The Calligrapher's Daughter (37 page)

A plain building of whitewashed mortar housed the government offices. Cultivated rows of marigolds and begonias edged a graveled yard and paved driveways, all surrounded by iron fencing. Showing my papers, Reverend Cho explained our business to the men in the guardhouse.
They refused his request to accompany me and gave brisk directions to the proper office. My father-in-law encouraged me on and pointed across the street to a restaurant next door to the telegraph office where he’d wait for me.

I passed beneath the imperial flag and through glass doors. My papers were checked again and my bundle was inspected. The poured stone floor held my echoing footsteps and those of a few others in need of official business. Signs above two entrances to the passport office divided nationals and Japanese citizens, and from a queue that spilled from the Korean side, young men filled out forms or shifted their feet. The small drab room was quiet except for the occasional whisper of one assisting another with paperwork, and a murmur coming from a grated window behind which a single official asked questions of the applicant before him.

“Excuse me,” I whispered to the young man at the end of the line who wore a student’s uniform. “Where is the application?” He sent a request up the line and a form was passed back.

“Elder Sister, do you need brush and ink?” He looked from my bobbed hair to my traditional hanbok to Mrs. Bennett’s shoes with curiosity. When I nodded, he whispered up the line again and room was made for me at a counter where I could stand and complete the form. I filled it out carefully, firmly writing
education
in the reason-for-travel box. Back in line, I drew out my other documents: crisp marriage certificate and declaration of Pyeongyang residency, identification, work and tax permit, graduation certificates and transcripts, my photograph in Jaeyun’s dress, a letter of support and sponsorship from the Bennetts on official Presbytery stationery, and the embossed letter of acceptance to Goucher College. I waited patiently for more than an hour, refraining from searching each departing applicant’s face for disappointment or victory. Their stooped shoulders and bowed heads were obvious enough, but I was convinced they weren’t as thoroughly prepared as I was.

At last the passport official nodded for me to approach, his round glasses reflecting glare from an overhead light. He asked perfunctory questions about my birthplace, education and work. I presented my papers and he raised an eyebrow. “Your Japanese is accomplished.” I hoped this was a good sign. “Married yesterday, I see.”

“Yes sir.”

“Did you marry in order to leave the country?”

I hadn’t expected this sort of questioning. “No sir. I was betrothed in May.” I knew that made no sense and remembered what the Bennetts had coached me to say. “I—I am traveling to further my education in medicine, since the women’s professional school in Seoul has limited opportunities in that field.”

“Where is your husband?”

“Traveling to Busan at the moment.”

“And from there you both plan to travel overseas?”

“Yes sir.”

“Same university?”

“No sir. I am enrolled at a women’s college in a nearby town.” I pointed to the Goucher letter.

He scanned the American letters and their translations, the papers mirrored in his spectacles, little miniature documents of hope. He tossed them back under the grate. “Foolish to accept enrollment without official sanction.”

A stone fell, hollowing my body. I kept my tone even and my face impassive. “Forgive me sir. The Presbyterian mission arranged for the college. I was told the matter had been taken care of. These letters show—”

“Denied.”

“What? But sir, the letters—”

“The letters are in order. If you want to further your education, a student visa to Tokyo is granted.”

The fear that pulled inside drained to cold panic. I shoved a prepared wad of bills under the grille. “Please sir. Here is the fee. Tokyo offers nursing only— I’m not accepted into Tokyo—”

The money disappeared. “Our Korean sisters are welcome in our universities. With your education, fluency and high marks, you’ll be admitted with ease.”

“Sir, my husband waits—”

His lips thinned. “He can go to Tokyo with you. It is among the finest universities in the world.” He frowned when I leaned heavily against the counter. “Madam, it is not a difficult matter to rescind his visa.” He wrote something across my application, placed it on a stack beside his elbow,
collected my documents, stamped my identification—a red seal with a line across it—and slid my papers back to me.

“I beg you, sir!” The whispers from the queue of applicants behind me were meaningless winds passing through my body.

“Denied. Do not attempt to reapply unless for a student visa to Tokyo.”

“I beg you, sir. I plead for your understanding— My husband—” I grasped the bars and the whispering behind me grew louder.

“Denied! Shall I call the guard?”

I took my documents with wooden hands. My eyes were dry, yet I couldn’t see my way out of the passport office and bumped into someone. I dropped my pouch and left my bundle. “You forgot your things, Elder Sister,” said a young man. “Let me walk with you outside.” I followed him numbly, the sound of our footsteps vacant and pounding. At the entrance he said, “Here we are. Are you alone? Do you want me to escort you home?” The concern on this stranger’s earnest face gave me strength and my manners surfaced.

“No, thank you. My father-in-law waits for me. I’m sorry to have troubled you. You’re very kind.”

“If you’re sure—”

I tried to smile without success. I turned to cross the street and was cursed by a man running with a cart, into which I nearly collided. Reverend Cho must have been watching, for he was beside me in an instant. He thanked the young man, grasped my shoulders and led me to the safety of the telegraph office’s sidewalk. He studied my pale expression. “How bad?” he said.

I knew that the word
denied
wouldn’t pass my lips without a flood of vitriol or tears. I unfolded my identification and gave it to him.

He examined the red stamp and uttered a sympathetic “Hmm.” He returned my document and steered me inside the café. “We’ll have something to drink before we send a cable.” The proprietress smiled at his rapid return and teased him about having a crush on her. He ordered two roasted barley teas and moved to a back table. I sat stiffly.

He sipped and sat silent across from me for some time. “Please drink something. I don’t want you to faint.” I complied, forcing the tea past my
throat that was tight with disbelief, my stomach leaden with so much lost in an instant. “That’s good,” he said. I bowed my head to hide my eyes, for at that moment I hated him, his condescension, his patronizing warmth. I hated the clerk behind the grille, the cart man who had cursed at me, the Japanese police who were always everywhere. I hated them all. I remembered from my youth the red-eyed palace guard’s iron stare, the pockmarked soldier who had exposed himself to Kira and me, and they justified my hatred. And yes, I hated my husband. He had taken my future and dreams in his hands and had instead led me here. I had given my body to him, the ultimate act of trust, and he had brought me to this empty table. It would have been better if I had never hoped for America, than to have hoped and have it denied. And I had wondered if my feelings for him were love! Reverend Cho cleared his throat, and I struggled to keep the tea from coming up as bile. Then I felt shame for my weakness in succumbing to such emotion, yet what is shame but hatred turned inward? I closed my eyes and told myself to be still, act properly, dutifully, close the door to the storm inside.

Reverend Cho spoke gently and softly in Korean, as if only our native tongue could give solace. “The stamp on your identification restricts you from leaving the imperium. I have the same as a result of March First, as do many other patriots who were arrested that day and the many days since. You should consider yours an equally honorable badge.” I said nothing and he continued. “Of course you’re greatly disappointed, but you’re young. Another chance will come. They are not to be our false masters forever. I know the most difficult part for you at this moment must be the separation from your husband at the dawn of your marriage, and that indeed is a great misfortune. However, God has his reasons for both the lightness of joy and the burden of disappointment in our lives. Have faith in his wisdom and his greater plan, and trust that all will come to good once more, that all will be shown in time. Let’s pray together and perhaps your faith will grow to contain this kind of bad news, and much more besides.”

I kept my head bowed, vexed that he’d seen something of my feelings and accurately attributed it to wavering faith. Let him see then! I had nothing left—why hold on to propriety?

He clasped his hands and prayed, “Father in Heaven, my daughter and
I come before you in bleakness and anger. She is burdened by the loss of her plan of international travel and American schooling, the separation of her new husband—my second son—married in your house only yesterday …”

I chafed under his prayer. It took all my training to suppress the urge to kick my chair across the room and run from the table. I thought then of my mother, her tear-soaked handkerchief tucked into my skirtband, and I breathed hard to feel it pressed against my heart. It quelled the wrathful buzz in my ears, enough to sit and hear Reverend Cho’s impassioned prayer, which seemed to go on forever. But it was a kind prayer, and after the
amen
I found myself somewhat chastened by his sensitivity. I glanced at my father-in-law’s eyes, which were wet. I lowered mine, dry, and said, “I will pray on this.”

“That’s all I ask.”

I caught a glimpse of his smile and thought derisively that it was the practiced minister in him that made such obvious kindness shine in his eyes. No, this was impossible, hateful thinking. I pushed it down, found comfort and even pride in my ability to do so.

“Now then.” He patted my hand and pulled a fountain pen and small pad from inside his jacket. “We’ll need to send a cable to your husband.” His rough palm on my hand recalled the demonstrative goodbyes shared by father and son. I cringed to think what more I would see of the Cho family’s ill-mannered sense of physical propriety.

“After that,” said the minister, “I’ll take you home. Your mother-in-law waits eagerly to meet you, especially since she’s heard your charms extolled for several months now. Naturally, you’ll come home with us. As to what the days ahead might bring, we’ll leave that to God with, perhaps, a little help from common sense and the American Post Office.” He opened the pen and handed it to me.

I wrote more crookedly than I thought possible, and flushed with longing for home and Gaeseong, ended my message to Calvin with my father’s parting sentiment from yesterday morning, eons ago. I pushed the paper across the table.

“Fine. See if you can finish your tea while I send it.”

During his short absence, I wove an invisible wall around my emotions, strong enough to carry me through the next few unknown days,
resilient enough to permit access to my feelings when I felt more able to wrestle with them.

INSIDE THE CHOS’ brushwood gate, a small weedy yard led to tall dusty shrubs that hid most of the house. Mrs. Cho welcomed me warmly at the door. She grasped my arms and came quite close, peering into my face. I stiffened until I saw her cloudy eyes. I thought of poppy root and gingko extract with gentian to improve her obviously failing vision. This automatic educated medical response made me bitter, it being largely the cause of my present disillusionment. God had punished me for ambition, for failing the test presented in the guise of my husband—a man of God—who had brought with him the dream of an American education. Had I sincerely cared for him, or was it what he offered that had attracted me? It was hard to believe that God, any god, would be so vindictive, so petty as to bother with my tiny worthless soul. And yet here I was, abandoned by my husband, stuck with my in-laws, everything lost. I drowned these spinning thoughts in the darkness covering my heart.

Small and brown-skinned, Mrs. Cho demonstrated that her numerous wrinkles were earned from frequent smiles. Reverend Cho explained the situation. Still holding my arms, she said,
“Omana!
Such a shame!” I shook my head to discount the disappointment. I did not want their sympathy. Reverend Cho retrieved a raincoat and hat from inside the house, told us to watch for my luggage, which he would arrange to be delivered from the station, and left. My mother-in-law led me into the grass-roofed house just as it started to rain. “We live simply,” she said, “but I pray you’ll find comfort here.”

When my eyes adjusted to the dim interior, I was glad that I knew well how to hide my feelings. Not larger than my mother’s kitchen, the one-room hovel—for that was my first impression—had a coarse floor of loose boards barely covered by a worn and stained hemp mat, two haphazard chests, a small bookshelf and table, a closet crammed with bedding and a narrow earthen stove built into the back wall. The room reeked of smoke, old food smells and damp earth. Mrs. Cho kicked off her shoes and hurried to the kitchen area. She grabbed a gourd and two tin pots off wall hooks and placed them strategically on the floor. They
soon splashed with raindrops leaking through the thatch. I bent to unlace my shoes and to hide any indication of my utter dismay.

“Luckily, we still have my son’s bed,” said Mrs. Cho, “which, of course, is yours now. Put your things here until your trunk arrives.” She pointed to a corner beside the bookshelf. “Those are all the books he had no room to pack,” she said proudly.

I felt as if I were hearing her through layers of fog and veils, and struggled to speak normally. “May I look?”

She crouched beside the books, her arthritic fingers fluttering along their spines. “Of course! They’re yours now too.”

I heard those words with dread. How could I live here? Knowing I had no choice, I relied on my training and bowed to the floor. “Thank you, Umma-nim, Mother, for welcoming me home. It’s— It’s unexpected to have the burden of this daughter unexpectedly on your hands, yet you’ve shown me only kindness.”