Il-sun did not have energy to speak, so the women sat together holding hands and looking into one another’s eyes. It was amazing how much could be said with only the eyes. There were looks that said “I’m sorry,” looks that said “I’m scared,” looks that said “I love you. I will miss you when you’re gone.” Gi stroked Il-sun’s head and held her hand, and told stories, memories of being children together—and they laughed. The offenses that at one time seemed so big in their friendship fell away. Even their history, where they had come from and where they had been, seemed insignificant compared to being there together in that moment. The only moment there will ever be is right now—Gi had heard that somewhere, and now it made sense.
Nurses and doctors came and went. They were so busy that they rarely spoke to the women—they were impatient for Il-sun to die. They needed the bed. Gyong-ho was glad that Il-sun was at least not dying alone. She was there for her. After dark the head nurse came in and told them visiting hours were over. She looked for a moment like she might enforce it, but then she turned and left the room. A few minutes later she returned with extra blankets and a box of crackers.
“Sleep in bed next to me, like in the old days,” Il-sun rasped to Gi. The effort of saying it was nearly too much for her. Gi climbed into the bed and put her arm around her. Il-sun felt hollow under her arm. Gi could not sleep. She counted Il-sun’s breaths until dawn. Cho slept restlessly in a chair.
The next day Il-sun floated in and out of consciousness. Gi and Cho sat with her, leaving reluctantly only to use the bathroom. A young intern took pity on them and brought food from the cafeteria. They had no appetite, however. Tears came in bursts at unexpected intervals. Gi again held Il-sun through the night.
The following day Il-sun awoke with bright, alert eyes. Some energy returned to her and she even sat up in bed for a short while. Her voice was soft, and she seemed possessed of a deep calm. She told them, especially Gyong-ho, how much she loved them. The rise of energy was short-lived, however, and by noon she was unconscious again. To Gi she seemed like a piece of clockwork winding down. Her breaths came in shorter gasps, and more slowly. Her heart was a faint throb. The head nurse came in and said, “It won’t be long now.”
There were no more tears. The clockwork stopped—there was a little cough and then her body deflated. In one moment there was life, and in the next it was gone. It was that simple—the sweet release of death. Gi was lying in the bed next to her. She felt her final heartbeat. The last one pulsed strong. She died with her eyelids half open. Gi closed them with her fingertips.
85
AFTER IL-SUN PASSED AWAY, something in Gyong-ho was liberated. The quest to find Il-sun had taken the focus off her own suffering, and enabled her to persevere. Through it she built her inner strength. Now that Il-sun was dead, the story of Gi’s childhood had ended. The last remaining tether to who she had been was severed. She was ready to start over. If the child Gyong-ho was communist Chosun, and the adult Gyong-ho would be imperialist American, then she would have to resolve the conflict between the two within herself. The enemy, she decided, was not the communist or the imperialist, but the lack of understanding between them. If one has to be right, then one has to be wrong, in a polarized world. Yes and no. But between yes and no there is an infinite range of possibilities, a full spectrum of maybe. If you are stuck in either/or, then you are missing the infinite.
She went to the library almost every day after Il-sun died. She read books and filled notebooks with observations, thoughts, and equations. She would sit alone in quiet, blissful concentration.
“Is that the Olowati paradox you’re working on?” a voice said over her shoulder, startling her.
She turned to see a tall, dark-skinned man with a wide smile and a pot belly standing over her. He was in his middle fifties and wore large, square glasses and a sweater with broad horizontal stripes that made him look wider than he actually was. She felt guilty, as if she had been caught doing something bad. “Yes,” she said sheepishly.
“That’s ambitious. Can I see?”
Gi handed the man her notebook, only because she thought it would have been rude not to. She would have preferred to keep her work to herself.
The man sat on a chair across the table and studied her work intently. His eyes darted around the pages as he chewed on his lower lip.
“My God, have you solved this?” he said after several minutes. “Jesus God, I think you might have solved it! Is this all your work?” He looked up at her in disbelief.
Gi nodded.
“Are you . . .” The man found himself speechless. “Jesus God.” He looked back over her notes. “Are you Carlson’s student?”
She shook her head.
“Well, you’re not my student. You don’t look old enough to be doing doctoral work, anyway. I’ll be damned. What’s your name?”
“Gyong-ho.”
“You did this?”
His shock and disbelief were getting irritating. “Can I have my notebook back now, please?”
“Of course. Sorry. My name is Henry. Professor Henry Calvin. What school are you with?”
“School?”
“You’re not at UW. I know all the upper-level mathematicians there. When will you be publishing?”
“Publishing?”
“Surely you are going to be publishing this soon. I don’t mean to be forward, but I wouldn’t mind being on your peer review board. I would love to go over this thoroughly.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about.”
“This is your work? You didn’t just find this notebook?”
“I need to go,” said Gi, standing up.
“No, wait.” Professor Calvin stood up and handed her a card. “Take this. It has my number on it. I’m having a gathering of all my post-grad students. If you wouldn’t mind, I would love for you to come and present your proof to us. I know a couple of them have tried their hand at Olowati’s paradox.”
Gi took the card and looked at it. “People will be there just to discuss mathematics?”
Professor Calvin laughed. “Of course. That’s what we do.” He took the card back and wrote on the back of it. “That’s the address. Six o’clock next Thursday. I’ll supply the beer. You bring your notebook.”
86
PROFESSOR CALVIN’S HOUSE LOOMED over the street, and Gi was afraid to knock on the door. He had seemed nice enough, but she was still not sure whom she could trust. As far as she could tell, meeting freely was something that Americans took for granted, but old fears die hard and she could not shake the dread that secret police might arrest the hapless partygoers. Still, the thought of meeting people who wanted to discuss the very things she thought about all the time was too exciting to pass up. She swallowed her fear and knocked on the door.
“Can I help you?” A young man answered, his lip curling slightly when he saw her. Although she was clean, Gi realized that she still looked like she came from the street. Her clothes were mismatched and all the wrong size and frayed around the edges. Her hair was unkempt.
“Mr. Professor Calvin invite me party here,” said Gi nervously. Her English always reverted when she was nervous, and her accent became exaggerated. She wished she had not come.
The man looked her up and down. “This is a private party—”
“Adam, who’s there?” a voice boomed from behind the door.
“Nobody, Prof. C. Just a girl from the street.”
“Maybe it’s that Gung-ho girl I told you about. Let her in.”
The young man stood aside, looking down his nose as Gi entered the house. The only home she had been in since arriving in Seattle was the Lings’, and though theirs was large by Chosun standards, it seemed like a hovel compared to Professor Calvin’s. Professor Calvin’s home was full of colorful wall hangings and personal photographs. There were knickknacks on all the surfaces, shelves full of books, rugs, and nice sofas. The house had many rooms, and a back patio that overlooked Lake Washington. She had long a
go discovered that the relative comfort of Americans was much higher than that of North Koreans, but she had not witnessed it quite so intimately until now.
“Welcome! Welcome!” Professor Calvin extended his hand to her, his face full of warmth. She grabbed his hand awkwardly, and simultaneously shook and bowed. “Come and meet everybody,” he said. He took her into a room with plush carpeting, a television set in the corner, and chairs arranged in a loose circle. A white dry-erase board was set up on an easel near the television. “Everyone, this is Gung-ho, the one I was telling you about.”
There were ten people in the room besides Professor Calvin and Gi. They all looked up at her, many of them smiling—they were not all going to be rude like the man at the door had been. She shook hands and bowed. Someone offered her food from a tray, crackers with a pink spread. She was hungry but ate reservedly anyway.
“Where are you from, Gung-ho?” asked a pale woman with long, red hair. Gi got stuck on the woman’s shocking green eyes and was nearly too stunned to answer.
“Korea,” she finally said. She had learned that nobody in America knew the word Chosun, and that it was better not to be specific about which Korea. Americans always assumed she meant South Korea, if they even had a notion that Korea was a divided nation.
“And how did you come to the States?”
“On a boat,” she replied. She was uncomfortable with the line of questioning. Everyone in the room chuckled. Apparently they had thought she was making a joke.
“I mean, are you studying here? Are you with a school?”
“No school.”
“But you are working on Olowati’s paradox?”
“I found it in a book. I thought it was interesting.” Again people laughed, but she did not understand the joke.
“Where’s your notebook? I was hoping you could give us a glimpse of your proof,” said Professor Calvin.
“I left it with my friend. I can show you on paper, if you like.” As she was getting more relaxed, her English improved.
“Without her notes? This should be good,” said the man who had answered the door. His voice was dripping with sarcasm.
“Can you show us on the board up there?” prompted Professor Calvin.
Gi nodded and went to the board. “Olowati’s paradox is written like this . . .” she began. She started writing a series of numbers and symbols. As she wrote she became absorbed in the problem and her nervousness melted away completely. The room fell captive as she went methodically through the problem. “Olowati’s first misunderstanding of the problem was . . .” and she had to erase the board to write more equations and symbols. It flowed from her seamlessly. She filled and erased the board a dozen times, and after an hour and a half she had finished, “So Olowati’s paradox isn’t really a paradox at all.” The room was densely quiet.
“My God . . .” said Adam, the rude young man from the door, as the silence began to wear off.
“I didn’t catch all of that, but I have no doubt that she’s right,” said a woman in the back of the room.
“Did you follow that, Prof. C?” asked a man who was sitting sideways on a sofa.
“Without your notes?” said Professor Calvin in disbelief.
Epilogue
IT WAS A BEAUTIFUL spring day. Gyong-ho sat on a bench in front of the music building, as she did at this time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, and waited. Sometimes as early as three thirty-three, and once as late as three forty-nine, the object of Gyong-ho’s fascination emerged from the music building. When she did, time would slow down and the rare Seattle sun would come out and shine just for her. She was beauty: all woman and springtime, natural curves gliding through space. She was unplucked innocence waiting to know herself.
The first time Gi saw her, her heart went cold. If Gi had not held Il-sun as she passed away, had she not stayed with her body until it was cold, she would have sworn it was her. The likeness was uncanny. More than her features, it was her rhythm, her cadence, the carefree swing of her hips. And it made Gi’s heart burst. As she did every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday between three thirty-three and three forty-nine in the afternoon, she cried.
The young woman passed, unnoticing as always, and walked to the north. Gi sat, feeling her grief, becoming lighter for it. Through her tears she saw Cho step out of the throng of students, still wearing her cleaning uniform, the small diamond on her engagement ring seeming to light up the rest of her.
“They must think I’m crazy,” Gi said to her, forcing a smile.
“Geniuses are supposed to be crazy,” Cho replied, sitting down and putting her arm around her. Her English had steadily been improving.
“It just hurts so much.”
“Yes, it does.”
“But it’s getting better. Slowly.”
“Yes. Yes, it is, teacup.”
Acknowledgments
I WOULD FIRST AND foremost like to thank my wife, Michi Holley-Jones, for her unfailing support in every way, and her belief in me while I was writing this novel, even when things got tough. You are a constant inspiration to me and teach me daily about patience, kindness and empathy. This work would not have been possible without you.
Also, I would like to thank Greg Kahn for coddling the seed, for providing much needed encouragement, for hours spent combing through and discussing the first draft, and for giving me permission for all the chapter fifteens.
I would like to thank Lailani Kahn for talking me down when I really needed it. Also, thank you, Landhiji, for being an exquisite witness to the birth of a writer, sharing with me the excitement that goes with it, and bruising my arm when required.
Special thanks to Alice Walker for reading the work, believing in it, and fanning the ember until it caught.
Thanks to my agent, Wendy Weil, for taking this on and working hard to find this novel a home.
A huge thank-you to my editor, Andra Miller, whose equal parts enthusiasm and insight helped this work find its potential. Also, deep thanks to all the folks at Algonquin, who propel their books with passion.
Thank you, Pierce Scranton, for believing in this work and being its champion.
Thanks to the anonymous LiNK intern (www.linkglobal.org) who offered verification of some of the details in this book.
I would like to thank everyone who read and offered feedback on the various drafts along the way. Special thanks to Cymber Lily Quinn, Lisa Fitzhugh, Jennifer Barr, Greg Kahn (because I cannot thank you enough), Margot Kenly, Brad Pearson, and Brad Smith.
And a huge mahalo to the Hale ‘ohana, on whose ancestral land I was able to find the peace, inspiration, and time to conceive of myself as a writer, and to bring this novel into the world.
Published by
ALGONQUIN BOOKS OF CHAPEL HILL
Post Office Box 2225
Chapel Hill, North Carolina 27515-2225
a division of
WORKMAN PUBLISHING
225 Varick Street
New York, New York 10014
© 2012 by Brandon W. Jones.
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. While, as in all fiction, the literary perceptions and
insights are based on experience, all names, characters, places, and incidents
either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
ISBN 978-1-61620-152-4
Table of Contents
Cover
Title
Dedication
Author’s Note
A Note on Vernacular
Part I
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
Part II
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
Part III
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
All Woman and Springtime Page 33
