Authors: Suki Kim
The Interpreter (27 page)
“MEET ME BY
SUNFLOWERS.”
SUNFLOWERS.”
A thirtieth birthday, suicide to spend it alone, Caleb insisted. “It’ll be tattooed on your calendar, like the stupid sweet sixteen or the last date of your virginity!” Suzy had been inclined to stay home. She could not get out of bed. A celebration seemed impossible.
November 24th. The day after Thanksgiving. The Metropolitan Museum seems even more crowded than usual. It’s been years since she was here last. The Met had always been Damian’s territory. He had been a consultant for its East Asian Wing. He would come here whenever the mood struck, would retreat into one of its myriad rooms and disappear from Suzy. She would never accompany him. This was the world he kept separate from her.
She did not mind. He had thrown away everything for her, she thought. It seemed enough that they were together. It seemed enough to know that he would be with her from now
on. She had jumped at the chance to play his young bride. She sat patiently and waited for him all day. She cooked elaborate Korean dishes. She threw on skimpy red lace and moaned harder each time she felt his attention drifting. Yet, once the initial shock of their escapade wore out, interminable silence hung in its place. Four years. It took her parents’ murder. It took their death for the two of them to finally give up.
on. She had jumped at the chance to play his young bride. She sat patiently and waited for him all day. She cooked elaborate Korean dishes. She threw on skimpy red lace and moaned harder each time she felt his attention drifting. Yet, once the initial shock of their escapade wore out, interminable silence hung in its place. Four years. It took her parents’ murder. It took their death for the two of them to finally give up.
Damian contacted her just once after she moved out. It came during the second year of her living alone. “Suzy, enough,” he commanded quietly into the machine. She did not pick up the phone. “Isn’t this what you wanted after all, to be free?” He had no doubt that she would come back to him in time. He knew that she had nothing else. And she would have if she could. She wanted to, more than anything in the world. But on nights when she cried in her sleep, on mornings when she woke missing his arms around her, she heard gunshots, the tumultuous explosion of two exact shots.
Now the police have behind bars suspects who might have pulled the trigger, who might have wanted to pull the trigger, who might be filling in for the real murderer.
The guard points to the second floor. European Paintings. It’s the nineteenth century she is looking for. Past the Grand Staircase, buried among the glorious pastels of Cézanne, Renoir, Seurat, Monet, are van Gogh’s mad strokes against the wall. From the crowd gathering in front, it is easy to spot
Sunflower
s.
Sunflower
s.
“Hey, birthday girl, you look not a day older than twenty-five!” Caleb exclaims from the wooden bench in the middle of the room. Twenty-five, Suzy’s age when she first met him.
“Hi, how was home?” Suzy slides by his side, kissing him once.
“Rick told me we’re finished if I ever bring him home again.”
“Oh no, was it that bad?”
“Brutal. The funny thing is, they actually liked him. My
mom even went on to say that she thought he was
prettier
than Boy George. It was Rick who couldn’t stand her. He said that she reminded him of Sally Jesse Raphael. I guess it was the glasses.”
mom even went on to say that she thought he was
prettier
than Boy George. It was Rick who couldn’t stand her. He said that she reminded him of Sally Jesse Raphael. I guess it was the glasses.”
Suzy smiles, picturing Caleb’s mother with her oversized red plastic frames.
“I had to rush back anyway to get ready for the opening. The artist is the newest British import. The next generation of the Sensation kids. He gobbles up classics and whips out blasphemous installations. A mannequin replica of one of Ingres’s ladies that slowly turns into Princess Diana puking. A Botticelli painting where all the boys are sucking the Pope’s dick. This time he’s on to
Sunflowers
.” Caleb turns to Suzy, rolling his eyes. “Personally, I don’t see the appeal. I’m so
bored
by blasphemy.”
Sunflowers
.” Caleb turns to Suzy, rolling his eyes. “Personally, I don’t see the appeal. I’m so
bored
by blasphemy.”
Van Gogh’s sunflowers look almost morbid. Not the usual perky, happy yellow faces, but a close-up of two withering heads, as if in torment. Beautiful, yet haunting. The madman’s last reach for the sun.
“In Chelsea, no one gives a shit about the real thing. Everyone’s just dying to know what new offense is about to be committed against the masterpiece. Except Vincent practically invented blasphemy. Look at his strokes, look how he twisted Impressionism senseless!” Glancing at the group of Japanese couples who are now following their tour guide to the next painting, Caleb continues, “In college, I was the only art major totally obsessed with Vincent. Everyone thought I was so passé. You fall in love with van Gogh, you study him in Painting 101, you copy
Starry Night
for your first assignment, but you don’t obsess over him. While they all moved on to Mondrian, Beuys, Duchamp, I stuck loyal. Even now,
Starry Night
blows my mind. His cypresses make me weep. I used to read his letters every night before going to bed.”
Starry Night
for your first assignment, but you don’t obsess over him. While they all moved on to Mondrian, Beuys, Duchamp, I stuck loyal. Even now,
Starry Night
blows my mind. His cypresses make me weep. I used to read his letters every night before going to bed.”
Suzy is suddenly struck by the image of the sky-blue bowling jacket Caleb always wore when they lived together. It had “Vince” stitched above its right pocket. She had assumed that it belonged to a former boyfriend. Strange how long it takes to know a person. Yet somehow reassuring that a person could have so many secrets.
“His letters? So that’s what you were doing when you used to keep your lights on until dawn?” Suzy asks, half laughing.
“No, honey, I did other things too.” Caleb winks before continuing. “But I used to read his letters religiously. They’re painful. He was so damn alone. He wrote to his brother Theo almost every day. He told him every single detail of his life, down to the exact color of the sunset he’d seen that evening, the price of the paper he was writing on, the angle of his fingers gripping the pen. He was so needy. He begged women for love. He latched on to Gauguin for friendship. He threw himself into a painting frenzy. He even turned to God.”
“God?”
“Vincent covered the whole nine yards. Studied theology, did the Evangelical bit, taught the Bible. But he didn’t quite make it. He didn’t fit. His loneliness was too deep, it really couldn’t be helped.”
So alone, so incredibly, desperately alone.
Something begins to break down inside Suzy. Something she has known almost from the beginning.
“Why was he so lonely?”
But the answer is there already. They are like twins. Suzy and Grace.
“Who knows? He was mad for sure. But there were other things, like his family, for example. His parents, his uncles, his siblings, including Theo. They sheltered him. They found him jobs, paid his rent, sent him paper and brushes. They had a
strong hold on him, and Vincent was dependent and hated himself for it, although his family was by no means at the core of his problems.”
strong hold on him, and Vincent was dependent and hated himself for it, although his family was by no means at the core of his problems.”
“Then why write to Theo?”
“That’s what makes those letters so fascinating. He felt suffocated by his family’s love, and yet he couldn’t help being a part of it. He choked Theo with his daily reports. There was a certain boundary he never learned. The suffocation he felt might’ve had something to do with it. No boundary with anything, with his family, with himself, even with something as common as sunflowers. Look at how he paints nature! His flowers are unique because there’s absolutely no distance from the artist. For him, they’re all the same, the self-portrait, the local postman, the sunflower. It’s fun for us to sit back and analyze them, but for Vincent it must’ve been hell. You can only drive yourself crazy if you have no distance from the world.”
Her face feels cold, as cold as her right hand against her cheek now, the curled fingers, the hollow of her palm. It is not clear which part emanates the chill, the hand or the face. It is the chill inside breaking loose. It is impossible to recall how long it’s been there, this knowledge, this anger.
“Oddly enough, Theo died only six months after Vincent shot himself. They were connected by some desperate blood, like twins.” Caleb shakes his head, still gazing at the painting. “Vincent paid for his genius, while Theo suffered for being sane.”
Except that Suzy and Grace are not twins. Suzy’s guilt is still tucked inside her unspoken. Suzy will continue to live.
“C’mon, enough culture for turning thirty. Let’s go to Barney’s to find you a dress. Your biological clock is seriously ticking, darling!”
Caleb is pulling her by the arm when Suzy notices a painting
in the corner. A lime-green vase of violet petals against a palepink background. It is a tame still-life. Quiet, almost dejected, as if the artist has reached the requiem of his madness.
in the corner. A lime-green vase of violet petals against a palepink background. It is a tame still-life. Quiet, almost dejected, as if the artist has reached the requiem of his madness.
“Oh,
Irises
,” says Caleb, following her gaze. “I’m not a big fan of his irises. They’re a bit strange, tense. He painted that one at the mental asylum. It’s like witnessing his death.”
Irises
,” says Caleb, following her gaze. “I’m not a big fan of his irises. They’re a bit strange, tense. He painted that one at the mental asylum. It’s like witnessing his death.”
Irises.
It had to have been Grace who sent her irises each November. It was a letter to Suzy. A confession. A bouquet of Mom’s last kiss. Because Suzy is the only one in the world who understood. The only one Grace could have reached out to. Where could she be now? Where has she disappeared to?
It is then that Suzy panics. Leaving Caleb frowning in confusion, she breaks into a run. She is flying past
Cézanne
, Renoir, Seurat, Monet. She is leaping through the narrow corridor of Rembrandt drawings. She skips down the Grand Staircase in double steps. People turn to look at her. Some move out of her way. A few guards even step forward to stop her. But Suzy sees nothing. All she knows is that something terrible is about to happen to her sister, if it hasn’t already.
Cézanne
, Renoir, Seurat, Monet. She is leaping through the narrow corridor of Rembrandt drawings. She skips down the Grand Staircase in double steps. People turn to look at her. Some move out of her way. A few guards even step forward to stop her. But Suzy sees nothing. All she knows is that something terrible is about to happen to her sister, if it hasn’t already.
Then, running toward the coat check, Suzy stops suddenly at the sight of a man at the front of the line squatting before a bright-red stroller. With his back to her, the man seems to be adjusting straps across the infant’s waist. His hair is dove gray, the color of Dad’s Oldsmobile. His shoulders droop much lower than she remembers.
Damian, here on the ground floor of the Met, in the same line even, hunched over a baby. But it couldn’t be. He couldn’t ever be a father, ever deserve a home, ever own anyone in the world but her.
He does not see her. He does not sense her nearness. He is much too occupied with the baby’s seat belt. The heavy black
sweater is wrong on him. He never wore black. Too easy, he claimed, too young. Nothing else is recognizable to her. It is winter. He is covered under the layers. Nothing visible, not even his hands, buried in the stroller. Not even the back of his neck, wrapped in a scarf. She knows the scarf. She picked it out for him. The cream beige to suit his blue eyes. It looks different on him now, on that implausibly aged man in a black sweater bending over a baby, which might even be his.
sweater is wrong on him. He never wore black. Too easy, he claimed, too young. Nothing else is recognizable to her. It is winter. He is covered under the layers. Nothing visible, not even his hands, buried in the stroller. Not even the back of his neck, wrapped in a scarf. She knows the scarf. She picked it out for him. The cream beige to suit his blue eyes. It looks different on him now, on that implausibly aged man in a black sweater bending over a baby, which might even be his.
But Damian could not be a father. He would have flinched at the thought. He would never have allowed it.
Then Suzy notices the woman standing next to him. Handing him a matching black coat, the woman is now stooping as well. It is hard to see her face, beneath the cascading blond hair. She is not much older than Suzy, late thirties maybe. Damian with a white woman. Suzy would never have believed it. He was too adept at caressing her olive skin, too skilled at kissing her black hair, too addicted to her Asian face. Suzy can almost hear the echo of Professor Tamiko’s laughter—
He could never love an Asian woman
. How could he? His whole life had been about running from his whiteness. His purpose was searching the other. He couldn’t even love his own kind. She was the antidote for his inability to love.
He could never love an Asian woman
. How could he? His whole life had been about running from his whiteness. His purpose was searching the other. He couldn’t even love his own kind. She was the antidote for his inability to love.
He raises his upper body, slides his arms through the coat sleeves. Turning around, he faces Suzy’s direction for a second. Damian. She has not seen that face for so long. It has been so heartlessly long. Her first impulse is to jump the length of people in line, past the woman and the baby, and explode into his arms. But then she is suddenly not sure if it is indeed him. Perhaps another man who looks much like him. Perhaps her mind is playing tricks. All she can do is to stand still and stare straight at him. All she can do is stay where she is, continue standing. It is not clear if he saw her, although, from where he is standing, he must have. Then, before she can meet his eyes, before he can
react, his face is blocked from Suzy as the woman lifts the crying baby from the stroller and dumps it in his arms.
react, his face is blocked from Suzy as the woman lifts the crying baby from the stroller and dumps it in his arms.
Snatching her coat, Suzy starts running.
Before she can stop and catch her breath, before she can break into tears, she is already out of Damian’s life.
SUZY IS NOT SURE how she got here. She could have run the entire forty blocks. She could have hopped in a taxi. She knew she had to get out of the Met, although she had no idea where she was headed. But now that she is here, standing before a woman with a neat bob and a buttoned-up blouse surrounded by empty desks, it all makes perfect sense. Of course, this is where she had to come. From the moment she saw
Irises,
from the moment she realized that it had been Grace who sent her the bouquet, the next destination was clear. The New York Public Library. The only place to find facts, fast.
Irises,
from the moment she realized that it had been Grace who sent her the bouquet, the next destination was clear. The New York Public Library. The only place to find facts, fast.
“I need to look up newspapers within the last two weeks.”
She must appear strange to the woman, charging in like this, breathless, soaked in sweat despite the post-Thanksgiving chill outside. But the woman does not flinch. Anything can happen here. Free service. An open door to all New Yorkers. She must be used to all kinds of visitors. In a calm, friendly voice, she
asks, “That would be in the periodical section. Is it local information?”
asks, “That would be in the periodical section. Is it local information?”
“Long Island. Montauk, actually.” Her voice is strained, sounding almost foreign to her own ears.
“The best thing would be to look it up on Nexis, the online news search.” The woman studies Suzy’s face for a little longer and then adds, “But you need a library-membership number to access it. Do you have your card with you?”
No, she doesn’t. Of course she doesn’t. Even if she did, she could not remember where it might be.
“You okay?” The woman leans forward, as though alarmed by the look in Suzy’s eyes. Such sad eyes, such immense sorrow. “I’ll set you up at Terminal A. Better yet, I’ll look it up for you if it’s a quick one, there’s hardly anyone here anyway.”
“A boating accident, off Montauk coast,” Suzy states numbly. She watches the woman’s nimble fingers punching the keyboard. It is odd how calm she feels. This must be resignation. This must be the final relinquishment. She must have been afraid of such an end.
“That was easy!” The woman’s face brightens with the researcher’s delight at the correct answer. “Here are a few lines from the
Long Island Weekly
, dated November 19th, five days ago.
Long Island Weekly
, dated November 19th, five days ago.
A couple disappeared when a boat sank off the Montauk coast. The cause of the accident is not known, police say. The body of an unidentified Asian male in his thirties has been recovered. The only distinct mark is the missing finger on his right hand. According to Sam Kelly, the boat’s owner, the accompanying Asian woman could not swim. The police are continuing their search for her body.
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