‘I didn’t know you spoke Japanese,’ she responds, keeping her eyes on the floor in front of her knees.
‘Ah, you speak so well, so softly. It is good for a girl to have a soft voice.’
Hana stiffens. Compliments lead to unpleasant things, but she tries not to show her dismay.
‘I’m not certain why you are here,’ he says, and finally looks at her.
His eyes are surrounded by delicate wrinkles that give him a kindly appearance. His thick, tanned skin reveals his age, and she wonders if perhaps he is Altan’s grandfather, instead of his father. When she says nothing, he continues.
‘I know why Corporal Morimoto tells me he brought you here, but that doesn’t mean that is why you are really here.’
Hana looks up at him. He is staring at her as though she is a peculiar animal he has never seen before and is trying to make out what she eats or where her kind originates. She thinks he isn’t as scary as she first believed and lets her shoulders relax.
‘What reason did he give you?’ she ventures, careful to avoid eye contact.
‘He says you are an orphan. Rescued from the Kwantung Army in Manchuria. He’s returning you to your uncle out west. Why is your uncle in Western Mongolia? That’s a question I’d like answered.’
Morimoto told him she is an orphan, not a prostitute. Relief washes through her entire body. These are good men. They would never rape an orphan. Perhaps that’s why Morimoto told him this. He never intended her to be harmed. He meant to leave her in this safe place until his return. Hana covers her face with her hands so he can’t read her emotions.
‘Ah, it is still a sore subject,’ he says, mistaking her gesture for sadness. ‘We can talk again another time.’ He rises to his feet. ‘Come,’ he says, motioning towards the door.
She follows him, and he leads her in the direction of the others. The soles of her feet are still sore, and she fears a few of the wounds have broken open again. She doesn’t want to expose her weaknesses, however, and speeds up so that she doesn’t lag too far behind him. All the while, she turns over in her mind the fact that Morimoto intends to return for her. Of course he will return, she thinks, and can’t breathe as easily as she did only a few hours before.
They seem to have travelled at least a mile when the long grass dwindles into short scrub. The mountains hang over them, blocking out the sky. A small incline strains her calves, but she pushes herself onwards, careful not to get too close to the man. He may not be taking her to the same place that the family disappeared to, instead leading her into a secluded wilderness. Although older than the others in the encampment, he somehow appears more powerful.
He slows as he reaches the top of the small hill and stands with his hands on his hips. Stopping beside him, just out of arm’s reach, Hana takes in the view of the valley below them. As far as her eyes can see, green stalks adorned with large round pods flood the valley, all the way to the base of the nearest mountain. Blood-red flowers are dotted among them, though most of the bulbs have lost their petals. Altan and the woman, along with Ganbaatar and the other young man, are there, too, walking slowly up and down the rows, stopping at each pod.
‘What are you harvesting?’ she asks.
‘Do you not recognise a poppy field?’
Hana shakes her head. He scrutinises her face, and she blushes.
‘You’ve never seen a poppy? Do you know what we harvest them for?’ He turns to face her. She takes a step away, towards the field and nearer to Altan. ‘Opium,’ he says, and smiles. ‘Come, my young son will teach you all you need to know.’
He heads down the small hill before she can reply. She remains rooted to the ground, watching him go. Altan’s mother looks up and waves, and Hana knows she is smiling, even though her face is too far away to make out for certain. Altan then looks in her direction and waves, too. He calls her name, Hana, and suddenly she feels like herself again. Not like the girl who was trapped at the brothel. Here she is simply Hana because these people are not like the soldiers. She follows Altan’s father down into the poppy field and greets Altan with a smile.
They may be harvesting opium, the plague of China, but that means nothing to Hana. She thinks of Hinata and her tea and is thankful she had it to help her endure the brothel. In the field, Altan shows her how they score the poppy bulbs with a knife to let the sap seep out. Many of the bulbs in the field have already been cut, and Ganbaatar collects the sap in small scraps of cloth. Altan and Hana’s job is to cut the bulbs that haven’t been harvested yet. They work in parallel rows so he can keep an eye on her technique, although there isn’t really much to it. Once in a while, he comes over to her and corrects the angle of her blade. By twilight, they have covered nearly three-quarters of the field. Altan shared his afternoon meal with her, yet at the end of the day she is still famished.
Altan replies to a call from his father. Then Altan’s parents head towards the camp. The ponies emerge from nowhere and follow behind the couple like obedient dogs. They nip at each other’s necks and tails as they trot dutifully back to their pen. Hana gazes up at the dimly lit sky. The black shadow of a bird with an immense wingspan glides along the field. It could be one of the hawks that Morimoto spoke of. Ganbaatar comes near them and gives Altan a flask. He unscrews the lid and presses it to his lips before catching himself. Altan laughs shyly and offers it to Hana.
‘Water?’ she asks.
He shrugs. She takes the flask from him and sniffs the opening. A pungent waft of fermented milk hits her nostrils and she recoils, handing it back to him. He laughs again and takes a long swig. With a smile, he offers it to her again. He says something she doesn’t understand, nudging her with the flask. Ganbaatar laughs and shakes his head. Curiosity wins her over, and she takes the flask again. She lifts it to her lips and takes a sip.
The fermented drink has a bite, and she coughs as it warms her throat. Altan grins and urges her to drink more. She takes a big gulp and then hands the flask back to him. Sharing seems to have made his day, and he takes another long drink before tucking the flask into an inner pocket of his del.
The bird circles again, and Hana looks up into the sky. Ganbaatar lets out a high-pitched whistle and holds out his arm. Hana watches with surprise as the immense bird circles twice and then lands on his forearm. It is a golden eagle. Altan smiles at her and strokes the feathers on the eagle’s neck. It is a magnificent creature, perched regally on Ganbaatar’s forearm. He says something to Hana, and she looks at him. He motions towards the eagle, and she hesitates. He wants her to pet it, just as the woman wanted her to befriend the dog.
Hana steps closer, wary the eagle may not take a liking to her and may scratch out her eyes with its enormous talons. Its reddish-brown feathers shimmer in the twilight. She wants to touch the bird, to feel the softness of its feathers. Lifting her hand, she slowly reaches towards it.
When the bird snaps at her finger, she snatches her hand away as Ganbaatar and Altan howl with laughter. She takes a step backwards, staring at the boys, incredulous at their idea of a joke.
‘It could have pecked off my finger,’ she shouts at them, angry they are still laughing.
Altan stops laughing immediately when he sees her anger, and he nudges Ganbaatar’s arm, to no avail. The older boy continues laughing as he strokes the bird’s neck.
Hana starts to leave, but Altan stops her. He has taken hold of her wrist and won’t let go. She begins to yank it free, but he smiles at her, before smacking Ganbaatar’s arm. He says something to the older boy that makes his laughter cease. Ganbaatar appears ashamed and can’t look Hana in the eye. Instead, he busies himself with placing a hood on the eagle. Once its eyes are covered, Altan again motions for Hana to pet the bird.
She doesn’t immediately want to. Instead, Hana thinks it might be better to walk away now, to refuse to fall for another trick, but something in Altan’s expression changes her mind. Hana reaches out once more to pet the eagle. She watches the bird’s beak, preparing for it to stre
tch open to peck at her again, but this time, her fingers land on its soft throat feathers without reaction.
A surprised laugh escapes her, and she doesn’t care that she has expressed pleasure in their presence. Powerful muscles ripple beneath the eagle’s soft feathers, and Hana is awestruck at its magnificence. Ganbaatar eventually smiles and he, too, strokes the bird. She smiles at him and, for the first time, doesn’t care what he is thinking because there is nothing but this moment, appreciating a creature grander than themselves.
The three of them head up the small hill towards the camp. They walk in silence most of the way. Birds chirp overhead as they fly back to their nests. A cool breeze rushes through the tall grass, tickling her fingertips. Hana cannot stop thinking about Altan’s proximity. He keeps just the right distance between them to make her feel comfortable instead of dominated or threatened. He is like the boy from her village who visited her mother’s table at the market. Polite, inquisitive, yet intelligent enough to know where the boundaries lie.
Even though they cannot communicate, Hana instinctively feels they have taken the first tentative steps on the road towards friendship. She stares at everything around her to avoid looking at him, but she feels his every move beside her, as though a small part of him has penetrated her armour.
As they near the camp, the dog barks and runs in circles around their legs. He jumps with joy because he senses dinner is near. He licks Hana’s hand and then rushes to Altan, jumping up, nipping at his ear. Altan pushes the mongrel away, laughing. Ganbaatar waves to Hana and heads to his ger.
Altan follows him and places the basket inside with him, then comes back out and rushes after the dog. Hana finds herself smiling at them. She stops beside the pen and pats the smallest of the ponies, watching the boy play with his dog, as night continues to fall.
The evening is much like the others, except this time Altan sits beside her in his mother’s former seat. Hana pretends she does not notice, but he makes it difficult, often smiling at her as he sings, nudging her shoulder gently, and encouraging her to join in. The others act as though they don’t notice his exuberance, and the strangeness of these people and this foreign place dissipates, leaving Hana with a sense of family and togetherness once again. But she refuses to sing or smile or laugh in their presence. That would be too much for her to give in to just yet, but she does allow herself to sway to the music, just a little, enough so that Altan grins wider and the men sing louder and his mother’s eyes twinkle brighter in the firelight.
Ganbaatar gets up to leave when the last of the embers glow a deep red. Altan’s father walks him out, followed by the other young man who stayed behind in the camp. Hana has yet to learn his name. Their singing continues beyond the ger. Altan goes to a chest near the far wall and retrieves something. He returns to Hana’s side and offers it to her. It’s a small leather satchel. Hesitant to accept it, she looks at his mother for approval, but she has turned her back, busying herself with cleaning up. Altan nudges Hana’s hand with the satchel again and, afraid to offend him, she accepts it. Carefully, she unties the leather strap and opens the flap. She peers inside and touches something soft as silk. Eager for her to see his gift, Altan pulls it out and reveals a finely crafted sash.
Even in the semi-darkness, the colourful patterns are brilliant. Bright blues, reds and oranges are radiant. The sash gleams between them. He motions towards her waist. Uncertain, she remains still. He tries again but then smiles, shaking his head. Gently, he wraps the sash around her waist, securing it with a double knot. Her heart flutters from his nearness. Altan leans back, examining her appearance, and then nods as though pleased.
He abruptly leaves and follows the men outside. Hana blushes when his mother acknowledges the sash. She nods and smiles at Hana. Together, the two of them set out the fur pelts for everyone’s sleeping areas. When she thinks his mother isn’t looking, Hana touches the smooth silk, inspecting the colourful swirls that delight her eyes. The dark colours highlighted with red and yellow flowers and green leaves and black vines are beautiful. It’s hand-stitched, and she wonders if his mother toiled away on this piece of beauty for Altan, and what she must be thinking now that it adorns Hana’s waist.
Later in the night, Hana’s dreams are warm and musical. She can hear her father playing his zither, her mother’s laughter echoing through their small hut, and she is dancing with her little sister, their bare feet turning circles on tiptoes. Everything is real, the heat of the fire, her father’s song, his fingers plucking the zither’s taut strings, and she can even smell the salty sea wafting in through the open shutters. She is back home, as though she has never left and nothing unpleasant has happened to her. Dancing with her sister’s small hands held in each of hers, she throws her head back and sings the words she knows by heart. Her mother claps along, and Hana wants to dance forever.
A dog barks nearby. The familiar baritone strikes a chord in her memory. It barks again, three deep bursts of sound. She stops dancing. Her arms hang limply by her sides, but no one notices. The merriment continues without her. Her sister swirls around her like a leaf caught in a tempest. Laughter erupts from her mother’s mouth, sweet and gentle and full of glee. She is dreaming. She doesn’t want to leave them, but she is waking up. Please don’t stop, she tells her father when he stops playing. His eyes find hers and they are full of sorrow. She can hear the early-morning birds outside the ger now, calling the inhabitants of the steppes from slumber. She tosses on her fur pelt, and then suddenly, she is awake.
Emi
Seoul, December 2011
The faces around the small hospital room all concentrate on Emi. The attention is too much, and Emi wishes they would just take her to the statue.
‘I’m thirsty,’ Emi says, and Lane offers to fetch her some water.
‘Mother, why don’t you lie down and rest?’ YoonHui asks. She tries to encourage Emi to lie back.
‘No, I don’t have time to rest. I need to see the statue.’
‘It doesn’t have to be today. Rest, give yourself a chance to recover, and then we’ll take you to the statue in a few weeks’ time.’
‘A few weeks?’ Emi cries out, louder than she intended. ‘I don’t have a few weeks. Don’t you understand?’ She pulls the covers off her legs and threatens to get out of the bed.
‘Hold on,’ her son says, rushing to her side and preventing her escape. ‘You’re not going anywhere. I’ll chain you to this bed if I have to.’
Emi freezes. He sounds just like his father in that moment. She looks at his face, stricken with the sudden similarity.
‘You’re just like your father,’ she whispers before she can stop herself.
He looks taken aback. His eyebrows furrow and anger sweeps across his face.
‘Why did you hate him so much?’ he chokes out.
Too many wounds scar Emi’s soul. And now she realises they have scarred her children’s, no matter how hard she tried to prevent it. Her final journey to Seoul to find her lost sister has smashed the door to her past into pieces.
‘There are many reasons why your father and I didn’t get along. Too many to tell. But they are between him and me.’
‘He’s dead,’ her son says quietly. ‘He’s been gone for nearly five years. Can you not forgive a dead man?’
The small room heaves with a collective unease. Lane slipped in during this statement and couldn’t decide whether to give Emi the glass of water or to stay by the door. Emi motions for her to come forward. Lane hands Emi the glass, and everyone watches as she gulps it down. Emi doesn’t stop until she has swallowed the last drop. When she sets the glass on the bedside tray, her son takes her hand.
‘Just tell me. What did he do that was so unforgivable? I need to know the truth. I deserve to know it, we both deserve to know.’
He reaches for YoonHui. She stands beside him, and they look like children again. The years are erased from their faces, and Emi can only see the two loves of her life. They were the reason she survived a
loveless marriage. They kept her from looking backwards. She knows she owes them the truth, but she’s terrified of revealing it.
‘I never told you how your grandmother died,’ she says.
‘Mother—’ her son begins, but YoonHui hushes him.
‘Go on, Mother, tell us how she died,’ her daughter says, taking hold of Emi’s hand.
‘It was just before the Korean War began. Your father and I had recently married, but he didn’t trust your grandmother. He often accused her of being red.’
‘Red? You mean communist?’ Lane interjects.
‘Yes, a North Korean sympathiser. A rebel.’
‘But Father was a simple fisherman, wasn’t he?’ her son interrupts. He looks as though his childhood is either falling apart or just beginning to make sense.
‘A policeman first,’ Emi says. ‘Not a very good fisherman, second.’
Emi’s daughter knows much about the history of the Korean War. It is her speciality as a professor of Korean literature. She remains silent, but Emi knows she must be running the facts of the war through her mind.
‘How did our grandmother die?’ her son asks, impatient as always.
‘The communist rebels used to come into the villages at night, hidden by the smoke still rising from the embers of the homes burned down by policemen. They were recruiting members, the survivors whose homes were just destroyed. They also went door-to-door to gather supplies. As a policeman, your father was tasked with finding the rebels and also punishing anyone who aided them. He never trusted your grandmother; no matter what I said to convince him otherwise, he always believed your grandmother was helping them. He called her rebel and red – sometimes to her face.’
‘Was she?’ her son interrupts.
Emi pauses, shifting position in the uncomfortable hospital bed. Now that she has allowed herself to think about that time and those days, the memories feel so close. The pain is near, too. Visions of the airport swim beneath her hospital bed as though she is in the aeroplane and the shiny hospital floor is a thousand miles beneath her. The runway appears as a field, newly turned with black earthen mounds dotting its landscape.
White Chrysanthemum Page 21
