by Samuel Park
Soo-Ja knew her father was right. Marriage was serious business. The choice of a husband was the only time a woman could exert her will. Choose wisely and have a chance at a decent life. Choose wrong and have endless time to regret it. Her husband would dictate the rest of her life—her social class, her daily routines, her very happiness. And yet, knowing her father might be right only made her dig her heels further into the ground.
“Well, at least this is one decision that I can make, and I don’t depend on your approval for it.”
Soo-Ja saw by the stricken look on her father’s face how much her words had hurt him—he seemed to age five years in five seconds. What is the statute of limitations on resenting those we love? she wondered. Could past wrongs be wielded so easily, pulled out of a back pocket, like a silver knife, and used to tear, rip, slice through an argument?
“Is that why you want to marry him? To punish me? For Seoul?”
“Of course not,” she said, a little too quickly. Soo-Ja’s father looked at her askew, squinting his eyes. She wondered if he suspected her plans to move there after her wedding. For what felt like a long while, Soo-Ja’s father did not speak, as if trying to guess at Soo-Ja’s reasons. The prisoner is always thinking about escape, but she wondered what the jailer always thought about. Suddenly, Soo-Ja’s father seemed to feel the cold and shivered once or twice. They looked at each other awkwardly.
“It’s raining,” her father said, as if he’d only just noticed it. “Go to your room.”
Soo-Ja nodded, terrified to think that she’d won the fight. She turned away from him and walked a few steps until she found herself outside her room. She stood still for a moment, fighting the temptation to run back to her father.
Soo-Ja finally took her shoes off and crossed over the elevated step. Once inside her room, she turned on her lamp and sat on the warm floor, taking the time to catch her breath. Leaning against a corner, she let her long arms and legs droop, weak and disorderly, like broken matchsticks. Soo-Ja felt the tears forming in her eyes. After a while, she could no longer hold her feelings back, and she began to cry. Soo-Ja felt her body shiver with emotion, and quick, guttural noises began to slip out of her lips. Why is it, she wondered, that an enemy or a stranger would leave no mark, but her father—her adored father—could wound her so deeply? She’d never cry out of pain alone, but pain and love together—especially the love—could inspire her to sob to the point of gasping for air.
Soo-Ja was in the middle of taking a long breath when she suddenly heard her door slide open. She turned around, ready to yell at her brother or a servant or whoever it was who’d come in without knocking first. But when she saw that it was Min, no words came out of her mouth.
“I told your maid she didn’t need to show me out in the rain, and I could find my way out by myself. But when I got to your gate, I just rattled the latch and slammed it shut.”
Soo-Ja stopped crying. She turned the knob on the lamp until it was dark again. Min took that as a sign that he could come closer. He walked toward her and then kneeled on the floor, facing her. They sat there, speaking barely above a whisper, their bodies open to each other, looking like two people at prayer. She could feel vibrations running up and down her body.
“So you heard everything my father said.”
“Yes.”
“Is he right?”
“No.”
“Was there a girl at the factory? Did you get someone pregnant?”
“No! Of course not!”
Soo-Ja nodded. “I was right. My father doesn’t know you.”
“But I agree that I am an unlucky kkang-pae, a very poor prospect for marriage,” said Min matter-of-factly.
“Don’t say that. Have more esteem for yourself.”
“Nobody can see the good in me, Soo-Ja. Except for you.”
“Don’t talk like that. Please,” she said, fighting the emotion caught in her throat. Though he did not know it, Min had said the magic words. She found it irresistible—the idea that she alone could see his value, and that he would remain indebted to her for doing so.
“Didn’t you hear your father’s words? I have nothing to offer anyone,” said Min.
Soo-Ja ran her fingers through his hair. “But you’re good at heart, I know you are.”
Min gave a start, hearing a noise outside. “What was that?”
“It’s nothing. Don’t worry. Everyone’s asleep. They can’t hear us in the main house,” said Soo-Ja.
“Why are you so good to me, Soo-Ja? When everyone else has been so bad?” He closed his eyes, as she felt the shape of his face with her fingers, tracing his cheeks, the stubble on his chin.
“Do you want me to stop? Does it bother you?” she asked him, smiling.
“It’ll just make it all the more painful when you leave me at last,” he said, opening his eyes again. She traced his eyebrows with her fingers. She knew he meant this as a question, and she had to answer it.
“Min, I don’t know if I can marry you. Not after what happened tonight.”
Min shook his head. “If you disobey your father, he’ll be angry at you, but over time, he’ll see that you made the right decision.”
“But he wouldn’t like losing me, if you took me away from here. Especially if you let me become a diplomat, and we left the country,” said Soo-Ja, using those particular words on purpose, trying him out to see how he would respond.
“I don’t care where we go, as long as we’re together.”
Soo-Ja, gladdened by his answer, peered into Min’s beautiful eyes, shining down on her like the Seven North Stars. She traced his dark eyebrows, which stood in such contrast to his pale skin. She smiled, thinking about the freedom she would earn if she married him. Min took her smile as an invitation, and he kissed her, his creamy lips touching hers, his hand grazing her neck.
“Do you love me?” he asked when he let go.
Soo-Ja was tempted to lie and say that she did, but the truth was that she hardly knew him. It wasn’t love; it was the promise of a new life. It was the Namdaemun—the gate in the heart of Seoul—awaiting her; visas to foreign countries, and exotic-sounding languages. At the thought, Soo-Ja beamed, which Min mistook for an answer, and he smiled back even more intensely.
“I love you,” he said, in his sweet, almost adolescent voice. “I love you so much, I feel like my insides could explode. If you don’t love me, then don’t marry me out of love, marry me out of pity. I have nothing to live for without you. Give me something to live for. My parents don’t care about me. I have no future. I have no reason to go on. But you can save me. Marry me. Marry me and save me. My life is in your hands.”
At that moment, Soo-Ja felt like her own life had never mattered more, her body jolted by the rush that must be the addict’s first thrill. She’d never felt more powerful. Her father was wrong. Min might not have the education or the prospects, but right that second, those things meant nothing. She would never find someone with so much passion for her—a lovesick boy who’d rather die than live without her. He needed her, and his need felt intoxicating. It was even stronger than love. Min swooned in a fever, and she worried he might faint at any moment. She was going to save him, yes—rescue him from himself and the world that hurt him.
Soo-Ja began to gently massage Min’s head, full of affection. Min took it as an opening of sorts, and he began to kiss her again. Soo-Ja kissed him back, and Min enveloped her in an embrace. They lay on the floor, and Soo-Ja could feel parts of them locking together, arm against arm, hip against hip, until it felt like no air could pass between them. His tongue felt wet against hers, like biting a juicy mango, its nectar running down her chin. Though she had her eyes closed, every part of her body felt awake, telegraphing sensations from pore to pore. When she opened her eyes, she could see Min’s pleasure in his pupils, and she felt proud of being responsible for it.
Min was now lying with his legs clasped around hers, his hands caressing the sides of her face. Soo-Ja wrapped her arms around
his back and squeezed his body against hers. Touching him felt as natural as breathing and was done with the same ease. They were, physically, a natural match. Each kiss led into another, their mouths opening and closing to let in breaths, and each other.
Min began to undo the buttons of his pants, but when he hiked up her skirt, Soo-Ja instinctively stopped him. She knew she couldn’t make love to him; shouldn’t, mustn’t. But she also felt a sudden rush of gratitude that made her want to touch and be touched. This felt good, just like thinking about her future felt good. Besides, if they made love, it was as good as signing a marriage certificate. No man in his right mind would dare deflower a woman and then refuse to take her as his wife, thought Soo-Ja. Otherwise, he would be destroying her life. So this could work to her advantage…
Finally, when Min tried to lift up her skirt for a second time, Soo-Ja did not stop him. Min held her arms up over her head, against the floor, as if stretching her, and let his fingers interlace with hers. They continued kissing, and as the kisses grew more intense, Soo-Ja closed her eyes and felt herself floating. Their bodies were moving to the same rhythm, him pressing up and down against her, and she enjoyed a lulling sensation, as if the two of them were rising from the earth and swirling in the air, toward the rain beating down on their flesh.
Bang, bang, bang, sounded the wooden drums.
Min and his friends, chanting loudly and playing music, could be heard for miles as they carried the wedding chest down the street. Soo-Ja watched as the men came closer, though still a block away. They all wore male hanboks—loose-fitting gray pantaloons on the bottom, and blue jackets with wide sleeves on top, fastened at the chest with ribbons. They walked proudly, in step, chanting. One of them held up a jwa-go drum with the symbol of the flag drawn on it, and he’d beat at it with a stick at the end of each chant.
“Buy the hahm! Buy the hahm!” they called out.
Min followed right behind them, also wearing a hanbok—it was the first time Soo-Ja had seen him don traditional costume. Min favored Western suits, always neatly tailored and freshly iron-pressed. But the hanbok, with its vibrant blue and yellow colors, fit him well, and as he marched toward her house, she felt a sudden glee, as if this were a complete surprise, and not something she already knew about and had prepared for.
“What’s this ruckus?” a neighbor across the street called out, looking sleepy and confused. “Did somebody die?”
“No, somebody’s getting married soon,” Soo-Ja said, smiling.
“You’re getting married?” the neighbor asked. “To which one of them?”
“To all of them!” said Soo-Ja.
Soo-Ja saw another woman come out from the same house, an old lady with wizened lines on her tired-looking face, wearing a light blue hanbok with red chogori jacket. “The groom sings out loud and strong. That is a good sign. It means he will have vigor and stamina for the first night!” she said, and then began clapping and nodding her head.
“Good,” Soo-Ja replied. “I plan on making him do a lot of work around the house that night.”
Soo-Ja ran back inside and went into the kitchen, careful to go down one step, since the kitchen was a foot lower than the rest of the house. There, the servants were putting the final touches on the rice cake they would present the men with once they reached their house. The confection, covered with adzuki beans, was meant to symbolize luck and harmony. Soo-Ja was not particularly fond of tteok—it was not sweet enough, and too powdery and sticky for her taste. But a celebration wasn’t a celebration without them.
As the servants walked the tteok to the middle hallway—which wasn’t really a hallway but a large, empty room connecting the other ones—Soo-Ja and her mother positioned themselves on the yellow floor, along with two of her aunts. At that moment, Soo-Ja felt her father’s absence, as well as Jae-Hwa’s. Jae-Hwa, who’d been surprised to hear news of the engagement, had said she would come, but had not, in the end. Soo-Ja could still remember the sting of her friend’s words the last time she’d spoken to her, when Jae-Hwa accused Soo-Ja of not really being in love with Min. Soo-Ja hadn’t told Jae-Hwa about her night of passion—Jae-Hwa would have been shocked.
As they came close to the house, the men’s loud, hungry voices vibrated through the thin walls, shaking the floor beneath them. But when the servants opened the sliding doors, revealing the men to the women, all became silence.
The men lowered the wedding chest onto the ground and bowed ceremoniously. The women, already sitting, bowed, too. Then, the men took their upturned, boat-shaped rubber shoes off and walked the wedding chest up the two steps toward the room. They placed it immediately before her mother.
In exchange for the wedding chest, Soo-Ja’s mother handed the groomsmen a white envelope filled with cash. Going against custom, Min’s friends did not negotiate—they had been instructed by Min not to try. And Soo-Ja’s mother did not negotiate, either—she had been instructed by Soo-Ja not to do so.
Knowing that everyone’s eyes fell on her, Soo-Ja’s mother reached for the long, heavy white cotton coils around the chest. She dug deep into the knots with her nails and fingers and unwrapped them, revealing the beautiful red chest underneath, encrusted with gleaming white mother-of-pearl and adorned with gold-colored fittings and hinges. She did all this with an ease and expertise that suggested she’d been waiting her whole life to perform this task for her daughter.
Once she opened the chest, Soo-Ja’s mother pulled out the marriage scroll sent by the groom’s family. Written in elegant calligraphy, it announced the upcoming nuptials and listed the four pillars of the groom—his year, month, day, and time of birth—all of which were supposed to indicate his good fortune. Soo-Ja’s mother read those dates out loud, and the others nodded back in approval.
After that, Soo-Ja’s mother reached for the gifts, revealing them one by one—a pink nightgown, a jade bracelet, and a new hanbok. Soo-Ja’s mother held those items in the air, smiling. It was a smile Soo-Ja saw so rarely on her face, it made her realize this was a triumph to her, having managed to marry off a daughter. She had fulfilled a mother’s duty, at last. Soo-Ja caught herself smiling, too, as everything that day felt contagious—the men’s jubilation, the neighbors’ excitement, her mother’s approval. She would be the sky for a day, emotions passing through her like clouds, her being changing colors in a matter of minutes.
chapter four
The large square classroom emptied itself out quickly, its wooden walls growing darker with the waning sun, and its concrete floors feeling cooler to the touch. The young women collected their bags and coats, while Soo-Ja alone remained sitting on her embroidered mat on the floor. She could hear the silence filling up the room as she waited for Yul’s arrival.
He had sent her a note two days earlier, asking if he could see her. She’d wondered why the sudden communication. He hadn’t been in contact with her for weeks. Yul had no less than saved her life that night outside the city hall, yet he had given her no opportunity to show him her gratitude. She wondered why he had been avoiding her.
Soo-Ja had hesitated before writing back, knowing it might not be appropriate for her to receive him at her house, now that she was engaged. But he could walk her home from her weekly drawing class at the local arts school, and that’s what she had told him. At that moment, as she waited for him, Soo-Ja tried to ignore the nervousness gliding down her spine. She hoped to concentrate instead on the drawings she’d been working on. They were rice paper paintings of the four gentlemen flowers and plant—orchid, chrysanthemum, plum blossom, and bamboo.
As a little girl, her father had taught her about the importance of the flowers; how in precolonial times, a yangban—aristocratic—boy’s initiation started by learning how to draw them, and his brushstrokes both revealed and created character. Though those four flowers may seem delicate, they had great force, too—they could teach a gentleman how to absorb a moral value, like inner strength or courage.
“What a perfect choice of setting,” s
aid Yul, breaking Soo-Ja’s reverie. She watched as he lingered by the steps of the room for a minute, removing his black leather shoes. He placed them on the ground, on the same step as Soo-Ja’s—next to hers, in fact—creating two pairs of perfect lines.
Soo-Ja rose, and the two of them exchanged bows. Soo-Ja thought about collecting her things, since the original plan was for him to escort her home. But instead, she found herself sitting back on her mat, eager to keep him there—keep him still. Yul sat down next to her, on another mat, facing the persimmon-glazed table in front of her.
“I was surprised to hear from you,” said Soo-Ja.
“I was surprised to hear about your wedding,” said Yul, a look of concern on his face.
“Are you here to congratulate me?” asked Soo-Ja, avoiding his gaze, and looking at her half-finished painting instead.
Yul moved his head to the side. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m not sure ‘congratulations’ is the first word that comes to mind. I haven’t spent much time at all with Min, but I can tell you this: he’s the kind of person you date, not the kind you marry.”
Soo-Ja reached for a blank piece of rice paper and laid it on the table in front of her, buying time as she tried to think of a response. She thought of explaining to Yul her reasons for getting married to Min. Would he understand? she wondered. Or would he judge her?
Instead, Soo-Ja kept her eyes averted and dipped her brush into the inkstone. She was about to make her first stroke when Yul surprised her by moving his body closer to hers. She thought he would try to take the brush away from her hands. Instead, in a gesture that startled her, Yul took her right hand into his, holding the brush with her.
“What are you doing?” she asked, looking at the way his hand made a shell on top of her own.
“Teach me. I’ll follow your lead,” said Yul.
Soo-Ja hesitated. “I didn’t know you drew.”
