by Min Jin Lee
Noa wondered if his younger brother spoke this way to employees. The fact that he was going to work for a pachinko business, no different than Mozasu, a kid who had flunked out of school essentially, was stunning to Noa.
“You can start today. Find Ikeda-san in the office next to mine. He has gray hair. Do whatever he tells you. He’s my head accountant. I’ll try you out for a month. If you do okay, I’ll pay you a good enough salary. You have no overhead. You can save quite a bit.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Where are your people from?”
“Kansai,” Noa replied.
“Yeah, you said. Where in Kansai?”
“Kyoto,” Noa replied.
“What do your parents do?”
“They’re dead,” Noa replied, hoping to end the questions.
“Yeah, you said. So what did they do?”
“My father worked in a udon shop.”
“Yeah?” Takano looked puzzled. “So a noodle man sends his son to Waseda? Really?”
Noa said nothing, wishing he was a better liar.
“You’re not a foreigner, right? You swear.”
Noa tried to look surprised by such a question. “No, sir. I am Japanese.”
“Good, good,” Takano replied. “Get out of my office and see Ikeda-san.”
The dormitory of the pachinko parlor slept sixty employees. On his first night, Noa slept in one of the smallest rooms, sharing it with an older worker who snored like a broken motor. Within a week, he established a routine. When he woke up, Noa washed his face quickly, having bathed the night before in the public bath, and he went down to the cafeteria where the cook served rice, mackerel, and tea. He worked methodically and won over Ikeda-san, who had never met such a smart bookkeeper. When the trial month passed, Noa was kept on. Years later, Noa learned that the Japanese owner had liked Noa from the start. After the first month, the owner told Takano to give Noa a raise and a better room at the year’s end, but not before, because the others might fuss over any favoritism. The owner suspected that Nobuo Ban was a Korean, but he said nothing, because as long as no one else knew, it didn’t matter.
2
Osaka, April 1965
In three years, Yumi had lost two pregnancies, and she found herself pregnant again. Against the advice of her husband, Mozasu, she’d worked through the previous pregnancies. In her quiet and deliberate way, Yumi’s boss, Totoyama-san, insisted that she work from home for this pregnancy. Yumi refused.
“Yumi-chan, there isn’t much work this season, and you need to rest,” Totoyama-san would say, and only occasionally, Yumi went home before it got too dark.
It was a late spring afternoon. Yumi had just completed an order of bow ties for hotel uniforms when she felt sharp pains along her lower abdomen. This time, Totoyama-san refused to hear a word of protest from Yumi. She sent for Mozasu, who picked up his wife, and he took her to a famous Japanese baby doctor in downtown Osaka, whom Totoyama-san had learned of, rather than to Yumi’s regular doctor in Ikaino.
“It’s elementary, Boku-san. You have very high blood pressure. Women like you often fight pregnancy,” the doctor said calmly.
He walked away from the examination table and returned to his desk. His office had been painted recently, and the faint smell of paint lingered. Except for a medical chart of a woman’s reproductive organs, everything in the office was white or stainless steel.
Yumi said nothing and thought about what he said. Could it be true? she wondered. Could she have somehow aborted her prior pregnancies by fighting them?
“I am less worried about the previous miscarriages. It is a sad thing, of course, but miscarriages reveal the wisdom of nature. It’s for the best that you don’t give birth when it isn’t good for your health. A miscarriage indicates that the woman can conceive, so it is not necessarily a fertility matter. But, as for this pregnancy, I do not see much danger to the child; there is danger only to the mother; so for the remainder of the pregnancy, you must remain in bed.”
“But I have to work,” Yumi said, looking terrified.
The doctor shook his head.
“Yumi-chan,” Mozasu said, “you have to listen to the doctor.”
“I can work less. Go home early, the way Totoyama-san wants me to.”
“Boku-san, it’s possible for the mother to die of preeclampsia. As your physician, I cannot allow you to work. My patients must listen to me, or else we cannot work together.”
The famous doctor looked away from her, pretending to glance at the few papers on his desk, confident that Yumi would remain his patient. She’d be a fool to choose otherwise. He jotted down some notes about her diet, advising her to avoid sweets or too much rice. She must not gain much weight, since she’d be retaining an enormous amount of water, and the baby would be too big to deliver vaginally.
“Please call me any time you do not feel comfortable. This is critical. If we have to deliver early, then we need to take precautions. Boku-san, there is no need to be stoic. That can come after you have the child. A woman has a right to be a little difficult before she has her first child.” The doctor smiled at both of them. “Make a fuss about your food cravings, or if you want extra pillows at night.”
Mozasu nodded, grateful for the doctor’s humor and inflexible tone. Any good doctor would need to match his wife’s stubbornness. Mozasu had never had reason to disagree with Yumi on anything important, but he wondered if he had not done so because he’d sensed that she would not have listened to him anyway.
When the couple returned home, Yumi lay down on the futon, her dark hair mussed and spread out across the narrow pillow. Mozasu was seated on the bed, cross-legged by her side, not knowing what else to say to his wife, who did not want a glass of water or anything to eat. With her, he felt a little dumb, because she was so stalwart and clever. Her goals had always seemed absurdly fantastic. Sometimes, he wondered how she allowed herself to dream for so much. He had never seen her cry or complain about anything difficult. He knew Yumi did not want to be at home by herself, unable to work or go to her English classes.
“Would you like your English books?” he asked.
“No,” she said, not looking at him. “You have to go back to work, nee? I’ll be fine. You can go.”
“Can’t I get you something? Anything?”
“Why can’t we go to America? We could have a good life there.”
“You remember what the immigration lawyer said. It would be impossible almost.”
“The minister Maryman-san may be able to sponsor us.”
“Why would he do that? I’m not going to become a missionary and neither are you. You don’t even believe in God. Besides, what could I do in America that would make as much money as I do here? I’m not going back to school. I’m not a college boy; I’m your oaf. I count on you to think for the two of us, and soon, for the three of us.” He laughed, hoping she would smile.
“Yumi-chan, very soon I will open my own parlor in Yokohama, and if it is successful, I’ll make more money than twenty college graduates. Can you imagine? Then I can buy you anything you want. If it’s not successful, I can still work for Goro-san and make us a nice life.”
“I know how to make money.”
“Yes, I know. I know you are independent. But it would give me pleasure to buy something for you that you cannot get for yourself. And I promise you will like Yokohama; it’s an international city. There are lots of Americans there. As soon as you have the baby, and the doctor says it is okay, I will take you to visit. We can stay in a beautiful hotel, and you can see what it’s like. And it will be easier for you to study English there. We can find you a tutor, and you can go to school if you like,” Mozasu said. Although he tried not to think of Noa because it made him too sad, Mozasu could not help but think of his brother, who had quit Waseda and run away without explanation.
“The Japanese do not like us. How will our baby live here?” Yumi asked.
“Some Japanese like us very much. The baby
will live here with us. She will live like us.” From the very first pregnancy, Mozasu had determined that the baby was a girl—a child just like Yumi.
Mozasu stroked her forehead. His dark hand looked enormous on her small, pale brow. For a very young woman, his wife could appear ancient in her sternness, able to push herself through the most difficult tasks, but when sad, she had the face of a disappointed child, lost and bereft. He loved her face, how it showed every trace of feeling; she could be silent, but she was incapable of hiding herself from others.
“What else can we do?” Mozasu asked, looking to her for the answer. “Besides go to America?” He had never understood what she thought she’d find there. Sometimes, he wondered if Noa had gone to the States—this magical place so many Koreans in Japan idealized. “What else, Yumi-chan, what else would you like to do?”
She shrugged. “I don’t want to stay in the house until the baby comes. I don’t like to be lazy.”
“You will never be lazy. It’s impossible.” He laughed. “When the baby comes, and it will be soon,” he said, “you will be chasing after her. You and she will be the fastest moving females in Osaka—never ever bound by the house.”
“Mozasu, I can feel her moving. I didn’t lose the baby.”
“Of course not. The doctor said the baby is fine. Baby-chan will look just like you. We’ll give her a wonderful home. You’re going to be a wonderful mother.”
She smiled, not believing him but wanting him to be right.
“I called my mother. She’ll come here tonight.”
Yumi crinkled her eyes, worried.
“You like her, nee?”
“Yes,” Yumi said. It was true; Yumi admired her mother-in-law, yet they were strangers to one another. Sunja was not like most mothers of sons; she never said anything intrusive, and her reluctance to speak her mind had only increased after Noa disappeared. When Mozasu and Yumi had asked her and Mozasu’s grandmother to move into their house, Sunja had declined, saying that it would be better for the young couple to live without old women bothering them.
“I thought she wanted to stay with her mother and Aunt Kyunghee.”
“Yes, but she wants to help us. She will come by herself. It will not be permanent. Grandmother will stay with Aunt Kyunghee to help with the store. I’ll hire some girls for them to replace my mother while she’s here.”
After two weeks of bed rest, Yumi felt like she was going out of her mind. Mozasu had bought her a television, but she had no interest in watching it, and heartburn kept her from reading. Her wrists and ankles were so swollen that if she pushed her thumb lightly onto her wrist, she could make a deep impression in her flesh. Only the baby’s movements and occasional hiccups kept Yumi glued to her futon and from fleeing out of doors. Since her arrival, her mother-in-law remained by herself in the small room beside the kitchen—no matter how many times Mozasu insisted that she stay in the larger, unused room by the master bedroom. Sunja did all the cooking and cleaning. At whatever hour of the night Mozasu came home, she had his dinner ready.
It was morning when Sunja knocked on Yumi’s door to bring her breakfast.
“Come in, omoni,” Yumi said. Her own mother could not make a pot of rice or a cup of tea, in contrast to Mozasu’s mother, who had supported her family on her cooking.
As usual, Sunja carried in a tray with an assortment of tempting dishes, all covered with a clean white cloth. She smiled at her daughter-in-law.
Yumi, who would normally have relished such good meals, felt bad, because all she could manage to keep down lately was rice porridge.
“I feel terrible that I’m lying in bed all day while you work so much,” Yumi said, hoping that Sunja would stay and talk with her. “Have you eaten breakfast?”
“Yes, I ate. You work hard all the time. But now, you’re supposed to be resting. A pregnancy is not an easy thing. My mother had six miscarriages before having me,” she said. “She wanted to come and take care of you, but I told her to stay at home.”
“Six miscarriages. I’ve only had two.”
“Two is not easy, either,” Sunja said. “You should have your breakfast. You and the baby need nourishment.”
Yumi sat up a bit. “Mozasu left early today for Yokohama.”
Sunja nodded. She’d fixed his breakfast before he got on the morning train.
“You saw him then.” Yumi admired the tray. “This looks delicious.”
Sunja hoped her daughter-in-law would eat. She was terrified that she would miscarry again, but didn’t want to appear worried. She regretted having mentioned the number of her mother’s miscarriages. The minister at the church had warned against the sins of the careless tongue; it was always better to speak less, Sunja thought.
“Thank you for taking such good care of us.”
Sunja shook her head.
“This is nothing. You’ll do this for your children,” Sunja said.
Unlike the ajummas in the open market with their tight, black, permanent-wave curls, Sunja hadn’t colored her graying hair and wore it cut short like a man’s. Her mature figure was solid, neither small nor large. She had worked out of doors for so many years that the sun had carved thin grooves into her round, dark face. Like a Buddhist nun, Sunja wore no makeup, not even moisturizer. It was as if she had decided some time ago that she would not care what she looked like beyond being clean, as if to pay penance for having once cared about such things, when in fact she had not.
“Did Mozasu tell you about my mother?” Yumi picked up the spoon.
“That she worked in a bar,” Sunja said.
“She was a prostitute. My father was her pimp. They weren’t married.”
Sunja nodded and stared at the tray of uneaten food. When Mozasu had told her about Yumi’s family, Sunja had imagined as much. The occupation and the war had been difficult for everyone.
“I’m sure she was a good person. I’m sure she cared for you very much.”
Sunja believed this. She had loved Hansu, and then she had loved Isak. However, what she felt for her boys, Noa and Mozasu, was more than the love she’d felt for the men; this love for her children felt like life and death. After Noa had gone, she felt half-dead. She could not imagine any mother feeling differently.
“My mother isn’t a good person. She beat us. She cared more about drinking and getting money than anything else. After my brother died, if my sister and I hadn’t run away, she would have put us to work. Doing what she did. Not once did she ever say a kind thing to me,” Yumi said. She’d never told anyone this.
“Mozasu told me your sister passed away.”
Yumi nodded. After she and her sister had left home, they’d found shelter in an abandoned clothing factory. In the winter, they both got sick with a high fever, but her sister had died in her sleep. Yumi had slept beside her sister’s dead body for nearly a day, waiting to die herself.
Sunja shifted her seat and moved toward her.
“My child, you have suffered too much.”
Yumi did not deliver a girl. Her baby Solomon was an enormous boy, over nine pounds, even larger than the famous doctor had expected. The birth took over thirty hours, and the doctor had to call in a colleague to help him through the night. The baby was strong and well. In a month’s time, Yumi recovered fully and returned to work, bringing Solomon with her to the workshop. On his first birthday ceremony, Solomon clutched the crisp yen note over the ink brush, string, or cakes—signifying that he would have a rich life.
3
Yokohama, November 1968
When the floor manager came by to tell Mozasu that the police were waiting in his office to see him, he assumed that it was about the pachinko machine permits. It was that time of the year. Once he reached his office, he recognized the young men from the precinct and invited them to sit down, but they remained standing and bowed, not saying a word at first. The floor manager, who remained by the door, was unable to meet his glance; preoccupied earlier, Mozasu hadn’t noticed that the floor manager’s
face was so solemn.
“Sir,” the shorter of the two officers said, “your family is in the hospital at the moment, and we’ve come to take you there. The captain would have come himself, but—”
“What?” Mozasu left his side of the desk and went to the door.
“Your wife and son were hit by a taxi this morning. A block from your son’s school. The driver was inebriated from the night before and had fallen asleep while driving.”
“Are they all right?”
“Your son broke his ankle. Otherwise, he is well.”
“And my wife?”
“She died in the ambulance before reaching the hospital.”
Mozasu ran out of the office without his coat.
The funeral was held in Osaka, and Mozasu would always be able to recall some parts of it vividly and some not at all. During the service, he had held on to Solomon’s small hand, fearing that if he let go, the boy might disappear. The three-and-a-half-year-old boy stood, leaning on his crutches, insisting on greeting each person who’d come to pay his respects to his mama. After an hour, he agreed to sit down but did not leave his father’s side. Several witnesses had recounted that Yumi had pushed her son onto the sidewalk when the taxi lost control. At the funeral, Mozasu’s childhood friend Haruki Totoyama had observed that Yumi must have had incredible hand-eye control in a moment of such intense pressure.
Several hundred guests came. They were people Mozasu knew from his business and many more from his father’s church, where his grandmother and Aunt Kyunghee still worshipped. Mozasu did his best to greet them, but he could hardly speak; it was as if he had forgotten both Korean and Japanese. He didn’t want to go on anymore without Yumi, but this was something he could not say. She was his lover, but more than anything, she was his wise friend. He could never replace her. And he felt he had done her a great injustice by not having told her this. He had expected to have a long life with her, not a few years. Who would he tell when a customer did something funny? Who would he tell that their son had made him so proud, standing on crutches and shaking the hands of grown-ups and being braver than any other person in the room? When the mourners wept at the sight of the little boy in the black suit, Solomon would say, “Don’t cry.” He calmed one hysterical woman by telling her, “Mama is in California.” When the mourner looked puzzled, neither Solomon nor Mozasu explained what this meant.
