The Calligrapher's Daughter (33 page)

“Go ahead, my dear. It’s some kind of herb tea,” said Reverend Bennett. “They’re trying to help. I’m sure it’s completely safe. A little odd tasting? No? Good.” Mrs. Bennett shifted on the stool and patted her hair. I found myself staring at her complicated mass of curls and knots, all accented with a variety of brown and orange hues, and her petite yet sharply pointed nose remained a wonder from every angle. She sipped the tea and indicated it was fine.

Reverend Bennett asked me how soon I could start working for them. Mother looked at me, and I summarized the conversation. To Reverend Bennett I said, “Excuse me, but I must speak to my father before I—”

“She can start tomorrow!” said Mother. My eyes opened wider.

Trying to get directions to their manse proved impossible. I retrieved paper and pencil from my room and drew a map to the market square. Reverend Bennett then marked the church’s location and the nearby manse and the matter was settled. “How very wonderful,” said Mrs. Bennett. “I feel good absolutely fine now. Thank you very much. You cherub! How do you say
angel
?”

“Please, Madam, it’s nothing. Thank you for coming, Reverend sir, for the job and the assistance with my education. I am indebted to you and Reverend Sherwood.”

More thanks and the Bennetts stood to leave. Reverend Bennett grabbed both our hands and pumped them, causing a small commotion. Mother insisted on tying Mrs. Bennett’s shoes for her while I wrapped chamomile leaves and ginger powder in a square of paper. “For the morning, Madam, with hot water. I’ll bring more tomorrow.” We walked them to the gate and waved at the departing automobile. The little crowd coughed in its exhaust. I caught Byungjo peeking to see that Mother and I were well inside the yard, then he showed a toothy grin to the roadside gathering and remarked that the black beast was impressive but had smelly farts. The crowd laughed, as did Mother and I, knowing we wouldn’t be seen enjoying his joke.

Entering the house, I said, “Umma-nim—”

“If you’re going to American college, you’ll need money.” She went to
the sitting room, gathered the cups and told me to wipe and polish Father’s table. She described Calvin’s visit prior to his coming to see me, and explained they’d agreed to a September wedding to accommodate my traveling overseas with him. “After Mr. Cho left—yes, he was quite nervous but also quite charming—your father was convinced you’d need a job for steamer passage and moving, and this one is a godsend. The Bennetts can help you practice English.” She gave me a conspiratorial and merry smile. “Truly you are blessed!”

“Yes, Mother, I am. God is good,” I said, copying Calvin’s simplicity that first time together beneath the willows, and I thanked my mother for convincing Father about my need for work.

In the garden we picked ripe summer vegetables. As I described the beach days—avoiding Jaeyun’s dilemma—I confirmed that each element of Calvin’s proposal had received approval from Father. “He’s very pleased with Mr. Cho,” said Mother, tugging scallions easily from the earth. “And more agreeable than I’ve seen him in some time. Naturally we’ll miss you. Is anything harder for a woman than to see her daughter depart in marriage? Yah,” she sighed. “Now I clearly understand why my own mother wept every night for a week before my wedding day. But we’re too blessed for crying!” I checked my mother’s eyes: wet but bright with satisfaction.

“Where is Father?” I asked, suddenly aware that he’d been absent for longer than a walk to town.

Mother straightened from searching the squash vines and her expression darkened. “He’s out with Dongsaeng.”

“He’s home again? Is it another term break?” I had seen my younger brother the weekend before I left for vacation. At fifteen years old, he was a few inches taller than me, his cheeks fully rounded, his waist slim and his shoulders broad. He’d been cranky when I measured him for the winter coat that I’d foolishly attempted to sew at the beach. He remained sullen and silent and the air around him was murky and jumbled. He seemed to be having particular difficulty adjusting to his young-man years, and I wondered if he believed that somehow I had influenced Father’s decision to bring him home after I had graduated from Ewha. He wouldn’t know that I hadn’t told anyone about his falling grades and unsavory friends in Seoul, and he didn’t seem to notice or care how events
reported in the newspapers affected his life. When he was home last weekend, I’d asked about his boarding school and teased him about girls, but he only mumbled, “I have to study, Nuna. Leave me alone, won’t you?” Later that day when I brought him a snack, I used all my big-sister skills to draw him out, but he said nothing and refused to meet my eyes.

I had obviously lost track of his school schedule with the excitement of the beach and my betrothal. “Is he home for the weekend? I can’t wait to see him.” I thought my news might inspire him to believe in untold possibilities for his own future. I knew that in many ways Father was stricter with Dongsaeng than he’d been with me.

“The term isn’t finished until July,” said Mother, “but you’ll have plenty of time to see him now.” She turned to comb the vines. “Your brother flunked out of school. He was asked to leave last Monday, the day after you left for the beach.” She smiled weakly. “It’s been a busy week!”

I took the squash she’d found and held her hand. “What happened?”

“His grades and they said his attitude. Aigu, why doesn’t he work harder? He’s so intelligent! If he did the work he’d show them how brilliant he is. And what do they mean by
attitude
? They must not be feeding him enough. No one can concentrate on an empty stomach.”

I wondered if I should have told about his school troubles in Seoul. I saw that my attempt to protect him by withholding information about his problems might have contributed to his downfall. “Umma-nim, I—”

“Yah, never mind,” said Mother, firmly clasping my hand. “You have a new job to worry about. He’s home now where Father can watch him. We’ll find another school, and I’m sure he’ll be happier at home and do better. Certainly we’ll feed him better!” Mother placed another squash in the basket and we headed toward the kitchen. I asked what Dongsaeng and Father were doing in town, and Mother frowned. “You know that tax man who—”

From the vestibule came Father’s voice. “I’ll hear no more on this. My mind is made up.” Mother’s face closed somewhat. She told me to help Cook make lunch and to say nothing about the Bennetts. “I’ll tell him myself after he’s eaten and not so …” She waved me to the kitchen.

Later when I unpacked, a large and perfect scallop shell from the beach, bleached by nature, fell from Dongsaeng’s unfinished winter coat. I tucked the shell in my waistband and went to his study, keenly feeling
my sisterly obligation toward him, particularly since I’d overheard those few terse words of Father’s. Remembering Father’s eagerness to have me married at age fourteen, I wondered if a wife would soon be found for Dongsaeng, which would force him to accept responsibilities as master of the household. He was still a boy! How could he feed a family and take care of our parents?

In the breezeless sultry afternoon Dongsaeng sat at his desk in an old shirt and school trousers, swirling an inkstick in jerky uneven circles on his inkstone. He didn’t acknowledge my scratch at the door. “I’m going to the graves,” I said. “Come with me?”

“Too hot.”

“Later?”

“Maybe.”

I gave him the shell. “From the beach. See its symmetry?”

He barely looked when I set it at his elbow.

I sat beside his desk and said, “I have something to tell you.”

“I heard already from Abbuh-nim.” He rudely splashed water on the inkstone, and I resisted the urge to caution him against spilling.

“Dongsaeng, I worry—”

“Everybody’s worried about me! Why can’t you leave me alone!” He threw the inkstick, spattering black on his desktop.

Quickly blotting the mess, I used my gentlest schoolteacher voice to say, “Yah, what is it?”

“At least you’re escaping from this prison!” He rose and thumped his hands.

“I know it’s hard to live up to Father’s expectations, but you must try.”

“It’s impossible!” His narrowed eyes pooled and reddened.

“Did something happen?”

“I sold a scroll! You’d think he’d be proud, but he was furious. At least I’m trying to keep my pockets filled!”

“Art for money makes tainted art.”

“Yes, yes, I know—loss of creative purity, innocence of expression—all that crap!”

“You know he thinks it belittles your talent to work for profit.”

“What else is it for then? To sit in my study and read newspapers and
study classics for the rest of my life? That’s what it’s for? I don’t want his life!” His voice scraped and broke.

I stood to allow him to compose himself. “Let’s go to the graves before they hear you.”

“Who cares who hears? My life was ruined before I was born.”

“Fresh air is better than sitting around making a mess in your studio.”

He shrugged, rubbed his face and followed me to get his shoes. Going through the garden, I grabbed a straw hat, a hand scythe and an empty bucket. Ilsun plucked a cucumber and munched it noisily. He scuffled his sandals on the courtyard flagstones, and though irritated with his unruliness, I said nothing.

Tall waving branches shaded the steep path that circled the bamboo woods, and I walked faster in its coolness, eager to be out of sight of the house. “Slow down. I don’t want to sweat,” he said behind me.

By the time we reached the stone steps, we were both climbing slowly. We paused at a break in the trees to look down at Gaeseong. To the far west on a hill, I could just make out the steeple of the Methodist church. I looked south to see if I could find Reverend Bennett’s new church, but a haze obscured it. I wondered how American cities looked from above, doubting that any valley could be as enchanting as the one below. Dongsaeng pointed out the plain low buildings of his school and said he could make out his favorite restaurant farther off. “They told you, didn’t they?” he said.

“What?” I wanted him to talk, knowing how talking often helped to understand things differently.

“That I flunked all my classes.”

“Yes.” I knew it was pointless to scold him. “Umma-nim says they weren’t feeding you well.”

He laughed. “They didn’t. But that’s not really it. Everyone was mean! Hitting and hollering, making us march around for nothing, shouting slogans and waving flags, and nobody cared about my calligraphy. After all that work with the classics and all those damned hours painting, none of it matters. What’s the point? I can’t earn anything if I can’t sell my work. Why bother?”

Poor Dongsaeng! Caught between two worlds, like Jaeyun and her doctor. But his obvious lack of respect for Father wasn’t acceptable. “You
know it’s Abbuh-nim’s way, and one that’s been correct for hundreds of years. You can’t expect him to change. Instead, you have to find a way to live two lives.” As soon as I said this, I realized, disturbed, that I was advising my brother to live a duplicitous life, an idea that had obviously come from my own life. “I don’t mean that. I mean you have to find a way to adapt to how things are.”

“But things are impossible, and now he wants to find me a wife!”

“You still like going out to eat, don’t you? And cinemas? Is that why you never have enough money?”

He didn’t answer, and I guessed that he still visited teahouses. “Perhaps if you obey and study hard, Abbuh-nim will allow you to have some say in your marriage. There are some things he can’t stop from changing.” I heard my insolence and felt ashamed, but I wanted to encourage my brother. “I never thought he’d acquiesce for me, but you see that he did. You never really know what might happen.”

He spat. “I doubt it. He told me today that he’s been looking for
years
for a suitable wife, and also that tired story about how his brother refused to obey him.”

“See how deeply he’s concerned about your welfare?”

“Not
my
welfare! The family name!” He kicked a loose piece of shale down the steps.

“It’s both, Dongsaeng. You’re his favorite—his heir. Of course you know that.” I ignored his pout and sing-songed a familiar refrain from our childhood years, “Remember the story of when you were born?”

He didn’t answer, but he seemed to soften.

“I hid outside Mother’s room and saw him carrying you for the first time. In the lamplight his face glowed when he looked at you. I’ve never seen it so lit up.”

“Like a candle?” he said faintly, caught up in the recitation despite himself.

“No.”

“Like an oil lamp?”

“No.”

“An electric light?”

“No.”

“Like fire!”

“No. Like the sun.” Our eyes met and connected in an old and comforting closeness.

I turned up the path and whacked the scythe at overgrowth blocking our way. “Let’s go see the fathers of that family name, then. Perhaps they’ll have some wisdom for us.”

“Let me do that.” He took the scythe. I beamed at this small consideration, and when he hacked away wildly, I ignored the unsightly gashes he cut in the weeds.

Nearing the cemetery, as the daylight danced among the stones and pebbles and made the spongy moss look cool and inviting, I thought of how many hundreds of ancestors had trod the rocky path. And when the mounds appeared before us, speckled with shade and light, I felt the same quiet reverence of family history and longevity that I imagined all those who had walked the path before must have felt. Dongsaeng, too, seemed becalmed, his cheeks relaxed into their fullness, his eyes at rest.

“Cut those and I’ll fetch water.” I pointed at gangly grasses clumped around the tall stone markers. On the far side of the burial ground, I filled the bucket from a trickling stream and stood a moment. I heard wood thrushes whistle and chitter, and my brother’s thwacking scythe. Dipping my hand in the bucket, I drank the fresh water and wet my face. My neck felt sticky, my forehead cool, and I smelled a pleasantly sharp pine tar. In the cemetery I gathered armfuls of grass cuttings and tossed them in the woods. When Dongsaeng finished, red and sweating, I offered the bucket for him to drink and splash himself, after which he retreated to the shade. As I washed the grave markers, I pictured the ancient bones lying within the mounds and silently spoke to the souls once housed in the earth-bound remains below.
I’m going away, Grandfathers and Grandmothers.
I traced my finger on the weatherworn ink of their names. Father would come in autumn with a feast and would repaint the letterforms. I wondered, as I had every autumn, spring and New Year’s Day, if during those holidays Father kept one eye on the gate for his brother. I felt the gratifying weight of family and also understood how its heavy pull could bring unhappiness to Dongsaeng, upon whom, according to the old way, so much depended.