“I want to arrange a meeting with someone in North Korea,” I say.
“I see,” she says. “You need to talk with Mr. Han.”
She points me to a couch and offers to get me coffee, which I decline. Then she disappears into the back while I wait. On the wall are travel posters for South Korea. It’s really a beautiful country. Rolling hills, jagged granite peaks, two seacoasts, the exciting capital of Seoul where I was born.
Eventually, a man in a navy blue suit and white shirt comes to the lobby and greets me with a handshake. “I’m Mr. Han,” he says. “I understand you want to connect with someone in the North?” He speaks English with only a slight accent. He’s slender and lean. He has an intelligent face. I guess he’s in his mid-thirties.
“Yes,” I answer. “It’s a long story.”
“I would be glad to hear it,” Mr. Han says. He tells me to follow him to his office. We walk down the hall and inside a large office. Embroidered rugs cover the hardwood floors, the walls are wood paneled, and a dormered window overlooks the street. A window air conditioner hums quietly. I sit on a couch off to the side of his desk. He sits in a chair next to it.
He folds his hands in his lap and asks my name. I give it and tell him I was adopted when I was a baby. He asks me to tell him more about my request. I tell him about my trip to Korea and how I met my Korean grandmother. I give him a summary of her story. I’m careful not to say anything about the comb with the two-headed dragon or that I’m related to Empress Myeongseong. I tell him I agreed to help Mrs. Hong meet her sister.
When I’m done, Mr. Han nods. “Very interesting,” he says. “How do you know your grandmother’s story is true?”
I think about it for a second. “I guess I don’t for sure,” I admit.
He smiles. “Well, we will see what we can do.”
I push myself to the edge of the couch. “So, do you think you can arrange a meeting?”
Mr. Han shrugs. “There are times when it can be done. But, I am afraid we are not in one of those times, presently.”
“Why not?”
He leans forward. He then tells me that the North and South Korea are still officially at war. There was no formal peace treaty signed after the hostilities ended in 1953. He says the two sides only agreed to a cease-fire and that tensions are very high right now—especially with the North testing nuclear weapons.
“Yeah, I know. But I’ve read that families sometimes get to meet.”
He nods. “It depends on the state of affairs between the two countries. Sometimes these meetings can shut down for years. And when they open up, it has to be done through… unofficial channels.”
“What do you mean, ‘unofficial channels’?”
“What you call bribes, Ms. Carlson, for both sides. It costs a lot of money.”
I ask, “Okay. So how much does it cost?”
He says an amount that’s a lot more than my tuition at the ‘U’ for a year. “I’m not sure I can afford that,” I say.
“It doesn’t matter if you can,” Mr. Han replies. “As I said, the two countries are not allowing any contact right now.”
“When do you think they will?”
“It is impossible to say.”
I nod. “Well, can you let me know? I made a promise.”
“I will be glad to. Give all your information to Ja-Sook at the reception desk. In the meantime, we will see what we can find out about your grandmother’s sister. She might not even be alive. But if she is, and when things open up, we can help make the arrangements if you have the fee.”
Mr. Han stands, extends his hand, and I shake it. “It was a pleasure meeting you,” he says.
I give him a bow and ask for his business card. When he gives it to me, I remember to examine it respectfully. I thank him and I say I hope to hear from him soon.
*
When I get home, I’m relieved to see that the small celadon pot I shipped from Kosney’s has arrived via Federal Express. I open the box and reach inside the pot beneath the packing paper where I slipped the comb with the two-headed dragon when the store clerk wasn’t looking. It’s still there. Somehow, I knew it would be.
I take the comb to the bank and open a safe deposit box account. The ancient female clerk gives me my key and shows me to a privacy room. Before putting it into the box, I take the comb out of the brown cloth and study it one more time.
It really is amazing, a thing worthy of royalty. And now it has found its way to me. I wonder—and worry—what it will mean for me.
F ORTY-SIX
It’s thursday—pot roast day—and I go home from class in a freezing December wind. It hasn’t snowed yet this season, but the ground is frozen and the wind is blowing from the north. The low clouds threaten our first big snow of the season. Weeks earlier, I dug out my winter coat from our basement storage room, and now I wrap it tight around me. I put my shoulder in the wind for the three-block walk to the parking lot.
It’s a week before fall finals and it’s been the most amazing college semester I’ve had. I decided to take a class on world history and two on political science. I’m getting all ‘A’s and I’ll graduate near the top of my class. I’m also taking Korean. I’m learning it so fast that my instructor is encouraging me to take two accelerated courses next semester.
I took the law school entrance exam last month. I was nervous about it. I mean, some of these people have been studying for the LSAT for years. So I was shocked when I scored in the upper five percent. I’ve always been a good test-taker. But seriously, the upper five percent? I’m already getting letters from top schools across the country inviting me to apply. Naturally, I’m making a ‘pros and cons’ list. But I’m also trying to listen to my heart.
Before I reach my car, my phone rings. It’s Mr. Han from the Korean consulate. He says he has news and wants to meet with me. Over the past several months, I called Mr. Han every month to check in. He always gave the same answer. “We don’t know anything yet,” he says. “Please be patient. These things take time.”
This is the first time he’s called me, so I tell him I’ll meet with him right away. I jump in my car and go to the mansion on Park Avenue. When I get inside, Ja-sook shows me into Mr. Han’s office. After a short wait, he comes in carrying a folder. He apologizes that it’s taken so long for him to get back to me. He tells me that over the past several months, it was impossible to reach their contacts in the North because Pyongyang was testing nuclear weapons and the two countries had cut off all contact. Now, however, relations have improved and they’ve learned that Hong Soo-hee is alive and living in Pyongyang. “I must admit,” he says, shaking his head, “when you told me your grandmother’s story, I was skeptical. I thought you might be involved in a scam. So, I inquired about your grandmother. I am pleased to tell you, everything she told you is true.”
I look out the window. So that’s it. My birth-grandmother’s story is true. I guess in my heart I knew that it was. “Well, if that’s the case,” I say, “I want to set up the meeting between Mrs. Hong and her sister as soon as possible.”
“Of course. It could still take months. And, there is the issue of the money.”
“I think I can get it.”
Mr. Han frowns. “I am sorry to tell you there is a change with respect to the cost. You see, it has become more expensive.”
“Oh?” I say, sagging into my chair. “How much more?”
“Well, there is a large backlog. Years worth, I’m afraid. And that has caused the cost to double.”
“Are you serious?” I reply with a gasp. I do some quick math in my head. “I can’t afford that.”
“Well, you could wait until there isn’t a backlog. But there is no saying how long this window will stay open.
“There is one more thing,” Mr. Han says. “You will have to go to Korea personally to sponsor your grandmother. It is all very complicated and it would be difficult for an elderly woman like her to do this on her own.”
“Yeah, I unde
rstand. That’s another expense I suppose. I’ll have to let you know.”
He smiles politely and extends a hand. I respectfully take his hand with both of mine and bow my head, like I’ve learned proper Koreans are supposed to do.
On the drive home, I think about Mrs. Hong and her sister and how they haven’t seen each other for over sixty years and I’m torn. I think about law school and the cost of tuition, books, and room and board. The only way I can pay Mr. Han’s steep fee is to get a job and forgo law school for a couple of years. By then, who knows? Law school might have passed me by.
*
When I walk inside our house, I expect to smell pot roast cooking in the oven and see the table set. But I don’t smell anything and there aren’t any plates on the table.
I call out to tell Dad I’m home and he shouts a hello from his bedroom. I drop my backpack on the kitchen table and find him in his room. He’s facing the mirror, putting on a clean shirt.
“It’s pot roast night,” I say. “It’s not in the oven. What gives?”
“I was thinking, maybe we could go out,” he says, tucking his shirt in.
I almost fall down. “Seriously? On a Thursday night?”
He turns from the mirror. “I feel guilty saying this about your mother’s pot roast, but I get tired of it every week. I was thinking we could go to Ho Ban instead. We haven’t been there in a long time. What do you say?”
After I pick up my jaw from the floor, I agree that Korean food would be a nice change of pace. I tell him I need a few minutes and run off to my room. As I change my clothes and brush my hair, I wonder what’s gotten into my father. He hasn’t been sitting in the living room in the dark as much. Twice in the past month, he came home late from work and I had to make dinner. And just last week I was shocked to see he stopped wearing his wedding ring.
We drive to the restaurant in a strip mall in Eagan. The restaurant is the only decent business in the tacky suburban mall. It’s nearly full of customers, most of them Korean. They give us a table near the kitchen. I notice they’ve tried to fix up the place since I was there last. There’s a new greeting station at the front door and they’ve painted a Korean landscape on one wall. It doesn’t help. The lighting is bad and the tables and chairs are cheap and too close together. It’s no big deal, though. People come here for the food—real Korean food, just like we had in Korea. Hot pots, rice bowls, Korean noodles, katsu, bebimbop, bulgogi, Korean monkfish. A dozen plates of banchan appetizers fill each table. And, of course, there’s kimchi. The smells are amazing, just like I remembered them from Korea. I wonder why it’s been so long since I’ve been here.
We decide what we’ll order and when the waiter comes, Dad orders extra saying we can have the leftovers tomorrow instead of our usual Friday night spaghetti. The banchan arrives and we dive in. The kimchi is spicy and wonderful.
“This reminds me of our trip,” Dad says, fumbling with his chopsticks.
“Yeah it does,” I say, picking up more kimchi.
We make small talk and when our entrees arrive, we attack them. Dad eats like he hasn’t eaten for a week. He finishes his dish and then sneaks a few bites off my plate. I notice that he’s filled out a bit over the past few months. His cheekbones don’t stick out and his color is better. And it makes me happy to see him smile more.
I tell Dad that I met with Mr. Han from the consulate after school. He asks me why. “They discovered that Mrs. Hong’s sister is alive and living in Pyongyang,” I say. “Apparently tensions between the North and South have let up and they can arrange a meeting now.”
“Hmm, I see,” Dad says. “And you made that promise.”
“I’m not sure I can keep it. The cost has gone way up. It’s ridiculous. I’d have to put off law school and get a job.”
“No,” Dad says shaking his head. “You shouldn’t put off school.”
“I don’t know how I’ll do it any other way,” I say.
Dad turns quiet as we finish our meal. When we can’t eat another bite, the waiter puts all the leftovers into boxes and we head home. Snow is falling as we drive north over the Minnesota River. There’s not much traffic and Dad drives slowly. The meal has subdued us.
Halfway home Dad says, “Anna, I want to talk to you about something.”
“Oh?” I say. “What about?”
“Tell you what,” he says. “Let’s take a drive around the lakes. Your Mother and I always went out driving in the first snow. It scares people off the roads, but I think it’s beautiful.”
We turn off the freeway and go to the parkway that connects the Minneapolis lakes. The snow is making everything clean and quiet. I ask Dad what he wants to talk about. He tells me that he’s looked into my comb and the two-headed dragon.
“I thought I should,” he says, apologetically.
“What did you find out?” I ask.
“A two-headed dragon with five toes,” he says. “I found out what it means. The dragon protects Korea and those who possess it so they can serve Korea.” And then he says, “Five toes on a dragon. It means...”
“Yeah, I know what it means,” I say. “It means it belonged to Empress Myeongseong. It means I’m a direct descendent.”
“Only if Mrs. Hong’s story is true,” he says.
“It’s true, Dad,” I say. “The consulate looked into it. Her story checks out.”
Dad doesn’t respond to this bit of information. He keeps his eyes on the road as we turn onto the boulevard that circles Lake Harriet. The mansions surrounding the lake have their holiday lights on which sparkle off the new snow. The pointed roofs of the Lake Harriet band shell make it look like it’s straight out of a winter fairytale. It feels like Christmas Day and I understand why Mom and Dad liked driving in the snow.
“Sweetheart,” Dad says finally, “This whole thing makes me nervous. But I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately. I’ve been thinking about your mother and how she died. It was horrible how that damn cancer killed her. But she didn’t let cancer or even death define her. She simply made them a part of her life. And it made me realize that you can die when you’re still alive, holed up in your house, in your living room with the lights off.” He shoots me a guilty look.
“And I’ve been thinking about you, too,” he continues. “Your mother and I sensed there was something special about you when you were just a kid. You were smart, of course, but there was something in the way you carried yourself. I never figured out what it was, exactly. But now you have that comb with the two-headed dragon. I don’t know how you’re meant to serve Korea, but I think you need to find out. And I can help. Let me pay Mr. Han’s fee.”
I start to protest, but Dad cuts me off.
“I’m not just doing it for you,” he says. “It won’t be easy. But it might keep me out of the dark living room.”
“Thank you,” I say and Dad smiles.
“There’s one condition,” he says. “Promise me you’ll be careful.” I assure him that I will.
“I love you, sweetheart,” he says.
“I love you too, Dad,” I reply.
I’m finally at peace as we come full circle around the lake and Dad turns off the boulevard to go home. I can feel the two parts of me—Korean and American—coming together. Like Dad, I don’t know how I'm supposed to serve Korea, but I’m not afraid anymore. As Mrs. Hong said, the courageous little seed has broken through and someday, a flower will bloom.
F ORTY-SEVEN
After dad closes on a second mortgage on our house, I call Mr. Han and tell him I have the money for his fee. He calls me back two months later and tells me that they can arrange a meeting between the sisters any time. All I need to do is tell him when I can go.
I make the travel arrangements for July, after finals and graduation. I tell Dad he should go with me, but he says no. He tells me he’d love to meet my birth-grandmother, “but this is your thing,” he says. “You should go alone.” So I buy my plane ticket and, as I always do, I make out a detailed itinerar
y for while I’m in Korea. On the list is an entire day at Gyeongbok Palace.
Two months before I start my first year at Columbia Law School, I send a letter to Mrs. Hong telling her I’ll be in Seoul and that I want to meet her. I don’t tell her why. A week later, I get on an airplane for Seoul to fulfill my promise to Mrs. Hong.
After we land at Inchon Airport, I clear customs and catch a cab outside baggage claim. I give the driver the address where I’ll meet the contact who has the details of the meeting. As we drive through Seoul, I look for what I remember about the city. In a strange way, it feels like a second home now. The soaring Seoul Tower on top of Mount Namsan still dominates the city. And all around, apartment buildings still stand like so many soldiers at attention. The city hums with excitement.
I’m thrilled to be back here. I want to see this country again, now that I know more about its history, culture, and people. I won’t be a tourist this time, but someone who shares the sorrow of this country’s history and its hopes for its future.
Of course, I’ve thought a lot about the comb and its responsibility. I’ve decided that my responsibility to Korea is both as a descendant of Empress Myeongseong and as an American. America has helped this country, for sure. But we’ve been selfish, too. I mean, we’re still stuck in this 1950’s Cold War mentality. I’m angry that we call North Korea ‘evil’ as if we have the right to force our values on them. How arrogant. Yet I don’t want them to develop nuclear bombs and they need to be good world citizens. Yeah, okay, I get it—it’s complicated. Still, I think America can do a lot more to promote peace. And unification, too.
Daughters of the Dragon: A Comfort Woman's Story Page 26
