The Interpreter (13 page)
Authors: Suki Kim
“All teachers are in their classes now.”
“But she isn’t. I just checked.”
“That’s strange, I swore no teacher’s absent today.” The redhead punches a few keys on her computer and says, “Oops, sorry, our systems are down. Let me see, Ms. Gibney told me there’s a list somewhere on this desk … Oh, here it is. Park, you said her last name was … Oh, here it is, try Room 302!”
“I’ve tried and was told she’s not in.”
“I’m sure there’s been some mistake. You must’ve gone to the wrong room. Try Room 302.” Then, with a toss of her fiery locks, she chirps, “Sorry, I have to take this call,” picking up the receiver with “Fort Lee High School, may I help you?”
Useless; the redhead knows nothing. Suzy is not even convinced that she punched in the right keys before. Obviously a temp filling in for the real secretary. Room 302, exactly where Suzy just came from. What does it mean that no teacher’s absent? What is Ms. Goldman not telling her? What about the car in the photo?
Reluctantly, Suzy climbs back to the third floor. Being sent around in circles—that’s what she remembers about high schools. She was always the new girl, and the first day of a school happened too often. Soon she would be transferred to another school much like the one before. And through each step, each loop, each journey, Grace was her witness. And now
this third-floor hallway of Grace’s school seems no longer unfamiliar. That’s what happens to people who keep moving homes. Everything becomes familiar; yet nothing is. It is possible that Suzy might also have attended this school at some point, somewhere between Jersey City, Jackson Heights, Jamaica, Junction Boulevard, and how many others were there? It is also possible that Grace might have chosen a school, any school, so that she could finally put a name, a face to their childhood, which seems to have gone missing in the vertigo of repetitions. Is it, then, fair to say that all of this, all that lies before Suzy—the hallway, the ESL class, the screaming sixteen-year-olds inside each classroom—might signal Grace’s mourning?
this third-floor hallway of Grace’s school seems no longer unfamiliar. That’s what happens to people who keep moving homes. Everything becomes familiar; yet nothing is. It is possible that Suzy might also have attended this school at some point, somewhere between Jersey City, Jackson Heights, Jamaica, Junction Boulevard, and how many others were there? It is also possible that Grace might have chosen a school, any school, so that she could finally put a name, a face to their childhood, which seems to have gone missing in the vertigo of repetitions. Is it, then, fair to say that all of this, all that lies before Suzy—the hallway, the ESL class, the screaming sixteen-year-olds inside each classroom—might signal Grace’s mourning?
Suddenly a bell. Doors crack open and happy faces begin pouring out. They are elated. The end of a class is always cause for celebration. The end of the first period. Three more to go until lunchtime. The last one to emerge is Ms. Goldman, whose face stiffens at seeing Suzy.
“Miss, I told you I have no idea where she is, and if you’ll excuse me, I must get ready for my next class.” Ms. Goldman walks briskly, heading for the elevator marked “Staff Only.”
“Why isn’t the school notified? How come you’re teaching her class and the office knows nothing?” Suzy follows in quick steps, afraid that Ms. Goldman will disappear into the elevator without her.
Pressing the “Down” button, Ms. Goldman heaves a sigh and says impatiently, “Ms. Gibney, the school secretary, is out on maternity leave, so it’s all chaos there. But that’s not my problem.”
“Why does the secretary downstairs seem to think Grace is in today?”
“Well, I don’t know anything about that.”
“Does any of this have to do with the guy she’s seeing?” Suzy is tempted to pull out the quarterly and show it to the woman, but she decides it’s better to let the question hang.
Ms. Goldman skips a minute or two, then says wearily, “May I ask how you are related to Miss Park?”
“She’s my sister.”
Just then the elevator arrives. Ms. Goldman motions Suzy to get in and snaps, “Fifteen minutes, but that’s it, I have papers to grade.”
The door opens to a cafeteria. Empty except for the kitchen staff and a few students at the far end, either waiting for a class or just killing time. Ms. Goldman returns to the table carrying two mugs on a tray. When Suzy declines the packets of cream and sugar, she dumps all into hers and stirs quickly. She knows Suzy’s eyes are on her. She lets the coffee sit without taking a sip. Finally, she looks up and says, “It was Miss Park who asked me to keep quiet. Without Ms. Gibney keeping track, no one has to know she’s gone as long as her class is covered. She didn’t want the absence on record, ’cause, you see, she’s used up all her vacation and sick days. She was afraid she might lose the job. Don’t get me wrong. Miss Park is very conscientious. I don’t know if I should even be telling you this, since you say you haven’t seen her in a while, but she hasn’t been herself lately, not since that guy started coming around, I guess for about a month. She’s been missing classes. Then, a few days ago, this past Sunday night, she called me out of the blue.
“She was quite upset. She sounded frantic. She said that she couldn’t come in for a while, and could I cover for her? You see, with ESL, the school doesn’t provide substitutes. It’s just not in our budget. So, when she’s sick or something, we’re all supposed to cover for her, the English teachers, depending on whose schedule works best with her class. So it was not a problem, except that she said ‘for a while.’ You see, I have my own class to teach, and it wouldn’t be fair for me to teach someone else’s class ‘for a while.’ So I asked her, for how long? She said two weeks. She’ll be back by Thanksgiving. I told her flat out that it was impossible,
it just wouldn’t work. I told her to try Mr. Myers from English III, or Mr. Peters, who teaches remedial English. She’s got her ways with men; I don’t mean that in a strange way, I just mean that she has her ways.”
it just wouldn’t work. I told her to try Mr. Myers from English III, or Mr. Peters, who teaches remedial English. She’s got her ways with men; I don’t mean that in a strange way, I just mean that she has her ways.”
Ms. Goldman talks fast, in nervous bursts, as though she is glad finally to be getting it all out.
“That’s when she started crying, which surprised me. You know what she’s like, she’s always polite and proper, but I’ve always found her to be, well, a bit cold. But here she was, crying into my phone on a Sunday night. I’m a woman, I can hear it when there’s trouble. She said that she didn’t want to ask the other teachers ‘cause she didn’t want them to talk, and that she was calling me ’cause she respected me more than others. Well, I never knew she’d felt that way about me, although I guess I’ve always treated her with respect, much more respect than either Mr. Myers or Mr. Peters, who both look at her in ways not exactly decent, if you know what I mean. Besides, at large schools like this, students gossip, and especially with Miss Park—you know how she is—she’s rather, well, much talked about, let’s say.” Ms. Goldman will not say it. She will not say that Grace is popular because she is beautiful. She is a woman, after all. She will not let herself go there.
“Then she told me she was getting married. She said that it was a secret from everyone, more like eloping, because they wanted to do it quietly, especially with her parents gone. Of course, everyone remembers about her parents. I asked her then whom she was marrying, although I’ve heard about the guy picking her up in a fancy car lately, which I have to say I found inappropriate, these young people showing off money, especially on public-school grounds. She told me not to worry, ’cause he was like a new family for her. I asked her if he had a proper job, which concerned me, you know, since he’d been coming around in the middle of afternoons. She said that he was in the music
business, which I found odd. I can’t remember why I found it odd, but I did. She then said that she was planning to announce it when she came back, but until then I was the only one she was telling. Poor girl, she was still crying. My heart just went out to her, a single girl getting married finally, without a family to help her, it must be overwhelming.” Ms. Goldman’s eyes flicker at Suzy, as if she blames her for Grace’s tears, as if asking,
Where the hell were you when she needed you?
Then she quickly adds, “So I felt sorry for her and told her that I’d take over her class, just for two weeks, though, not any longer!”
business, which I found odd. I can’t remember why I found it odd, but I did. She then said that she was planning to announce it when she came back, but until then I was the only one she was telling. Poor girl, she was still crying. My heart just went out to her, a single girl getting married finally, without a family to help her, it must be overwhelming.” Ms. Goldman’s eyes flicker at Suzy, as if she blames her for Grace’s tears, as if asking,
Where the hell were you when she needed you?
Then she quickly adds, “So I felt sorry for her and told her that I’d take over her class, just for two weeks, though, not any longer!”
Grace.
Married.
It never occurred to Suzy.
Surely one of them would marry first, someday with someone. Yet Suzy never thought of it. Suzy never imagined that Grace would one day start a new family. But why go away to do it? Why in secret? Why would Grace suddenly confide in this woman?
“Did she leave any contact address or number? His phone number, or his name, anything about him?” Suzy can just about muster the question. There’s the sudden loosening, the hollowness inside.
“No, I thought of getting an emergency number, but then I thought it would be better to leave the girl alone through this. Let her have this moment, I said to myself.” Ms. Goldman lifts her chest a little, as though she is touched by her own magnanimity, and then she whispers, as if she just remembered, “I know nothing about him, although, when I asked her if his family minded the wedding being so sudden, she told me that he was alone too. What a lonely wedding, I thought, and asked her how come he was so alone, and she said that he was an orphan, just like her.”
Ms. Goldman is now studying Suzy a bit closer, contemplating
her hair, all stringy from the sink water, and her overcoat still wrinkled from the bus.
Too bad
, her eyes seem to be saying.
A sister? You don’t quite measure up to Grace Park, do you?
her hair, all stringy from the sink water, and her overcoat still wrinkled from the bus.
Too bad
, her eyes seem to be saying.
A sister? You don’t quite measure up to Grace Park, do you?
Before Suzy thanks the woman, she writes down her own phone number and hands it to her. “Just in case Grace gets in touch,” she tells her. “She’s all I’ve got.”
Although she is the one who insisted on sparing no more than fifteen minutes, Ms. Goldman appears to be in no hurry to end their conversation. It’s probably been the biggest drama in this whole week of her otherwise single, paper-grading teacher’s life. As though still jittery from all the excitement, Ms. Goldman knocks over the mug while getting up from her seat. Instantly there’s brown liquid everywhere, spilling over Ms. Goldman’s tan PBS tote bag and the piles of papers. Suzy immediately reaches over and pushes the papers off the table.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry, did it get to your coat? Let me go find some tissues.” Ms. Goldman scowls, running to the kitchen.
Too bad the mug was full. Ms. Goldman never even touched it.
Squatting on the ground, Suzy begins picking up the papers. Essays for the ESL class. Each cover sheet bears the student’s name followed by “Miss Grace Park,” underlined. Strange to see Grace’s name typed so neatly. Then “
Assignment #3
” in italics, many with a single “s,” which seems to be the common spelling error. It is then that Suzy notices their titles. “MY PERFECT HOUSE,” says one. “MY SWEET FAMILY,” says another. Slowly, Suzy surveys the papers strewn around her. They are all about one thing. The glorifying, larger-than-life capital letters celebrating home. “MY AMAZING FATHER.” “MY BEAUTIFUL MOTHER.” Then, finally, “MY GOOD SISTER.”
Assignment #3
” in italics, many with a single “s,” which seems to be the common spelling error. It is then that Suzy notices their titles. “MY PERFECT HOUSE,” says one. “MY SWEET FAMILY,” says another. Slowly, Suzy surveys the papers strewn around her. They are all about one thing. The glorifying, larger-than-life capital letters celebrating home. “MY AMAZING FATHER.” “MY BEAUTIFUL MOTHER.” Then, finally, “MY GOOD SISTER.”
THE WATER looks burnt again. The color of weak coffee, twice run through a filter. It’s not good for a bath. She should not be lying in it.
On some days, the water turns strange. Something about the rusted pipes and the clogged drain. When it first happened, Suzy called the super in panic. Wait a few hours, he told her, groggy from a nap. The clear water did come back, about seven hours later. Suzy waited, eyeing the pile of dishes in the sink and the empty pitcher of Brita on the table. It kept happening, though, every few months, only just as she’s stepping into the shower or about to rinse the toothpaste out of her mouth. She has never gotten used to the burnt water, which has become a source of mystery. Why should it happen? What’s going on inside the pipes? She asked Michael about it once. He had no idea. He’d never lived in an old tenement. Pipes? he asked. What do you mean by “burnt”? Suzy changed the subject. She didn’t want to get into it. She would have to invite him over if she wanted to
explain better. But that seemed wrong, Michael in her apartment. He would look awkward. He wouldn’t fit.
explain better. But that seemed wrong, Michael in her apartment. He would look awkward. He wouldn’t fit.
She sinks lower. The tub is so small that she has to bend her knees to get her shoulders wet. Her body looks almost tanned under this water, like the bikini-clad blonde from this morning’s billboard. From the minute she got out of the bus at Port Authority and into the taxi downtown, she was desperate to reach her apartment. She ran up the stairs. She was trembling when she stepped inside. But the water that trickled out of the tap was hazy brown. She jumped into it anyway. She lay in it. It seemed necessary.
Already, Fort Lee feels distant. Not even noon yet. The whole day before her.
Grace.
Detective Lester.
Mr. Lee.
Kim Yong Su, the guy out in Queens, as if half the Koreans do not live in Queens. Where has she heard that name before?
The water is cushiony, almost velvet. She must be imagining it. Her headache is lurking. She recalls the girl who thought that English was a headache-inducer. Why would Grace tell her that? Where did Grace go? Did she stop in Montauk to see her parents one final time before the wedding? Did she sail out into the sea for their permission? Would Grace fill her wedding with white flowers, as she had the funeral? Would she stand tall and make a vow, not once breaking into tears?
Suzy has never imagined herself married. By the time Damian’s divorce was finalized, it was too late. They never brought up marriage. For Damian, it reminded him of Yuki Tamiko and the life he’d left. Suzy felt it was wrong. She kept hearing her father’s last words. Whore, hers was the life of a whore. Marriage was never an option, which might have been why she chose Damian.
Suzy saw Professor Tamiko just once more, at the Greenwich Village apartment that belonged to Damian’s friend who was out of town on sabbatical. It was Suzy’s first day there. She had not quite intended to move in, although she arrived with a suitcase. Now it occurs to her that he might have set it up. She had thought then that it must be chance. An awful, unfortunate chance. Yuki Tamiko had known, though. She had seen it coming. She might have wanted to warn Suzy, but she also knew that the younger woman would never listen. It was the end of January. It had all happened too fast.
They had slept together once. Back in November. Then, right afterward, he was gone. A research trip to Asia. She only found out from reading the
Spectator
, which ran a small article on the upcoming expansion of the East Asian Wing at the Metropolitan Museum, for which a few experts had been selected to form a research committee. That is where she saw his name. Damian Brisco—Former Chairman of the East Asian Department at Columbia University, Professor of East Asian Art, on leave for the past three years. He was gone, somewhere, some city in China, Japan, even Korea. She could not stand it. He had told her nothing. He had held her afterward. She had lain in his arms, thinking about the blood, thinking it might have stained Professor Tamiko’s sheets. Dusk was setting when they walked to Riverside Park. They didn’t speak much. She was no longer a virgin.
Spectator
, which ran a small article on the upcoming expansion of the East Asian Wing at the Metropolitan Museum, for which a few experts had been selected to form a research committee. That is where she saw his name. Damian Brisco—Former Chairman of the East Asian Department at Columbia University, Professor of East Asian Art, on leave for the past three years. He was gone, somewhere, some city in China, Japan, even Korea. She could not stand it. He had told her nothing. He had held her afterward. She had lain in his arms, thinking about the blood, thinking it might have stained Professor Tamiko’s sheets. Dusk was setting when they walked to Riverside Park. They didn’t speak much. She was no longer a virgin.
She had no idea when he would be back. No postcard, no phone call. Somehow she knew that he would not get in touch, but she still waited. With each day, she was becoming less certain whether he had indeed made love to her, whether any of it had actually happened. But then she would recall how he had kissed her, in such quiet steps, until he was sure she was ready. It was embarrassing, how clearly the picture came back to her. She could recall his every breath. Her body held him intact. It was
all in her body. She threw herself into her thesis instead. She would stare at the computer screen without seeing a word. She would replay
Ran
without remembering a scene. “First-class asshole,” Jen said, wincing, when she finally told her. “But, Suzy, you’re not any better.”
all in her body. She threw herself into her thesis instead. She would stare at the computer screen without seeing a word. She would replay
Ran
without remembering a scene. “First-class asshole,” Jen said, wincing, when she finally told her. “But, Suzy, you’re not any better.”
Two months later, in January, Suzy ran into him on Broadway. She was on her way to buy books for the new semester. It was the first time she had left her dormitory room in days. She was wearing a sweatshirt and jeans. An oversized blue hooded sweatshirt with “Columbia Crew” on its front. It had belonged to Jen. Suzy had thrown it on because it was the first thing she saw hanging across the chair. She was turning the corner at 114th Street. He was leaning over a stall of books outside the shop. It was him. She knew even before she saw his face. She felt something slip inside her. Her breath caught in her throat. She thought of her silly sweatshirt.
“Hi,” she said first. His eyes looked pained, she thought, neither surprised nor overjoyed by this chance. “Looking for books?” She tried to smile, although her face felt stuck, every muscle suddenly locked. She was afraid that she looked obvious.
He continued to gaze at her. His eyes still cold. She wished she had worn something else. “You look thinner,” he said finally, his right hand moving up slightly, as though it was about to reach her face.
“The thesis …” she stammered, unable to think of anything else to say. There were silver sparkles in his dark-brown hair which she had not noticed before. Neither spoke, although neither looked away. She wanted him to say something. She wanted him to explain why he had gone away so abruptly, why he had not been in touch. But she also knew that he had promised her nothing. He owed her no explanation.
“Come,” he said then. He took out a piece of paper and
wrote something on it and handed it to her. His hand barely touched hers. It was an address. A downtown address. He was already hailing a cab. “Come stay with me for a while,” she thought she heard him say, but the cab was already speeding away. He did not turn around once.
wrote something on it and handed it to her. His hand barely touched hers. It was an address. A downtown address. He was already hailing a cab. “Come stay with me for a while,” she thought she heard him say, but the cab was already speeding away. He did not turn around once.
Three days later, when Suzy rang the buzzer of the three-story brownstone on Hudson Street, it was Professor Tamiko who answered. Neither had expected the other. It was Yuki Tamiko who broke the awkward silence. “May I help you?”
Suzy just stood there, not knowing how to respond. She wanted to turn back. She felt caught, guilty, humiliated, all at once. She had never expected this.
“Here to see Damian?” Professor Tamiko asked, with an edged smile, as if she finally understood. This girl. This young girl in front of her.
Suzy nodded, feeling stupid more than anything.
“Come in; he won’t be back for a while.” Professor Tamiko moved away from the door, her eyes quickly taking in the suitcase in Suzy’s right hand.
“I am … I didn’t … I can come back another time.” Suzy had never expected to see her. She simply never thought about her. Here she stood with a suitcase that contained her life, and yet she never considered Professor Tamiko in relation to Damian. She had made the first move. It was she who had asked him to make love to her. She had even lost her virginity on this woman’s bed.
“Don’t look so frightened. You’re obviously not a child if you’ve come this far.” Professor Tamiko sat on the sofa, crossing her legs, her long slim legs, shimmering in off-black silk tights. Suzy stood still. She felt confused. She was not sure what she should do, or say.
“Come in, for God’s sake.” Professor Tamiko shot a quick glance at Suzy at the door. “I’ll be leaving soon anyway.”
Suzy put her suitcase down at the door and walked in. She did not know where to sit, although she did not want to keep on standing either. Her legs felt as if they would collapse any minute, as did the rest of her. She finally slouched in the love seat, which was farthest from where Professor Tamiko was sitting.
“A drink?” Professor Tamiko got up and walked toward the kitchen. She seemed to be familiar with the place. She seemed to be wanting to move away from the younger woman.
“No, thank you,” Suzy answered in a near whisper.
Professor Tamiko poured herself a glass of water. For a second, Suzy was afraid that the older woman would offer her something heavy. Whiskey would make sense.
“How’s your Cordelia?”
The question caught her by surprise. Suzy had hoped that she wouldn’t remember—Professor Tamiko had over a hundred students. But women like Yuki Tamiko remembered everything. Suzy remained silent. She had made virtually no progress on her thesis.
“I guess you’ve been busy.” Professor Tamiko took a quick sip, as though she regretted the remark, which came off sounding almost bitter. Then she asked, facing Suzy from across the room, “Tell me one thing, why do you think he asked you here?”
Suzy avoided her eyes, uncertain what she was driving at. He had asked her to come. He had not told her when. He had not even given her the phone number. She had assumed that the downtown address was his own, a sort of place apart from his wife, where Suzy could drop in without calling ahead or making a special arrangement. Such an illicit suggestion, strangely, did not scare her. She had been dying to see him. She could not think of anything other than wanting to see him. She had
waited so long.
Come stay with me for a while
. It was an open invitation.
waited so long.
Come stay with me for a while
. It was an open invitation.
“Or did he make you think that it was you who chose him?” A smile formed around her dark-rouged lips, a sardonic smile.
Certainly she made the first move. She came here of her own will. Was that not her own decision? Did he somehow will her here? Was Professor Tamiko hinting at some kind of manipulation that had escaped Suzy?
“Don’t think so hard. You’re not breaking up a marriage. This has nothing to do with you.” Yuki Tamiko took her gaze away, as though she had finally lost interest. Then she finished the glass of water and grabbed the cream leather handbag that had been sitting on the counter. She stopped at the door. She seemed to hesitate. When she turned around, her eyes were no longer cold. Almost apologetic, Suzy thought.
“Damian’s not capable. He cannot love an Asian woman.”
The water is getting cold now. She climbs out of the bath and wraps herself in a towel. The mirror is her own face staring out at her, oddly unfamiliar. The lines have crept under her eyes, tiny threads of years which have not been there until recently. Her chin appears sharper, almost angular, no longer innocent. Her breasts are looser, facing downward slightly, a note of gravity. She’s become a woman suddenly. She will turn thirty in less than two weeks. Her mother had never warned her. “Asian girls don’t age, do they?” a painter for whom she had posed once told her, moving into her face a bit too closely. He was wrong. He implied that being Asian was a different destiny. He thought that it bought her time.
Suzy stares at her own reflection. Ms. Goldman seemed to think that she looked nothing like Grace. Bob had mistaken her
for Grace. How could two people think so differently? Then it comes back to her.
for Grace. How could two people think so differently? Then it comes back to her.
You remind me of someone I used to know, a good woman, too young to be killed like that.
The witness from the other day.
The deposition in the Bronx.
Diamond Court Reporting.
Forty-four Burnside Avenue.
The man who had saved a seat for her at McDonald’s, whose gabardine pants and shiny shoes had reminded her of Dad, whose name, if she is remembering correctly, was …
Suzy runs to the kitchen table, where she had dropped her bag upon entering. She unzips the side pocket and pulls out the yellow legal notepad. She flips through the pages. November 10th. Last Friday, November 10th. Five days ago.
Case name.
File number.
Witness information.
Kim Yong Su. Born: 6/10/36. Address: 98-44 Woodhaven
Boulevard, Apt. 8F, Queens, NY 00707
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