She reaches for it. He holds on to the apple at first. She freezes, letting him kiss her, but her unblinking eyes remain on the fruit held tightly in his hand. When he finally pulls away, he smiles at her and releases the fruit. She turns away from him, hunching her shoulders towards the horse, as she devours the half-eaten apple. He lifts her dress as she swallows the last of the crisp fruit, and she leans her forehead against the horse’s black mane as his hands touch her.
He kisses her neck and presses up behind her, pushing her against the horse. She listens to his breath, alternating with hers. She listens to the rain falling in a delicate patter all around them. She hears the wind push the clouds away. He wraps his arms around her in a fierce embrace so tight, Hana thinks he means to crush her body into his until there is nothing left of her, merely a memory living within him, the last person in this world to see her alive.
Her heart thumps inside her chest. His embrace threatens to suffocate her, but her heart continues to beat strongly against his arms. She sucks in a deep breath through her open mouth. Her chest expands against his stranglehold.
A beam of sunlight breaks through the departing clouds, revealing a slice of green in the distance. He finally releases her, and she breathes deeply. The air tastes different, sunlit, warm and fresh. The throbbing pain in her shoulder reminds her she is still alive, that her body is healing. She swears to herself Morimoto’s will not be the last human face she sees.
Morimoto lifts her onto the horse. He surprises her by climbing up behind her and holding her close to his chest so they ride together as one. She ignores his constant touch and his nearness, but when he begins to whistle, the familiar tune that often drifted through her barred window as he ended his shift at the brothel, she can’t suppress her repugnance. She leans away from him, hugging the horse’s neck, gripping its hair in her fisted hands. Her shoulder protests against the motion, but she doesn’t give in. She welcomes the pain because it does its work, screaming into her head, blocking out his nauseating song.
Emi
Seoul, December 2011
Emi awakens as the echo of a girl’s voice fades into silence. She shivers and glances around a sterile room. A heart monitor beeps beside her. She reaches out to touch it but notices a small device clamped onto the tip of her finger. It is connected to a wire that disappears over the edge of the bed. She touches her forehead with her other hand, and she slowly begins to recall the demonstration. The crowd of unfamiliar people swarms in her mind, the sudden shock of recognition.
The statue looms in her memory. Its bronze face, Hana’s face, shines like gold reflecting iridescent sunlight. She sits up, the heart monitor beeps erratically, and then she spies her son asleep in an armchair in the far corner of the room. The mechanical beeps slow, find a regular rhythm once again, and she calls to him.
‘You’re awake.’ He coughs and she smiles at him as he sits next to her on the hospital bed.
‘I need to go back,’ she says.
‘Go back?’ he repeats. ‘Go back where? Home? Because you can’t fly home. The doctor says’ he begins before she cuts him off.
‘No, to the demonstration.’
‘The demonstration is over, Mother. You have been in hospital for two days.’
The news is a shock. Her heart skips a beat on the monitor, and her son looks at it, concerned. He taps the plastic screen, but the beats are regular again. He turns to her, and there is uncertainty in his eyes. He looks like a child questioning what he should say next.
‘Mother, you’re not well. The doctor says your heart has suffered a shock. You need to rest here for a few more days … especially … because of your heart condition.’ He pats her arm, as though unsure what else to do with his hands. ‘I’ll get YoonHui. She can explain better than me. She went to get a coffee.’ He rises, looks at her carefully as though assessing whether he should stay, pats her arm again. ‘I’ll be right back,’ he says reassuringly, and runs his hand through his thinning silver hair before heading for the door.
The door whispers shut, and Emi is alone. Hana. She has to see her again. Hyoung said it has been two whole days. Will the statue still be there? She can’t remember if it is a permanent fixture or a travelling art exhibit. Surely it will still be there one day more either way, but she knows she has to hurry. Time was not her friend when she left her island, and waking up in a hospital only emphasises that fact.
When the village doctor informed her she had heart disease and only months to live, she laughed. Of course she would die from a broken heart. Then the bitterness within her turned into desperation. She needed to search for her sister, just one more time, even if she never truly believed she would find her. But now she has; Hana is out there, waiting for Emi to come to her.
Emi throws the covers off her legs. They are bare. She is wearing a hospital gown with nothing underneath. She removes the clip from her finger, but then the heart monitor goes flat, issuing an alert. Reaching over, she pushes a few buttons, desperate to silence the high-pitched alarm. Finally, she turns a knob and the sound disappears into nothing.
Carefully, she slips out of the bed and searches the room for her clothes. She finds them in the en suite bathroom, neatly folded next to the sink. Her daughter’s work. She dresses as quickly as her ailing body will allow, but she cannot find her handbag. She searches through the wardrobe, the drawers, even underneath the hospital bed, but it is nowhere to be found. She cannot leave without her handbag.
In the hallway, the medical staff rushes past Emi as she shuffles towards the nurses’ station. Lane is standing in the waiting room, staring out of the window at the grey sky. It is snowing again. Emi makes her way to her.
‘Mother, you’re awake. What are you doing out here?’ Lane sounds alarmed.
‘Where’s my handbag?’ Emi asks, careful to sound calm and in control of her senses, as if nothing has happened.
‘Your handbag?’ Lane repeats as though she does not understand the meaning of the word.
‘I need my handbag so that I can go back,’ Emi explains.
‘Slow down, you’re not well, Mother. Have a seat, here.’ Lane helps Emi into a chair. ‘I have your handbag. It’s right here,’ Lane says, and digs beneath a pile of coats on the chair next to her. She lifts Emi’s handbag from the bottom and gives it to her.
Relief and calm flood over Emi as she clasps it to her chest. She looks at Lane and wonders how to explain herself so that she will be understood. A nurse passes them, and Emi sits a little taller, as though sitting straight is a sign of health. When the nurse is out of earshot, she leans towards Lane.
‘I need to go back to the statue. My children won’t understand, but perhaps you will.’
Lane looks sceptical, but she leans in towards Emi.
‘I don’t have much time left,’ Emi confesses. ‘I’ve known for a while that my heart is diseased.’
She looks at Lane meaningfully, and it takes a few seconds for her to understand. When she does, her hand flies to her mouth. Emi nods.
‘How long have you known?’ Lane asks. She touches Emi’s forearm.
‘That doesn’t matter. What matters is this is my last trip to Seoul,’ Emi confesses. ‘My last chance to find her.’
‘It does matter!’ Lane nearly shouts. She looks past Emi, searching for YoonHui. ‘You have to tell your children. How much time do you have?’ Lane keeps spouting clipped sentences and questions at Emi until she suddenly stops and focuses on Emi’s face. ‘You can’t die. Not yet. Your daughter needs you.’
‘My daughter is a grown woman. She is successful and secure,’ Emi says, and then touches Lane’s shoulder. ‘And she has you.’
Lane seems not to know how to respond. Emi continues.
‘I need to finish what I came here to do.’
‘And what is that, exactly?’ Lane asks, cradling Emi’s hand in both of hers.
‘I need to see my sister again.’
Lane remains silent. She turns her head and stares out th
e window. The grey light casts a filtered shadow across her pale skin.
‘YoonHui will never understand,’ Lane says finally.
‘I know, that’s why I have to leave before she can stop me.’
‘No,’ Lane says, releasing Emi’s hand. ‘She will never understand why you didn’t tell her about your sister.’ Lane looks at her accusingly. ‘Each of the last three years you’ve gone to a Wednesday Demonstration, and you’ve lied to YoonHui and to me … You should have told us you were looking for your sister.’
Emi looks down at the linoleum floor. She doesn’t have time to argue with Lane or her daughter and son. She fears getting stuck in the hospital. If she falls seriously ill in this place, she will never escape it.
‘I have kept my sister a secret for so long. I didn’t know how to tell YoonHui the truth. I didn’t know how to tell anyone the truth.’
‘You could have told us anything about your family and your past, anything at all, and I know that YoonHui would have understood. Especially something like this. We could have helped you look for her.’
Emi pauses. She stares down at her hands, still clutching her handbag.
‘I don’t know if you’re right,’ Emi says honestly.
‘I am right. I know her.’
Lane’s salt-and-pepper hair is tied up into a careless ponytail. Loose strands stand on end and frame her face like a sparse lion’s mane. Emi stares at this outspoken woman who seems to know more about her daughter than Emi ever will. Perhaps she couldn’t tell her children what happened to their aunt because Emi half wanted to believe it wasn’t true. She didn’t want to believe that her silence that day on the beach resulted in her sister being forced into sexual slavery. In the beginning, her guilt kept her silent. But after so many years of secrecy, it became impossible to reveal the truth. Emi’s shoulders sag, and a dull pain throbs in her chest.
‘I don’t have time to explain things, not right now,’ Emi says. ‘But I promise, I will. Tell her that I will explain everything when I return.’
‘You tell her,’ Lane says, motioning towards the nurses’ station.
YoonHui is frantically shouting at the nurse behind the counter that her mother is missing. Emi watches the scene as though it is on a television screen. The pitch of her daughter’s voice edges higher and higher with each hysterical statement. Then her son’s gruff voice cuts in, and Emi knows she cannot leave now. She will have to convince her children to let her go, as though she is the child requiring permission.
Hana
Mongolia, Summer 1943
The rare thunderstorm disappears, and blue sky fills the horizon like a great calm lake hanging above their heads. Hana holds her breath and pretends she is sinking to the bottom of the sea. The earthy thud of the horse’s hooves is like a heartbeat in her ears. Eyes closed, breath held, she could be somewhere else. They have travelled through two nights or more, the horse slowing but never stopping. Morimoto has alternated between riding and walking in order to rest the horse. They stopped at a river to drink, but that was more than a day ago. The pain in her shoulder is strong, blocking out the passage of time.
The late-afternoon sun is already leaning towards slumber. Hana is saddle-sore, her swollen face and bloody feet adding to her misery, though the discomfort recedes when she retreats into her mind. There she can be free of pain. Her body slides through the ocean. Her legs kick with strength against the current, strength she once relied upon to help feed her family. She is miles away beneath a blue sea when the horse snorts, and her eyes open. On the horizon, she sees a dwelling and movement.
Hana keeps her eyes on the structure as they near it, and step by step, it grows in size. Beginning as a small oblong in the distance, it gradually takes a new shape, rounded with a taut, domed roof. Morimoto tells her they are in Mongolia. A huddle of men salutes them as they approach. There are four of them, dressed in colourful coats. A wolfish dog barks and runs in tight circles. It takes a moment for Hana to realise the animal is tethered to a stake in the ground. The great beast growls as the horse passes by. One of the men kicks grass at it, shouting something in Mongolian, and the dog lies down with its tongue lolling from one side of its open mouth. The men greet her captor like they are old friends. None look up at her. A boy, perhaps near her own age, takes the horse’s reins and waits for Morimoto to help her down. The boy leads the horse to a pen encircling a few ponies and an ox.
Standing on the ground, she feels their eyes on her now, assessing the broken girl dressed in rags, her beaten face, her arm in a sling. Morimoto’s hand rests on her waist as he speaks to the nomads in their language. They nod in understanding, and she imagines he is selling her or, worse, granting them temporary use while they remain at the camp. Looking down at the bloodstained hide strapped to her feet, she feels humiliated and weak.
When he finishes speaking, he ushers her towards the domed tent, which she later learns is called a ger. The curtained door opens as they approach it. A woman greets them when Hana steps inside. Morimoto doesn’t follow her in but nods his head at the woman and lets the heavy curtain fall closed without saying a word to Hana. She suddenly feels abandoned, and the feeling is a slap in the face.
Inside, the Mongolian woman is all she sees at first. The woman’s ruddy face is lined, with sun more than time. She’s no older than Hana’s mother. She touches Hana’s injured arm, and the softness of the woman’s skin surprises her. There are no calluses on her fingers, no roughness along the edges of her palms, and she imagines this woman is also soft inside. She allows herself to be led deeper into the ger, sat down upon a silk floor pillow, and undressed and washed with a hand towel. First her face, then working down her body, finishing at her feet, Hana is washed and then dressed in a deep-purple coat with silk embroidery, sleeves that hang beyond her hands, and a hem that falls well below her knees.
Hana thinks of nothing but what is physically happening to her, the woman’s hands on her skin, the bone comb sliding through her hair. The only sounds are the woman’s breathing, the wind rushing past the ger, and the fire crackling in the pot-bellied stove in the centre of the round, tented space. The semi-darkness and quiet are like being in a womb, warm and comforting, and Hana closes her eyes, feeling safe for the first time since her capture. She wonders if this was Morimoto’s intention, this feeling of safety, but thoughts of him threaten to break her serenity. She pushes them away, focusing on nothing but what is happening in the moment. Slowly, she welcomes in the stillness.
The woman says something, startling Hana from her restful state. She doesn’t understand a word of the woman’s foreign tongue. She is wearing a coat similar in style and colour to the one Hana now wears. She must have shared her own clothing. Touching the finely crafted coat, Hana bows her head to her in thanks. The woman smiles. Her teeth are white and straight, except for her left canine, which has grown in crooked. Hana thinks the imperfection makes her beautiful.
The woman leaves her and tends the fire. The burning wood sends smoke upwards through the metal pipe and escapes through a large hole at the top of the ger. The woman motions with one hand towards her mouth and says something in her language. Hana nods. The woman opens a large leather trunk beside a small altar in the back. Inside are parcels of food, wrapped and tied in animal skins, woven cotton or straw baskets. She gives Hana one of the baskets and opens the lid.
Inside is dried meat of some sort, and Hana again bows her head in thanks. She falls upon the meat strips, starving, and the salt tingles on her tongue. Her mouth fills with saliva. She watches as the woman tears a few pieces of bread from a large, unleavened loaf and places them into Hana’s basket. The woman then nods and rises to her feet. She dons a pair of suede boots and disappears through the thick curtain made of heavy woven wool and animal skin.
Seizing a piece of bread, Hana follows the woman’s trail to the door and pauses beside the curtain. She eats the bread and then places her hand on the door flap separating her from the men. She hears the dog’s bar
k, a man’s laugh and the wind. The horse snorts from further away, and she has a sense of where they all are in that outside space. The urge to open the flap and slip outside, too, sends electric pulses into her fingertips.
A few moments pass, and no one enters the ger. Hana remains standing beside the door, fighting with her curiosity, until finally she turns round, retraces her footsteps, and sits back down on the silk pillow to continue eating the dried meat. When the small food basket is empty, the woman returns, lifting the door flap high enough for Hana to catch a glimpse outside. The black horse that brought them here is framed in the triangular opening. Morimoto sits in the saddle. She notices a bundle tied behind him. He is leaving her behind. His eyes meet hers for a fleeting moment, before the flap falls shut and she is again alone with the woman inside the warm circle of light and shadow.
Fine prickles dance on her skin, sending rays of heat into her ears. He must have sold her. Hana doesn’t know if she should be afraid or relieved. At least the woman is kind. Her soft and caring hands give Hana hope that perhaps these Mongolians will set her free once they understand she has been kidnapped from her home.
The woman brings Hana a bowl of water. The cold liquid runs down her throat, filling her stomach, expanding its salted contents, until she feels full for the first time in many months. The sound of the horse’s hooves galloping away soothes her. She imagines Morimoto disappearing across the plain, never to return.
Her eyes feel heavy, and although her injured shoulder still throbs, Hana wants to lie down and sleep and never reawaken. As though reading her thoughts, the woman brings her a fur pelt and motions for her to lie on it. The silken fur feels luxurious after too many nights held captive within her barren cell in the brothel and three or more astride a horse. She runs her hands through it, sinking into the softness. The woman covers her with a homespun blanket, and Hana can barely keep her eyes open. Humming somewhere nearby, the woman busies herself with yarn. The constant rustle of her coat as she moves lulls Hana to sleep.
White Chrysanthemum Page 18
