The Calligrapher's Daughter (34 page)

Watch over the ones I leave behind: Mother, Father and Dongsaeng. Imo
and Jaeyun. Younger Uncle and Grand Uncle, wherever they may be. Yee Sunsaeng-nim. Kira and Joong, Cook, Byungjo. If your spirit can cross the oceans, help me to honor your names as I journey far from this place.
I felt an unexpected swell of tears and gazed at the sky—pale blue stretched high and striated white with cirrus, the heavens seeming to blow an eastbound pattern.

Dongsaeng reclined on a bed of pine needles at the edge of the glen and chewed a grass stem. I sat beside him in the shade. “I’ll miss you, Dongsaeng, more than I can express.”

“Me too, Nuna.” He smiled. “Maybe I’ll see you in Los Angeles one day.”

I doubted Father would allow him to leave Gaeseong. “When I get a job, I’ll send you money.”

He threw his grass stalk into the woods. “You wouldn’t have to if I could’ve kept what I made today. I sold a scroll for twenty won!”

Twenty won could buy several weeks of food. Few Koreans had that kind of money readily available. “He’s probably saving it for your new school.”

“No. He embarrassed me terribly! I had to return the money
and
let that bastard keep the scroll!”

“Who?”

“Watanabe. That pig-faced stewpot bastard!”

Watanabe was the tax officer assigned to our neighborhood. So this was what Mother had started to tell me when the men came home. How foolish of Dongsaeng to approach this man. “Tell me what happened. How did Abbuh-nim find out?”

“That pig bastard told him! Summoned him to the office and told him everything.”

“Oh Dongsaeng, what a mistake.” I spread my arm wide toward the graves. “Do you think they would have done what you did?”

“They were once young men with fathers—so, yes.”

“But now Watanabe-san knows you want money—enough to disobey your father. This gives him more power over us, especially your future. He can have you drafted.”

“But he’s been paid for that!”

“You would trust a money-hungry tax collector over your own father? I’m sure he was only too happy to buy your scroll.”

“I’m not that stupid! I didn’t accept his loan and I could have—just by grabbing the bigger stack of bills.”

“Don’t you see? That’s exactly the power he wants over you. You mustn’t seek him out again, ever.”

“Yah, now you sound like Father!” He scrambled up and shook his trousers free of needles.

“You know I’m going overseas. How can I leave knowing you’ll be reckless? You know better than I how hard it’s been at home. Why do you think there’s no pocket money? Father needs medicine! Kira does too. Cook starves herself so you can eat. Mother has sold all her jewelry and silver to send you to school. She boils cocoons and feeds worms—like a farmer—to feed you!” I stood and clenched hands that wanted to slap the selfishness out of him.

“They’re parents! It’s their duty.”

“It’s
your
duty to take care of
them
. You’re grown now. A man!”

His lip curled. “Man enough to do whatever I want.”

“No, Dongsaeng. Man enough to understand your obligation to the family, especially to your parents.”

“He’ll never relinquish his authority. Even if he finds a wife for me, he’ll hold the purse strings always!” He walked toward the graves, his shoulders tight.

I wanted to shake him, shout at him, even knowing that yelling was fruitless. I walked among the stone posts painted with the solidity of my father’s considerable talent, the talent he had passed on to a son who could find no moral virtue in having it. To my ancestors, I said quietly, “How can I leave?” And as I walked in the old silence surrounding their mounds, the tart smell of cut grass scenting the air heavily imbued with the stilled breath of Han souls, I knew that I shouldn’t.
I
was the selfish one, wanting to pursue a career abroad, wanting the attention of someone interested in helping me fulfill my own narrow needs. Love! I saw how unreasonable it was, how foolish it had made me. My brother was too volatile, too restless and disrespectful to govern the household. I couldn’t leave.
I can’t leave, can I?
No wind answered me, no sigh of a
single blade of grass. My eyes burned and I let their fire drop on the graves. My duty was here.

I pressed my handkerchief to my eyes and said clearly, “I’ve been a bad example for you. Father was right. If I’d been more attentive and willingly followed his wishes rather than being stubborn and selfish, you would’ve done the same. I apologize to you for that.” I turned to him. “I’m going to stay here. I’ll wait to get married.”

He whirled. “You’re crazy!”

“No. It’s best for all of us. Mother can’t do it all by herself. I’ll work for the Bennetts and help out at home.”

Dongsaeng approached, his eyes wide with surprised happiness, then plain and loving as he touched my damp cheeks. “Nuna, you would give up your freedom.”

“It wouldn’t be freedom if our family was in disarray.” I took his hand. “It’s my duty to watch over you. Mr. Cho will return in three years. I can wait until then.”

He stared at me and squeezed my hand. “You would wait?”

“I will. Gladly.” But a sob broke my words.

Dongsaeng dropped my fingers and walked to Grandfather’s grave. He laid his hand against the stone. “One day I will join you,
Harabeoji
, Grandfather,” he said. “My life planned for all this before I could hold up my own head.”

He turned to me. “No, Nuna. Go. You can help me more by finding a college that will accept me. Los Angeles has summer year-round, they say.”

“Father will never let you leave.” There was no reason to give him false hopes.

“Like you said, times change. If I marry—anyway, it doesn’t matter. Of course you must go now. Three years is too long to wait. I’ll work harder. Things do change.” His smile was guileless, as sweet as when in his childhood he’d finally admit to losing a game of checkers after denying it for several days.

I looked carefully at my brother, very nearly the master of the household, and nodded. My breath cleared. I had needed his permission to go to America more than I realized—no, not his permission, but his
understanding that every action of his affected all the family, and that our individualism was meaningless without accepting our bonds of blood.

“Let’s go back,” he said. “I’m hungry.”

I touched his cheek lovingly and he grasped my hand. We stood a moment, then he tucked the scythe in the back of his trousers while I took the bucket, and we slowly climbed down the mountain path toward home.

I WOKE WHEN THE MOON STILL SHONE IN THE COURTYARD ABOVE whispered hues of dawn. It was the end of August and my wedding day. I stayed in my quilts a moment to savor the disappearing vestiges of my last sleep in this room, its familiar shadow-shapes, the smell of bed and home. I heard Mother stir. She called softly, “Your wedding day, Daughter.”

“I’m awake, Umma-nim.” I sat up and stretched, and as I rose to the day, excitement also rose.

I had said goodbye to Kira and Joong the night before, pressing into Kira’s hands precious ginseng and angelica root. “For fertility and strength,” I whispered as Kira cried shamelessly and Joong bowed low.

Cook had refused to say goodbye, insisting that she would make my breakfast the next day. “How can I sleep worrying when you’ll eat next?” Indeed, she was already awake and soon set a large tray of several steaming bowls in our sitting room. “Who knows when and what they’ll feed you there!”

I would be married today in Manchuria. Traditionally a bride would go to the groom’s house to marry, but there had been nothing traditional about our betrothal. Adding unconventionality to the wedding made little difference. The annual Far East Presbytery Conference, for which Calvin’s father was the chairman this year, was also scheduled for August 31, the only possible day we could marry due to complex arrangements for our American journey, and Reverend Cho had decided to integrate our wedding into the conference, gaining the benefit of an on-site photographer and a feast for numerous guests at little personal expense. Perhaps, had I not been busy with travel plans and the dizzying activities that consume any bride, I might have seen my future father-in-law’s decision as peculiar. But I was getting married and going to America!

Mother and I shared the enormous breakfast, and when I returned the dishes to the kitchen I started to thank Cook for all her artistry. She kept her back to me and I knew she was crying. I stacked the bowls and said quietly, “Every time I touch food I will think of you. You have given me so much more than training in the kitchen.” She turned and we held each other’s hands. We did not speak of such things in a Confucian household, but this moment was thick with love. To ease the pain of our parting, Cook and I did what we did best together, and prepared packets of food for the long day ahead.

My mother and Dongsaeng would accompany me. Father’s history with the Thought Police required a special permit to cross the border, and loath to call official attention to our family, he chose to stay home. I was afraid for Dongsaeng to travel with us as well, but Mother needed an escort for the return trip. Reverend Bennett was attending the Presbytery Conference and would escort us north, but he would remain in Manchuria for other business. We knew no one in Hsin-ching, the city of my marriage, so my mother and brother had nowhere to spend the night. Further, there was only one return train to Gaeseong which departed shortly after the church service. My mother and brother could not attend
the reception. It was an enormous disappointment, but at least they could attend the ceremony.

Father had risen early for my departure and I greeted him in his sitting room, its tranquil lines gradually growing solid in the slow daybreak. After lighting a lamp and serving him water, I faced him and bowed low to the floor. “Honorable Father, forgive this disobedient child all the heartache she has brought to this family. This person wishes only that she might have served this family better. She is grateful beyond human measure for your guidance, patience and direction.” I bowed twice more saying, “Thank you.”

Father stroked his beard and sat in contemplation for a time. A moth flitted just beyond the lamp’s flame and cast flickering patterns on the walls. “Obey your husband in all things.” He spoke slowly, his voice as quiet as the rising dawn. “Be dutiful and serve your new family with decorum and propriety as you’ve been taught. I’m pleased with this union, and trust that you will honor your ancestors with diligence, honest work and many sons, no matter where you land. Go with God.” The depth of feeling behind his words moved me to tears, and I bowed my head to hide them, and having so rarely seen such emotion from him, to hold on to the moment for as long as was polite.

Going to the station, Mother and I walked side by side, following Dongsaeng. Behind us Byungjo pulled a cart with my luggage: a footlocker from the Bennetts and Imo’s well-worn suitcase. Our steps fell soundlessly in the soft humid morning, while the cart creaked noisily.

“You have all your papers?”

“Yes, Umma-nim.” This simple utterance filled me with pain and I stopped talking to contain my feelings. I had earned enough from the Bennetts for train and steamer travel and a gift sum, a dowry of sorts, for my in-laws. The Bennetts were my gracious sponsors for a full scholarship at Goucher College in Baltimore, where I was expected for delayed fall enrollment in a premedical course of study.

All our original wedding and travel plans had been disrupted when we learned I was ineligible for international travel as an unmarried woman. I was required, after marriage, to apply for a passport in my husband’s city of residence, Pyeongyang. In addition, the policeman friend who’d helped procure Calvin’s passport in Pennamdo had been reassigned to the southern city of Busan, our departure port. Before this friend left
Pyeongyang, he alerted Calvin to rumors about a coming freeze on foreign travel and recommended that we leave the country at the earliest opportunity. He assured us that any problems that might arise could usually be solved with a bribe to the passport clerk.

The day after our wedding, Calvin would leave for Busan to meet his policeman friend, who would help secure our visas. Meanwhile, Calvin’s father would escort me to Pyeongyang to apply for my passport. If my papers were issued that day, I’d have time to catch the train and reach Busan to travel with Calvin, who had a nonrefundable ticket for a steamer departing September 2. The unlikelihood of an immediate issue of my passport prompted contingency plans, so I delayed in purchasing a steamer ticket. If my documents weren’t ready in time to cross the Pacific with my husband, I would stay with my in-laws and take the following week’s ship, or travel later if necessary. We would rendezvous in San Pedro, spend a few weeks in Los Angeles at Calvin’s brother’s house, acclimating and practicing English, then we’d cross the United States together by train. A complicated arrangement, but the best that circumstances would allow, and one we trusted to God.

The sun emerged over the distant hills and I felt a sheen of warmth. “Rain coming,” I said. “Kira and I left the laundry out—”

“Don’t worry. You know she’ll take care of it this morning. Walk slower. You mustn’t sweat.”

“I’m not sweating from heat.”

We spoke freely since the rickety cart prevented Byungjo or Dongsaeng from hearing us. As we neared town, I felt a mix of excitement, dread and sadness. My string pouch swung from my shoulder, heavy with school transcripts, identification papers, an American pocket atlas—another parting gift from the Bennetts—the worn Chinese-English phrasebook and some cash. I’d wrapped the bulk of my money in my skirt bindings and carried a bundle packed in anticipation of my wedding day: cosmetics, the dress from Jaeyun I’d wear for my passport photograph which would be taken by the conference photographer, Western-style underwear after Calvin wired to say a donated wedding dress was waiting for me, and a night dress to sleep in, the mere thought of which made me burn with embarrassment.

Mother said, “Najin-ah, don’t be nervous. God will ease your mind if
you pray.” Startled to think that she had read my mind, I reddened further, but she said, “Yah, did you wish for a traditional wedding? Instead of walking you might be riding in an automobile sent by Reverend Cho! Think of that! In the olden days the palanquin carriers tried to disgrace the bride by making her vomit the entire way.”