Echoes of the White Giraffe (6 page)

I could not recall the rest, but I remembered how enchanted I had been with this story. Maybe that was why I had always been so fond of giraffes.

“Come on, Sookan,” Mother said. “Sprinkle some sand over the seeds I planted and then cover the sand gently with red mud. Why not place the seashells around this little area so that people won't step on it?” I busily covered and packed the seeds so that they would grow and bloom for the shouting poet.

“Good,” said Mother. “I see rain clouds hanging low over the mountains. The rain will be good for the seeds, and soon flowers will blossom and grace the poet's grave. Come. Now we must hurry home.” Without looking back, I followed Mother down the mountain in silence and thought of the shouting poet in his white T-shirt with his head tilted back and his hands cupped around his mouth. I could almost hear his voice echoing through the mountains.

Pelted by the rapid fire of raindrops, the tin roofs emitted their deafening cries. “Plank! Plank! Plank-plank-plank-plank! Plank!” I was glad that it was raining so hard. I could not bear to see the sun shine today. I wanted the whole world to weep for my shouting poet.

I went outside and stood in the middle of my dirt yard. My feet sank into the red mud, which was quickly washed away by the torrents of rain. I kept thinking of the poet. Why did he have to die? Didn't he know that I needed him? I wished I had seen him up close just once. The rain streamed down my face, carrying my salty tears with it. Too many things kept changing in my life and I wondered what else would be taken from me. I couldn't be sure of what tomorrow would bring. I was afraid. Cold and drenched, I just stood there in the rain, trembling with fear and sadness.

Mother ordered me to come inside. Standing by the door, I continued to gaze outside and watch the rain fall. My poet's voice still rang in my ears when I looked at his mountain. Behind this veil of rain, I felt I could see his thin, gray figure waving to me. He was telling me he would shout his morning greeting to me in my dreams, just as they had written on his tombstone. Too tired to cry anymore, I remained standing by the door, looking down the mountain.

A man was walking up the muddy path. Hunched over, with his head bent to watch his next step, he seemed to be heading right for our house. I squinted to see who it was. As he drew closer, he paused, looking right and left. He then looked straight up at our shack. I could see him better. It was Junho.

My heart stopped. What was he doing here? Why was he coming up here in such bad weather? Was he coming to see me? Would Mother let him? It was not permitted for a boy to come visit a girl unless they were engaged. What was I to do? My head ached from trying to think so fast, but my heart raced with excitement. I couldn't help thinking how wonderful it would be! I could really talk to him, ask him all sorts of questions, and tell him everything I had always wanted to. Was Haerin coming too? I looked down the road and didn't see anyone behind him.

As he drew closer, I saw that his shoes and the bottom of his slacks were caked with red mud. Even his coat sleeves were red and muddied; he must have fallen several times. It must have been quite a climb for him in this downpour. Not knowing what to do, I just watched him draw closer and closer.

As he came to the door, Mother saw him and jumped up. “My stars! Junho? What brings you here on such a treacherous day? You must come in and dry out. Hurry, Sookan! Run, get a big towel.”

Blushing awkwardly, he said, “Oh, thank you. I'm sorry to intrude. I need not trouble you. I just came to give this to you.” He carefully pulled out a small, well-wrapped package from inside his raincoat. “Father Lee asked me to bring this piece of white silk for you to paint on.”

A few months earlier, a wealthy Pusan resident had wanted a special painting for a wedding cushion, and Father Lee had told him about Mother. When people saw how beautiful and delicate her silk screen paintings were, many began asking Father Lee to ask Mother to paint for them. Father Lee always made sure that Mother was paid and that the paint and the silk were supplied for her.

“Thank you,” Mother said to Junho as she took the package. She was pleased, for she loved to paint, and we always needed the money. “But it is so far for you to have come,” she added. “Come in. You must at least have a cup of tea before you venture downhill.”

I quickly nodded with enthusiasm, but stopped short, afraid Mother would see how inappropriately pleased I was at the prospect of his staying for tea. It was clever of Junho to have had such an appropriate excuse for coming to see me. And I was glad that Inchun happened to be out on a science field trip, for he would have given me disapproving stares all through Junho's visit.

Junho sat by the door and I sat on the opposite side of the room. In silence, he looked around the tiny room that served as both our living room and bedroom. The blankets were neatly rolled up in one comer, and one small wooden bookcase stood in the opposite corner. A small sketch of a Buddhist temple done on a piece of yellowed rice paper caught his eye. I saw him carefully study the delicate pine branches and the three small birds flying around the Buddhist temple.

“What a beautiful sketch. Is this your Mother's work?”

“Well, this is just doodling for her. Here she doesn't have large silk canvases, brushes of all sizes, and fine paint as she used to in Seoul. In Seoul, we had many large, beautiful paintings that Mother had done.”

Junho fell quiet and stared down at the shiny floor. “I didn't exactly tell your mother the truth.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Well, Father Lee didn't exactly ask me to come up here. After Mass, we talked about you and how you had been absent from choir practice yesterday and from all four Masses today. He mentioned that he had planned to give you a package to take home to your mother. I quickly offered to deliver it. It seemed like a good excuse to come and see you.” He smiled.

“Where were you yesterday and today?” he then asked. “Were you sick?”

“No, I wasn't sick. I was just too sad. My shouting poet died and I just couldn't sing. Mother and I went to dawn Mass and then went to visit his grave this morning, and it took several hours.”

His soft dark eyes intently studied my face, and he fell silent. We heard Mother preparing our tea, and I smelled something delicious. It smelled like honey and cinnamon, which we had not had for a very long time.

Junho, who had been looking at my pufify eyes, said softly, “You know, your shouting poet is still alive in many people's hearts. Today Father Lee was asked by many to say a special Mass for the shouting poet. You mustn't cry and grieve for him. He doesn't need the normal kind of grieving. He is above all that.”

“I know what you mean,” I said, mustering a smile. “I cried for a while, but then I realized he was in my heart and I decided that he would live on. I'm happy that we will be having a Mass for him.”

Junho smiled, and reached inside his chest pocket. Placing a thin paperback in front of me, he said, “Here, this is for you. This is what I really came for. You once mentioned how much you love the half moon, and when I saw this book, I thought of you.”

“
Half Moon: a book of poetry by foreign poets,
” I read aloud.

The pale blue book jacket had a half moon poised over a mountain top. I smiled as I flipped through the pages. There were poems by Shelley, Keats, Blake, Gide, Longfellow, and Tagore, my favorite of them all. I couldn't utter a word. My head was spinning and my heart was pounding. I had never had a boy come visit and bring me presents. I held the book close to my heart, hoping to silence the thumping I heard within. I stared at the book again, pretending to read, but the small print just looked like millions of ants rushing about their daily duties.

I didn't know how to thank him. If it were Bokhi, I would give her a hug, and we would lean our heads together and start to read aloud, or we would go for a long walk with our pinkies hooked together and pledge our eternal friendship for the umpteenth time. This was perfectly acceptable to do with a girlfriend, but with Junho, everything was forbidden. So I sat opposite him and just flipped through the pages aimlessly, trying to bring the words into focus.

"Good, I am glad you like it. When you finish reading it, let me know which poem is your favorite. Did you notice my inscription on the front page?”

I had been so excited that it hadn't even occurred to me to look. I quickly opened to the first page. It read, “To Sookan, a lover of poetry and of the half moon. From your everlasting friend Junho. 1952, Pusan.”

Everlasting, everlasting ... What a comforting word! Just the word I needed to hear when everything I loved seemed to be slipping away from me. An everlasting friend. I savored the sound and repeated it over and over again in my mind as I held the book tight.

I felt so happy that all my nervousness melted away. I hugged the thin book as if it were the dearest thing I had ever owned and said with excitement, “Oh, Junho, thank you, thank you so much. Everlasting friend, how wonderful, how wonderful!”

For a second, Junho's face turned crimson with embarrassment at my sudden effusiveness, but soon a broad smile spread across his face and his eyes twinkled. He looked so handsome that I forgot my manners and just stared at him. It was fortunate that Mother came in with the tea tray before I made a fool of myself.

The aroma of ginger tea filled the room. Then I saw the paper-thin rice biscuits coated with honey, sprinkled with cinnamon, and dotted with white pine nuts. I hadn't seen such delicacies since I had left Seoul. I didn't even know Mother had these ingredients here and was amazed at how she always managed to do just the right thing. Later, I learned that when Mother heard about the shouting poet's death, she had started to prepare these biscuits to comfort me. I felt as though the spirit of my shouting poet was helping to bring my friendship with Junho into reality.

Mother looked very happy to be drinking tea with us. I could almost hear her thinking, “How nice to have a young man in the house. He is the same age as my third son.

But suddenly, Mother's face turned somber, and she looked as if she were about to cry. Taking a deep breath, she got up, and said, “Junho, you must excuse me. I must get my painting started. It is a small canvas, but small things seem to take even more care and time. It is still raining very hard, so why don't you stay and enjoy your tea. It is too dangerous to go downhill in this weather.”

Junho, trying to contain the smile spreading across his face, thanked my mother politely. He looked out at the dark sky gratefully. Were it not for the rain, Junho would have felt compelled to get up and say goodbye. I hoped that the rain would not stop for a long time. As I gazed down at the book he had given me, I wished I had something to give him in return to remember the day by. But I had nothing. I looked around the empty room in despair. If we were in Seoul, I would simply pick one of my favorite books from my tall bookcase and give it to him. With a sigh of frustration, I stared at the sad little bookcase that held my three used notebooks and Inchun's rock collection.

“Is that a picture of your dog?” Junho asked, looking at the pencil sketch of Luxy that rested on top of the bookcase. “You must miss it very much. Please, don't look so sad.”

“Oh, that,” I said, flustered and surprised. “Yes, that's my boxer, Luxy. ” I missed my dog, but I hadn't talked about her with anyone since we left Seoul, except once with my mother when she first drew that picture for me. Inchun and I never talked of Luxy either. But I knew all three of us thought of her often and missed her. I frequently thought of how Luxy used to wait eagerly at the top of the stone steps in front of our house for me to come home from school. Then, at night, she would sleep at the foot of my bed. But I never talked of Luxy, for I was afraid that people might think I was childish and insensitive to mourn the loss of my dog when so many people were dead or missing. Junho was different, though. He wore a look of anguish as he studied my face, almost reading my thoughts, and sharing my sadness.

“I like the sketch Mother did. She really captured Luxy's personality. She was a ferocious-looking boxer, but at the same time she was so gentle and intelligent. She always sat up straight like that, showing off her handsome figure. Those big brown eyes studied everything that went on. No one ever had to order her around. She somehow always knew just what to do.” I rambled on as I thought of our happy days in Seoul. “She was so intelligent, she even delivered the right magazines to the right readers. She carried
Time
magazine to Jaechun, the newspaper to my father, and science magazines to Inchun. She was an amazing dog. She had us all convinced that she understood what we were saying, and sometimes even what we were thinking.”

“She is the best-looking boxer I ever saw,” said Junho, smiling warmly.

I stared at Luxy's picture, and I imagined how scared she must have felt when we all abandoned her. Suddenly the acrid smell of bombs and sweeping fires filled my lungs, and the sound of sirens and planes flying low overhead buzzed in my ears. My mind raced back to that horrible day in late June when the dark airplanes roared through the skies and dropped a shower of dark, eggshaped bombs from their bellies. The bombs had exploded violently, erupting into a mass of red flames that rose into clouds of heavy black smoke.

I shook my head and swallowed hard to make sure that I did not have the gritty taste of ash in my mouth.

“What is it, Sookan? What are you thinking about?” Junho said, looking very concerned.

“Oh, Junho, I was just remembering the first bombing of Seoul. It was horrible. The city was transformed into a burning Hell before my eyes. All I could do was stand by the window and watch the bombs explode. Hyunchun, my third brother, came rushing into my room, shouting, ‘There you are! Come on. Those planes will be right on top of us next. Let's go.'”