The Calligrapher's Daughter Part 22

She slipped to her knees to bow goodnight. The practiced movement soothed him and he remembered that the anger he held at this moment was not with her. He relaxed his shoulders to make his voice even. "What did Dongsaeng say?"

His wife beamed as Najin spoke. "He said that Father said Elder Kim was interested in a calligraphic scroll to commemorate his grandson's one hundredth day. He said he was going to visit the elder to ask what he wanted."

Clever, cautious girl, thought Han. She had kept her eyes lowered and moved not a muscle, betraying nothing of her feelings about her brother's unacceptable absence on this winter's night. He dismissed the women with a gesture. His anger revived, he easily ignored the gentling sound of their conversation fading toward their rooms.

Soon he heard Ilsun stamp snow off his shoes and the boy's mother hurrying to the door. "Your hands are so cold! Come greet your father. I'll heat soup."

Han stood as his son entered, trailing wet sock prints. Ilsun bowed and shifted his feet, his eyes quickly scanning the room. "Good evening, Abbuh-nim."

Satisfied that Ilsun was taken aback to find him standing, Han knew his son would remain awkwardly on his feet until he himself sat down. The collar of Ilsun's Western suit was turned up around his earlobes, and he rubbed and blew on his hands. If he insists on wearing Western clothes If he insists on wearing Western clothes, thought Han, he ought to keep up with his haircuts he ought to keep up with his haircuts. And when had the hunch of his son's shoulders become so intensely irritating?

He stepped closer, his back erect and sore with old wounds. "You mean 'goodnight,' don't you? Nothing else to say?"

"Forgive me, Abbuh-nim," he said in the exact intonation of his earlier greeting, infuriating Han. He clenched and unclenched his hands. The silence grew. Ilsun glanced at him nervously.

"Well then. What did Elder Kim say?"

Ilsun's frightened blink was obvious. Would he have the audacity to keep up with the lie? "He- They said he was too busy to see me this evening."

"Liar!" He struck Ilsun with the back of his hand. Ilsun staggered, his hand to his cheek, eyes bursting with tears.

"You bring lies into this house! Where have you been these nights? You shame this family with your laziness! Your mother is relying on you as the man of the house, but you're useless to her! Useless! Do you hear?"

Ilsun fell to the floor, prostrate. A sob escaped him.

"Yah! Are you crying like a woman? What kind of son are you? No yang yang! Are you even my son? A disgrace. A waste!" Han paced, too disgusted to touch him further.

"I'm sorry, Abbuh-nim. You're right. Please, please forgive me."

"Like a woman! Lies and laziness! You ask my forgiveness? You're You're supposed to be the man of the house." supposed to be the man of the house."

"Yes, you're right. I'm worthless to you." Ilsun shuddered and huddled on his knees, a wet ball of sour wool.

Han sat and breathed deliberately to slow the beating in his chest. The house was unnaturally still-not even the flame of the lamp flickered. This had to be woman trouble. Ilsun had shown this weakness before at boarding school. His son never knew that the princ.i.p.al had sent more than one humiliating letter to collect overdue fees-money Ilsun had spent in those fancy brothels. With his son's marriage, Han thought he'd put an end to this problem for good, but it seemed a wife had solved nothing and, in fact, may have made it worse. Yah, how could Unsook be so ill? A crushing realization struck him and he sat heavily. His own will, his hopes, his expectations alone could do nothing to correct Ilsun's weak character. He had wanted all his life for this son to be something other than what he had actually become, what he had always been destined to be. With sudden despair, Han saw that he had no control over his own blood. And if not his own blood, then what was his to govern?

"Sit."

Ilsun kneeled and wiped his face with a handkerchief.

Han saw that his son recognized the depth of his disappointment, and it calmed him to see Ilsun's features drawn with contrition. "Such places are beneath us," he said.

Ilsun opened his mouth, his lips defensive, then he lowered his head. "I swear, Abbuh-nim, I tried. For years, there was nothing, I swear to you, but you might understand how difficult it's been."

Yes, Han had expected too much of the man before him. He had done what he believed was right, what had been left available to him, to make him the man of character he had once prided himself as being. Here was the embodiment of his failure. Like his mother nation, he had failed stupendously. Before him was the proof of his inability to shape the future of his family-and by extension his country-in the right way, the Confucian way, the way that had always guided his life, the only way he knew. Without self-discipline, how could his son master his own household? Without the strength of his family behind him, how could he lead his countrymen? Instead, here was a careless, confused man, born a decade after the annexation, who thought little about the meaning of the world except what it might offer him. It seemed that the j.a.panese had succeeded in conquering this most basic principle of a father handing tradition to his son.

"It's impossible that you frequent those places. Who sees you enter and leave? Who else visits there? Not only do you put yourself and your family at risk, you've sullied your character. It cannot be."

"But there's Meeja. She's-" His voice was ugly with desperation.

"Have I finished speaking?" So the worst had happened: Ilsun had actually become attached to a wh.o.r.e. Han realized he should have paid more attention to the missed meals, late hours and moping about. A petulant curl spoiled the defined curves of Ilsun's full lips and strong chin-two of the recognizable features that had reappeared over generations of his family line. But he was still his firstborn son, his only son, and a man with the potential to be among the finest calligraphers in Korea. And was it not his own generation-and he, himself-who had lost stewardship of the world they had been charged to tend for Ilsun and all the world's sons?

Han settled further into his cushion, his spine sagging. As to the problem at hand, there was no help for it except that Ilsun must finish the thing or be ruined by it. That his son frequently walked the dark streets of unsavory neighborhoods put him at enormous risk for conscription or any number of police troubles. An arrangement must be made, and it would be costly. Ilsun would have to work as never before. Once the arrangement was discovered, Han knew he would suffer the household's silent uproar, but more was at stake than the sensitivities of women.

"You can have her," Han said. Ilsun showed his surprise by staring directly at him, his reddened eyes incredulous.

Han then understood that acquiescence and his acceptance of Ilsun's wh.o.r.e had two other wholly selfish motivations, but with a slow blink he managed to rationalize them as having Confucian virtue. First was the possibility of an heir. The law had changed to allow sons of concubines to inherit, and besides, should a son be born, he could be officially adopted. It wasn't possible for the woman to be accepted into the household as in the olden days. Her lowly profession forbade it, not to mention Ilsun's Christian vows. Han blinked again, and the sad and delicate face of Ilsun's sickly wife faded from his mind. As for his second motivation for allowing Ilsun his teahouse lover: his sanction of the expensive affair would stimulate his son to work, to develop his artistry despite his persistent laziness. He reached for his pipe, though it had been years since it held tobacco, and the customary motion sealed his resolve. "You're not to go to her again. She must come to you and only in secret. The neighborhood a.s.sociation is full of busybodies and traitors. No one must see her. No one. Do you understand?"

Han saw Ilsun's fingers shake as he bowed and pressed his hands to the floor. The house shivered in the winter wind and a shutter slapped open and closed. Cold fresh air cleared Han's head, but an old man's weariness blanketed his spirit. Trying to remember the writer who coined the phrase-was it, ironically, the Chinese concubine poet Yang Guifei?- Han said, "When it comes to illicit love there are two kinds of gentlemen: one has restraint, and the other has discretion." He replaced his empty pipe on its rack, and when Ilsun sat up, he saw how his son's eagerness for the gisaeng beat at the pulse in his neck. "Clearly you have little restraint, so I insist that you practice discretion. You are forbidden to visit the teahouses again. You understand how risky it is."

Ilsun nodded.

"You can have her as often as you want, but it's been obvious by the thinness of the soup that you've been neglecting household expenses. You've been neglecting your family. It pains me that you must be reminded to fulfill your primary responsibilities. You may do as you please once your first duty is met. She'll be a costly night-bride. You'll have to work very hard."

Ilsun bowed deeply to the floor, tapping his forehead on the mat. "Thank you, Abbuh-nim. I'll prove to you how hard I can work. I'm indebted to your wisdom and understanding."

"Go."

With his head down, Ilsun stood and backed out the door, bobbing. Han turned his eyes, but not before he was sickened by the giddy joy that he himself had caused to appear on his son's flushed cheeks.

Night Demons

APRIL 1940.

A WARM BREEZE SHOOK THE TENDER LEAVES OF THE ROSE-OF-SHARON bushes bordering the kitchen garden. I wrapped my skirt in a sand-colored ap.r.o.n and squatted, tilling with a bamboo hand-hoe. When the home inspectors began collecting metal goods, garden tools were among the first items to go. I was grateful for the childhood years spent outside with Byungjo, watching his able hands fashion tools from bamboo, sticks and hemp rope. Mother and I planted cabbage, cuc.u.mber and squash. The warm wind smelled green and soft, but the earth was still frozen in places where the winter clouds had lingered. I broke up those clumps as if beating them into submitting to spring.

From the porch, Dongsaeng called a cheerful goodbye and sauntered off, a wrapped scroll strapped to his back. I waved and smiled at his exuberance. Everyone seemed pleased with him lately. Whatever had happened on that cold evening when Father shouted at Dongsaeng must have been the seed for this welcome change. He was home all the time now, studying, writing and painting. He visited Unsook regularly and showed her his scrolls. His work had grown extraordinary, infused with a rawness that gave energetic power to the strokes. Among those who could afford it-mostly j.a.panese art aficionados-his reputation as a talent of note was growing. If in the old days calligraphy had been regarded as a lesser art form, now any art created at all seemed a wonder.

"Aigu!" Mother sighed with satisfaction, poking seeds into the soil. "We'll have squash blossom soup in six weeks' time."

I remembered early last autumn when Mother, Unsook and I searched the vines for young fruit, planning delectable salads of cuc.u.mber gimchi and squash pickled in chilies. Unsook had gathered squash blossoms and twirled them in her slender fingers. White moths fluttered in the light that bathed my sister-in-law, a basket of aromatic vegetable flowers on her arm. In her high clear voice, Unsook sang, "b.u.t.terfly, b.u.t.terfly, come fly this way." She laughed. "Hyung-nim, Sister-in-law, I forget the words! Sing with me." We sang the children's song together, Unsook's breath vital and clear until the second verse brought coughs. She blamed the flower pollen, but I had noticed the stained handkerchief she'd pulled from her skirtband.

I tilled the cold earth and worried. Unsook, whom I called Olgae Olgae, Younger Sister-in-law, had grown increasingly weak ever since being quarantined in mid-November. She never complained, but I noticed circles beneath her eyes, and sallow cheeks. Lately her coughing had been typical, the fevers had abated and she seemed otherwise stable, but there was listlessness and malaise. Was it melancholy? Sometimes when I entered the sickroom, she appeared as if she'd been weeping. I didn't want to ask what was wrong unless she showed her tears. The invalid had such little physical privacy that I wanted to respect her other privacy as much as possible.

When I returned the hoe to the outbuilding, a spray of striped yellow crocus caught my eye. I unearthed the sprouted bulbs whole and potted them in a crock for Unsook. It might encourage her to see a token of the earth's miracle of rebirth.

Wearing a facemask and carrying the crocus and a gourd of hot water for a sponge bath, I slid the door to the sickroom open. She was asleep. I set everything down quietly and straightened her blanket over her feet. A small choking noise made me turn. Unsook stared at the crocus, tears spilling. She coughed, then gasped for air, and I leaped to help her sit. Unsook's shoulders heaved as her body worked to claim breath. Her fit subsided, leaving her wheezing and feverish. The sputum in the bowl I'd held to her mouth was yellow and gray. I felt awful. "I'm so sorry!" I folded pillows and blankets and propped her upright. "I thought the flowers would cheer you, but I've only brought misery! Say nothing- you'll have another fit." I rubbed her back until her shaking subsided.

"Beautiful- I didn't mean-" she whispered.

"Quiet. Not a word. Stay sitting up. I'll get fresh water." I flew out the door and returned as quickly as it took to wash and fill the bowl with heated water. Gently, I ma.s.saged Unsook's neck and shoulders and bathed her. I smoothed the bedding, changed her bedclothes and sat behind her, holding her in my arms like a child, humming, until she breathed evenly. "Can you say what's wrong?"

Unsook's next breath was a sob, which she controlled. She steadied her intake with effort, her breaths shallow. Newly combed into a long braid, her hair fell from her back to her lap. She twisted the braid into a bun, arms gaunt and tinged blue, and covered her eyes. "I think I must be going mad."

Alarmed by her dead tone, I said, "Hush. Jesus is with us, you've got to trust him," and was dismayed to hear how empty those words sounded.

"It's nightmares or demons. No-the Devil himself! Or my imagination. Oh, Hyung-nim!" She fell against me and I held and rubbed her cold arms.

"Quiet now. We can pray. We can ask Mother."

Unsook turned and grasped my hands. "No! Say nothing to Mother. It will kill her. Tonight-it will happen tonight! I know you shouldn't- you'll get sick-but won't you, can you stay with me tonight, say that I'm not imagining it, I beg you-"

"Shh, let me feel your forehead." Her irrationality made me worry if fever had done its damage. Unsook's pupils were huge and black, imploring, and I said, "Of course I'll stay. Don't worry, nurses never get sick."

"Tonight again. He was here today, so tonight- It was as if, as if-the demon!"

"No more talking. You're getting excited over- Don't fret, I'll stay with you for as long as you want. Tonight, tomorrow, it doesn't matter. We'll pray. It's nightmares or fever. Hush now."

"You won't say anything to Mother?"

"No." Gently ma.s.saging, I simultaneously pressed her furrowed brow and the top of her spine to release tension. "But if I'm to spend the night I'll have to tell her something." I wondered fleetingly about hiring a shaman to exorcise the nightmares, but there was no money for a mudang mudang and her entourage, and besides, who knew what such a woman would do to my poor patient? "We wanted to try the other steam treatment overnight. We can tell her that I must tend to it, and also that you're feeling lonely and cooped up in the springtime." and her entourage, and besides, who knew what such a woman would do to my poor patient? "We wanted to try the other steam treatment overnight. We can tell her that I must tend to it, and also that you're feeling lonely and cooped up in the springtime."

She slumped in grat.i.tude and whispered, "I thought I would go mad."

"No tears! You mustn't cry! Think of the baby!" The forbidden word slipped out like an easy delivery, and I felt Unsook stiffen. Her unborn baby had been much on my mind. Surrounded by the obvious parallel of a profusion of greens sprouting from the inanimate earth, I couldn't avoid harboring hope. We were told the fetus would not survive her illness, that her disease would become too advanced to expect a healthy outcome. As if a pact had been made, no one ever mentioned the doomed baby. But seven months had pa.s.sed and my sister-in-law was still alive. Bedridden, sick, but very much alive. The child moved moved in her womb. If, every spring, G.o.d could bring such renewal of life, why couldn't this baby have a chance to come to term? I hadn't meant to put words to this. As a family, we had all resolved long ago that planning for the baby would be as hopeless an endeavor as the deadly progress of Unsook's disease. in her womb. If, every spring, G.o.d could bring such renewal of life, why couldn't this baby have a chance to come to term? I hadn't meant to put words to this. As a family, we had all resolved long ago that planning for the baby would be as hopeless an endeavor as the deadly progress of Unsook's disease.

Unsook and I looked at each other and held hands, afraid that to say more would curse the faint hopes we both held for the baby. She wept, and I sang hymns to soothe her.

THAT NIGHT I tied a thickened face mask over my nose and mouth and stretched out next to Unsook's pallet. The small room allowed me to spread only half a quilt. I kept my eyes wide open, determined to stay alert to watch and wake Unsook from the dreams that troubled her. We held hands in the dark and waited. For what? For what? I wondered. I wondered.

I must have dozed, for I was disoriented when I felt my hand tightly squeezed. Unsook was crushing my hand, and then her fingers went icily limp. I was only aware of this peripherally because the sickroom swelled with strange noises. It was startling more than frightening-night spirits could only mean her time was near-but I was being foolishly superst.i.tious. I listened carefully and discerned whispering, and then a woman's voice. Two spirits were talking. I could barely make out word sounds. Was it Korean? j.a.panese? Laughter. Moans! The ice from Unsook's fingers clutched at my heart. I recognized my brother's voice.

The unintelligible whispers became sighs, breaths, m.u.f.fled groans, and I realized in horror and humiliation that I was listening to a couple fornicating. My brother with a woman in the room next to his own wife's sickroom! I sat up, outraged, and toppled the crocus.

The sound of flesh against flesh stopped and the woman whispered, "There's that noise again next door."

Dongsaeng must have looked at the adjoining wall because I heard him say distinctly. "It's nothing."

Unsook's fingers tugged at me. Too paralyzed with rage, I couldn't respond.

"Someone is watching us!" hissed the woman.

"No, I told you before. There's a sick aunt. Don't worry-she's deaf. Only be a little quiet. There are others in the house."

"You mean quiet like this?" There were kissing, smacking noises and stifled laughter.

In a panic to do something, anything to stop what we were hearing, I tried to cover Unsook's ears. I felt wet cheeks and pressure mounting in her neck and shoulders. She erupted in coughing.

"Who, who-?" the woman said in rhythm to their slapping bodies.

Unsook coughed mucus and saliva. Helplessly I held her head, supporting her while still trying to cover her ears.

"Shh!" Dongsaeng said, huffing as their tempo heightened and he grunted- A terrible riff of coughs- Then sudden quiet across the two rooms. Dongsaeng exhaled, "Ya-ah-shh," and the woman sighed.

Unsook's coughs deepened and were productive, each spasm releasing another clot of crumbling tissue from her heaving lungs.

Master of the House

JULY 1940.

ILSUN SAT NEAR THE OPEN WINDOW OF A RESTAURANT. THE DAY'S heat, thick with humidity, made him sweat as he sat waiting for the black market fellow. An occasional faint breeze did little to dissipate the stench from the street. The heat had cooked the gutter filth to emit even worse odors than usual. A wad of notes bulged in his pocket, and he wished he had worn loose hanbok instead of Western trousers. The street was quiet-too hot for work or even loitering outdoors-and he lazily regarded the occasional pa.s.serby for his go-between man. Perhaps it was too soon for such a purchase, but what was the point of waiting?

Najin was wrong. He had told her it was Father's idea, but she still wanted to blame him for everything, including his wife's illness. She almost went as far as to blame him for Unsook's death. He admitted there was a time when he ignored his wife, but he was good to her toward the end. He had provided for whatever medicine she needed and had sat with her frequently.

He remembered one spring day how she'd smiled when he showed her some of his calligraphy. "It's work to be proud of," she said quietly. She appeared increasingly drawn and pale as the days pa.s.sed. When she looked at the scroll, he noticed she had trouble focusing.

"How are you feeling? You look tired," he said.

"Me? I haven't been sleeping- It's nothing. Here, look." She grasped his hand and placed it on her belly. Before he could draw away he felt movement beneath the skin.

"You mustn't think everything will be okay. They said it probably wouldn't live, and even if it did, it would be an idiot." He gently disengaged his wrist and saw her skin was waxy, translucent. "I don't mean to be cruel, but it's not good for you to hope."

She turned to the wall and he tied the scroll and stood to leave. "Yuhbo." She sat halfway up. "I must ask something of you." Her eyes were bright and Ilsun could guess what she wanted.

He moved a step backward. "It's impossible. It's not up to me."

"But if the baby is born? Will you?"

"I can't promise you something that isn't going to happen. You're only making yourself unhappy."

"I ask nothing for me. Please? Just keep the child. Raise her. Educate her. Teach her about G.o.d."

"Her?"

"I think so. Will you promise?" She closed her eyes and was as still as death.

He wanted to say it was pointless to swear to something that wasn't in the realm of possibility, but she was his wife, and dying, and he promised her he'd do as she wished.

And he did. It's true that a mother knows, because the baby was a girl. Small, early, but miraculously whole. He named her Sunok, pearl of Korea. Nuna said she'd raise the baby in the way Unsook would have wanted. Even Father seemed pleased to be Harabeoji, Grandfather, to this firstborn girl.

Meeja wasn't happy about all the fuss he made over his baby girl, but she was complaining about everything these days: the gifts he gave her, the hours they were separated, the crowd of teahouse girls where she lived, and in particular, having to visit him in secret.

The waitress brought a cup of wine with a quickly melting sliver of ice in it. The black market fellow was late. Ilsun hoped the man had found what he wanted.