The Calligrapher's Daughter (14 page)

“Just a little cut,” he said.

“Your hand—”

“Still works.” He wiggled the fingers. “I’m used to them already. But mother’s had to give up her dream of me playing the
gayageum,”
he joked, referring to the stringed instrument women entertainers played.

I settled next to him and soberly held his good hand. “I missed you, Oppa.” It made me feel warm and content to call him Elder Brother.

“It’s good to be home.”

“Are you— Was it bad?”

His eyes narrowed. “It’s past. But I met many patriots! Men from Pyeongyang and Seoul. I wouldn’t have survived without them.”

“How was— Do you mind me asking?”

“It was hard, little one. Nothing you need to hear about. But God was with me, and for that reason I was meant to be there. I’m certain of that.”

“But you’re so good! Why would he want to punish you?”

“No, it wasn’t God’s punishment.” He closed his eyes, and I saw a new frown line cut deep in his brow, which reminded me of Sunsaeng-nim. “It was the Japanese who arrested us, but it’s far more complex than that. One of the good things that happened was I now have an opportunity to go to college in Pyeongyang. A man I met—a famous intellectual, known throughout Pyeongyang!—he offered to sponsor me, even if I decide not to study theology.”

I remembered on our walks home from school, Hansu’s resignation when he spoke of what his future held: the unwanted possibility of a
clerical job with his father or the slim chance of an academic scholarship to Yonsei University. Without position, contacts or cash, and with less than stellar grades, the latter option was more of a dream than a hope.

I patted his arm to show him my genuine happiness, and he smiled. “You would have laughed to see how we managed to communicate.”

“What do you mean?”

“Talking wasn’t allowed, so we wrote in the dust with our fingers. It was months before I heard my mentor speak a single word.” His smile faded. As curious as I was about his experiences, I wanted him to not remember bad things.

“Will you still marry?” I said, thinking of my teacher.

“That also is a blessing. She still waits and agrees that more education is a good idea. Otherwise I’d be stuck like my father, working half-pay to fill out papers for the government.” I hadn’t realized that Hansu’s father worked for the Japanese. It must have been helpful when Hansu’s father was arrested. I’d seen him trudge the sidewalks at sunup and sundown, to and from some place of business that I’d never thought about before. It would be rude to ask more about his job. Self-censorship won over my curiosity and kept me silent. I twisted a corner of his blanket, thinking how strange it felt to be tongue-tied with Hansu.

“How’s school? What’s your favorite subject?”

“I love words the best!”

“Ah! There’s a new subject in school, is there? Words?”

“Father studies words!”

“I’m teasing, silly girl.”

I punched his shoulder playfully. “I like reading and writing. We just learned about Shakespeare and I learned something new I can teach you.”

“Teach me.”

“Listen.” I took a breath and said carefully in English, “Whe-la eesu bus-u stop-u tow-tow-nuh?”

“Wonderful! What does it mean?”

“Where can I catch the bus going downtown?”

His smiled warmed the room. He had me repeat it and then tried it himself. “There are buses in Seoul, and trams, trucks, automobiles, rickshaws, dozens of carts, hundreds of shops. So many things you would have loved to see.”

“Maybe one day,” I said, my eyes down.

“You would’ve loved our parade of patriots! So many men—and nearly as many women—shouting and marching together. I’ll never forget that. A sea of people, and I was swimming among them.” He closed his eyes, his lips peaceful.

“We had marchers too. Not as many as yours, I’m sure. We saw Father marching.”

“You have much to be proud of. Another great patriot.”

I had never before considered my father as someone to be proud of. I remembered my fear on the night of his arrest, then felt shame. Although he’d been beaten, he was home after sixteen days, while Hansu and others, like Teacher Yee’s poor family, had suffered much more. “But others fared worse. You’ve been gone a long time …”

“You mustn’t think like that. Your father is an important scholar, well known in Gaeseong. They couldn’t keep him locked up the way they could a marginal student who was merely one of hundreds, could they?”

“But you’re not a marginal student!”

“Maybe not marginal, but still one of many. I’m blessed to be back in my own home, my parents strong, my betrothed still willing, my purpose renewed, my dongsaeng, little sister, beside me.” He clasped my hand.

He seemed older and wiser, and I knew exactly what it meant to feel blessed—to have him as my honorary oppa. I gripped his hand. He was someone I could tell anything to, and it wasn’t long before I opened my mouth, then frowned, then acted as if nothing had happened.

“What is it? You’ve grown—very pretty, I might add …”

“Don’t say that!” I blushed. “My nose is huge.”

“Yah, you’re right about that. Big as a stubborn boar’s.” He laughed, and I slapped his arm. “I know you too well,” he said. “You’re thinking about something you’re afraid to ask. Ask away! I’ve nothing to hide.”

“I heard something today I don’t understand, but it’s a secret.”

The outer edges of his eyes curled with familiar mischievousness. “Can you go outside the secret part and tell me generally?”

“Well … if a woman is to be married but her future husband suddenly dies, can she not get married at all?”

“Is this your way of telling me you’re betrothed, little one?”

“Me? Never! Oh, you’re teasing again.”

“I’m sorry. How does the future husband die?”

“Um, an accident, or illness, or maybe in prison, like you were. Does that matter?”

He studied me gravely. “None of the causes you name matter. Especially the last. Maybe the woman says she won’t marry again because she is suffering a broken heart.”

“Is that the same as broken virtue?”

His eyebrows flew up.

“What’s wrong?” I saw his neck then his ears turn to flame. “Please excuse me! Did I say something rude?”

“Not quite the same, Najin.” He averted his eyes. “These are quite grown-up questions for a—um—young lady. These are subjects a girl might discuss with her mother.”

“Oh!” Understanding by his response what I’d asked, I blushed just as deeply as he. “Oh!” I covered my mouth.

“Never mind. I’m your oppa, right? No secrets between us.”

I was so humiliated that I said an abrupt goodbye, stammering that I had homework and I hoped he felt better soon. I ran from the room, trying to keep the image of his indulgent smile foremost, anything to mask my embarrassment at broaching such an unbelievably crude subject— with a man!

It was only a little later in my room that I began to suspect the appalling thing that had happened to Yee Sungsaeng-nim. I was distressed at the horror of it and frustrated by my ignorance and that I had no one to ask.

I USUALLY WALKED to and from school with Mun Jaeyun, with whom I shared a desk. She was the only child of the doctor who had stitched up my father’s forehead on March First. Their house was halfway to school, and when I called at the gate, my friend would come running. We held hands and chatted about other girls and the allegiances and rivalries that seemed to come and go with every classroom period. We also talked about Yee Sunsaeng-nim, who seemed fine during the several weeks after our private conversation—even cheerful sometimes—despite her pallid complexion. But one morning in early October when we entered our classroom, we saw Principal Shin sitting at Sunsaeng-nim’s desk, leafing
through the day’s lessons. I dropped my copybook and Jaeyun jostled into me. Frowning at the commotion, the principal told us to sit until all the other girls arrived. The ten-minute wait was an eternity. I held Jaeyun’s sweaty hand under the desk, my own palm bloodless and cold. Everything seemed enlarged: the intake of breaths as one then another girl came in and saw Principal Shin in the teacher’s chair, a bench scuffing, the sweet-sour smell of men’s hair oil that now filled the front of the room, the chalk screeching as he wrote the day’s schedule on the blackboard. I thought I heard my heart beating. All the girls had long been seated, and if he didn’t say something soon, I felt I’d explode.

Principal Shin closed the door, faced the classroom and clasped his hands behind him. “Attention, girls,” he said in a voice as soft as water. He cleared his throat and found his usual authoritative tone, “Attention, girls! I have bad news. Yee Sunsaeng-nim has died.” Some girls cried out. Jaeyun put her head on the desk and her shoulders shook with sobs. I struck the desktop once with my fists as tears fell unnoticed on my books. In a corner of my mind, I thought how odd it was that we all knew something terrible had happened, and yet it still felt like a blow when Principal Shin finally said the words. I wanted to raise my hand to ask Yee Sunsaeng-nim about this curious power of words, and then I felt the loss, and buried my head in my hands.

“It’s a very sudden … a sudden illness that … moreover, a tragedy for us all. You must pray for her soul. Let us pray.” Amid weeping and sniffling, Principal Shin bowed his head. “Heavenly Father, give us comfort as we learn of this sudden loss of our honored teacher. Please help the young ones to understand this—so sudden, and that Sunsaeng-nim rests peacefully in heaven, well, and that Sunsaeng-nim … And, moreover, with your great mercy, these students will only remember her with the greatest kindness, as we all do, and help us to study hard to honor our teacher’s memory, and—” He cleared his throat and ended hastily.

The remainder of the day passed somehow. My head pounded and I couldn’t stop crying. I blew my nose and remembered Yee Sunsaeng-nim loudly blowing her nose on the morning of our talk, and I cried again. By midday, a cold hardness settled inside me, and I felt empty and exhausted. Principal Shin tried to motivate us by saying that Yee Sunsaeng-nim would want us all to continue as before. “Think of how you can prove
to everyone what a fine teacher she was! Moreover,” he said, “your new teacher—yes, a new teacher will come soon—must see how well she taught you.” He plowed through our lessons, visibly agitated by our unceasing tears, but not once did he lose his temper.

By the end of that long school day, I was sad and confused, yet also strangely alert. Jaeyun and I walked wordlessly to her house and clasped hands tightly before parting at her gate. I hugged my book bundle to my chest and headed home, the familiar roadway feeling as foreign and insignificant as the classroom was without Yee Sunsaeng-nim. What had really happened to her? I thought about the conversation we’d shared, and ached for her and what she must have endured. I didn’t want to believe my heart, which told me she had ended her suffering herself. God didn’t let victims of suicide enter heaven. I remembered the special sermon once given at church to condemn this method of preserving pride, made popular by tales of family betrayal and dishonorable love. I worried that her ghost would never rest, that she’d mourn her tragedies forever in the shadows of the classroom.

But I also believed that my teacher’s spirit was now free, and that God would never turn away someone as good as Yee Sunsaeng-nim. I remembered what my mother had said about self-determination, and that I had understood it to mean I could decide things for myself. I raised my eyes to the treetops, to the swelling gray clouds and pure blue sky beyond. I would do as I had promised my teacher. I would be strong and become educated. And I would choose to believe what felt most true, that Yee Sunsaeng-nim was at peace, and that she would always be my teacher, looking down from heaven.

THAT NIGHT, THROUGH my bedroom window, the full moon cast faint silvery shadows until storm clouds hid its unmoving features. In bed, I smelled the tangy smoke of goldenrod and marigold flowers my mother burned in her brazier to chase mosquitoes from our quarters. When I told her about Sunsaeng-nim’s death, she had cried out, then filled the afternoon with deep sighs and prayer. I said nothing about secrets or suicide. Mother told me that Sunsaeng-nim, a devout Christian, was in heaven. She read to me “in my Father’s house are many mansions …” and the beautiful words made me cry. The tears also came from my confusion at
feeling both comforted and guilty, because my mother’s assurances were misinformed. I longed to speak with her honestly. Praying with her had given me solace, but now alone in bed, these feelings troubled me. And I understood fully that my beloved teacher was not here and would never be again, and I grieved.

Wind rattled the shutters and the roof tiles hummed with rain. I wiped my face and rolled off the bedding onto the cool floor. As I closed my eyes, I saw images of my teacher drowned in a river, her body broken at the bottom of a ravine, her belly slashed with a dagger in the way I’d heard the Japanese committed
seppuku
to save honor. I saw her in a dark forest in the rain picking poisonous roots to boil into a deathly broth, her hair wet tendrils dripping tears down her agonized face. Was this her ghost come to haunt me? I shut my eyes tighter to pray, but only a promise to study hard came to mind. I repeated that promise again and again to the rhythm of the rain, until at last the graceful curve of Sunsaengnim’s body moved across my vision and I saw her walking by the blackboard, in her hand a piece of chalk dancing like a spring blossom in a breeze, bowing gracefully to the tempo of the morning’s recitations.

THE SCHOLAR-ARTIST HAN DECIDED THAT NAJIN SHOULD BE married. That would be his response to yesterday’s letter of inquiry from an old acquaintance as to the availability of his daughter. On this fine morning, he would write his consent. Temperate breezes brought scents of apple and plum blossom through the fully opened door leading to the outer porch and garden. Cardinals and sparrows called and sang early mating songs, inspiring him to flowery salutations, while a mockingbird mother squawked irritably at a squirrel too close to her nest. As Han glimpsed the swoops of her tail, it seemed to write in the air the symbol for many sons—her prayer for a nest full of boys. All of nature was aligned with his purpose on this day! At his writing table, he sat comfortably on a
soft mat of double woven grass, and tied his sleeves above his wrists. He wrote elegantly on sheaves of whitest paper, using Chinese to reflect the formal solemnity of his response, and quick brushstrokes to hint urgency.