This Burns My Heart (18 page)

“Yes, I’m sure they will,” said Yul kindly. “I don’t doubt that.”

Soo-Ja took a deep breath, dropping her act. She couldn’t lie to Yul, as if at one point in the past she had made an oath to him. “It’s not Min’s fault. He doesn’t know. He’s in hiding. We all are, in a way, my in-laws and I. Debts.” Soo-Ja was surprised to hear herself telling that to Yul. She had never told anyone of their circumstances, not even her father.

“Don’t be embarrassed about that. There are a lot of people in debt these days. You have all this paper money in your hands, and the next day, the government says it’s worth nothing,” said Yul.

The nurse, who’d overheard their voices, came in with Soo-Ja’s clothes, and left as quickly as she had appeared. Yul turned around so Soo-Ja could get dressed. Soo-Ja walked behind a screen and began removing the hospital gown.

“Someone must have seen Hana. I don’t know if I can find Hana herself straightaway, but I can find someone who saw her playing, or walking by. Like the fruit peddlers on the street. They sit there all day, they must do their share of people-watching.” Soo-Ja put on her black cardigan sweater, embroidered with white trim along the edges, then took her big brown scarf and wrapped it around her shoulders and her arms. When she finished dressing, she did not tell Yul to turn around. Instead, she walked to him, tapping him lightly on the arm. Yul turned quickly, almost bumping into her. The sudden proximity of his body made Soo-Ja feel nervous, and she stepped back. When Soo-Ja looked at his face, she saw the intense look in his ink-black eyes. He hadn’t changed much. Still the same serious gaze, the melancholy air.

“We’ll get to her,” said Yul.

Soo-Ja believed him. She followed him out, past the waiting room and its many eyes looking up at them. When they came out onto the street, with its sudden, harsh morning light, Soo-Ja silently thanked him for his help, in a prayer.

Between puffs of his cigarette, the village police officer halfheartedly took down Hana’s description onto a palm-sized notebook. Behind him, fishermen carried nets and boxes packed with mackerel, hairtail, cuttlefish, and sea mussels from their trawlers onto the dock. Every breath took in scales and gills. Small ice islands, from the previous night’s snow, floated and cracked as they hit the boats. When he was done, the officer smiled suggestively at Soo-Ja. “It’s just that we’re so busy these days. I wish we had more resources, some money perhaps…”

Soo-Ja looked confused, but Yul seemed to understand his gist right away. He pulled some bills from his pocket and placed them in the officer’s hands. The man smiled, nodding slightly.

“I will see what I can do,” said the officer, walking away. Based on the way he spoke, it seemed clear he would do nothing. Soo-Ja put her arm out in his direction, but he was gone.

“I’m sorry, Soo-Ja,” said Yul. “But the only people the police want to find these days are North Korean spies.”

“Let’s go back to the market square,” she said. “I have to find a mother. A mother will want to help. They notice children, and they notice very subtle things. They can tell when a child is with someone she doesn’t belong to.” Soo-Ja was amazed at her own coolness, after the previous night’s desperation. But it was a precarious coolness; a single word, and she could be undone.

Besides, she had something inside her pocket that gave her confidence, an odd kind of security. Before Yul and Soo-Ja had left his office, she had stolen something from him—his prescription pad. If she could not find Hana—odious thought!—she knew exactly what kind of pills she’d have to swallow.

“When was the last time you ate?” Yul asked her.

They had been working through the market square for hours, as Soo-Ja spoke to every living being about her daughter. She even asked the children, who were the most curious about her, and who shook their heads vigorously. Soo-Ja overheard one or two people saying she was crazy, that this daughter of hers didn’t exist.

Oh, but she does, she does,
thought Soo-Ja. How could she explain to them that hers was the most beautiful and precious child, one who laughed so easily when you tickled her, and who shrieked with joy when you lifted her into the air? She loved her daughter, and in that love she had once expected to live forever, the rest of her days.

“Soo-Ja, you have to eat. You can’t go on like this,” Yul continued. Soo-Ja ignored him, approaching another woman with a description of her child. Soo-Ja cursed herself for not having a picture of Hana, for having left everything back in Daegu. “You haven’t had breakfast,
or
lunch. We’re going to stop by that noodle stand, and you’re going to eat.”

Soo-Ja looked at Yul as if he were the most unreasonable being she’d ever met, and she shook her head. It had been more than twenty-four hours since she had eaten anything, but she had no appetite. “You go eat. I’ll be here.”

“No, please.” Yul reached for her arm.

Soo-Ja looked at him and saw the concern on his face. She was not
a superhero, like in the radio shows; she was a human person, she had to remind herself. Without saying anything, Soo-Ja let him guide her to the noodle stand, which was only a couple of yards from them. It quickly drew them in, with the smell of bean-curd paste rising from the pots.

They sat at one of the two tiny tables at an arm’s reach from the cook, and next to a teenage couple. They were so crowded in, elbow to elbow, they could be a single party. Soo-Ja did not speak to Yul. Instead, she listened to the hissing of the griddle and the whistling of the kettle. She watched the dumplings turn brown and jump from the pan to the plates. The cook, who did not smile, placed their food in front of them and then his daughter—Soo-Ja heard her call him appa earlier—as if to compensate, smiled brightly as she filled their cups with water.

“For you,
ajeossi,
” she said, respectfully, handing Yul his glass. Soo-Ja already had a full glass in front of her, but the waitress still wanted to acknowledge her. “Ajumma, you have a very pretty scarf.”

Soo-Ja nodded weakly, quietly signaling that she did not want to talk. The girl, who must have been thirteen or fourteen, did not see this and remained standing next to her, her hands casually resting against her hips. She played the host a little too well, acting like the cook’s wife instead of his daughter, almost a parody of an older woman. Soo-Ja wondered if the girl was replacing her sick mother for the day, and had been repeating what the elder woman usually said to the customers. But maybe she wasn’t imitating anyone at all. Maybe there was no mother—dead or separated—and she had always played this part herself, helping her father, serving customers by his side, never knowing what it was to play like a child.

“Did your husband get it for you as a gift?” the waitress asked, smiling at Soo-Ja. When she said
husband
, the girl glanced over at Yul for a second, before turning her gaze back to Soo-Ja. Soo-Ja knew instantly that she should correct her, but to say he wasn’t her husband also felt wrong. Yul might take her correction—if offered too quickly, in protest—as a slight.

“We’re not husband and wife. We’re not married,” said Yul, before Soo-Ja could speak.

The waitress looked confused. “
Ay
, you sure do look like husband and
wife,” she said, her smile now gone. She returned to her father’s side, occasionally stealing glances at the two of them. Her words hung heavy in the air.

“I want to go back to looking,” Soo-Ja said, rising from her seat. “You can stay here and eat your soup.”

Yul reached for her, as if to pull her down. But once his hand felt her arm—real, made of flesh and bone, not just an image across from him—he seemed to lose courage and did not protest. “I’ll come with you,” he said, also rising.

Back in the market square, Soo-Ja felt as if she’d lived there forever, recognizing the fruit peddlers camping out on the ground, and the old men sitting on boxes turned upside down, playing
janggi.
At the stalls, women wearing head scarves wielded knives with acrobatic precision, cleaning fish on top of wooden crates, while men with bloody aprons around their waists yelled out prices. On the counters, piles of catch—kandari, saury pike, whip ray, and sea bream—glowed in the afternoon sun.

Weary-looking customers carrying straw baskets ignored Soo-Ja, walking briskly past her in the overcrowded plaza. Yul alone stayed with her, looking solemn as she asked strangers about her daughter. With him there, the locals appeared more responsive. They actually seemed to think before finally delivering a no, now offered with regret rather than as a dismissal. With each no, Yul seemed as disappointed as Soo-Ja, and for that, she loved him—that he could feel what she felt; as if by doing so, he could lessen her load.

The sun began to set, and Soo-Ja prepared to make her way back to the other side of the marketplace. While taking a minute to catch her breath, she noticed an old woman standing in front of a tobacco shop, blowing smoke in the air exuberantly. She wore her gray hair tightly held back, exposing her deeply tanned face, which appeared to have as many lines as the surface of a leaf. Soo-Ja tried not to stare, but the old woman kept looking over at her.

“Who is she?” Soo-Ja overheard the old woman ask her friend. “Why is she walking around like that?”

“She lost her daughter,” her friend replied.

“When did this happen?”

“I saw her first last night.”

“What does her daughter look like?”

The tobacconist had heard Soo-Ja describe Hana so many times, she had memorized her words. “She sounds like a rich man’s kid. Nice red jacket with a hood; pretty, embroidered gloves; heavy, sturdy leather shoes; a gold-colored ribbon on her head. Three years old.”

“Three years old,” the old woman echoed thoughtfully.

So this is what I’ve become, a story.
She’d have to spend the rest of her life wandering those streets, while strangers newly arrived in town would point, curious. They’d be filled in and look at her with pity, secretly glad that her fate wasn’t their own. She had become a part of this plaza, like the nicks on the wooden benches, or the rusty stains on the lampposts.

Soo-Ja looked at the old woman one last time before she started walking again, and this time their eyes met. She gave her that faint flicker of recognition you give when you know a face but can’t place it. Soo-Ja didn’t know why, but she began moving toward the old woman, as if obeying an order, and the old woman walked toward her, too. As they drew near each other, Soo-Ja felt a light frisson of anticipation, knowing she was about to meet someone who would be important to her.

“You’re a very lucky woman,” the old woman said, when they got close enough to talk. She did not offer her name, nor did she ask for Soo-Ja’s.

“Why do you say that?” Soo-Ja asked.

Left behind, Yul watched them from a distance, without joining them.

“You’re lucky… that I smoke,” the old woman said, scattering some ash onto the floor.

“Please explain,
halmeoni
,” said Soo-Ja, calling her “grandmother.” Her voice quivered a little. “I’m a very distraught woman. And I know that you know because I heard you talk to the shopkeeper. So if you have something to tell me, do so. But don’t waste my time. Please.” Soo-Ja made as if to move away, but she knew the old woman could tell she was bluffing. Soo-Ja was riveted to her spot.

“Yesterday, I felt the urge for a cigarette,” the old woman began. “This is where I usually come to get them.” She pointed behind her to the tobacco shop. Soo-Ja noticed for the first time how small it was, the shelves only half filled, a poster with a picture of an American cowboy. “But for some reason, I decided to go to a different tobacco shop, one that’s a little farther from my house. I didn’t know why I decided to do that. But
now
I know why.” At this, she grinned, revealing her yellow teeth, slightly broken in spots.

“What did you see?” Soo-Ja asked her.

“I’m a very observant woman. I see more than I see… Other women my age may need glasses to see just what’s in front of them. But I would need them so I could see
less.
I don’t just look. I notice.”

“And what did you notice?” asked Soo-Ja, almost trembling.

“A man walking with a toddler. Now, lots of men walk with toddlers, but this pair stood out to me. You see, I was sitting on the curb, enjoying my cigarette, and so I got a very good look at them. And I noticed the man wore really shabby clothes, just a plain jacket with heavy lining. But the girl—she looked new, like a doll. Whoever dressed her took pains to do so. I remember her jacket had little bird patterns embroidered on it”—Soo-Ja’s heart leapt hearing the detail of the birds, which she hadn’t mentioned to anyone, because she’d forgotten—“and there was something else, too. She just didn’t look like she was from around here. And so I knew these two people—this fortysomething man, he must be, and this little girl—didn’t go together. And there were other things, too, like, why was he carrying her in his arms? The girl was big enough to walk. So with all these things to pique my interest, you can see why I watched them as they went inside the
sul-jib
next to the tobacco shop.

“Now, I didn’t go into the sul-jib but I could hear him talking to the barmaid, who seemed to be his wife. I couldn’t see very well, but when he opened a door, I noticed there were more rooms there, and that must be where they slept. I then heard the sound of the woman fighting with the man, and it was over the child, who had started crying. At that moment I knew, for sure, that the baby wasn’t his. It was such a loud wail, so full of spirit, demanding to be heard. That cry was for me, you
see. She knew I was outside, invisible to everyone but her, and she was talking to me. So I left. And I began my wait. Very patiently. Because I knew that eventually, the child’s mother would come to me.
You
would come to me. So all day, I sat outside and wandered around, waiting. And finally, you came. I saw you and I knew, right away, even before Joon-Ho’s mother described the girl to me. Even before she told me who you were. So maybe it’s not luck. It’s seeing. You saw that I was more than just an old woman smoking a cigarette. And I saw you for what you are: a woman in love with her own child.”