This Burns My Heart

by Samuel Park

  “Good. Their laughter will drown out our conversation,” she heard a young man say as he took the seat next to her. He had appeared out of nowhere, as efficient and unobtrusive as a comma. Soo-Ja swallowed nervously; she knew this was the leader of the student group.

  They rode for a few minutes in silence, with Soo-Ja stealing occasional glimpses of him. Yul had on black rectangular glasses and a brown corduroy jacket. He was dressed casually, with no tie. His hair looked slightly unkempt, not in a disheveled way, but in the manner of someone who did not bother with mirrors or Vaseline. He wore it a bit long, like a European beatnik.

  “I’m glad you came. I was afraid you might change your mind,” said Yul, looking straight ahead. “This is more than we have the right to ask of you.”

  “You’re right,” said Soo-Ja, also staring straight ahead. She decided not to tell him how much she had enjoyed being asked to help. Everywhere she went, there was talk of the student movement. Now, she could carry with pride her own sudden, unexpected role in it. “Nevertheless, I’m just a woman riding the bus. You’re the one being chased by the police.”

  “Good point,” he said. “But don’t worry about me. The police aren’t going to do anything to me. The last thing they need is to create a martyr; give a face to the movement.” He then lowered his head and spoke in the direction of her neck. “So, have you met Chu-Sook’s mother? Do you know her?”

  “No, but Min was right. Her husband used to work for my father. She thinks I’m coming to talk to her about some back pay.”

  “Very inventive of you to add that detail.”

  “I brought some money, as well as a list of questions I want to ask her,” said Soo-Ja, looking into her purse.

  “Don’t worry about the questions. I’ll handle that.”

  “Damn it,” said Soo-Ja, going through her belongings.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Yul, immediately looking around him.

  “Once I memorized the questions, I reached in to throw away the crumpled piece of paper, but instead of the paper with the questions, I threw away the thousand-hwan bill,” said Soo-Ja, still digging through her purse.

  Yul could not resist cracking a smile. He glanced at her directly for the first time in their conversation. “Maybe it’s still in there.”

  “No, I tossed it out the window,” said Soo-Ja, returning his look. “Boy, that’s a lot of money to just throw away like that. I suppose I wouldn’t make a very good revolutionary, would I?”

  “We’ll just make sure we never trust you with our secret plans,” said Yul, smiling.

  He was handsome when he did that, thought Soo-Ja. She let her eyes rest over him for a moment, and she noticed his high cheekbones, alabaster skin, and eyes shaped like laurel leaves. She was surprised by how solid he seemed, and also by the fact that he smelled a little bit like cocoa. She felt the impulse to linger near his collar and breathe in his scent, though of course she held back.

  Soo-Ja smiled to herself, the earlier tension now gone. The bus made a stop, and the group of old men rose to leave, as another group of people made their way in. Soo-Ja looked over at Yul again, noticing how the sun filtered in lightly through a half-opened window behind him, casting a warm glow on the back of his head.

  “So, Min said you studied literature, but that you want to be a diplomat?” asked Yul, gazing out the window, paying attention to who got on and off the bus. Soo-Ja couldn’t tell if he felt a genuine interest, or if he was just trying to create an aura of casualness around them.

  “The two are not so different,” said Soo-Ja, surprised that Min had shared that with Yul. She’d mentioned it to Min almost in passing, and was glad to see that he remembered. “With literature, you learn how people behave, and you learn empathy, a good trait to have as a diplomat.”

  “Did you always want to be a diplomat?” Yul asked, still looking around.

  “No, not always. When I was little, I wanted to be a waitress.” Yul laughed at this, and Soo-Ja smiled at him before she continued. The bus began to move again. “I liked the uniforms, and the idea of feeding people all day. Then I wanted to be a journalist. I liked arranging words on a page. It changed, though, with the war.”

  Soo-Ja looked out the window, and she remembered the view from the car on the day they fled the city—the seemingly endless lines of refugees, walking the narrow roads above the rice paddies, carrying their belongings on their backs; some split their loads by each holding one end of a stick, their bags in the middle. They walked in a long line, Indian file, like prisoners in a chain gang, eyes looking down into the ground. Occasionally, someone would look up at her as the car went by, and she would nod slightly, as if she knew the person. If it was a girl, she’d even smile, as if to say, I’ll see you when we get there, I’ll meet you by the seaside. It’ll all be fine.

  “My parents and I had to evacuate, like everyone else, and go to Pusan, at the seaside. We stayed with an aunt of ours, by Haundae Beach, and all through the fall and winter, we watched as the refugees came. I remember it very vividly, the guards squeezing all these women and children into these crowded camps. Their clothes were made out of recycled army uniforms, and a lot of them slept and went to the bathroom on the streets. There were rats everywhere. I remember little boys with shaved heads and tin cans in their hands running after army jeeps, begging for food. My family was lucky. My father had retrofitted his shoe factory into an army uniform maker, and the President was very grateful to him. We stayed in my aunt’s big house, and never went hungry during the war. In fact, we ate pineapples.”

  “You shouldn’t feel badly about that,” said Yul. “Your father probably saved the lives of a lot of soldiers.”

  “Well, every day I heard stories of people being killed, and bodies mangled, and found on the roads. It was terrifying. I was fourteen at the time.”

  “Did anyone in your family get hurt?”

  “No. No one. It felt like a miracle. I remember when it all ended, the day we came back home. It felt like everything was gone—buildings bombed, roads filled with debris. Only our house, still standing. There were some people living in it, mostly men—war deserters, vagabonds, idlers. They napped on the floors. Some played hato cards. They had these bored looks on their faces, like they didn’t care that the South had won Daegu back.”

  “What happened then?”

  “Well, my father started telling people to get out. He used his factory-owner voice—very firm, but also kindly. Like he was saying, Go now, before the real owner, who’s much meaner, catches you here. Nobody protested, the men just got up and started leaving. My mother gave each of them some money, enough for a hot meal, I think, and I remember everyone took the money, but nobody thanked her, or even looked her in the eye. When they left, I wondered where they’d go.” Soo-Ja paused and looked at Yul again. “Are you really sure you want to hear this?”

  “Yes. Go on,” he said, his gaze encouraging her. The bus began to move faster now, over paved asphalt, and Soo-Ja could see the Geumho River rise beyond the windows; the sun’s rays rested languidly over its waters—as still as a lover’s outstretched arms.

  “That night, we slept in the bare rooms. Everything we had was gone—they’d taken all our furniture, every single jar in the kitchen, every dresser and bookcase, all the lamps and writing desks. And what they couldn’t carry out, like the doors, they’d pulled out parts of with screwdrivers. The only things left were the floors and the ceiling.

  “So the next day, we went to the open-air market to buy new clothes and furniture. It didn’t take very long until we noticed something funny about all the items on sale. I recognized a comforter I used to sleep under, yellow on top, with patchwork-like squares of different colors. I saw the armoire that used to sit in my brother’s room. The silver dagger that used to hang by the mirror in my mother’s room. They were selling our things! My books, from the fourth to eighth grade, the silverware we used at dinner.

  “I looked at my father and he just smiled bac
k at me and said, ‘Now we find out how much our things are truly worth.’ He gave my brothers and me money to go buy back our things. My mother wanted us to call the police and have all the merchants arrested, but my father shook his head and said, ‘These people need to earn a living, too.’ I’ll never forget that. I remember going from merchant to merchant, buying back my old clothes and ornaments, and each time I was amazed that I could do that, that I could welcome back my possessions. I felt so grateful to be alive, and to be safe, and to have all my things back.”

  Soo-Ja smiled at the memory. She then wondered for a moment why she trusted this stranger so much. Maybe because he looked concrete, self-sufficient; he wanted nothing from her. Two, he simply let her speak, and never interrupted her.

  “So that’s why you want to become a diplomat. You think diplomacy alone can prevent nations from going to war?” asked Yul.

  The bus reached a rough patch, driving over potholes and rocks. As Soo-Ja lurched forward slightly, Yul caught her arm and steadied her. His grip felt electric, his fingers denting her flesh. He took her hand and guided it to the handrail in front of them. Soo-Ja swallowed, embarrassed, but as she sat back again, she let her body fit snugly next to his, shoulder to shoulder.

  “You think I’m naive?” asked Soo-Ja, easing back into the conversation.

  “Maybe.”

  “Fine, so I’m naive. But I’d like to make a small difference. A small difference may not change anything, but it could also be just enough. I mean, you must have believed that as well, when you chose to become—well, what you are.”

  Yul did not reply. Instead, he looked at her thoughtfully. Soo-Ja felt a bit foolish for opening up so much to him. How had he pulled it out of her? With him, she felt the ease of being around a friend who’d neither judge nor criticize.

  He was older than she was; certainly he must have fought in the war? He must have been fifteen or sixteen at the time; how had he survived, when men older and meaner had perished? Soo-Ja liked this, liked that he made her wonder about him; made her want to make up stories about him, and pick at his serene smile as if it were a lock in the wall. She had not felt this with Min—Min won her over with flattery, wearing her down with his insistence. Yul, on the other hand, made her want to flatter him.

  “I think we’re here,” said Yul, as the bus began to slow down. His face became very serious, and Soo-Ja was reminded of the reason for their bus trip. The missing twelve-year-old boy. “Wait till I’m halfway through the bus, then start making your way out. If you see me run, do not run after me. Instead, duck and take cover.” Yul rose, and Soo-Ja felt her body tense up. Seeing him stand, Soo-Ja noticed that Yul had the muscular build of a soldier, and an ex-soldier’s careful movements. Yul must have fought for sure, either volunteering or drafted against his will. The bus came to a full stop, and Yul began to make his way out. It felt like forever, waiting. As Yul reached the midpoint, the passage seemed clear, and he turned his head slightly and glanced over at Soo-Ja, signaling for her to follow him. She rose and began heading out. She noticed that the bus seemed a little quiet to her ears, almost too much, as if the other passengers could sense something was off. Soo-Ja watched as Yul continued to make his way out in front of her. But when he was almost by the door, a passenger in a row ahead of him suddenly rose, his back blocking Yul’s way. He wore a police officer’s uniform.

  Soo-Ja gasped, then put her hand to her mouth, to hide her reaction. The seconds seemed to stretch into infinity, as the policeman stood in front of Yul, with his back to him, and Yul remained still. Yul did not hint at this as cause for panic, and did not make a sound, but Soo-Ja noticed that he’d discreetly placed his hand near his belt. She wondered if he had a gun; if he’d need to use it. It felt like a century, when only two, three seconds passed. Finally, the officer, who took a moment to gather his things from his seat, simply walked on, and left the bus, as if it were nothing more than just his own stop.

  Soo-Ja let out a sigh of relief, and she could see Yul’s body release its tautness, too.

  Yul started walking out. By the time he emerged, Soo-Ja had almost caught up with him, and the two of them found themselves out on the street at the same time. They did not speak, but when Soo-Ja glanced at the sign in front of the bus, she realized it had been heading not to Dalseo-gu but to Dalseong-gu; he’d made them take the long way to their destination, and made her talk the entire time while he studied her eyes and her voice. Why? It didn’t matter, thought Soo-Ja. By now he trusted her, but more than that, she trusted him, too.

  Soo-Ja and Yul walked along a long row of shacks, all with the same thatched roofs and walls made out of stones of uneven sizes stacked together. They were perched precariously atop a hill, on a narrow, winding path inaccessible to cars, and only wide enough for oxcarts. Soo-Ja noticed that Yul let her set the pace, and he would slow when she did. Near the top of the hill, a man with a broken wheelbarrow attempted to pass them, and Yul subtly placed his body between Soo-Ja and the stranger. Soo-Ja glanced at him, trying to acknowledge the gesture, but he looked straight ahead as if he’d done nothing.

  When they finally reached the address they had, Soo-Ja and Yul found a woman squatting by the straw door, pounding on clothes with rods, the way Soo-Ja had seen her servants do a thousand times. She wore a gray rolled-up long-sleeved shirt and a charcoal knee-length skirt; her hands were deep in dirty water, which ran in an uneven line from the tin washboard to the gutter.

  “Mrs. Yang, hello. I’m Soo-Ja Choi,” said Soo-Ja, bowing to the woman.

  Chu-Sook’s mother bowed back gravely. Hers was a moon-shaped face with no edges. Her skin was darkly tanned, her short black hair thick and wiry.

  Soo-Ja tried to smile at her, then pointed at Yul. “And this is Mr. Kim.”

  Yul bowed to her.

  Chu-Sook’s mother began to bow back, placing both hands behind her, and remaining with her head down for a few seconds. In Soo-Ja’s eyes, the gesture seemed excessively submissive. She herself never chose to bow very long, making it almost a nod, a quick acknowledgment. When Chu-Sook’s mother finished her bow, Soo-Ja noticed a change on the woman’s face. She had finally gotten a good look at Yul and seemed to recognize him. Soo-Ja watched as the expression in her eyes changed from interest to fear.

  “No, I cannot speak to him,” said Chu-Sook’s mother, shaking her head. “And for anyone who’s watching, you can see that I’m not speaking to him!”

  “Mrs. Yang, it’s all right. He’s a friend,” said Soo-Ja, holding her arm.

  But Chu-Sook’s mother could not stop waving her hands in front of her face, looking around for spies—real or imaginary.

  Soo-Ja glanced at Yul, who seemed to stay calm. She wondered if he realized how much of a target he had become for the police. But Yul did not seem concerned about that. He came closer to Soo-Ja, and she drew her body in as well—theirs was an easy, unforced intimacy—closing the circle so they could confer quietly with each other.

  “They must have shown her my picture,” Yul whispered. “Told her not to speak to me.” Soo-Ja nodded in agreement. She guessed that, if something had happened to the boy, the police and the government must have understood at once the importance of the situation. “If we can show they have the blood of a twelve-year-old on their hands, it’ll turn the tide of the demonstrations. It’ll prove the brutality of their regime.” Yul turned to Chu-Sook’s mother again, to try to make another plea. “I’m here to help you find your son. I want to help you. Don’t believe what the police told you. I’m not here to harm you.”

  “I can’t, I can’t. Please go. I can’t speak to you. I can’t speak to anyone who participates in acts of rebellion against the lawful and righteous government!” said Chu-Sook’s mother, with her eyes closed, as if trying to remember the words she was supposed to recite. She started to wave more and more vehemently.

  Soo-Ja began to fear that the woman would not speak to them at all. She stood closer to her and held down both her arms. When Chu-Sook�
�s mother calmed down a little, Soo-Ja looked straight into her eyes and spoke.

  “Mrs. Yang, you know me. I’m not a member of a student group. You can speak to me.” Soo-Ja reached for her hand and pointed toward the house. “Let’s go in, Mrs. Yang. Let’s go in and have a chat.”

  “Why would I speak to you? You lied to me.”

  Soo-Ja grabbed her hand a bit more forcefully than she’d intended to and directed her inside. “I want to help you, Mrs. Yang. Please, let’s go in. Let’s go in before your neighbors see us out here and tell on you to the police.”

  Soo-Ja glanced at Yul for help, but he seemed distracted, looking intently in the direction of the woman’s shack. His eyes were squinting, as if he was trying to guess its contents. He had to know it had no windows, and probably no running water or electricity either, with the only light coming in through tiny slivers on the edges of the straw door, keeping the place dark and stuffy. Soo-Ja was about to follow Chu-Sook’s mother into her house when Yul stopped her, reaching for her arm.

  “Wait,” he said. Yul’s nostrils widened, as if he were sniffing something foul. He blocked Soo-Ja’s way with his arm, in the firm manner of a traffic officer. He pulled her back, away from the woman’s house. “What’s that smell?”

  Chu-Sook’s mother looked away, staring down at the ground. Her body seemed emptied out of tears, with no more blood left to run through her veins. When she spoke, she did so matter-of-factly: “That’s my son.”

  They held the boy’s body up in the air, and from a distance, it looked as if it were floating, though it was propped by a dozen hands. They had first wrapped him in a blanket, tucked in from head to toe, like a newborn, but somewhere along the march the blanket fell—his cold, decomposing skin rejecting the human comfort. It felt heavy, almost unbearably so, though in life the boy had been light, and not very tall. Chu-Sook would, in fact, have been surprised to see the effort it took to carry him; similar to the effort it took to find him, after a long search in the river. Were it not for the school uniform he wore, they would not have recognized him–with his face smashed out, bits of grenade still lodged in his skull.