This Burns My Heart (33 page)

“Yes, and he’s so silent I don’t even know who he is. All the arrangements have been made through his accountant and me. His accountant reached my office this morning, and informed me that he was making his line of credit available to you. The transfer has been successful, and the deal has transpired quite smoothly.”

There was only one person in the world who would do this for her, thought Soo-Ja.
Yul, you stubborn mule! How many times do I need to tell you I don’t want your money?

“Mr. Im, I’m afraid there has been a mistake,” said Soo-Ja, with asperity in her voice. “Please cancel the deal. Right away.”

“Don’t be silly! You wanted the land so much and it’s yours now!” said Gi-yong, in his trademark high spirits. Soo-Ja could hear the squeaky springs of his leather chair as he leaned back against it.

“Mr. Im!”

“Send your husband here to sign the papers tomorrow morning,” Gi-yong interrupted. “Although I’d prefer if
you
came.” He did not try to hide the leer in his voice. “I can imagine you’d prefer to sign papers yourself, in your name, but I know you’re too clever a woman to emasculate your husband like that.”

“Mr. Im, I’m serious. That money—”

“Oh, before I forget,” Gi-yong interrupted, “your silent partner asked me to relay a message to you. He wants you to know that this is only a loan, and you’ll have to pay him back.”

Soo-Ja closed her eyes, taking this in. Yul knew that was the only way she’d accept his help.
But I’d rather have the man than the money. Is there no way to have an exchange?

“Anyway, I do have to say I was surprised that you pulled through. You said you’d come back by the end of the month, and indeed you did, with three days to spare. Now, you may be interested to know about certain rumors circling around city hall. As I mentioned before, my original estimation was that they’d start building on the land in fifteen to twenty years, and that’s how the lots have been valued, and priced. But…. there are rumors.”

“What kind of rumors?” Soo-Ja asked, furrowing her brow.

“I can’t talk about it,” said Gi-yong, his voice growing a little hushed. “I don’t want to raise anyone’s hopes if it doesn’t happen. But the people are getting restless. New elections are inevitable, and the President’s under a lot of pressure to do more for the cities. This whole
saemaul undong
movement to improve the countryside sure sounds nifty, but the government can’t expect people to stay away from the cities. You know the saying, ‘If you have a son, send him to Seoul.’”

“Well, that sounds very promising,” said Soo-Ja, and she could hear the understatement in her own voice.

Gi-yong laughed. “By the way, are you going to tell me who your silent partner is?”

Soo-Ja swallowed. “Good-bye, Mr. Im.”

Soo-Ja knocked lightly on Yul’s door. When she got no answer, she hesitated, and then pulled out her master key. She went into the room, only to find it dark, with no one inside. Yul was gone, and so were his things. Before she could grasp what happened, Soo-Ja saw her daughter appear next to her, touching her arm lightly. Soo-Ja looked at her daughter’s oval face, her eyes shining intently at her.

“They checked out a couple of hours ago,” said Hana.

“They’re gone?” asked Soo-Ja, taking in the emptiness of the room.

“Yes. Yul left this for you.”

Hana handed her mother a note, and when Soo-Ja opened it, she read the words
Don’t forget me.
Trembling, Soo-Ja closed the note again, the meaning of the words etching themselves into her skin.

As she exited the room, Soo-Ja noticed that Hana looked upset. She wondered how much her daughter knew about Yul and her. Children, Soo-Ja believed, had a sixth sense about such things. Soo-Ja tried to think of some explanation to offer her. It had to serve many purposes: it had to keep her from going to her father; it had to prevent the wound from scarring; it had to get her to forgive her for a deed she hadn’t done.

“I’m glad he’s gone,” said Hana. “I don’t like him.”

“Why don’t you like him?” Soo-Ja asked cautiously.

“He cheated on his wife, Mom,” said Hana. In her voice, Soo-Ja could hear she was half accusing her and half testing the words.

“No, he didn’t,” Soo-Ja corrected her, deciding that she wouldn’t pretend not to know what Hana was hinting at. “He was loyal to her.”

“He is a bad man,” said Hana.

“Don’t say that, Hana. It’s not true. He’s a good man. Don’t say bad things about Yul, please,” said Soo-Ja. She realized she would not get a chance to thank him. She’d just have to add that to the list of things she’d never get to say to him.

W
ith Yul gone, Soo-Ja began to think of him even more often. She imagined him next to her, offering that sad-hopeful smile of his as she did the most mundane of tasks.
How is it possible that Yul cannot be mine, when the pain of his absence feels like a cave inside my heart?

Soo-Ja could tell no one about her feelings—Yul was a secret, the way any great love was, to some extent, a secret. But when she asked her own self, she heard the words loud and clear:
You are not finished with him, and he is not finished with you. Even if you two wanted to, you could not fight this longing.
Which led, of course, to the one person who’d most like to see the end of the bond between them: once, always, forever, Eun-Mee.

“Hana’s mother, what are you doing this afternoon? It’s Saturday, and it’s the eve of the lunar festival. Surely you can’t be working!” Eun-Mee stood before Soo-Ja in her fur coat, with a light pink embroidered top underneath and a long, flowing skirt. Soo-Ja put away her guest book, taken aback by her presence at the hotel.

“Happy New Year,” said Soo-Ja drily.

“Happy New Year,” said Eun-Mee. “Now, I know you may want to get a head start driving home for the holidays, but I’m inviting you and your
husband to come to our house for tea, and to celebrate the Lunar New Year. You’ve been hearing about these renovations for so long, I’m sure you must be curious about the final result.”

“You want me to come to your house?” asked Soo-Ja, in disbelief. She had made the mistake of trusting Eun-Mee before, but never again.

Eun-Mee kept her voice even, as if she couldn’t imagine why that would be a bad idea. “Yes. This will give us a chance to say a proper good-bye after we checked out so hurriedly. You have to let us thank you for your hospitality. I’m very glad I got to stay here. Meeting you has been so… instructive.”

Soo-Ja opened her guest book again and buried her head in it, trying to remain polite. “I appreciate the offer, but I don’t think I can go. I have a lot of shopping to do before I head to my parents’ for the long holiday.”

“Oh, Hana’s mother, aren’t you the least bit curious to see the house? It won’t take very long, just tea. Please, I know we had some… friction while I was here, but really I’m no monster. Give me an opportunity to prove that, and to make things up with you. I don’t want to end things on a sour note.”

Soo-Ja didn’t know what Eun-Mee truly had in mind, but she didn’t believe a word she had said. Nevertheless, Soo-Ja knew that their feelings for each other were more complicated than either would admit. Soo-Ja guessed that Eun-Mee hated her, but then hated herself for feeling hate, and tried to make it up to her. Eun-Mee wanted to dislike Soo-Ja, but for Soo-Ja to like her at the same time.

More important, Soo-Ja knew Yul would be at his house, of course, and try as she might, she could not really pass up the chance to be near him. If the only way to see Yul was to do so on Eun-Mee’s terms, then so be it. She’d keep her guard up, she told herself, and remember Eun-Mee’s old tricks. She called for Miss Hong and Min, and tried to ignore the confusion on Min’s face as she explained to Miss Hong her duties during their absence.

•   •   •

And so the four of them ended up meeting in front of the hotel to walk together to Eun-Mee and Yul’s new house. It was not very far, Eun-Mee explained, just four blocks west of the New World Shopping Center. It was too cold, actually, to walk, but the streets were alive with festivities related to the Lunar New Year, and they felt like losing themselves in the lively crowd. They looked well, too, Eun-Mee with her brown fur coat and Soo-Ja in a navy sweater with a low neckline and a camel’s-hair jacket. Both Yul and Min wore knee-length overcoats, Yul’s dark blue, Min’s gray with small white dots. Eun-Mee and Soo-Ja walked ahead of the men; at one point, Eun-Mee interlaced her arm around Soo-Ja’s, and smiled at her like a mischievous younger sister.

Seeing Yul again felt like an unexpected gift. Soo-Ja didn’t think it would happen so soon—if ever. Yul’s eyes seemed to say the same, a sort of bittersweet joy. Here they were, in this pas de deux, changing partners, trapped in a dance performance. Soo-Ja didn’t trust Eun-Mee, but she liked this part, all of them walking together—she liked the ordinariness of it. She imagined couples did this with other couples all the time, going out to coffee shops and restaurants, the men talking about business while the women discussed their health. She felt grateful, in a way, to Eun-Mee, for giving them a context in which they could interact—they were all friends, Eun-Mee seemed to have decided one day—and she was more than happy to play along.

They had been walking for about ten minutes when they saw a large crowd gathered in front of an impromptu stage set up by the entrance to Royal Park. On the stage were a group of four
janggo
street musicians performing traditional village music, meant to celebrate the harvest. They played loudly, like some ancient tribe—the intense beating of the drums made it feel as if some kind of old religious ritual were taking place, never mind the modern, concrete buildings behind them. The men wore traditional janggo costumes: a black robe held down by a yellow sash across the chest and a red belt around the waist, all made out of silk. They also wore loose white pantaloons, which matched the white bands strapped on their heads. There were four of them onstage, sitting cross-legged, one behind a cymbal, another behind a gong; the other two
were behind large drums, one shaped like an hourglass, the other barrel-chested.

Soo-Ja was wondering if they were going to stay and listen to them, when Eun-Mee suddenly stepped forward gaily and made her way into the crowd, like an excited child, trying to get closer to the stage. Min followed her lead and moved closer to the stage, too, walking past Soo-Ja. She was surprised that Eun-Mee would leave Soo-Ja and Yul alone like that, until she realized that Eun-Mee didn’t know that Min had left them as well. Soo-Ja stayed in her spot, aware that Yul was right behind her. She did not have to turn to sense his familiar scent, to feel his body pulling her toward him.

Yul placed his hand on the small of Soo-Ja’s back, and she closed her eyes, the sound of drums reverberating through her body. Each bang felt like a new warning, telling her to run. The music sounded like boulders cascading down a mountain, loud enough to be heard by gods. Soo-Ja opened her eyes again, looking through the crowd for Eun-Mee, who would be coming back at any moment. Soo-Ja knew she should tell Yul to move away, but she could not. The dappled shade cannot ask the tree to leave it alone.

Min was nowhere to be seen, either. Soo-Ja kept listening to the echoes of the drums, beating without stop, the players’ hands magically flying from one end of the drum to the other. Then a sudden pause, and a four-man chant, and then the beating of the drums again, growing in intensity. The two drummers played first in perfect sync, then later against each other, sounds clashing, a kind of combat. Each turn of the head and each wave of the drumstick was carefully modulated, as if the music itself had shape and was being choreographed by their bodies.

Yul’s surprisingly warm hand brushed against Soo-Ja’s, and she quivered at his touch. They both kept staring straight ahead, their hands obscured by the crowd and their own bodies. Yul pressed a single finger, his middle finger, against the center of her palm, caressing it, almost burrowing into it. Her fingers closed in a little, and her hand was like the yellow forsythia whose trumpet-shaped petals can furl and unfurl, opening up to the sun, but then closing, to protect itself from cold winds.

Onstage, the drumming grew in intensity and the chants became more frequent. The players would pause for a second or two, letting a single beat of the drum reverberate fully through the air, then fall, promising an end. The crowd cheered; some people started clapping. Then, just when you thought it was finished, the drumming would start again, sounding more potent than ever, and you did not know if that was because their playing had grown mightier, or because they had made you miss it.

Soo-Ja had moved her hand abruptly to clap with the others, but then she returned it to her spot, eagerly, hungrily, searching for Yul’s hand. His hand quickly returned to hers, and this time, as his finger pressed against her palm, she placed her own fingers on top of his, covering them with her warmth. They stayed like that, their fingers exploring each other’s—caressing, squeezing, feeling—moving like naked bodies, skin next to skin.

Just then, Min returned, and Yul moved his hand away.

“It’s a modern stove,” said Eun-Mee, turning it on. “It controls the gas so it doesn’t all shoot off into the air. With the normal
yentan
gas, half of it goes straight into your lungs.”

Soo-Ja watched as Eun-Mee showed off her spacious kitchen. When Soo-Ja was growing up, kitchens reminded her of dungeons, lower in the ground than the rest of the house, suffocatingly hot, gray and dark, full of earthenware jars and ceramic pots and pans. Even in the hotel, the kitchen area was really just a sink and a small gas stove. Eun-Mee’s kitchen, however, was like something out of a magazine. Eun-Mee had a seemingly endless countertop, rows and rows of cupboards, her own refrigerator, and a washing machine.

Eun-Mee set the teakettle on the stove and was about to unwrap petits fours from their packaging when the phone rang. It was a friend of Eun-Mee’s from Pusan. As they started chatting, Soo-Ja excused herself and stepped out of the kitchen. Yul and Min were downstairs, in the garden, and Soo-Ja was able to wander around on her own. The
house was enormous, especially by Seoul standards, and Soo-Ja walked through room after room: a dining room, a living room, a sitting room, and a room with a large window that looked out at some trees. Looking at the house where Yul and Eun-Mee would live out their lives, Soo-Ja understood, finally, the enormity of her mistake. She thought of that day—that cloudless day—when Yul stood before her on the eve of her wedding and asked her to choose him. If she had said yes, she would be married to Yul and living in this house with him. When Yul asked that single yes or no question—
Come with me
—and she said no, Soo-Ja did not know what she was saying no to. She did not know the size and weight of the consequences, how life is not set down like train tracks, and you don’t just ride above it. The life she had could not be that different from the one she
could have
had, she had thought.
I am the same person, surely the story unfolds roughly the same way?
Each decision she made couldn’t be
that
important, couldn’t change her life
that
much, right? Otherwise she’d drown in the multiple possibilities of who she could have been and was not—the Soo-Ja who went to diplomat school and worked in the government; the one who found a post teaching at a school and found another man, neither Yul nor Min; the one who never married at all, and stayed by her father’s side, a happy spinster—wouldn’t all of these women crash and collide, eventually? How could all of these versions exist, three or four for each of us, and then more so, as they intersected? Soo-Ja wondered. How could the world fit so many lives, so many iterations? It couldn’t be that big, it couldn’t fit so much. We’re only given one life, and it’s the one we live, she had thought; how painful now, to realize that wasn’t true, that you would have different lives, depending on how brave you were, and how ready. Love came to her that day—she was twenty-two—and wanted to take her, and she said no.