The Interpreter (19 page)
Authors: Suki Kim
Suzy is suddenly so grateful that she wants to cry. She must have been alone for too long. She is not used to getting help.
“Michael?”
“What?”
“Thank you.”
“Shut up and go get some sleep. And for God’s sake, don’t act so fucking polite.”
From her seat at the window, she can see the bustle on 32nd Street. The same bone-marrow-soup restaurant, just downstairs from the accountant’s office. Several tables are occupied already although it is barely noon, not quite lunchtime. Whereas Americans crave eggs and bacon on bleary mornings, Koreans go straight for a steaming bowl of bone soup topped with freshly chopped scallions. They swear that it magically heals the unsettled stomach, the best cure in the world for hangovers. Koreans are known as the Italians of the East. They drink hard and eat to their heart’s content. Indeed, the faces bending over the clay bowls appear quite pale, as though they have not yet recovered from the night’s triple rounds of
soju
and karaoke. Some of them sneak glances at Suzy sitting alone, hiding behind the
Korea Daily
, which she bought from the dispenser upon entering the restaurant. The sudden flash of Korean letters confuses her for a second. She glares at the print without making sense of it. She stares instead at the row of restaurants across the street. The second-floor windows are plastered with neon signs for hair salons, acupuncturists, even a twenty-four-hour steam bath. The third and fourth floors continue up the same way, cluttered with shops that only Koreans frequent. It is a way of cramming the immigrant life into one tiny block. One could stroll back and forth along this quarter-mile stretch and find anything, from bridal gowns to Xerox toners. Nothing is missing. No craving is hard to fill. It’s all here, right on 32nd Street.
soju
and karaoke. Some of them sneak glances at Suzy sitting alone, hiding behind the
Korea Daily
, which she bought from the dispenser upon entering the restaurant. The sudden flash of Korean letters confuses her for a second. She glares at the print without making sense of it. She stares instead at the row of restaurants across the street. The second-floor windows are plastered with neon signs for hair salons, acupuncturists, even a twenty-four-hour steam bath. The third and fourth floors continue up the same way, cluttered with shops that only Koreans frequent. It is a way of cramming the immigrant life into one tiny block. One could stroll back and forth along this quarter-mile stretch and find anything, from bridal gowns to Xerox toners. Nothing is missing. No craving is hard to fill. It’s all here, right on 32nd Street.
The accountant was useless. Mr. Bae was his name. A smallish man with a shocking amount of grease in his neatly parted hair. He barely looked up when Suzy entered. Although she introduced
herself three times, he continued to ignore her. Even his assistant seemed embarrassed by such an outrageously rude reception. When Suzy started to ask him about her parents’ file, he cut her off in the middle, “First, your sister specifically asked me not to engage in any talks with you. Second, your sister has terminated her business with me as of last week, so I’m no longer working on her case, which naturally includes your parents’ file. Third, I told you once that you’ll regret giving up your inheritance rights, but, just like your sister, you thought my advice wasn’t worth a dime. Fourth, as you can see, I’m a busy man, with more than enough work to do for my clients, so I’d appreciate it if you’d stop wasting my time.” Then he turned back to the stack of files on his desk, leaving Suzy standing there tongue-tied. His hostility seemed unreasonable and clearly immutable. So Suzy walked out, feeling wounded, as though she had just been scolded by someone dear, and it wasn’t until she reached downstairs that she remembered bone-marrow soup and felt suddenly hopeful.
herself three times, he continued to ignore her. Even his assistant seemed embarrassed by such an outrageously rude reception. When Suzy started to ask him about her parents’ file, he cut her off in the middle, “First, your sister specifically asked me not to engage in any talks with you. Second, your sister has terminated her business with me as of last week, so I’m no longer working on her case, which naturally includes your parents’ file. Third, I told you once that you’ll regret giving up your inheritance rights, but, just like your sister, you thought my advice wasn’t worth a dime. Fourth, as you can see, I’m a busy man, with more than enough work to do for my clients, so I’d appreciate it if you’d stop wasting my time.” Then he turned back to the stack of files on his desk, leaving Suzy standing there tongue-tied. His hostility seemed unreasonable and clearly immutable. So Suzy walked out, feeling wounded, as though she had just been scolded by someone dear, and it wasn’t until she reached downstairs that she remembered bone-marrow soup and felt suddenly hopeful.
Once she sat down, the smell of brewing bones from the kitchen tugged at her. A taste from her childhood, although her mother rarely made such a variety:
sulongtang, komtang, korikomtang
,
doganitang.
From tail bones to knee bones and cartilage to tripe, the choice depends on taste. A true connoisseur would swear by the subtlety of each, but for Suzy they all taste somewhat similar. Just a tinge of Korean flavors inevitably brings her back to Memory Lane. A pinch of garlic, scallion, ginger would sure enough do the trick, although her house had never been filled with such culinary extravaganza. The family usually made do with white rice and a couple of side dishes, maybe a stew or two, either of tofu or miso. Always
kimchi
on one side of the table, and on the other, fried anchovies and salted pollack eggs. They were almost always store-bought.
Mom barely had time for sleep, never mind brewing oxtail bones or marinating
kimchi.
sulongtang, komtang, korikomtang
,
doganitang.
From tail bones to knee bones and cartilage to tripe, the choice depends on taste. A true connoisseur would swear by the subtlety of each, but for Suzy they all taste somewhat similar. Just a tinge of Korean flavors inevitably brings her back to Memory Lane. A pinch of garlic, scallion, ginger would sure enough do the trick, although her house had never been filled with such culinary extravaganza. The family usually made do with white rice and a couple of side dishes, maybe a stew or two, either of tofu or miso. Always
kimchi
on one side of the table, and on the other, fried anchovies and salted pollack eggs. They were almost always store-bought.
Mom barely had time for sleep, never mind brewing oxtail bones or marinating
kimchi.
After Suzy moved out of her parents’ house, she often stopped by this neighborhood, whenever she craved Korean food. She would sit alone with a book or a newspaper and order a bowl of
sulongtang.
People would stare at her, because Korean girls rarely ate alone. Back then, there was no way one could get ahold of
kimchi
on 116th Street. Sure, Columbia was filled with students from around the world. Along Broadway, there were a number of Chinese takeouts, as well as a few sushi bars. And if you really wanted to splurge, it wasn’t hard to find all kinds of exotic food, from the candlelit Tibetan parlor on Riverside to the hole-in-the-wall Ethiopian takeout near the Law School building. Yet for Korean food you still had to travel down to 32nd Street. It was still the end of the eighties. The
kimchi
trend had not yet begun among students. It soon stopped mattering, though, because things changed almost overnight. First, when Damian happened in her life, she stopped craving anything except him. She would go wherever he suggested. She would skip food all day if that was what he wanted. Besides, they would not have dared entering 32nd Street together, for fear of bumping into anyone they knew. Then, later, with her parents’ death, everything lost its color. On certain rainy days, she would wander into this corner of the city, wanting so much, wanting anything on the menu. She would experience such an immense hunger that she wouldn’t know which dish to choose. It was as if she was looking to fill a certain longing, a certain desperation. Yet, by the time the food arrived, she no longer had any appetite. In fact, she could not bear the sudden rush of Korean flavors. It was impossible. It hit too close to home. It fell upon her like a sad awakening. Soon she just stopped coming.
sulongtang.
People would stare at her, because Korean girls rarely ate alone. Back then, there was no way one could get ahold of
kimchi
on 116th Street. Sure, Columbia was filled with students from around the world. Along Broadway, there were a number of Chinese takeouts, as well as a few sushi bars. And if you really wanted to splurge, it wasn’t hard to find all kinds of exotic food, from the candlelit Tibetan parlor on Riverside to the hole-in-the-wall Ethiopian takeout near the Law School building. Yet for Korean food you still had to travel down to 32nd Street. It was still the end of the eighties. The
kimchi
trend had not yet begun among students. It soon stopped mattering, though, because things changed almost overnight. First, when Damian happened in her life, she stopped craving anything except him. She would go wherever he suggested. She would skip food all day if that was what he wanted. Besides, they would not have dared entering 32nd Street together, for fear of bumping into anyone they knew. Then, later, with her parents’ death, everything lost its color. On certain rainy days, she would wander into this corner of the city, wanting so much, wanting anything on the menu. She would experience such an immense hunger that she wouldn’t know which dish to choose. It was as if she was looking to fill a certain longing, a certain desperation. Yet, by the time the food arrived, she no longer had any appetite. In fact, she could not bear the sudden rush of Korean flavors. It was impossible. It hit too close to home. It fell upon her like a sad awakening. Soon she just stopped coming.
But the soup tastes so good today, tangy, with lots of juice. It
is a perfect soup for the cool weather, milky white and hot. The lumpy bits must be cartilage, rolling so smoothly on her tongue. She may still be the same girl after all, the one who would skip classes and hop on a subway all the way from 116th Street just for a bowl of soup and a plate of
kimchi
. She is so comforted by this thought that she almost forgets about the mean accountant, and the hushed tone of the caller who seemed afraid for her life. She is about to ask for another plate of
kimchi
when she notices the ad at the bottom of the
Korea Daily’s
front page. “The New Joy Fellowship Church,” it reads. “Join us for the Thanksgiving Sermon at our God’s House, the largest Korean church in New Jersey! Parking spaces available. Live Broadcasting on
www.newjoyfellowship.org
.”
is a perfect soup for the cool weather, milky white and hot. The lumpy bits must be cartilage, rolling so smoothly on her tongue. She may still be the same girl after all, the one who would skip classes and hop on a subway all the way from 116th Street just for a bowl of soup and a plate of
kimchi
. She is so comforted by this thought that she almost forgets about the mean accountant, and the hushed tone of the caller who seemed afraid for her life. She is about to ask for another plate of
kimchi
when she notices the ad at the bottom of the
Korea Daily’s
front page. “The New Joy Fellowship Church,” it reads. “Join us for the Thanksgiving Sermon at our God’s House, the largest Korean church in New Jersey! Parking spaces available. Live Broadcasting on
www.newjoyfellowship.org
.”
All Korean churches advertise. The competition is fierce. Sometimes a newspaper is sponsored by a specific church, like an allegiance to a political party. The prime missionary spots are restaurants and airports. At entrances to Korean restaurants, there are often boxes of sermon tapes provided by different churches. At the JFK’s KAL lounge, it is not unusual to find Korean missionaries approaching those freshly arriving, like the zealous hostel-owners at tourist islands when the ship comes in. So the ad is nothing new, except that Suzy knows the church. Grace’s church, where her parents’ funeral was held. Suzy does not remember its being the largest Korean church in New Jersey. Surely it has grown in the last five years. Grace must have worked hard. All those Bible studies. All that hard-earned cash. A safety-deposit for heaven. Maybe someone there will know of Grace’s whereabouts. Maybe Grace will even show up, if she has not gone too far away.
It is then that Suzy becomes aware of the face at the window, a young woman peering in as if trying to get a better look at her. She is more like a girl, in fact, twenty at most. A down coat with fur trim and a matching scarf. It is odd that so many Korean
girls seem to dress the same. A crushed-velvet ponytail holder, the sure sign of an office girl. Finally, she breaks into an awkward smile and mumbles something. Then she seems to realize the absurdity of speaking through the window and moves toward the entrance.
girls seem to dress the same. A crushed-velvet ponytail holder, the sure sign of an office girl. Finally, she breaks into an awkward smile and mumbles something. Then she seems to realize the absurdity of speaking through the window and moves toward the entrance.
“Hey, sorry about that,” the young woman says, pointing upstairs with her eyes. “He’s been like that for days.”
Quickly swallowing her mouthful, Suzy stares back, realizing that the girl is Mr. Bae’s assistant. Suzy feels compelled to say something, but she is embarrassed at how long it took for her to recognize the young woman.
“Good choice.
Sulongtang.
No other restaurant on this block throws in as much cartilage, and they even marinate their
kimchi
with fresh oysters. For
doganitang,
though, try the place across the street. Ask for ginseng between the knee bones. Costs more, but you won’t get cold all winter.”
Sulongtang.
No other restaurant on this block throws in as much cartilage, and they even marinate their
kimchi
with fresh oysters. For
doganitang,
though, try the place across the street. Ask for ginseng between the knee bones. Costs more, but you won’t get cold all winter.”
The Asian youth these days are so confident, so full of life. She must be only about ten years younger than Suzy, yet there seems to be a gulf of generations separating the two. Suzy wonders if this girl considers herself 1.5 as well. Suzy has noticed fresh radiance among the NYU kids around her block. The Asian-American hip-hop kids. The petite girls in platform sneakers parading their dreadlocked boyfriends. The goateed boys in bandannas scooting around Tompkins Square Park. Being Asian is no longer embarrassing. Being Asian no longer suggests a high-school chess team. Being Asian might even be hip, trendy, cool.
“What if your boss sees you talking to me?” asks Suzy, cautiously.
“He’s in a client meeting. Fuck him. He can’t fire me anyway.” The young woman plops down opposite her. She then waves at the waitress, raising her index finger to gesture one order of
sulongtang
for herself.
sulongtang
for herself.
Something about her insolence reminds Suzy of Grace. Young Grace. Suzy feels a sudden rush of affection for the girl.
“Besides, I sort of followed you …” Then she blurts out, “By the way, what’s up with those glasses?”
Earlier, leaving the apartment in a hurry after the strange phone call, Suzy threw on a pair of black sunglasses and some dark-red lipstick. A clumsy attempt to hide her face. She rarely wears lipstick, especially red. It came out of the last package Michael had sent her. Every possible Chanel beauty product wrapped in the newest Prada. Sandy’s choice obviously, although for a second Suzy wondered if the gift might not have been intended for his wife instead. There was a matching nail polish, which she gave away to one of the stenographers on a job. It was silly to think that she would feel less conspicuous behind the shield of glasses and lipstick, but she did feel better as she tumbled onto the N train with the acute sense of someone following her. Apparently, she’s kept the glasses on the whole time. No wonder people seemed to be staring at her. A woman alone sitting by the window, slurping soup while wearing dark glasses indoors.
“A hangover?”
Suzy nods, uncertain what to say.
“I can run to the pharmacy next door and get you a bottle of Bacchus. Or maybe they can fix up something even stronger. One shot of it, you’ll feel as good as new,” says the younger woman, who is now staring at Suzy with concerned eyes despite her tough-girl talk.
Suzy declines, finally taking the glasses off. Bacchus. It’s been years since she’s heard that name. A sort of miracle cure, like those tiger balms in Chinatown. Except Bacchus is a tinybottled drink, used mostly for hangovers or indigestion or anything to do with stomach troubles. Mom used to send Suzy to pick up a box of a dozen on mornings when Dad lay sick from
soju
the night before. Strange, the way Korean pharmacies just give out whatever they consider a cure. Prescriptions are never really an issue there. If you get sick, you just describe your symptoms to the pharmacist, who fixes up a concoction with whatever he has available behind the counter. It is a leftover habit from a Third World country, where prescription drugs were not carefully monitored. Although Korea has long since risen above its Third World status, the people never seem to have gotten over their easy access to antibiotics such as mycin, which, as Suzy recalls, Mom used for everything, from a common cold to a sore. The whole thing sounds dubious, even terrifying, but for Suzy it brings back yet another bit of her childhood. Illogical, yet sadly familiar.
soju
the night before. Strange, the way Korean pharmacies just give out whatever they consider a cure. Prescriptions are never really an issue there. If you get sick, you just describe your symptoms to the pharmacist, who fixes up a concoction with whatever he has available behind the counter. It is a leftover habit from a Third World country, where prescription drugs were not carefully monitored. Although Korea has long since risen above its Third World status, the people never seem to have gotten over their easy access to antibiotics such as mycin, which, as Suzy recalls, Mom used for everything, from a common cold to a sore. The whole thing sounds dubious, even terrifying, but for Suzy it brings back yet another bit of her childhood. Illogical, yet sadly familiar.
“Hey, now that the glasses are gone, you look less like your sister.” Leaning close, the young woman squints her eyes theatrically. “That’s funny; if you really look, you don’t look like her at all.”
The spell of the good soup is over. Suzy asks instead, “So why did you follow me?”
“He was so nasty to you. I felt bad.”
“To tell me that?”
“Also, I thought maybe you’d want to know that your sister’s in some sort of trouble.”
Suzy puts down her spoon.
“She called last week to liquidate her assets. Stocks, real estate, everything. Bae’s furious, ’cause he’s been playing the market and she pulled out all of a sudden. I don’t understand why it’s such a letdown, after she did away with all that cash just a month ago. I saw it coming. Between you and me, I smell drugs.” The young woman lowers her voice, as if suddenly aware of the people at other tables.
Stocks. Real estate. Was there more money than Suzy knew about? Whose money is this? Her parents’? Has Grace been investing
her inheritance? Suzy is not sure what to say, but the young woman makes it easy by talking constantly. She may be one of those people who talk in order to fill the silence.
her inheritance? Suzy is not sure what to say, but the young woman makes it easy by talking constantly. She may be one of those people who talk in order to fill the silence.
“She was supposed to come by Monday to sign the papers, but she totally flaked out. Then I find out her phone’s been disconnected,” she says, shaking her head. “I don’t think liquidation’s a good idea right now.”
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