The Calligrapher's Daughter (28 page)

“Ah, Reverend Sherwood!” said Mother. “He speaks Korean beautifully. He gave a sermon once at our church. How inspiring it was in these difficult times.”

Father clasped both hands to his knees. “I understand you know something about these difficult times through the work of your father.”

“We are simply patriots, sir. Who among us does not desire freedom?”

“True, true!” said Hansu.

“But what is your opinion of the Communist movement in the north?”

Remembering the Karl Marx book, I listened with interest.

Mr. Cho took time to think, then answered as carefully and formally as before. “In that its development was a reaction to the failures of an agrarian society such as ours, with its ancient and paternalistic divisions of class, it seems there could be wisdom in attempting to establish equality through an evenhanded distribution of community property.”

Father’s fingers twitched, and he, too, let time pass before speaking. “But what if those properties belonged to you? Suppose you were the landowner with hundreds of li of the best rice fields. And they were summarily taken from you after generations of your family members, every peasant in your home village, every brother and servant who had worked the land had benefited from it. Suppose these fields were portioned to each man in even parcels, everyone working in community as you say. Each man is also apportioned his share of human nature, wouldn’t you agree? Envy. Greed. Industriousness. Foolishness. Drunkenness. Laziness. Ambition. To whom would these men turn for leadership, to arbitrate disputes? How can a legacy of thousands of years be demolished without resulting in chaos? What of ordered living? What of the lessons of our ancestors?”

Mr. Cho remained visibly thoughtful in the ensuing pause. “Excuse me, sir, for speaking thus,” he said. “But I doubt that it will be possible to return to the old ways. New generations are being bred under imperialism. Modern ideas have flooded our universities. My father believes, as do I, that the model of democracy may best serve our nation—a congress of
leaders freely elected by thinking men, and a president-figurehead to exemplify the dynastic traditions of leadership.”

Hansu interrupted, “Perhaps someone like Kim Il-sung?”

“Yes,” said Mr. Cho. “But he, like the Communists, has no God. Without Christian compassion and democratic understanding of the equality of all people, it matters little, ultimately, how strong one’s arm is, who one’s father is or how charismatic one’s personality is.”

Father cut in. “Man might be equal in the eyes of God, but heritage cannot so easily be washed away. Are you not your father’s son? Was Moses not a son of Israel? How can bloodline be irrelevant?”

“Excuse me, sir. I’m not discounting heritage. I’m speaking of suffering. When people suffer, as ours do, as peasants have for hundreds of years, God has compassion, indeed, proven with the example of his own son, his own bloodline—Christ and his human suffering.”

Mother said “Amen” and fidgeted with the fruit plate. I knew she worried that such a discussion might irk Father and ruin his digestion. And I thought Mr. Cho was clever to turn politics toward God, diverting rather than conceding his point. I caught Hansu searching for a reaction from me, and I flushed. With irritation? Eagerness? Embarrassment? Acknowledgment? Discomfortingly, I recognized it was all four.

Father waved the fruit aside and started to respond, but Mr. Cho bowed and said, “Honored Sir, forgive my argumentative tone. There were many such discussions at my father’s house, and your hospitality has put me so at ease that I must apologize for having overstepped my manners. How can we be Korean and not respect our bloodline? Naturally and historically, it’s an essential part of our national character and must always be so.”

“Hm,” said Father. His spine softened and he gestured that refreshment should be served. “I see we have much to speak of.”

Mother relaxed beside me and Father asked Mr. Cho to pray. He prayed with authority, his intonation as careful and formal as his arguments. He prayed for the nation, the freedom of its people, gave thanks for the gathering of these three families and asked God’s blessings for the bread we would break. When everyone said “Amen,” Mother lifted her eyes to me, and I saw that she was pleased with his prayer. I served water and precious rice cakes, conscious of how close my sleeves came to brushing the white shirt cuffs peeking from his black suit sleeves. Then I left the
room with Mother, but before reaching the kitchen, I escaped outdoors to the vegetable garden and immediately began pulling weeds to avoid her searching eyes.

Hansu and Mr. Cho stayed until midafternoon, which Mother said was a wonderful sign. “Of what?” I said, loudly pounding peas for Father’s porridge. She merely smiled and talked to Cook about supper.

THREE DAYS LATER, after Mr. Cho’s third visit with Father, Mother found me in the garden where I was picking lettuce leaves for supper. “Aigu!” she said, hurrying in and out again with a wide straw hat. “You mustn’t get any darker.”

“You wear it. I’ll get another.”

“No, no! Take it. I’ll stand in the shade here and tell you.” Beneath the eaves, Mother, incapable of being idle, searched the cucumber vines for fruit.

“Tell me what?”

“What your father said to the visitor today!”

“Oh.” I tied the cord of the straw cone hat beneath my chin and bent to my task, glad my hands were busy since I didn’t know what to do with my feelings.

“Those men! Always talking politics and philosophy. I go in and out, listening with one ear. Today, I hear your father say, ‘I’m not a man to dilly-dally, talking from the side of my mouth.’ I didn’t want to disturb them with my footsteps, and I stopped and listened to everything—like you as a child behind the screen!” She laughed girlishly, and I jokingly scolded her.

“Then your father says, ‘You should know the state of her dowry.’”

“Umma-nim, you already said …”I moved farther down the rows of lettuce.

She caught up. “Nonsense. It’s very wise of your father to consider everything on your behalf. Even if Mr. Cho is lower class, it’s only right as your future groom—well, if you insist, your
maybe
-future groom—that he be treated as a gentleman. Your father said, ‘The girl’s mother finds you acceptable, your father’s letter says he’s in agreement, depending on whether you and I are in agreement.’ Then not another breath and he says, ‘I am in agreement.’”

I wished to be anywhere other than where I was, having to experience this humiliation. A chicken in a cage being bartered!

“Also,” said Mother, “he told Mr. Cho that you must be in agreement as well, so you have nothing to fear.”

This concession was the result of Mother’s work. I looked at her gratefully. “Did he—did the gentleman say anything?”

She smiled—smugly, I thought—and I turned my hot cheeks to the lettuce. “Well, if you mean did he speak his intention, the answer is no. Father was too busy telling him about the farm and Manchuria. Yah, Najin-ah—” Her soft tone made me look at her with concern. “His voice was very heavy, poor man. Then he became angry, thinking about it, I suppose, and he was actually quite brusque to poor Mr. Cho. What must he think of us?”

I shrugged and put Mother’s cucumber crop in my lettuce basket.

“Your father said that your dowry consisted only of your personal possessions, your modern thinking and your education.”

“I have to admit feeling pride in the ‘modern thinking and education,’” I said, smiling.

Mother tilted my straw hat to peer at me. “I’m proud of you too.” Our eyes met in a small rich instant. “You’ll be pleased with the visitor’s response,” said Mother.

“Hm.”

“‘Mine is a simple family’ he said. ‘We rely less on material goods than on God’s goodness.’ A fine answer, don’t you agree?”

Any other bride would have been consumed with anxiety about how her future in-laws lived and what kind of mother-in-law she’d have, but I wanted to hear no more. Drawing water to wash the vegetables, I changed the subject. “Speaking of family, when will Dongsaeng be home again?”

“Soon. I remember when he was home last spring how he complained about the smell of boiling cocoons.” Earlier, I’d admired Mother’s modest silkworm farm: the healthy mulberry bushes, mesh-covered frames that protected the larvae as they ate and wove their silken shells, the paddles, reels, spools, and the outdoor cauldron used every two months to boil the cocoons, an evil-smelling process that killed the pupae and loosened the silk. Mother continued, “But it wasn’t so bad that he didn’t eat the
silkworms by the handful later! We harvest next week—he’ll be home by then.”

“How much do they bring in?” I calculated how the silkworm farm could double or triple with my help. Through my own industry, I could justify my stay at home by paying Dongsaeng’s tuition. “How much are his fees?”

“Not your concern.”

“He’s my dongsaeng. I should contribute.”

“Your contribution is to seriously consider the prospect of marriage.”

In my attempt to avoid thinking about exactly that, I’d forgotten that my return home meant another mouth to feed, another room to heat. “Yes, Umma-nim, I will.”

“Wonderful! Mr. Cho is coming tomorrow to visit you alone.”

“Tomorrow!” Water splashed from the basin onto both our skirts.

Mother ignored the stain. “Walk the gardens with him. Take lunch. Take time to think and decide.”

“What’s the hurry?”

“By autumn he’ll be in America to study for a year or more. A betrothal could change everything for you.”

I frowned. Less than a month ago, I’d been fired from my country school and had no idea what the future might hold. I had hoped to work at the Seoul Hospital with Jaeyun, but Father forbade it. Teaching was one thing for a woman of our class; nursing—a servile position—was something else altogether. I hid a sigh. Marriage was not among the goals I had cast for my future. Then again, it seemed possible to add an American medical education to my dreams. I smiled at Mother, and when she smiled back, obviously pleased, I guiltily turned to wash the vegetables. I tried to subdue this extremely selfish desire from my mind, but as I scrubbed the cucumbers in the cool water, I couldn’t avoid wondering if American cucumbers were as sweet and succulent as ours.

ON THE MORNING of Calvin Cho’s visit, I sat before a folding vanity case, its mirror upright, trying to measure my appearance as he might.
Wild hair, untamable
. I hastily knotted it in a braid.
No, men don’t notice hair. Yah, but no one could miss this nose!
I powdered it, applied lipstick, rubbed
it off.
Skin is clear, thank God
, I thought,
too tanned, droopy eyelids, a peasant’s jaw—aigu!
I stood and angled the mirror for full body viewing.
Straight back, sunken belly, stooped shoulders. Skinny like a farmer …
I kicked the vanity case and it clattered shut.

Mother entered carrying a light breakfast of steamed barley and broth with tender wild leeks and tofu. “You give your father reason to be annoyed when you behave like that,” she said calmly. “Your visitor is the kind of man, I think, who cares little about appearances, and even if he were to, there’s nothing for you to be concerned about.”

I remembered his fancy tie and socks and said nothing. Mother sat behind me and undid my lumpy braid, which made me feel increasingly childish. “Why can’t I just get a job? Why can’t I go to Seoul to work at the hospital?”

“Stop.” Mother raked a comb dipped in hot water through my hair. My head bobbed with each firm yank as she folded plaits, and I felt even more petulant and childish. I handed her a green ribbon. “Forgive me. I don’t know what’s wrong with me today. I know we’ve discussed this.” I took deep breaths and closed my eyes.

“Tell me truly what you think of Mr. Cho,” said Mother. She swept the floor for fallen hairs with her hands.

I returned the comb to my abused vanity case and stood. Mother adjusted my slip and drew the skirt’s straps over my arms. “He is very polite,” I said. “He’s intelligent and well spoken, serious and studious. I believe he’ll make a good pastor.” I paused a moment before confessing, “But I don’t know if I could ever be a good pastor’s wife.”

“Nonsense. Think of what a privilege it would be.” Mother fluffed my hem, and I suppressed further expressing my doubt. She tightened the skirt band around my bosom and tucked in the ends. “What else?”

“He’s thoughtful and modern, and that’s good for me.” Thinking that to give voice to my new desire might reduce its intensity and conspiratorial nature, I added, “Perhaps a time will come when we can study together in America.” I looked at my mother.

“Perhaps,” she said neutrally.

The room seemed to lighten; it was permissible to hope. “I think he’s a good man, but how can I know?”

“I, too, believe he’s a good man.” Mother unfolded the curved sleeves
of the blouse. “He has a good heart and is a strong man of God. His evenhanded character could temper your spirit. With your enthusiasm and ambition and his thoughtful ways, it’s an excellent balance.”

I tied the blouse closed with a single looped knot, trailing my fingers down the ends. Mother brushed my shoulders to soften the creases. “It’s a good match. And Cook is right, you’ve grown taller.”

“Have I?” I could’ve been six years old.

“Eat your breakfast and keep your heart open,” she said, leaving the room. “I’ll check that your shoes are clean.”

I ate quickly and scoured my teeth. I put a dot of lipstick on each cheek and carefully blended it in. The remainder of the morning was spent straightening the already tidy women’s quarters to steady my mind, which was running in circles of dread, hope, fear and excitement. Mother said to sit still or I’d wrinkle my clothes. I dusted off the Chinese-English phrasebook from its niche and scanned randomly through its pages. I began a two-page conversation titled “The Value of Fresh Water,” amused to read about Willie and his father earnestly discussing the merits of drinking clean and pure water. I flipped to the back of the book and spent the remainder of the morning trying to make sense of such aphorisms as “penny-wise and pound foolish,” “fine words butter no parsnips,” and gave up when I chanced upon “happy is the bride that the sun shines on.”