Echoes of the White Giraffe (13 page)

Once my passport and visa were issued, I needed to leave within the week, and everyone busily helped me prepare for my trip. Mother invited all my relatives, neighbors, and Ewha friends for a big farewell party. Teacher Yun brought me a scroll painting of the mountains. “Hang it up in your room,” she said. “I don't want you to forget our beautiful Korea.” Bokhi brought me a thin gold ring. She slipped it onto my finger and said, “A friendship ring. You will make so many new friends, but you won't forget me, will you?” Mother prepared four silk Korean outfits, called
Hanbok,
for me. One for each season. She carefully packed several embroidered hand towels and tablecloths that she had made. “Whenever you go visiting, do not go empty-handed,” she reminded me. She tried to muster a smile, but her eyes were tear-filled and her lips quivered. “It is hard to send my daughter so far away, but you will come back.”

The days were busy, filled with goodbyes and hundreds of errands. But Junho was always on my mind. I dared not mention him, not even to Mother, yet I often thought of taking a walk to Dongkuk University in the hope of running into him. I always stopped myself, though, as I knew it would not be proper for me to go there. My mother and brothers would be appalled if they ever found out. I would ruin my reputation by going to look for him; young ladies did not do that. I just wanted to be able to say goodbye to him in person, but I didn't know how to bring up the subject with Mother.

As we were packing my things one evening, Mother saw me staring over at Dongkuk University through my window. “You want me to help you look for Junho at Dongkuk, don't you?” she asked.

Tears filled my eyes, and I nodded with relief and exhaustion. All the months of intensive preparation for the exam, and now all the last minute preparations to leave my home were overwhelming. I felt so tired and lost that I sat and sobbed.

“You cannot be weak now,” Mother said, lifting my chin. “Your life is just beginning. You will have to be brave. Studying abroad will be even tougher than passing the government test.” Then she hugged me and whispered gently, “Are you sure you want to leave home?” Wiping my eyes dry, I nodded.

“Well, let's see then. Tomorrow morning, after your brothers leave, we will go to Dongkuk University and ask for Junho. It would not be right just to leave without saying goodbye to him.” It sounded as if Mother were trying to convince herself.

The next morning, everyone had left early except for Inchun, who seemed to be dawdling. When he finally headed to school, Mother and I hurried off on our private mission. I was surprised she had offered to help me. I knew it was not right for her to be going to the university to look for someone else's son. It just was not proper. I was lucky Mother understood. It would be our secret.

Instead of taking our normal route, we went down a back road. It was faster this way, and we were less likely to run into people we knew. It was hilly, but it was a delightful walk and the air was fresh with the smell of pine trees. We arrived at the back entrance of the university administration building.

I held Mother's hand as we walked to the front of the building. I was happy that she understood me so well, but I couldn't help feeling guilty for putting her through this. Mother hesitated as we walked into the building and saw a sign on the door that read, “Dean's Office.” She stood up straight, took a deep breath, and said, “Well, I guess I am going in.”

As she carefully pushed the door open, the young secretary sitting at the desk looked up through her thick glasses. “Can I help you? Are you lost?” she asked as she rose to her feet.

Embarrassed, Mother said politely, “Oh, no, we are not lost. I am very sorry to disturb you, but I wonder if you could help me. I would like to see the dean. ”

“He is very busy now. If you tell me the nature of your visit, perhaps I can help you,” she said quizzically.

“I believe Junho Min is a student here. If possible, we would like to see him for a minute or two,” said Mother.

“Oh, Junho Min. Are you his mother?”

Mother shook her head.

“His aunt?”

Mother shook her head again with her lips tightly closed. “We are not related. We met Junho during the war, when we lived in Pusan. We would like to see him, but if that's not possible, we understand. I am sorry to have disturbed you. We should go.” Mother turned.

“Wait, maybe I can ask the dean. Wait!”

A minute later, a tall, bespectacled, silver-haired man stepped out into the reception area. Taking off his glasses, he bowed to Mother and said, “I hear you are looking for Junho Min. He is one of my favorite students! But he is no longer here. He left about two weeks ago for the seminary. He joined the Franciscan order. You can find him there, on the other side of the city.” He bowed again, and returned to his office.

Mother seemed grateful that he had not asked who we were or why we needed to see Junho. “What a kind man! I'm not surprised that he was so fond of Junho,” she said.

We walked down the paved road and out the big gates of the university. The streets, filled with shops and restaurants, were bustling with students. I saw groups of students sitting in the small restaurants eating hungrily. I looked at the rows of boarding houses that lined the side streets and wondered which one Junho had lived in.

We headed toward the station on Ulgiro Street and squeezed onto a streetcar. The streetcar rattled down the narrow roads, stopping periodically to let people off. We passed the East Gate of Seoul City and proceeded all the way to the far end of town. We were the last ones on the trolley, and got off at the very last station. In the distance across an open field, I saw a large, gray, stone building cloaked in haze. It took us a good half hour to walk through the field of tall grass and wildflowers.

Finally, we reached a paved road lined with poplar trees. The somber stone building stood before us. It was unharmed by the ravages of war, and looked immune to the happenings of the world. In its austere perfection, it seemed sacred and forbidden.

We walked through the gate and slowly approached the heavy wooden doors of the large building. Mother looked at me. Do we dare to enter? she seemed to ask. I didn't know, and waited for her next move.

She pushed the door open, and it let out a loud squeak. My palms started to sweat, and my heart raced. We shouldn't have come, I thought to myself. I saw no one, yet I felt as if a million eyes were on me. Suddenly a black crow squawked overhead. I jumped and, yanking Mother's hand, said, “Let's go home. I made a mistake.”

Mother held my hand tightly and pushed the door open a bit more. We peeked in and saw an inner courtyard. Tall lemon grass grew around the perimeter, and the yard was dotted with low stone stools. It was so quiet in there, I could hear my own heart thump. A pair of big dragonflies flew overhead and the sweet scent of the grass filled our lungs. “Come, let us tiptoe in and see,” Mother said, and we bravely stepped inside.

Bees buzzed in the far left corner where roses and tulips were in bloom. In the middle of the garden, a small fountain gurgled softly. In front of us was a row of round, flat steppingstones leading to a gatehouse with a small, latticed window. Propelled forward by the neatly arranged steppingstones, we proceeded. Behind the latticed window was an old priest reading his prayer book with his head bent low.

We stood quietly, waiting for him to finish his prayer and notice us. After a while he closed his book, looked up at us, and came outside. His long black robe swished against the overgrown grass surrounding the steppingstones. He lifted his eyebrows expectantly.

With hesitation, Mother began, “Father, please forgive us for disturbing you. We were told Junho Min is here. We know him from Pusan. If it is possible, we would like to see him for just a few minutes to say goodbye.”

The old priest looked calmly at Mother and said, “I will report to my superior. Please wait.” He turned and disappeared through a door.

Would the priest bring Junho back with him? Or would he tell us to go home? And if Junho did come out to see us, what would I say? Would he be embarrassed? Would I be getting him into trouble? I wondered what he would look like in that long black robe. I hoped I wouldn't cry when I had to say goodbye.

Mother nervously looked down at her clasped hands. I was not a good daughter to make her go through all of this for me. But how else would I be able to say goodbye to Junho? If I had gone looking for Junho alone, I would have brought shame on him and myself and my family. With Mother along, it seemed as if we had some serious business to attend to. Besides, I had promised Mother that I would never keep a secret from her again. This was my only choice.

Confused, guilty, and embarrassed, I looked at Mother. Seeing how worried I was, she smiled and said, “I am fine. I wanted to be here with you, remember?” I reached out for her hand. Together, we walked toward the little fountain and sat on the low stone stools nearby.

I watched the streams of sunlit water shoot up, and then burst into thousands of little droplets that played on the dazzling rays of the afternoon sun. Each drop sparkled a different color, creating a magical liquid rainbow. As the delicate droplets fell, others rose to sustain this luminous rainbow. There was a soothing, rhythmic splash as the descending droplets met the water's surface. Watching this rainbow, I felt peaceful. I swung my legs against the tall lemon grass. It tickled. The rainbow seemed to whisper, “Junho will be glad that you came. Your mother is not upset with you. Everything is as it should be.”

I thought of how Junho must sit here every afternoon, watching the water. I didn't need to worry about what I would say to Junho. There would be no need for explanations or excuses. There would be no regrets and no tears. It would be enough just to see him again and to smile. He and I would know we had an everlasting friendship. In this garden, I was sure that all would be understood without words.

I saw a shadow, and I promptly stood and turned. It was a different priest, tall and slender. As Mother and I bowed, he nodded. His arms were folded in front of him, and each hand was tucked into the opposite sleeve. He wore a gentle smile as he gazed upon us. After clearing his throat with a quiet cough, he said, “I understand you have come to see Junho.”

“Yes, Father. If it is possible, we would be most grateful,” Mother pleaded on my behalf.

Unfolding his arms and clasping his hands, he said, “Junho and I both appreciate your taking the trouble to come here. We know why you are here. However, it is best not to disturb Junho just now. He is doing well. Be assured that he is doing what God has asked of him. Go in peace, Sookan and Mrs. Bak. You will be in our prayers.”

He stepped forward, placed his left hand on my lowered head, and blessed me, making the sign of a cross with his right hand. Then he did the same for Mother. He smiled at us, crossed his arms again, tucking his hands into his big sleeves, and disappeared.

Overwhelmed, I plopped back down on the stone stool. The sun hung low in the sky, and the shadows of the tall poplar trees fell across the garden. We were not that far from the city, and yet, I felt as if we were a million miles away, a million miles from all the worries and sorrows of the inhabitants of Seoul. It was a piece of Heaven here, and I was happy that Junho was a part of it. I appreciated the priest's kindness. I could still feel the way his pale, delicate hand rested gently upon my head. His blessing made me feel safe and special. He must be close to Junho. Maybe he was Junho's teacher, his confessor. He apparently knew of our friendship, and spoke for Junho. I was sure he would tell Junho of our visit when the time was right. Perhaps it was better this way, to never say goodbye. Perhaps it was Junho's way of telling me that everlasting friends have no need to say goodbye.

The following week, I boarded a plane for the States. Peering through the small airplane window, I could see everyone waving their handkerchiefs. Mother, in her crisp, white
Hanbok,
waved when she wasn't wiping tears from the comers of her eyes. Standing next to her was Teacher Yun, who vigorously waved her large white handkerchief. “Sookan is the smallest one in that line,” I had heard her whisper to Mother as I boarded the plane. “She is too young to go so far away from home.” “You know her,” Mother had replied with a tremble. “So determined to study in America. No one wants her to go.” Father Lee stood on the other side of Mother with his arms crossed as he stared at the plane.

Hanchun, Jaechun, and Hyunchun, dressed in their dark Sunday suits, looked somber and still rather stupefied. That very morning, I had heard Hyunchun say, “I still can't believe that little one is really leaving us all for a place where she knows no one.” I watched them, standing side by side with their hands in their pockets, staring at the plane in silence.

Bokhi and my other friends from Ewha were clustered around the bus that Hyunchun had rented to bring them to the airport. They chatted amongst themselves while waving at me all the while. There were so many little things I wanted to say to each of them.

Then I looked over at Inchun, who stood all alone. He was always so stoic and reserved, yet I knew how sensitive he was, and how it must hurt him to see me go. I wished I could run down, give him a hug and bring him onto the plane to come away with me. I remembered that he had slipped something into my pocket as I was frantically saying my last goodbyes to my Ewha friends. I hurriedly reached into my pocket and found a small slender package. It was a thin, silver fountain pen. In a note, he had written, “Nuna, a writer should be a good correspondent. Write home often. Inchun.” He did not say that he would miss me or that he loved me, but I knew how often he would think of me and how deeply he would always love me. I was glad that I had thought to hide a note for him under Luxy's drinking bowl. I had oiled and sanded Luxy's bowl so often that it now looked like a rather unusual modem sculpture. The grain of the cherry wood complemented the curve of the bowl, and I liked feeling the smooth roundness. I had asked him to take care of it for me.