The Calligrapher's Daughter (20 page)
“He’s not mine!”
“He is if I say so!”
I mock-frowned, and she laughed behind her hand.
“He always speaks courteously, not like some of the others who show nothing on their faces but that stupid smug superiority.”
“Here they come. I understand what you’re saying,” I said quickly. “They’re not all the same, yes?”
She nodded.
“Your Highness is most gracious in her concern by sharing her feelings about Princess Bangja. This person is undeserving of your affection and kindness.”
“You are my friend.” She smiled and held my hand a moment, then
turned and said to Madame Bongnyeong, “Thank you for the exquisite reading. We enjoyed it immensely.” She raised her voice to the returning ladies and servants. “Aigu, but what a wonderful reading you missed! Madame, next time you must favor us again and reread those chapters.” Madame Bongnyeong bowed, and it was time to go.
The princess climbed on the back of her strong maid, the ladies-in-waiting gathered the baskets of flowers and empty food containers, and the eunuch and servants cleared the pavilion of mats, pillows, dishes and cups, leaving it as serene as before we came. I walked close behind the princess and thus avoided the rear guard, whose red eye, I noticed, had calmed somewhat. I wondered what would become of my handkerchief, which was most likely tucked into his breast pocket. The image of my hand-stitched linen lying close to his heart made me flush with pleasure and shame.
I SPENT THAT night, a Saturday, in Sugang Hall. On most Sundays, Imo and I attended the Methodist church southeast of the palace, near Ewha, but the princess’s requests to keep her company on Saturday nights took precedence. I worried what my mother would say upon learning how infrequently I went to church, but Imo said I’d be fine as long as I kept up with Bible reading and prayers. By then I was reading the boring Acts, skimming, and my prayers had grown rote and hasty. I also regularly invoked Heaven and Ancestors with the princess, but not for a second did I think I was any less Christian than before.
Sunday morning, as usual, I woke at dawn to the sound of guards marching on the palace grounds. I snuggled in the blankets for a few minutes, warmed by thoughts of yesterday’s declarations of friendship from Princess Deokhye. As I washed and dressed, I ashamedly wondered if I’d see the young guard today before going home to Imo.
Keening cries swelled in the dawning morning, and I wondered how roosters could have entered the palace. Then I heard commotion and Princess Deokhye cry out. I quickly tied my blouse and hurried toward her rooms. Her eunuch was prostrate and several maids were crowded around her door. Exaggerated cries of mourning came from the ladies who surrounded her so thickly that I couldn’t see her. The breakfast tray
and bowls were scattered on the floor and steam spiraled from spilled porridge. Fear struck and I shouted “No!” Then came tears of relief to see the princess sit up, and fear again when I saw her face contorted in pain. The strong maid pulled me into the room and pushed me to the princess. Sinking to the floor beside her, I instinctively opened my arms, and she clung to me, her body shaking with sobs.
“The emperor—my brother—is dead!”
I remembered Queen Min and felt cold. The princess cried and I held her close.
“They—they—tell her!” she cried.
One of the ladies said, “They found him dead early this morning. The doctor said he died in his sleep.”
Someone else said softly through tears, “ChoongHo was also found dead this morning, laid out in bed still in her clothes.” A woman wailed the quivering song of mourning. ChoongHo was the emperor’s tasting servant. I remembered Imo’s stories about Gyeongbuk Palace, and the eunuch and then–Crown Prince Sunjong, who both had nearly died in the coffee-poisoning plot.
I held the princess and rocked her. “Oh, my poor dear sister.” The pulsing laments filled the room, seeped into our souls and poured out the windows, sending our grief to the heavens. The cries were met by others coming from Nakson Hall, and I said, “You must go to the empress.” And by uttering this last word, knowing that Crown Prince Uimin lived in Tokyo, I truly understood that the emperor, and thus, the empire, had died.
This enormity and grief for the princess weakened my legs, but I helped her stand and, with the others following, walked toward the passageway that connected Sugang Hall to the empress’s house. Four guards stood in the passage entrance, shoulders stiff, feet spread, hands on their sabers. “For your protection and that of the grand princess, you must remain here,” said the guard with a stripe on his sleeve.
Outrage erased my fear. “It’s Her Highness! Sister to the grand prince and princess, she must—”
“It is forbidden!” The guards seemed to expand with severity. I saw the red-eyed guard behind the two in front. He looked straight ahead with
the same iron face as the others. I stared at him until I felt my eyes had struck him as sharply as that silly toy had the day before, a lifetime before, but he remained impassive, hateful and impassive.
“Come, Your Highness,” said a lady-in-waiting. “Best that we rest.”
We returned to her sitting room where we remained until night fell. The women lamented loudly, a sound that sometimes helped release into tears the grief held within our bodies, and also sometimes seemed pointless and irritating. I wanted to shout, “Let her mourn in peace! Let her pray for her brother, her family, and let her voice her fears.” She did not have Jesus in her vocabulary, but she could appeal to Heaven to reward the soul of the emperor, and for the merciful future of her vanquished family.
The servants had more mobility than we did, and so desperate were we for news that we relied on them to pass messages through the kitchen. At lunch came word that my aunt, who’d come from church to walk me home, was with the empress. When we asked for fresh water, we learned that the minister of rites and certain Japanese officials had visited the empress to speak of funeral preparations. At dinner the death of the tasting maid was confirmed, and at bedtime snack came news that the emperor’s cause of death was ascribed to apoplexy. I remembered the spider-knobbed hands of Dr. Hakugi when in the past he’d examined the princess, who often had headaches. I could envision his spindly face and wiry mouth attesting to the emperor’s cerebral hemorrhage, apoplexy, with the professional confidence of a longtime falsifier.
I stayed with Princess Deokhye that night, sitting by her bedside with the strong maid, the eunuch posted outside her door. I dozed until the princess woke with sad tears or nightmares. I felt my mother’s spirit and her dream of water, of women’s resilience, with me, and regardless of propriety or prohibition, I softly sang hymns to help the princess fall asleep again, to bring something pure and good to the room. There was no way to know if news of the emperor’s death had yet reached outside the palace.
We were detained at Sugang Hall for nine days. I sent word to Imo and the empress through the servants that we were unharmed, and received similar reassurances from Imo. On the tenth day, Imo was released and allowed to stop in at the princess’s house for a short while before taking
me to her house. She told us what she knew about the days ahead. My imo looked determined and strong, if somewhat tired, and I was relieved to have her near. I hadn’t realized my degree of fear until I felt the safety of her presence, the comfort of her flower and citrus smell. Then I felt guilty because Princess Deokhye could not share this relief.
By then, news of the emperor’s death had reached the city and had quickly spread throughout the country. While spontaneous demonstrations of outrage and sadness, and cries for independence clogged the town squares and city plazas, rumors about the cause of his death and about his mental health continued to propagate. To mollify the people, a formal state funeral was slated for several weeks later, June 10, which would bestow the proper Confucian burial rites to the last emperor of Korea. In the meantime, Imo would send me home to Gaeseong for my safety, while she would continue to do what little she could to support the few survivors of the once-great Yi royal family.
Imo said it was time to leave the palace. Although I had been waiting for this moment all the past nine days, it felt too abrupt. I thought it was similar to the fate that had shadowed the palace and the royal family for decades. The Yunghui emperor’s unnatural death had always been feared, and imminent, and yet its occurrence felt sudden and unexpected. I said my goodbyes to the staff and bowed low to the princess, saying all the formalities of honorable thanks and farewell in the special language reserved for royalty. My eyes were wet, but my voice was as steady and sure as the training I had received. I did not look up as I left the room, though I knew I would never again see the princess. I heard her tearful voice saying goodbye, and, softly, “You are my friend.”
Imo and I walked across the courtyards that had become as familiar to me as my father’s front yard. We passed beneath the top-heavy south gate where our papers were checked and checked again, and went home on roads empty except for policemen or mounted soldiers who guarded every turn.
SEVERAL MONTHS LATER, long after the failed second national demonstration on June 10, the emperor’s funeral day, we heard through the underground that seven thousand additional troops had been dispatched specifically to suppress the uprising the Japanese had anticipated for this
last emperor’s funeral. Bamboo rakes, sticks, pitchforks and raised fists were no match for swords, guns and military precision. Not long after the funeral, the princess and the royal family and some of their staff were taken to Tokyo. Rumor had it that the strong maid carried the princess on her back as they left Changdeok Palace, which was soon emptied of all but peeling gilt and ghosts of a glorious dynasty that had lasted five hundred years.
TRAVELING HOME ON THE TRAIN, I LOOKED OUT THE WINDOW AND noticed that my line of sight now reached above the center bar, proving how much I’d grown in the two years since leaving Gaeseong. I recalled that sad yet exciting journey, which seemed so long ago, and smiled inwardly, remembering how Imo had called me Monsoon Wind. The train lumbered to the outskirts of the capital. Having grown accustomed to swept courtyards and pruned gardens, I saw squalor all around me, even in the first-class compartment. On the other side of the car a middle-aged Japanese couple in Western clothes ate lunch in their armchairs, the man’s newspaper strewn on the floor, the woman’s painted lips
shiny with oily fish. They whispered to each other and sent occasional curious glances my way.
I sat erect, my hands calmly folded as if to straighten with my posture the riot of wires barring my view of the sky. I stole peeks at the woman’s skin-colored stockings and high-heeled shoes buckled tidily across the arch, and at the light fabric of the woman’s peach-colored dress clinging to her curves.
The train shuddered as it turned on an overlook of the Han River, and engine smoke blew through the compartment. I coughed and covered my nose with a handkerchief. In its folds I smelled the jasmine incense that Imo had constantly burned in her brazier to mask the sewer odors from the street. My eyes blurred with tears. No one knew what fate awaited Imo. Forbidden to leave the city and fearful of her unknown future, she had quickly arranged for my traveling permits and ticket home, spoiling me once again with her generous insistence on the best ticket. When we parted on the station platform, I wept to express my gratitude and love, for words were inadequate. She held my hands tightly and murmured uncharacteristic praise, calling me Beloved Daughter. Neither of us said when we might meet again.
The Japanese man shut the window with a loud snap. “I’ll open it again when the fumes aren’t blowing in.” I lowered my head in courtesy. He bent, then twisted to arrest his bow to me, and returned to his seat frowning. He told his wife to gather the scattered newspaper and wrap the fish bones. Conscious of his stare, I kept my eyes averted.
“Going to Gaeseong?” He crossed a leg, his foot in the outer rim of my vision.
I nodded, noticing a darned patch on the back of his sock.
“Might I ask why?”
Startled by the polite tone he used, I looked at him. His dark eyes crinkled with warmth.
“My home is there, sir.”
“Why, she speaks perfectly!” the woman said, and they both smiled at me. “How did you learn to speak so well?” She folded the trash in a neat package and wiped her mouth and hands on a train towel. She opened her pocketbook and applied lipstick—a crude display of vanity, I thought.
My Japanese had grown refined at the palace, but I wouldn’t say so. “In public school, sir.” I’d completed the required two years of upper school and was just then missing the graduation ceremony. I had hoped to apply to Ewha Professional School, but that hope faded with the same smoke that now put Seoul behind me. The school’s original name had been Ewha Women’s College, but as with many other places and positions in Korea, its status had been demoted by the Japanese, who attempted to limit Korean women to vocational training, or believed we weren’t capable or worthy of academic achievement. Ewha was built by the American missionaries in 1886 as Korea’s first girls’ school, and over the years had grown in size and stature as Korea’s only women’s college. It maintained its prestige despite its loss of academic labeling, and though most of the school’s administrators were Japanese, nearly all the teachers were Korean. I longed to attend.
