Pachinko

by Min Jin Lee

  Sunja sat on the floor beside her mother, who was sitting up as well as she could, and Kyunghee remained at her usual place on the other side of the pallet by Yangjin’s head. Both Sunja and Kyunghee were knitting sections of a navy woolen sweater for Solomon.

  Strangely, as Yangjin’s limbs and joints quit, one after the other, and as her muscles softened into jelly, her mind felt clearer and more free. She could imagine leaving her body to run swiftly like a deer. Yet in life, she could hardly move at all; she could barely eat anything recognizable as food. Nevertheless, the unexpected dividend of this illness was that for the first time in her life, perhaps since the moment she was able to walk and perform any chores, Yangjin felt no compulsion to labor. It was no longer possible to cook meals, wash dishes, sweep the floors, sew clothing, scrub toilets, tend to the children, do laundry, make food to sell, or do whatever else needed doing. Her job was to rest before dying. All she had to do was nothing at all. At best, she had a few days left.

  Yangjin wasn’t sure what happened after this was over—but she felt she would go home either to all those who had died before or to Yesu Kuristo and his kingdom. She wanted to see her husband, Hoonie, again; once, in church, she’d heard a sermon that said that in heaven, the lame could walk and the blind could see. Her husband had opposed the idea of God, but she hoped that if there was a God, He would understand that Hoonie was a good man who had endured enough with the restrictions of his body and deserved to be well. Whenever Yangjin tried to talk about dying, Kyunghee and Sunja would change the subject.

  “So did you send the money to Solomon?” Yangjin asked. “I wanted you to send crisp, new bills from the bank.”

  “Yes, I sent it yesterday,” Sunja replied, adjusting her mother’s pillow so she could see the monitor better.

  “When will he get it? I haven’t heard from him.”

  “Umma, he’ll get the card tonight or tomorrow.”

  Solomon hadn’t phoned to speak to his great-grandmother this week, but that was understandable. He had just had a big birthday party, and Sunja was the one who would have reminded him to write a letter or to phone someone to say thank you or just to check in on them. “He’s probably busy with school. I’ll phone later.”

  “So is the singer really a famous talent?” Yangjin asked. Mozasu had furnished the house and provided for their upkeep ever since the women closed their confection business; it was still difficult for Yangjin to grasp that her grandson Mozasu could have so much money that he could hire pop stars for his son’s birthday party.

  “That must be so expensive! Is he really a celebrity?”

  “Well, that’s what Etsuko said.” Sunja was also curious as to how Solomon was faring; he would have had to get his identification card for the first time. She had been worried about that.

  The show came on, and Kyunghee bolted up to adjust the antenna. The picture improved. The familiar Japanese folk music for the program drifted into the room.

  “Where will Higuchi-san go today?” Yangjin smiled broadly.

  In Other Lands, the interviewer Higuchi-san, a spry, ageless woman with dyed black hair, traveled all over the globe and interviewed Japanese people who had immigrated to other lands. The interviewer was no ordinary woman of her generation; she was unmarried, childless, and a skilled world-traveling journalist who could ask any intimate question. She was reputed to have Korean blood, and the rumor alone was enough for Yangjin and Kyunghee to find Higuchi-san’s pluck and wanderlust relatable. They were devoted to her. When the women still ran their little confection shop, they’d rush straight home as soon as they closed to avoid missing even a minute of the program. Sunja had never been interested in the show, but now she sat through it for her mother’s sake.

  “Pillows!” Yangjin cried, and Sunja fixed them.

  Kyunghee clapped her hands as the opening credits rolled. Despite all the restrictions, she had always hoped that Higuchi-san could somehow go to North Korea. Koh Hansu had told her husband that her parents and in-laws were dead, yet she still yearned to hear news of home. Also, she wanted to know if Kim Changho was safe. No matter how many sad stories she heard from the others whose family members had gone back, she could not imagine that the handsome young man with the thick eyeglasses had died.

  As the opening music faded, a disembodied male voice announced that today, Higuchi-san was in Medellín to meet an impressive farming family who now owned the largest chicken farm in Colombia. Higuchi-san, wearing a light-colored raincoat and her famous green boshi, marveled how the Wakamura family had decided to migrate to Latin America at the end of the nineteenth century and how well they had raised their children to be good Japanese in the world. “Minna nihongo hanase-masu!” Higuchi-san’s voice was full of wonder and admiration.

  The camera zoomed in on Señora Wakamura, the surviving matriarch, a tiny, wrinkled woman who looked far older than her actual age of sixty-seven. Her large, sloping eyes, buried beneath layers of crepey, folded skin, appeared wise and thoughtful. Like her siblings, she was born in Medellín.

  “Things were very difficult for my parents, of course. They didn’t speak Spanish and didn’t know anything about chickens. Father died of a heart attack when I was six, then Mother raised us by herself. My oldest brother stayed here with our mother, but our other two brothers went to study in Montreal, then returned. My sisters and I worked on the farm.”

  “That must have been difficult, difficult work,” Higuchi-san exclaimed breathlessly.

  “A woman’s lot is to suffer,” Señora Wakamura said.

  “Soo, soo.”

  The camera panned to show the interior of the cavernous farm, a moving sea of white feathers comprised of tens of thousands of fluffy chickens; brilliant red combs streaked the pale, fluttering mass.

  At Higuchi-san’s behest, Señora Wakamura listed the number of chores that she’d had since she was tall enough to sprinkle chicken feed and avoid getting pecked.

  “How very hard all this must have been,” Higuchi-san repeated, trying not to wince from the noxious odors.

  Señora Wakamura shrugged. Her stoicism was undeniable as she showed all the moving parts of a working chicken farm, including lifting heavy machinery while trudging through muddy fields.

  At the end of the thirty-minute program, Higuchi-san asked Señora Wakamura to say something to the viewers in Japanese.

  The woman farmer with the ancient face turned to the camera shyly, then looked away like she was thinking.

  “I have never been to Japan”—she frowned—“but I hope that wherever I am in life and whatever I do, I can be a good Japanese. I hope to never bring shame to my people.”

  Higuchi-san grew teary and signed off. As the closing credits rolled, the announcer said that Higuchi-san was now heading to the airport to reach the next destination of Other Lands. “Till we countrymen meet again!” the announcer said brightly.

  Sunja got up and turned off the television. She wanted to head to the kitchen to boil some water for tea.

  “Go-saeng,” Yangjin said out loud. “A woman’s lot is to suffer.”

  “Yes, go-saeng.” Kyunghee nodded, repeating the word for suffering.

  All her life, Sunja had heard this sentiment from other women, that they must suffer—suffer as a girl, suffer as a wife, suffer as a mother—die suffering. Go-saeng—the word made her sick. What else was there besides this? She had suffered to create a better life for Noa, and yet it was not enough. Should she have taught her son to suffer the humiliation that she’d drunk like water? In the end, he had refused to suffer the conditions of his birth. Did mothers fail by not telling their sons that suffering would come?

  “You’re upset about Noa,” Yangjin said, “I know. He’s all that you ever think about. First it was Koh Hansu, and now it’s Noa. You’re suffering because you wanted that terrible man. A woman can’t make a mistake like that.”

  “What else should I have done?” Sunja blurted out, then immediately regretted doing so.

 
Yangjin shrugged, almost in comic imitation of the woman farmer. “You brought shame on your child by having that man as his father. You caused your own suffering. Noa, that poor boy, came from a bad seed. You’re fortunate that Isak married you. What a blessing that man was. Mozasu came from better blood. That’s why he’s so blessed in his work.”

  Sunja covered her mouth using both hands. It was said often that old women talked too much and said useless things, but it seemed like her mother had been storing these specific thoughts in reserve for her. This was like some sort of mean inheritance her mother had been planning to give her. Sunja couldn’t fight her. What was the point?

  Yangjin pursed her lips, then inhaled deeply through her nostrils.

  “That man was bad.”

  “Umma, he brought you here. If he hadn’t brought you—”

  “That’s true that he brought me here, but he was still awful. You can’t change that. That poor boy didn’t have a chance,” Yangjin said.

  “If Noa didn’t have a chance, then why did I suffer? Why should I have even tried? If I’m so foolish, if I made such unforgivable mistakes, is that your fault?” Sunja asked. “I don’t, I don’t…I won’t blame you.”

  Kyunghee looked at Yangjin imploringly, but the old woman seemed oblivious to her silent pleas.

  “Sister,” Kyunghee said gently. “May I get you something? To drink?”

  “No.” Yangjin turned to Sunja, pointing to Kyunghee. “She’s been better to me than my own family. She cares more about me than you do. You just care about Noa and Mozasu. You only came back when you learned that I was going to die. You don’t care about me. You don’t care about anyone else except your children.” Yangjin bawled.

  Kyunghee touched Yangjin’s arm gently.

  “Sister, this is not what you mean. Sunja had to take care of Solomon. You know that. You said it yourself so many times. And Mozasu needed his mother’s help after Yumi died,” she said quietly. “Sunja has suffered so much. Especially after Noa—” Kyunghee could barely say Noa’s name. “And you, you have had whatever you needed here, right?” She tried to sound as soothing as possible.

  “Yes, yes, you have always done your best for me. I wish Kim Changho could have stayed in Japan. Then he could have married you after your husband died. I worry that after I die who will take care of you. Sunja-ya, you must take care of Kyunghee. She can’t stay here by herself. Aigoo, if only Kim Changho hadn’t rushed off to the North and probably gotten himself killed. Aigoo. The poor man probably died for nothing.”

  Kyunghee crumpled visibly.

  “Umma, your medicine is making you say crazy things,” Sunja said.

  “Kim Changho only went to Korea because he couldn’t marry our Kyunghee, and he couldn’t suffer any more waiting,” Yangjin said, having stopped crying. It was like watching a toddler whose tears could stop at will. “He was much nicer than Yoseb. After his accident, Yoseb was a drunk, but Kim Changho was a real man. He would’ve made our wonderful Kyunghee happy, but he’s dead. Poor Kim Changho. Poor Kyunghee.”

  Seeing Kyunghee’s shocked expression, Sunja said firmly, “Umma, you should go to sleep. We’re going to leave you to rest. You must be tired. Come on, let’s go to the back room and finish the knitting,” Sunja said, helping Kyunghee up. At the door, Sunja turned out the light.

  “I’m not tired! You’re going to leave again, are you? When things get difficult, it’s easy to leave. Fine. I’ll die now, then you won’t have to stay here, and you can rush back to your precious Mozasu! I never created a burden for you one single day of my life. Until I couldn’t move, every minute I have been here, I have worked to support myself. I never took a yen above what I needed to eat and to put a roof over our heads. I always held up my share, you know. I raised you when your kindhearted father died—” At the mention of her husband, Yangjin began to cry again, and Kyunghee rushed to her, unable to watch her being so miserable.

  Sunja watched Kyunghee pat her mother gently until she quieted down. Her mother was unrecognizable to her; it would have been easy to say that the illness had changed her, but it wasn’t so simple, was it? Illness and dying had revealed her mother’s truer thoughts, the ones her mother had been protecting her from. Sunja had made a mistake; however, she didn’t believe that her son came from a bad seed. The Japanese said that Koreans had too much anger and heat in their blood. Seeds, blood. How could you fight such hopeless ideas? Noa had been a sensitive child who had believed that if he followed all the rules and was the best, then somehow the hostile world would change its mind. His death may have been her fault for having allowed him to believe in such cruel ideals.

  Sunja knelt at her mother’s pallet.

  “I’m sorry, umma. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I was away. I’m sorry about everything.”

  The old woman looked weakly at her only child, hating herself suddenly. Yangjin wanted to say she was sorry, too, but strength passed from her body, forcing her to close her eyes.

  13

  You’re not a Christian, are you?” Hana asked Solomon. She was sitting next to him in the pew. The minister had just finished eulogizing his great-grandmother, and the organist began to play “What a Friend We Have in Jesus.” The funeral service would end after the song and a closing prayer.

  Solomon tried to shush Hana politely, but as ever, she was persistent.

  “It’s like a cult, nee? But you don’t do anything interesting like get naked outdoors in a group or sacrifice babies? I read that people in America do things like that if they are serious Christians. But you don’t seem like one of those. You probably have to give lots of your money away since you’re rich, right?”

  Hana was whispering to him in Japanese with her lips close to his ear, and Solomon made a serious face like he was trying to concentrate. He could smell her strawberry lip gloss.

  He didn’t know how to reply. Some Japanese did believe that Christianity was a cult. His friends at school who were foreigners didn’t see it this way, but he didn’t know many Japanese who were Christians.

  Hana poked him in the ribs with her left pinkie finger while looking straight ahead at the choir.

  The choir was singing his great-grandmother’s favorite hymn. She used to hum it often.

  Like everyone in his family, Solomon was a Christian. His paternal grandfather, Baek Isak, had been one of the early Presbyterian ministers in Osaka. When Solomon was growing up, people at church referred to his grandfather as a martyr because he had been jailed for his faith and had died upon his release. Sunja, Mozasu, and Solomon went to service each Sunday.

  “It’s almost over, nee? I need a beer, Solomon. Let’s go? I’ve been a good girl, and I sat through the whole thing.”

  “Hana, she was my great-grandmother,” he said at last. Solomon remembered her as a gentle old woman who smelled like orange oil and biscuits. She didn’t speak much Japanese but always had treats and coins for him in her dark blue vest pockets.

  “We should be more respectful.”

  “Great-granny is now in heaven. Isn’t that what Christians say?” Hana mimicked a peaceful face.

  “Still, she’s dead.”

  “Well, you don’t seem very upset. Your grandmother Sunja doesn’t seem very sad,” she whispered. “Anyway, you’re a Christian, right?”

  “Yeah, I am a Christian. Why do you care so much?”

  “I want to know what happens after you die. What happens to babies that die?”

  Solomon didn’t know what to say.

  After her abortion, Hana had moved in with her mother. She’d refused to go back to Hokkaido and spent her days hanging out at Etsuko’s restaurant, bored and irritated by everything. She couldn’t handle the English at Solomon’s school, and she hated kids her own age and refused to go to the local high school. Etsuko was trying to figure out what Hana should do, but in the meantime, Hana had decided that Solomon was her project and followed him around at every opportunity.

  Like everyone else, Solomon thought that Hana was
exceptionally pretty, but Etsuko warned him that her daughter was a troublemaker and that he should befriend girls from his school.

  “Finally! The prayer is over. Come on, we can get out now before the exits clog up.” Hana elbowed him gently, then pulled him out of his chair, and he let her lead him out of the building.

  In the brightly lit alley behind the church, Hana leaned backward with one foot remaining on the ground and the other leg bent against the wall. She was smoking a cigarette. Again, she asked him why they couldn’t get beers.

  There were kids at his school who drank, but Solomon didn’t like the taste much, and his friends invariably got in trouble when drunk. His father wouldn’t have gotten mad at him for stuff like that, and in a way, Solomon felt free to say no to his friends at parties because it wasn’t a big deal. But it was difficult to say no to Hana, because she was relentless when it came to what she wanted. Hana already thought he was too square.

  Hana inhaled her cigarette deeply, making a lovely pout as she exhaled.

  “No beer. Respects his great-grandmother’s funeral. Never angry at his father. Oh, Solomon, maybe you can be a minister.”

  She clasped her hands in prayer and closed her eyes.

  “I’m not going to be a minister. But what should I do when I grow up?” he asked.

  An older boy at school had told a bunch of guys that all women are whores and all men are killers; girls cared about your future job because they wanted to marry rich guys.

  “I don’t know, Minister Pachinko.” She laughed. “Hey, Christians aren’t supposed to fuck before marriage, right?”

  Solomon buttoned his suit jacket. It felt chilly outside, and his coat was still hanging in the hall closet upstairs.

  “You’re still a virgin,” she said, smiling. “I know. That’s okay. You’re only fourteen. Do you want to?”

  “What?”

  “With me? I can, you know.” She sucked on her cigarette again, even more suggestively. “I’ve done it. A lot. I know what you’ll like.” Hana held the necktie his father had tied for him that morning by the knot, then released her grasp slowly.