The Interpreter (9 page)

Authors: Suki Kim

BOOK: The Interpreter

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“What is your name?” he asked, matter-of-factly, as though he was finally beginning to see whatever lay between them, which had been quite unspoken, quite imagined, which was yet to be convinced or confessed, and the only thing left to do was to say her name, the first uttering of her name, which might be the first decision on his part.

She hesitated. She did not want him to say her name yet. She was afraid of its permanence. She dropped her gaze as if to hide her blushing face from him.

“I’m terrified.”

Later that night, when she lay back in her dormitory bed counting the creeping clock, she wondered what had pushed her
so far. Later, much later, when he did say her name once, twice, and again, she shut her eyes and thought that everything was different now, everything had changed permanently: the hollowness she had seen in his eyes at their first meeting, the passing of innocence she had so aptly sensed might have been the premonition of the escape.

What do you want after all, do you want me to tell you?

He might have said before touching her face, before gathering her in his arms. But that happened a week later, on November 24th, her twentieth birthday, when she stood before him like a small, trembling bride and let the white cotton slip off her body.

This body, as he had known so completely, remains now with no vestige of such nights, such hands, coyly innocent in her white terry-cloth robe, which Suzy pulls over any exposed skin as though she cannot bear such a glimpse.

She plays the final message as she steps into the kitchen and scoops coffee into the filter.

“Ms. Suzy Park, is this Ms. Park’s residence? Detective Lester here, from the Forty-first Precinct. How’re you? Listen, could you come on up to the station later this week? Nothing urgent, just a few questions. I’m out on a case but will be back by Thursday. Extension III if you wanna call before coming in.”

It has been years since she last heard from Detective Lester, not since the case was filed away unsolved, which he never admitted. He kept assuring her that these “thugs” would sooner or later be caught. But she has not kept in touch with him either. There was no point. If any new development occurred, she was sure he would find her. Why such faith? She stares at the brewing steam of the gurgling Mr. Coffee machine. Why does he want to see her suddenly? Has he also contacted Grace?

Mr. Coffee lets out a big sigh. The pot is ready. Suzy leans over the boom box and presses the knob marked AM. “1010-WINS!”
the announcer is shouting at the morning audience. “The most listened to station in the nation!” It must be true. Every time Suzy hops in a taxi, she is sure that she hears the same greeting on the radio. “The time at the tone will be ten-thirty.” The announcer is a pickup artist. “You give us twentytwo minutes, we’ll give you the
world
!”

She had lain awake well into the morning. It must have been around seven o’clock when she drifted off to a second round of sleep, which always leaves her feeling groggy and oddly anxious. Suzy pours herself a cup of coffee. The morning is familiar: black coffee, the 1010-WINS cheers, the traffic watch every ten minutes.

Except for Detective Lester. What could he possibly tell her?

Criminal courts are not fun. Just getting past the security is a big hassle. They might as well strip-search you. It’s even worse than downtown clubs on Friday nights, the way those biceps-heavy security guards block the door and make everyone wait in line. Pockets are emptied. Bags are scrutinized. Bodies are felt up and down. It is useless explaining that she is hired by the court, or that the assistant DA is waiting for her inside. It is useless fighting through the crowd. She is easily the only Asian person here. Everyone around her seems to be black, including the security guards, the guys in handcuffs being led by officers, and the rest in line, whose purpose for being here God only knows. Attorneys, though, often are not black. Judges, almost never. None of them are here. They must use a separate entrance, hidden in the back. The power structure is pretty clear. Between those who get locked up and those who do the locking is a colored matter. There are no two ways about it.

She has been to the Bronx Criminal Court once during the last eight months of interpreting. This past summer, she was
hired for the investigation of a Korean deli in Hunts Point that burned down overnight. For some reason, there had been no insurance, and the poor guy who owned it was out on the street. He’d lodged a complaint against the Albanian landlord, who, now that the neighborhood had picked up and could fetch a higher rent, had been trying to force him out for years. The case had all the makings of a racial conflict. The store owner claimed that the landlord had brought in the neighborhood’s Albanian gangs to threaten him physically and set fire to his store. Suzy never found out what eventually happened to the case, but it appeared serious, one of those racially charged incidents that, with a bit of brutality from the NYPD, could end up on the cover of the
New York Post
. For a few weeks afterward, she glanced at the
Post
whenever she passed newsstands, but she found nothing.

Once past security, Suzy is told to wait in the windowless reception area on the third floor. People pace about. Something urgent is in the air. She sits in the corner until finally a small, slouching man with a drooping mustache peeks out from the door behind the reception desk and waves her in.

“Hi, I’m Marcos,” he says. “Interpreter? So young. We never get young ones like you for Korean.” Given the way no one pays attention to him, he is clearly not the assistant DA. “Follow me; we’re running a little late.” Marcos points to the long hallway beyond the door. On both sides are rows of identical doors marked only by double-digit numbers. Inside, there must be different investigations under way. Burglary, murder, kidnapping, random shooting, all collected behind each door. It would be impossible to find her way back, she thinks, suddenly glad that Marcos is leading her through the labyrinth. After taking a few turns, he stops before a door that is missing its number. “Wait inside; the ADA’s on his way with the witness.” A quick pat on her shoulder. Marcos scurries into the abyss.

The austerity of the room suggests a typical municipal agency. The lack of windows is intentional. This must be what a prison feels like, she thinks. The walls are sealed in off-white paint. The table and chairs are so generic that they appear to have been hauled right out of a Kmart window. Curiously, it reminds her of her own apartment, the bareness, the chilling stillness, the unspecified waiting. It could be 4 a.m. still, and Suzy, alone, wishing for sleep.

“Ms. Suzy Park? James Richards, Assistant DA.” He is tall, somber, in a dark suit that matches the furniture. He hands her his card and points to the man standing next to him. “You’ll be interpreting for Mr. Lee here.”

Against the ADA, whose six-foot-four frame seems unsettling under the low ceiling, Mr. Lee looks timid, although he is not small for a Korean man. In a stiff black suit and a starched white shirt, he could almost pass for a lawyer, or an undertaker. Koreans tend to overdress at depositions. Lawyers and judges, in fact, anyone to do with the law, are taken ultra-seriously, and witnesses put on their cleanest, smartest outfits, as though these meetings were Sunday mass. It is their way of showing courtesy before the law, although such effort might mislead the opposing council to assume that the witness’s claim of economic hardship must be a fabrication. But a deposition is an event for these immigrant workers. A brush with the American law does not happen every day, never mind the summons from the Office of the Attorney General. For those who labor seven days a week at groceries, nail salons, dry cleaners, when, if not now, would they ever get a chance to don their fake Gucci, Armani, Rolex?

His face looks too tanned for a dry cleaner. Deli or grocery, maybe. But his hands have seen too much dirt and sun, which could only mean fruits and vegetables. The mystery does not last long, for the ADA sets down the folder he’s been carrying: “Case 404: Office of the Attorney General Labor Bureau in the
Matter of the Investigation of Lee Market, Inc. of Grand Concourse, New York.”

Mr. Lee nods slightly, the way Koreans greet each other in formal settings. Suzy nods back, a bit more deeply, since he is obviously older and requires more respect.

“Ms. Park, this is just a preliminary questioning, so no stenographer will be present. Will you ask him if he understands that he has the right to be represented by a lawyer under the law?”

James Richards has a kind voice, and Suzy is glad for Mr. Lee, who looks nervous, almost rigid, the way he knits his eyebrows as if trying to understand the flow of language that escapes him.

It
’
s okay
, she tells him.
Don’t worry too much
, she says before translating what has been uttered by the ADA.

He answers, “Yes, I understand, I cannot afford a lawyer, I have no time to find a lawyer, I work twelve hours a day, I work seven days a week, I barely have time to sleep, I’ve done nothing wrong.”

Suzy translates his answer, and the ADA nods eagerly, as if to acknowledge the man’s concern.

“Mr. Lee, no one’s accusing you of wrongdoing. You’ve been summoned here for a few questions in response to the complaints we’ve received, the source of which I cannot reveal to you due to the laws of confidentiality. The investigation has only just begun. This might lead to depositions and hearings, but for now all we are here to do is to ask you some questions, and to have you tell the truth.”

Suzy scribbles a few key words into her notepad while the ADA speaks. No matter how long a sentence, she must not leave out a single word in her translation. An interpreter is like a mathematician. She approaches language as if it were an equation. Each word is instantly matched with its equivalent. To arrive
at a correct answer, she must be exact. Suzy, unbeknownst to herself, has always been skilled at this. It cannot be due to her bilingual upbringing, since not all immigrant kids make excellent interpreters. What she possesses is an ability to be at two places at once. She can hear a word and separate its literal meaning from its connotation. This is necessary, since the verbatim translation often leads to confusion. Languages are not logical. Thus an interpreter must translate word for word and yet somehow manipulate the breadth of language to bridge the gap. While one part of her brain does automatic conversion, the other part examines the linguistic void that results from such transference. It is an art that requires a precise and yet creative mind. Only the true solver knows that two plus two can suggest a lot of things before ending up at four.

But she is being more flexible than usual when she turns to the witness and repeats the ADA’s words, adding at the end,
You should really bring a lawyer next time; in fact, if you want, you can stop this right now and request one.

Mr. Lee meets her eyes and says, “No, I will be fine, I will tell it as it is, tell this guy here I don’t lie.”

From the way the ADA twirls the pen between his thumb and his index finger, Suzy can tell that the real questioning is about to begin.

“What is your full name?”

“Lee Sung Shik.”

Koreans put their last names first. It is the last name that matters. The last name determines the status, the family history, the origin. Older people often refer to each other by last names only. All last names come from different roots. There might be twenty separate sects of Lee, or fifty divisions among Kim. Lee of the Junju sect bears no relation to Lee of the Junuh sect. Each sect carries its own registry of thousands of years, which documents the class status. Americans love to say that all Koreans are
named Kim, but Koreans do not look at it that way. To them, all Kims are not the same. In fact, there is often a world of class difference between two sects of Kim. For example, Kim of the Kyungju line descends from noble blood, whereas another sect of Kim might trace its ancestry among the commoners. It is all in the last name. So it is not unusual for Koreans to skip first names altogether. Many deposition transcripts get mixed up because of this switch of the name order. Lawyers who often handle Korean cases immediately ask Suzy at the beginning of a deposition please to put last names last in her translation. Do it in the American way, they say.

“Mr. Lee, what, if any, is your involvement with the store located at 458 Grand Concourse?”

“I am the owner,” Mr. Lee answers.

“How long have you been the owner of the store located at 458 Grand Concourse?”

“Four years.”

“Before that, where did you work?”

“I was unemployed.”

“For how long?”

“For approximately a year.”

“Before that, did you work at all?”

“I was employed at a fruit-and-vegetable store.”

“By whom?”

“They are dead now.”