The Interpreter (22 page)

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Authors: Suki Kim

BOOK: The Interpreter
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The man doesn’t look happy when he answers, “Still no news?”
The woman shrugs, glancing at Suzy, as if suddenly aware of her gaze. Suzy quickly looks away.
Mina, the new owner of Seven Stars.
Perched on a stool by the counter, chatting with the no-longer-sleepy man, the woman tackles her pizza and Coke with much gusto. Suzy remains in her booth, trying to listen to their
conversation, which is oddly muffled now. Suzy cannot make out anything except the occasional giggle and something about the lack of customers. Then, suddenly, the woman rises, blowing another kiss at her fan behind the counter. Suzy also rises, quickly trashing her pizza. Rather than hopping back in the car, the woman dashes next door. Suzy follows, only to be ambushed by her waiting inside.
“What’s the idea?” Mina hollers huskily, squinting as though she forgot to put her contact lenses on this morning.
Suzy is not sure what to say. She has no business following this woman. She can play innocent and keep on walking, or she can make up something, anything that may open doors. Doors to what, though? What is she looking for, why is she here?
Say something about the KK
—a voice in her head.
Be an insider.
“Those guys … Have you heard anything new?”
Glaring at Suzy, Mina asks sharply, “Who are you?” Then she adds, almost as an afterthought, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’ve been told to come here for the scoop.” Suzy comes up with the first thing that sounds plausible.
“Who told you that?” Mina asks suspiciously.
Recalling one of the names Detective Lester mentioned, Suzy takes a chance. “My man’s in trouble … Maddog.”
“You’re Maddog’s girl?” Mina then steps back a little, contemplating Suzy in her plain dark coat, black scarf, and matching hat. Her eyes pore over Suzy’s face, free of makeup except a touch of rosy lip gloss, most of which has faded by now. It is obvious that Suzy does not belong here. Women like Suzy do not belong to a gangster named Maddog. Finally, Mina snaps, “I’ve never seen you before.”
“I’ve never seen
you
either,” Suzy retorts with purposeful terseness. It works. Mina looks stumped and says uncertainly,
“What’s come over Maddog? He likes his girls with a bit more meat on their bones.”
“He likes me fine,” Suzy says with what she hopes is the right tone of arrogance.
“I don’t know who told you to come here,” says Mina, shaking her head. “Johnny’s got nothing to do with it. Tell Maddog it’s not Johnny.”
So there must have been some sort of infighting. According to Detective Lester, the AOCTF busted the gang on an anonymous tip. It seems that Maddog believes a guy named Johnny was involved.
“Girl, it’s none of my business.” She clicks her tongue with a pitying look at Suzy. “But if I were you, I’d wash my hands now. Maddog’s a goner.” She begins climbing up the steps, then halts suddenly and turns around, leaning closer. Suzy moves away instinctively. Something about the woman’s sallow skin makes her cringe, as though its secret is contagious. Crunching up her face, Mina says slowly, “Wait a minute. I’ll be damned.”
Suzy stands still, her heart thumping.
A long, cool gaze. Mina cocks her head, muttering to herself, “No … she wouldn’t dare.” Scanning Suzy’s face once more, she whispers, “It’s not Mariana who sent you, is it?”
“Hey, I told you I’m here for my man …” Suzy is about to protest when she remembers.
Mariana.
Grace’s code name for marijuana.
May I be excused? I promised my friend Mariana that we’ll do our homework together.
“Who’s this Mariana?” Suzy stammers. “Maybe … I know her.”
Mina purses her lips, as if in distaste, and spits out, “Boykiller, we all called her. She used to hang out here back in the old days.”
Suzy tries to keep her composure, to stop herself from lunging at this woman with questions. This aging call girl in blinding red. Suzy swallows hard before asking, “And this Mariana—how old was she?” A faint voice, feeble almost.
“Not the legal age, if that’s what you’re asking,” Mina says derisively. “A schoolgirl gone wild. She thought she was something special ’cause she only screwed big shots. That was her thing, she chose her own guys, no money was ever good enough. Johnny should’ve ditched her when her father took her away.”
“Her father?” Suzy repeats, feeling the height of the stairs suddenly.
“I’m sure she put on the whole show just to get caught.” Mina rolls her eyes.
“Her father … came here?”
“You sure you’re Maddog’s girl?” Mina says, studying Suzy with a puzzled smile. “Listen, I don’t care who you are, but if you see Mariana, tell her to leave Johnny alone.” Then, fixing Suzy with a nearly pleading look, she adds, “He’s no KK’s bellboy. Those days are over.”
“Johnny, was he her lover?”
“Lover?” she retorts with a sneering laugh. “More like a chauffeur, the way she always made him drive her home so early. She never gave him the time of the day.”
“Because?”
“Because she was a bitch,” Mina blurts out bitterly. “If it hadn’t been for her, he would’ve never crossed Maddog all those years ago and …” She pauses, as if trying to shake off her anger. “Doesn’t matter, ’cause he’s come back to be with me now. He won’t crawl back to her,” she mumbles unconvincingly. “Definitely a changed man.”
May I be excused? I promised my friend Mariana that we’ll do our homework together.
The girl who used to hang out at the KK’s bar.
The troubled one who couldn’t wait to get caught by her father.
The boykiller face who slept with the gang for money, and yet picked her own guys.
“Look, I don’t want you coming around here again.” Mina suddenly lowers her voice, her eyes darting nervously, as though she is afraid that Johnny may show up any minute. She seems to ponder something for a few seconds, then says, “If you run into her, tell her to deal with me instead,” quickly scribbling a pager number on a piece of paper and handing it to Suzy. She adds in a softer tone, “Girl, about your Maddog, forget it. Do yourself a favor, get yourself a new man.”
The cold sweat running down her back is an icy shock. Suzy becomes aware that her body is trembling. Leaning her right arm against the wall, she tilts her face a little, as though burrowing under a shadow. “And this Mariana—she looked like me?”
A wry smile crinkling the corner of her mouth, Mina repeats, “Weird, the more I look at you, the more you remind me of her.” Then she adds, as if in vengeance, “Really, you could be the same girl.”
THE HAND ON HER RIGHT SHOULDER is a gentle one. Must be Mom, or Dad finally home. She must have fallen asleep at the doorstep. She must have forgotten her key, and school must have let out early, and Grace must have sneaked out again. So she must have sat here and waited with her homework spread out, and still, when the homework was done, still no one came home, and she must have lain down for a while thinking she was hungry and it was getting darker and the draft from the hallway window sharper, and she was afraid that no one would remember, that no one would find her here, and then sleep must have overtaken her, taken her breath away to an even darker place, where she saw the seven stars in a circle like the misshapen Big Dipper that came loose to join hands to finally surround her, who lay weeping because she remembered where she had seen them before.
But neither Mom nor Dad. Can’t be, they’ve been shot. They
will never come home again. When Suzy opens her eyes, her face still wet with tears, it is Mr. Kim stooping over her.
“I tried to wake you, but you were crying in your sleep,” he says.
“Oh,” she mutters, blinking slowly.
“How long have you been waiting?” he asks, turning the key in the door lock.
“I don’t know, what time is it?” she says, making a feeble attempt to get up; the ground beneath feels strangely muddy.
“Six-thirty,” he says, glancing at his watch. “You’re lucky I’m home early today.”
Following him inside, she recognizes the bareness. The white walls. The single sofa. The single bed. The familiar absence.
“I’ve got nothing here. I can heat up some water, or maybe
boricha?
” he says, putting a kettle on the stove.
Her body feels numb from the cold concrete corridor. The sleep was a blackout, leaving her spent, hollow, confused. “
Boricha
,” she answers. My favorite, she is about to add, and then realizes that it’s been years since she had it last. Mom used to keep it refrigerated and serve it instead of water. But it had never tasted like water. It was light brown. It smelled of corn, like an autumn harvest. She seems to have forgotten about it one day. Odd how that happens. You swear by certain things—that particular sundress he first saw you in, or that rose lipstick you wore every day, or that barley tea you once declared you couldn’t live without. But then, one day, someone, perhaps a stranger, in a bare, bleak apartment far from home, asks, without a hint of history, “Water or
boricha
?,” and you suddenly remember that it’s been years since you’ve even thought of it. But how is that possible? How is it that you could go on fine without what had once been so essential, that you haven’t even been aware of its absence? How is it then you could declare, without
hesitation, that it is your favorite? Shouldn’t love require more? Isn’t love a responsibility?
“It’ll warm you up,” he says, taking a mug from the shelf. Suzy realizes how fatigued she feels, and how cold. For hours, she wandered through the streets of Queens. For hours, she could not get rid of the one thought circling in her head—her parents. What did they do to bring on such hatred? And then there was a girl named Mariana.
“Someone’s been following me,” she says, surprised that she is telling him.
“Have you told the police?” His eyes are on the kettle, which is taking a long time to boil.
“No,” she says, leaning on the cushion, glancing at the ashtray on the table. It is filled to the brim. The butts are smoked to their last skin. The sofa faces the opposite direction from the kitchenette. She cannot see him when she says, “I don’t think many people are too upset that my parents are dead, including the police.”
Finally, a hissing noise.
“I’m not interested in your parents’ death,” he says.
Now a shrill from the kettle, but he won’t turn it off, as though he is grateful for its shield.
She waits. The final pitch of the boiling water, but she is patient. It’s been a long day. It’s been a long, long five years.
When he stands before her with a cup of
boricha
, which he promptly puts on the table, he says nothing. He merely sits opposite her, waiting for her to finish. After tea, you may go. He does not have to say it. She knows she is not welcome. He is doing her a favor. A sobbing girl, frozen out of her mind, who can turn her out?
“Someone’s been sending me a bouquet of irises, someone’s been hanging up on the phone, someone’s even called with a
threat,” she says, holding the mug between her cold palms. “What do you think it all means?”
He lights a cigarette. His hands are restless. A chain-smoker.
“The murderer wants to be found,” she says, taking a sip. The tea is instantly familiar, clean and hot as it rolls down her throat. “Not by Detective Lester, but by me.”
He won’t meet her eyes. He does not want any part of this conversation. The furrows between his eyebrows grow deeper as he inhales harder.
“You told me last time that having children didn’t really save my parents. You’re right, it didn’t.” Suzy takes a deep breath before continuing. “I need to know why they couldn’t be saved, what it is that they did to you. I guess I’m asking you to tell me before you tell the police, because the police will come sooner or later.”
He takes a long drag, longer than necessary. “Is that a threat?”
“No, a plea … because I think you understand what it means to try living while circling death again and again,” she says quietly, glancing at the photo of his wife, the dead woman guarding his bedside.
The frigid stillness, except for the clock ticking nearby. Her hands around the mug tighten, as though their hold steadies her. When he finally meets her eyes, she lets out a sigh, realizing that she has been holding her breath.
“Your father had enemies. Many, in fact. ‘Enemies’ might not be the right word. People who held deep grudges against him, let’s say. I was one of them. So I can’t blame you if you were to discredit everything I say. The ones who know the truth are both dead. So who’s to argue over what really happened? …” He pauses, his eyes wavering between her face and the rest of the room. He seems to be trying to find the right
words, the right place to begin. His face clouds with something indefinite, something akin to resignation.
“When we met your father, we were working at a store on Tremont Avenue. My wife was at the cash register. I was doing the setup work around the store. We were both too old for the job, but we tried to make up for it by working hard, getting the freshest produce, opening the store before anyone else. One day the owner called me in. He was moving back to Korea. He offered me the store at a bargain. I’d saved some money by then, not a whole lot, but enough for a down payment. There was just one problem. We were both still illegal, my wife and I. We had no green cards, and definitely no right to own anything. That’s where your father came in.”
She recognizes the accent in his Korean from his deposition. Each syllable drags into the next without any inflection. It is kind to the ears. From central Korea, where people speak slowly in a quiet murmur. She was told that its land borders no water, anomalous on a peninsula. The only province kept hidden in the hills. The people there must be full of longing, searching the sky for a glimpse of blue. Their gentleness might belie what is unrequited, and perhaps broken.
“He’d done deliveries for us in the past. My wife remembered how he’d wanted to buy a store but didn’t have enough cash. He had once offered to invest some money for renovation in exchange for a part ownership. So we sought out your father, made a partner deal, put his name on the lease.”
Who would do that? Why would they trust a stranger? How would they know that he wouldn’t put the store under his name and run away with it? But Suzy also knows that the world of immigrants has its own rules. Every man is guide to every other man. They don’t speak English, or read English. They don’t know the American laws. They might even break them without
knowing. They are forever guilty before the customers, the policemen, the inspectors, the district attorneys, the IRS agents, the INS agents. Sure, America is the land of opportunity, and yet they wouldn’t recognize an opportunity even if it is waved in front of them. Only another immigrant can show them, in their language, in ways they can understand. A fellow countryman who might understand America better, who might be less afraid, who might be legal.
“Soon his wife joined us. Your mother. She wasn’t much of a talker. I hold no grudge against your mother. I only say that because I do believe that, deep inside, she was good. I saw her smile once, a real full smile. She was looking at a truck passing by. When I asked her what she was smiling at, she blushed and said there was a load of irises in the back of the truck, and the irises brought back some old memories. I never saw that smile again. Maybe it was too late by then. She seemed tired of life. Numb. ‘Dead inside,’ is what my wife said. She always did what was required of her. She wouldn’t work too hard or too little. She just did her duty with a minimum of fuss. She never talked back to your father. He’d sometimes call her names, bad insulting names in front of me and my wife. They were both well into their forties. It really wasn’t right to do that.”
What Suzy experiences is dread. The absolute dread of what is to come. It will only get worse, she thinks.
This is not a good story. This is what I have come for.
“The business began to pick up after the renovation, although your father put down only a fraction of the money he’d promised. He also stopped doing the delivery work and hired someone instead. He was now practically running the whole store. Both our wives were behind the cash registers, since your father installed a second one for the night shift. I told him it was a bad idea. It’d only exhaust everyone. Seven days a week is one thing, but twenty-four hours? A couple of nights later, he called
to say that our partnership wasn’t working, exactly what I’d been thinking, and that it’d be better if my wife and I were to stop showing up. I was flabbergasted. I thought he must’ve gone insane. It was my store, I mean our store, although he hadn’t fulfilled his end of the deal. What did he mean, stop showing up at my own store! That’s when he laid it on me—‘I could get you deported within twenty-four hours.’”
Sometimes the answer is there even before you are told. You may have suspected it all along. It has only been a matter of time.
“My wife overheard. She snatched the phone and started yelling. She told him he was a traitor, the lowest of the low. I’d never seen her lose control like that. All that work, those sleepless hours behind the register hadn’t been kind to her. She was tired, the way your mother had been tired. My wife still had some fire left in her. She wanted to fight out the battle. She didn’t want to give up. Your father threatened to report us if we showed up at the store just once more, but we ran there anyway. It’s so long ago now, but still so vivid. The ugliest, the saddest day of my life.” He takes another cigarette out of the pack. His fingers on the lighter are unsteady. It takes him a couple of tries to get a flame. He can only keep his eyes on the cigarette. Anywhere else will be her face, the girl’s face, which is too reminiscent.
“Your father called the INS right in front of us. He reported us while we stood there in our own house. It was like he’d done it before. He knew the number right off the top of his head. He didn’t even raise his voice. He looked calm through the whole thing. I saw your mother weeping in the corner. She was silent, even in crying. She didn’t want him to hear her cry.”
The informers.
No record of green cards or visa.
How many people did her parents sacrifice to obtain their citizenship? How many did they turn in for rewards?
Suzy never questioned why they moved each year. She did not think it odd when they could suddenly afford two bedrooms. She never thought twice when her parents bought a store, a house. She believed that it was the result of their hard work. But hard work, did it really pay off for all immigrants? Reporting an illegal immigrant is a vicious act, an immoral act. No immigrant can do it to another, knowing the fear, the absolutely mind-numbing fright, that a mere mention of the INS brings to those whose underground existence in the forgotten patches of Lefrak City is a source of a collective paranoia. Could her parents have been capable of such a betrayal? Was it out of greed? Could greed be enough motivation for turning on their own people? Why is Suzy not surprised?
“We ran. We shoved our bags into a car and drove to the first place we could think of that was far away. We ended up hiding out at a church member’s house on Long Island. That’s where my wife fell ill. All that fire inside of her suddenly went out. She kept blaming herself for what happened, for trusting your father. She kept saying that she was useless, that she was a burden to me, and that she was too old to start over. A few weeks later, while I was out looking for work, she took a whole bottle of sleeping pills. She was dead before we even reached the hospital. I buried her out there, in a town we’d never been to before. She was only forty-eight.” His voice is small and strained. He is relieved that his story is almost over. “She left me a note, begging me to go back to Korea. But I’m still here, and the only thing I have to show for the past thirteen years is this wretched age, and burying my wife, who wasn’t old enough to die. But how could I go back to Korea? Who would look after her? Who would lie beside her out on Long Island?”

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