Desire in Any Language

by Anastasia Vitsky

  “Tell me how much it hurts,” he commands. When I am too shocked to answer, the solid something flattens my bottom again. “Tell me!”

  “A lot!” I moan. “Please stop!”

  “That’s right,” he says, releasing my hair. “And how does it feel when I do this?” He changes position again, and this time he spreads apart my legs before inflicting pain in areas that I never knew existed. Every so often, he demands for me to tell him how much it hurts. I babble incoherently, at first trying to obey and then no longer needing to simulate the terror that delights him.

  After longer than I know to be possible, he pushes me to my knees on the floor.

  “Beg my forgiveness,” he rasps. I am too slow to understand his meaning, and he cuffs my ear as if I am a disobedient puppy. “I said beg my forgiveness!”

  I wail more incoherent words until he tells me to get dressed and to leave. I don’t have to be told twice. I scramble into my skirt before grabbing my shoes and running into the hallway on nylons that quickly shred into nothingness. He laughs as he slams the door shut, and it is his laughter more than anything else that brings me to my senses.

  “Eat yot!” I scream at the closed door before I run away, tears streaming down my cheeks. I don’t even notice that I have lost a shoe until the blood from my cut foot causes me to slip.

  Desire Expressed

  Despite the pain and difficulty walking, I attend class the next day. Ah-ee, Pedro, and several of the others are sufficiently red-eyed and hungover to make my red eyes and squirming quite unremarkable. Ah-ee goes with me to the phone shop to declare my phone missing, and to my surprise I am offered use of a company phone free of charge.

  “Why?” I ask Ah-ee. Her language skills are much better than mine, so she has done most of the negotiating.

  “They don’t want to lose your business. So you can use this one until you find your old one or buy another.”

  The scuffed-up grey clamshell phone is hardly prize property, but it is free and in working condition.

  “Really? Thank you!” I beam at the service…what is she called? Technician? Specialist? She pushes some paperwork toward me and rattles off a list of confusing instructions. I only understand “sign” and notice the X marks in front of several lines. I scribble my name and give it back to her.

  “Okay?” I ask.

  “Okay,” she smiles back, answering in English. It really is the universal word. Okay, taxi, and sh—well, another word, they are the three universal words known by nearly everyone I meet. Only here it sounds more like “tek-shee” and “sheet”. There is no short “i” sound as in “bit”, only the long “ee” sound as in “whee.” As in “Whee, I don’t have to buy a new phone!”

  “Your phone number is even the same!” Ah-ee grins, as delighted as if she is the one to personally offer the service. “Aren’t they great?”

  I nod and thank both Ah-ee and the customer service person. What a great country, I think.

  Slipping my phone into my pocket, I am shocked at myself. A great country? Really? After…but then I resolutely turn my thoughts away.

  “Shopping next, right?” Ah-ee asks. I smile. I don’t know how formal the lunch will be tomorrow, but it never hurts to have new clothes.

  “Sure! Where first?”

  We wander through the street markets as well as the little shops and huge department stores, and Ah-ee talks me into buying a lavender jacket with a matching skirt and a white blouse.

  “I look forty-five!” I complain, even as I hold the jacket under my chin. At least it will be warm. Spring is slow to arrive this year.

  “It’s a lunch with your tutor, not your boyfriend,” Ah-ee reminds me. “Plus all of your other clothes make you look really young.”

  I make a face at her, but I slip the jacket on and turn around to admire myself in it. I do look grown-up. Maybe grown-up enough to stop getting myself into messes.

  “Okay,” I say. “I’ll take it.”

  Ah-ee is right, as usual, and the next day at the restaurant I am bathed in compliments.

  “So pretty!” she remarks, stroking the soft fabric. “So pretty with your skin, and your hair back…are you finally growing up?”

  I blush profusely, stammering. If I’d known that all it would take to get in her good graces was new clothes, I would have bought them long ago. We are brought to a little table, and we slip our shoes off in order to seat ourselves on the floor. A small “ooh!” escapes as I try to sit down, and she takes my arm.

  “Have you hurt yourself?”

  “No, no,” I answer. “Just too much dancing…”

  It’s a small lie, but it’s close enough to the truth that she sighs. I stifle a sigh of my own. I hadn’t meant to bring up a sensitive subject. I was too focused on my own sensitive “subject” that now that I am sitting on the floor. The warmth from the floorboards, ordinarily an uprising hug on a cold day, seeps through the floor cushion in the most uncomfortable places.

  I rise to my knees in order to arrange the napkins and cutlery from the serving dishes, and I pour her glass of water with the correct two-handed method. It is my first time to eat a meal with her, but at school there is a special class for culture and etiquette. Translation and interpretation are much more than changing words from one language to another.

  When the server arrives he takes down the order and vanishes immediately. She has not asked my preference but that, too, I have learned, is customary. I hope she remembers that I don’t like squid. I remember all too clearly that to not eat with appreciation is the height of rudeness.

  “Mira,” she begins, and I brace myself for the lecture, “tell me why you came here for school.”

  I blink at her stupidly. Didn’t we do all of this when I applied and interviewed and was accepted? She is too young to accuse of senility, however, and it is an order rather than a request for my opinion.

  “Um…” I think for a moment. Did Lee Sonsengnim tell her the reason that I cried in class? If he did, then maybe I could tell her more of the truth this time. “Well, I was born here and I always wanted to see what it was like, so after I graduated from college I came to this school.”

  She nods. She has heard parts of this story but not all. “What did your parents think?”

  That’s been a hard adjustment for me here, to answer questions about my parents. It’s not that I mind, but I have trouble remembering that here parents are involved even in their adult children’s lives. People my own age here still ask their parents for permission or receive money on holidays.

  “They were a little upset, but once they heard how much I like it here they said it was great. Dad wants to come for a visit next year, but Mom isn’t much of a traveler so…”

  The food arrives, hot and steaming and plentiful. I don’t know the name, but she points out each bit of the noodles, vegetables, and oysters and explains them to me. I am so relieved that there is no squid that I take a hearty bite—only to yelp in pain.

  “It’s hot!” she warns me, too late.

  I hurriedly take a gulp of water and swish it around my burnt tongue. Just when I was trying to make a good impression! I look down to see, thankfully, that at least I have avoided spilling any of the sauce on my new clothes. Spicy red sauce and pale white and lavender clothes are not an optimal combination.

  “Do you like being here?” she asks as if we hadn’t been interrupted by the food. I think about her question as I carefully blow cooling air onto the sizzling noodles.

  “Am I going to get kicked out?”

  I hadn’t meant to ask it that bluntly, but her eyes soften.

  “Do you want to be?”

  I start to say no, but then I stop. “I guess I’m doing all the things to get kicked out, right?”

  It is not technically correct to ask an authority figure a question that assumes the answer, but she nods.

  “I want to be a translator,” I say. “I’m not so good at the interpreting, I mean the speaking and listening stuff is
too fast for me, but if I got my certificate and could start freelancing…I love it here. I want to stay.”

  “Here at school or here in this country?”

  I pull on my lip, another etiquette no-no. I must remember to thank Jung Sonsengnim for teaching me all of the etiquette rules so that I can be self-conscious as I keep breaking them.

  “I want to stay in the country yes, but the school too. Only I keep messing up…”

  She takes a choice bit of oyster and places it in front of me. “Eat,” she says. Oyster is not my favorite food in the world, but I nod my thanks and eat as if it is the most delicious morsel I have ever tasted.

  “I’m not a translator,” she reminds me, and I give her a questioning look. “Are you having so much trouble because you need to be with an advisor who can guide you better?”

  “No!” I nearly shout. Not this again!

  “I’m an English teacher by day, and I’m only at the school part-time. Do you need someone more consistent, someone who can be more involved? I’m not throwing you away, Mira. But what we’re doing isn’t working, and something has to change. What can we do?”

  We, she asks. Not just me, but “we”. Both of us. I wonder…I catch my breath and then the memory of two days ago comes unbidden.

  I can make your dreams come true.

  No one can make all of my dreams come true, but perhaps I have been looking in the wrong places.

  “Sonsengnim,” I begin, and she interrupts.

  “What do you need?”

  I look down at my plate, the chopsticks awkward in my hand.

  Do not displease me.

  Perhaps I have been trying to please the wrong people. For the wrong reasons. “Mistress Susan” disappeared overnight, “her” account deleted from the chat room. A few questions to other chatters resulted in overwhelming stories of how “she” had said exactly the same things to other girls. The only difference was that they lived too far away to visit “her” in person. Lucky them.

  “Can I tell you something?” I ask. She nods.

  “It kind of freaked me out when you…you know…the rod of love…” I blush. She frowns.

  “Are you saying it’s a problem?”

  I shake my head. It takes all my courage to continue. “Well, where I grew up we didn’t have that. Not at school, not in my family really, not anywhere. And…I know this will sound crazy, but I was glad you did it.”

  “Oh, Mira…” She reaches toward me, but my hands are firmly clasped in my lap.

  “It felt like you really cared about me, and it mattered what I did, and…”

  I struggle to find words, but I trail off into a silence. She waits, and when I no longer speak she finishes for me.

  “Are you saying that you wish I would do it more?”

  I am not brave enough to look at her, but I am brave enough to nod my head. To whisper, “But not if you are too busy or you don’t want to or…”

  “I am busy. We are all busy. But if this will help you…”

  I break in. “It’s not inappropriate? I mean, I don’t just mean for if I do something wrong. I mean…” I shrug eloquently.

  She speaks very carefully, measuring her words. “Why would it be inappropriate?”

  “I don’t know, that it’s childish? That I should be able to do things on my own?”

  She smiles at me. “I think it’s far more childish to skip your class and leave crying and not do your homework, don’t you?”

  I smile in spite of myself. “You really wouldn’t mind?”

  She shakes her head. “I wouldn’t mind. On a few conditions.”

  I look up. “Anything.”

  “I don’t know if school is always going to be convenient for both of us. It may be that I’ll need to ask you to come to my house sometimes. However…” she lifts a hand to stop my interruption, “only if you feel safe and comfortable doing so. You must tell me otherwise right now.”

  I shake my head. To be honest, I’ve been a little curious about her husband. The wedding was so hectic that I didn’t get to meet him, at least not more than a very brief greeting.

  “Second,” she continues, “I want regular check-ins. Whether you’ve done your work or think I will be pleased.”

  I wince. It’s a reasonable requirement, but it’s been my worst failing. “How regular?”

  “Let’s start with an email or text every school day. Just tell me if you’ve completed your work or not.”

  I nod, poking at my noodles to avoid looking at her. I’m not entirely sure how she will have the time for that much contact, but if she is offering then I would be stupid not to accept. I’ve made enough stupid decisions to last the rest of my life.

  “Third,” she says, and I suck my breath in wondering just how many conditions she will name, “if you think you are in need of some…love…then you are to tell me.” She waits until I lift my eyes to meet her very serious ones. “I expect you to keep your promises, Mira.”

  I lick my lips and nod. “Yes, Sonsengnim.”

  “And finally, in school you will still need to call me Sonsengnim but when we are not in school…” I look at her, puzzled. “I’d like for you to call me Oni.”

  I continue to stare at her. When she became my tutor, she allowed me to call her Eunji Sonsengnim. Slightly less formal than using her last name plus Sonsengnim, but still formal. But Oni? That is for little sisters, younger friends…not for students. Certainly not for problem students who are in danger of failing a second time.

  “Eunji Oni,” she says. “I think you need an oni as much as you need a sonsengnim, don’t you agree?”

  Normally I would be ashamed to start crying in a restaurant. Normally I would be slightly horrified to be instructed to address a teacher as if she is a friend or big sister. Normally…

  But my normal hasn’t worked very well for me lately, so perhaps it’s time to start being abnormal.

  “Mira-ya,” she says. “Are you going to listen to your oni from now on?”

  I nod as hard as I can, weeping. “Yes, Oni,” I answer. “I’ll listen.”

  As she pays our bill, she embraces me and then tucks a loose strand of hair behind my right ear. “Stop crying,” she scolds lightly. “Or else Oni will need to make you cry.”

  “Bully,” I say without thinking, and then I giggle at myself in shock. Did I just…? No, I didn’t!

  She reaches up and brushes away a tear falling onto my cheek.

  “Yes,” she says. “Oni is going to bully you into passing your course. So listen to your oni...or else!”

  “Yes Oni,” I answer, and I promptly ruin my promise with a giggle.

  Desire Begun

  I bound into her…I mean Eunji Oni’s…no wait it’s school, so Eunji Sonsengnim’s shared office. It’s the first time in weeks that the “W” in “Wednesday” stands for “Whee!” instead of “Woe.” Before she can even offer the chamomile tea I sling my bag onto her desk. I rummage through my bag to take out the notebook I use for her lessons and excitedly chatter about the new story for this week. It’s silly woodcutter who hid a girl’s wings so she couldn’t get back home, and she had to stay and do all of his work like she was his property.

  She pours two cups of scalding tea, one for herself and one for me.

  “Mira,” she says, and my stomach sinks at her tone. I sent her the daily emails. I did all of my homework. My weekly quiz score wasn’t that great, but it’s only been a week! I can’t make up all of the work at once.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask nervously.

  “Lee Sonsengnim messaged me.”

  My stomach sinks even further. I am not sure what I could have done wrong, but those have never been happy words between us. I set my notebook on her desk and hunch my shoulders forward.

  “What did I do?”

  “He’s concerned about your midterm exams coming up.” She taps her capped pen against her desk. “If you don’t score high enough, your temporary probation may turn into a permanent one.” />
  I take out my weekly progress report, signed by Lee Sonsengnim and the other teachers saying that my work and attendance have been acceptable for the past week. I offer it to her with a silent plea. She takes it from me and pushes her glasses up her nose to read the brief notes.

  “Acceptable,” she reads out loud. She turns back to me. “I know you’re trying, Mira, but this isn’t going to be enough.”

  I bristle at her words. “I’ve done all of my homework and it’s only been a week and…”

  She stops me. “We’re almost halfway through the term already. You lost your chance for the scholarship this month, you’ve missed most of a day, and your homework hasn’t been turned in. Mira, you should have been off probation ages ago. I thought just the threat would be enough.”

  If it weren’t for the other teachers chatting nearby, the silence would be deafening. It’s not fair, I want to say. I can’t fix everything all at once, and you’re the one who said it would be all right. I have a feeling, though, that these are the thoughts of the Mira who got into this mess in the first place. What would a Mira say who wanted to get out of her mess?

  I choose my words carefully. “I know I have a lot to make up, but I don’t know what more I can do. I don’t want to be on probation any more, either.”

  “Do you know what it means if you are on permanent probation?”

  I shake my head. I don’t think “very bad things” is the answer she wants.

  “All of your teachers, especially Lee Sonsengnim and I, will need to fill out extensive paperwork at the end of the term evaluating whether you should be allowed to continue. The school disciplinary committee will meet and review your file. Also, if at any time during the permanent probation your work is unsatisfactory, you will be dismissed at Director Choi’s discretion.”