatted beside her. The high sun darkened the gaps in the dense bamboo grove behind us. My heart pounded, and I stopped the words
heathen Japanese filthy pig
from tumbling off my tongue, shocked that I had such words at ready. I said tightly, “We won’t send you to the stream again without Joong.”

“You mustn’t tell him! What will he think of me then!”

I considered what to do. Joong might indeed find fault with his bride if he knew she’d seen another man’s sex.

“Can you draw from the town pump instead?”

Kira wiped her eyes and nose, shaking her head. “That water is foul!”

“Then we must tell Mother that we saw a soldier near the stream, nothing more. That’s enough cause for Joong to accompany you. If nobody is going with you, wash clothes in the courtyard from now on. Never mind about wasting good water.”

“It scares me to think how many hot summer days we bathed and swam there.”

“Remember those as days of happiness. Freedom. They’ll come again, Kira, I’m sure of it.”

“Ahsee has come back a woman. Wise and strong.”

“No,” I said, untying my skirt. “Older, perhaps, but still not much of a woman.” I thought of the soldier and shuddered. We walked back to the house, and Kira spread the clothes out to dry while I emptied the water buckets in the cistern, wishing it was bath day. I wondered if I should withhold the real story from Mother. Father would be appalled to hear of such a thing. How could I speak of it? I was unwilling to tell my mother of vileness so close by. There were no words to convey the filth I felt coated with, no words to explain how home had become so suddenly fragile.

The moon rose, and Father and Ilsun were ensconced in their rooms. I joined my mother in the weaving room and told her the story I’d prepared.

“There are more and more soldiers everywhere,” said Mother at her
loom. “Your father thinks they still fear a national rebellion after the emperor’s death.”

It made sense that this soldier was part of an increased and nervous military presence. “But Umma-nim, this man was alone. He looked at us the same way that Yee Sunsaeng-nim talked about the soldiers at her house.”

Mother worked the shuttle without speaking for a while. “So, when did Yee Sunsaeng-nim tell you what had happened to her?”

I frowned at my stitches. In Seoul I had often thought of Sunsaengnim, and her frequent presence in my mind tarnished the promise of secrecy I’d sworn. “Forgive me, Umma-nim. She spoke to me about a month before she died. I caught her one morning crying at her desk. She blamed herself for saying anything to me at all, and I promised to never repeat what she’d said.”

The loom clicked and whirred. “Najin-ah, I know you’ve become a woman, but you’re still my child. You cannot have secrets from your parents. How can we know your heart if you keep it hidden from us?” Her hands worked steadily, but her voice quavered. “Tell me what you know and what it has to do with the soldier today.”

“Umma-nim, I didn’t know then that she’d been sexually molested. Imo-nim told me about Queen Min, and I realized it then. It’s horrible that Sunsaeng-nim took her life for that reason—”

“You know so much, you should know this as well.” Mother cast her shuttle firmly. “She was pregnant from it.”

“Oh!”

“Yes, poor thing. She felt she had no recourse. I’ve prayed many hours for her, and I trust that God took her in his mercy, because there is no Japanese or Korean or Chinese in heaven. Only souls, free souls, like hers now and the unborn baby’s.”

I was relieved to hear my mother’s conviction about my teacher’s soul, but I also wanted to cry out, Why was she raped? Why do they hate us? If there is glory in martyrdom, where was it for my teacher whose pain was too great to continue living, only to be denied heaven? Why does God let them treat us like that? Why does he let men do what I saw today?

I squinted into my sewing by the wobbly light of the lamp, jabbing the seam. The room hummed with the rhythm of Mother’s beater comb against the weft.

Presently she said, “Tell me about the soldier.”

I told her the truth, and that I’d been reluctant to do so, both to protect her and because it required speaking crassly. After she was sure that neither of us had been touched, she said, “How frightening! Of course we should tell your father.”

“Umma-nim, please excuse me, but here’s why I was reluctant to tell him. It’ll only make him more upset. He’ll never let us go outdoors by ourselves again. Isn’t it household business? If Joong were to find out, Kira is sure he’ll reject her.”

She thought a moment, weaving. “Yes, he’s as old-fashioned as your father that way. Well, I can certainly tell Joong that you saw a soldier, and to go with her to the stream. My guess is that he’ll be more than willing. It was he, after all, who noticed her first. As for your father, leave that to me.”

“Thank you, Umma-nim. Thank you for listening to me.” My throat opened and I breathed relief, my eyes blurring on my stitches. I’d been feeling the violation of that soldier more keenly than I’d realized.

“I can see how you’ve grown in more ways than physical,” said Mother, shuttling quickly through the warp. “I pray for your safety and wisdom, and I see my prayers answered today.” I wondered at how Kira had said the same. We worked until the oil sputtered in the lamp. Mother said a prayer in my room and tucked me in as if I were still her little girl.

I drifted in my smooth quilts, felt them pressing coolly on my neck, hands and thighs. I smelled the water-scent of my bedding, ran my fingers through my scalp and rubbed my feet together. A beguiling seed of pleasure at my base pressed for relief and I drew my knees close, wiggled my hips, pressed my muscles in, so, and again, as I’d discovered the last few months alone in my room in Seoul. My small breasts freed from the day’s bindings itched with warmth that spread from below my belly, and when I pictured the soldier’s hand pulling up and down, I closed my eyes and shuddered with lightness, only to collapse moments later in guilty tears of shame and self-loathing. I was no better than he. Never again would I seek this private pleasure.

ONE HOT SUMMER Sunday, as parishioners filed from the church, Missionary Gordon approached and walked the aisle beside me. “Are you Han Najin? How you’ve grown!” The Gordons had gone back to America
for a while and had recently returned to Gaeseong. Even after many years of seeing her around the church and mission, Miss Gordon’s glassy blue eyes unnerved me. I dipped my head.

“My brother told me you were in Seoul for a time.” Her Korean, now fluent, still had strange lilts.

“Yes, Madam.”

“Please call me Miss Gordon, won’t you?”

I tried and apologized for stuttering over her name. She smiled. “Don’t worry. Everybody has trouble with it. Did you like it there?”

“Yes.” I was too shy to say anything else.

“You know, I recently went to Seoul myself.” I nodded receptively, and she continued. “I visited Ewha. A marvelous place! Have you seen it?”

A mute nod.

“Well, you must study hard and make good marks for college.”

“I—I’ve already graduated.”

“Of course! Now I remember hearing from Harlan what a good student you were at the girls’ school. A favorite as I recall. Why, you must be planning right now for Ewha.”

I blushed with both modesty and discomfort over the familiarity of Miss Gordon’s reference to Director Gordon. Her casual use of his first name truly made me squirm. “One day, I hope—” I lost my courage to say more. Near the front door, Reverend Ahn and my parents were bowing to each other. Mother turned and made a tiny gesture that clearly said
stop bothering the American lady and come outside at once!