by Samuel Park
“I don’t. But I’ve always wanted to try.”
Soo-Ja nodded. This would be better than talking about Min. Soo-Ja made their hands trade places and had his fingers hold the brush. She then placed her hand over his. Slowly, they began to draw their first stroke together, starting from the base, and forming a thin, black arc. They crossed the arc with their second stroke, again from the base.
Soo-Ja gripped Yul’s hand tighter and noticed he’d kept his arm loose, so she could guide him freely. She continued, drawing black leaves—six or seven of them—crisscrossing each other. For some of the strokes, Soo-Ja had them lift the brush for a second before continuing the stroke, creating an inch or so of white space right in the middle of a leaf. It looked like someone had erased that part of the orchid, splitting it in half.
“I know I should have come earlier. I debated seeing you, but I wasn’t sure it would be appropriate,” said Yul as they drew.
“You saved my life that night. I wouldn’t have known about the gunfire if you hadn’t warned me,” said Soo-Ja.
“But you also wouldn’t have been there to begin with if you hadn’t met me.”
“I am very glad I was there, Yul,” said Soo-Ja firmly. “Don’t ever worry about that.”
“Maybe if I’d come to see you, you could have avoided this engagement.”
Soo-Ja quickly reached for another blank piece of paper, eager to change the subject. “Do you want to do the chrysanthemums next? You see how in the painting of orchids, we emphasized the leaves? For the chrysanthemums, we have to do the opposite and highlight the flowers. And the flowers are trickier to draw. The petals at the heart have to be drawn with a darker ink than the petals at the edges.”
Soo-Ja and Yul—their hands still moving together—painted the flowers; their petals grew diagonally upward, creating the illusion that they kept moving beyond the frame of the long, rectangular sheet of paper.
“What do you think a gentleman can learn from a chrysanthemum?” asked Yul.
“Well, the chrysanthemum blooms even in the winds, rains, and snow of late autumn and early winter. It follows its nature and is not afraid of danger or death. I might venture that those are the values that a gentleman should have: courage, loyalty, and commitment to ideals.”
As their hands moved together, Soo-Ja felt enveloped by Yul’s warmth. After a while, she started to let go, letting him fill in a dark leaf by himself; then she’d guide his hand along again, to create distance between the stems. Each time she held his hand felt like the first time—letting go of it for a few seconds only made her long for it more.
“Now, I’d like to draw something for you,” said Soo-Ja. “For you to take home.”
Soo-Ja smiled at Yul as he sat back and watched her. She began to mix the ink in the inkstone. Then, Soo-Ja drew a gnarled branch, going in four directions—one to the right, one to the left, one moving into the background, one coming forward. She occasionally lifted her brush in the air in the middle of a stroke, once again creating “breaks” in the branches, white space that would be left empty, and “filled” in by the mind of the person looking at the painting. Then, she mixed some water in the inkstone to get a lighter shade for the delicate round flowers, and she sprinkled them on top of the branches.
“See, there must be harmony between the yin—the female—and the yang—the male,” said Soo-Ja. “That’s why there must be a balance between the empty space and the painted area.”
When Soo-Ja was done, she handed Yul the painting of the plum blossoms. Yul leaned closer and stared at it. Though he did not speak, his eyes looked full of admiration. He rolled the rice paper with great care and placed it inside his bag.
“I sense my advice is unwelcome. Maybe I should go now,” said Yul, a hint of sadness on his face.
Soo-Ja did not want him to go just yet, and watched with disappointment as he headed out of the classroom and into the chatter of the street, now bustling with night students and teachers about to go home. But as Yul made his way out, Soo-Ja quickly realized that his expensive leather shoes—which he’d left by the steps immediately outside the door, as per custom—were gone. Soo-Ja’s were still there, but Yul’s had been replaced with a cheap pair of random sandals.
Soo-Ja was mortified. If Yul’s shoes had been stolen, then, in the eyes of an observer, it was her fault. For that hour, while she had been with him, she’d been responsible for his well-being. She’d been the host, and therefore was accorded some privileges, but also responsibilities. Besides, she was the one who had suggested meeting at her school and initially had them stay in the empty, unguarded classroom. Soo-Ja knew he knew all this, and that, right at that moment, she was about to lose face.
But much to Soo-Ja’s surprise, Yul simply smiled and placed the sandals on his feet, as if nothing had happened and those were really his own shoes. When he saw Soo-Ja staring at him, he told her, “Oh, I just ran out of the house late this morning and didn’t notice what I wore on my feet. Anyway, thank you for the drawing lesson. I’m very glad I got to see you again.”
Soo-Ja nodded, touched by his kindness. He had not wanted to embarrass her. Standing up, Soo-Ja gathered her art materials and made her way out of the classroom.
Just as she was about to go home, however, Soo-Ja felt Yul place his hand on her left arm. He touched her lightly, as if she were a flower. Soo-Ja’s body turned back in his direction, and her senses felt sharper, keenly aware of the region of her arm that Yul had just touched. She felt the air grow warmer as he drew closer to her, his breath soon almost within her reach. Yul gazed at her with his lips apart, but no words came out of his mouth. He looked as if he had practiced a million things to say, but he was now discarding them one by one. Soo-Ja could tell, as his face changed expressions, what each of those opening lines were—she could see as they fell to the ground—a confession, an apology, a request. She wanted to pick them up, one by one, and cradle them in her arms, lest they be the last thing she had from him again.
“Don’t marry Min,” he whispered, his lips brushing against her ears. “Marry me instead.”
Soo-Ja felt the entire world grow silent, and the only thing she could hear was her own heart, beating fast. She looked at Yul, startled, feeling the warmth emanating from his body. Soo-Ja felt as if she had gone mute. Words failed her like broken clocks, trains without rails. Here it was, happiness, offering to dance with her, calling her nicknames, jaunty and giddy, leading her to a bed of hyacinths.
As if pained by her silence, Yul pressed his forehead against hers and took her hand into his.
“Let me build a house for you near the mountains, nestled in a valley filled with groves of mulberry trees.” Yul spoke so tenderly that Soo-Ja could not help but close her eyes. “I will make sure it rests on fertile and healthy soil, so we can plant a garden and watch the azaleas rise in the spring, and pluck the red dates from the branches. I will have the house face south, so it’ll get plenty of light year-round, even in winter, and while everyone else in town shivers, you will stay warm in your room, reading a book, wrapped in a blanket made of the finest lambskin. The house will always smell of jasmine tea and beds of chrysanthemums, and every room will be decorated according to your own whims. We will have a room for you to spend in serious contemplation, another one where you could craft very long, elaborate jokes shared only with me, and a third one where you could draw and paint and practice calligraphy.”
The vision made her smile. Yul moved closer, and it felt like the entire world enveloping her. He grazed his lips against hers. But just as Soo-Ja was about to kiss him, a powerful feeling of guilt tugged at her, telling her to be ashamed to picture such a life when she was already as good as married. The preparations for the wedding had been lengthy, and had involved not just Min and her, but their two sets of parents, who had to meet, talk, and be sure to trust one another. Elaborate negotiations had taken place regarding the dowry, the honeymoon, and their futures.
But what if none of those things matte
red? What if I simply ran off with Yul?
And then, a sudden image arose of Soo-Ja’s body under Min’s as they made love. Min’s face, sweat dripping on his forehead, and his eyes almost rolling backward in pleasure. All the noise on the street returned—chatter from the students walking by, cars honking in the distance, a bell ringing as a front door opened. The memory shamed Soo-Ja, and she pulled away from Yul. Even if she lied and kept that night a secret, Yul would find out on their wedding night, just by looking at their sheets. What did the heroine say in that novel she’d been reading? Soo-Ja tried to recall, as the words suddenly felt very urgent. “Men—they have minds like moral flypaper,” or something to that effect. She had not understood what the author had meant until right that second.
“I have to go home now,” said Soo-Ja, almost in a panic.
“Soo-Ja, please!” said Yul, dreadful sadness painted on his face.
Soo-Ja swallowed. This was the moment, she knew, to which she would go back to in memory and say, You fool, you simple-minded fool. This was the moment she would think back to and decide, That was the night my life began, and I stopped being my father’s daughter, and earned my own name.
Soo-Ja shook her head. When she spoke, she could not tell if the apology was directed to Yul or to herself. “I’m sorry. It’s just… impossible.”
chapter five
Outside the temple, the sun began to set, as Soo-Ja’s yin, her night, crept onto Min’s yang, his day. They arrived in their own traditional palanquin—Soo-Ja’s an enclosed carriage hiding her body from the world, Min’s an exposed wooden chair held by four bearers. Soo-Ja wore a traditional green and yellow silk hanbok dress with billowing sleeves, keeping her arms bent in front of her, one on top of the other. She had her long black hair tied tightly at the back and fastened by a long pin with a dragon head at one end. Min wore a high black hat with flat sides resembling wings, and a maroon jacket embroidered with the picture of two red-crested white cranes. At the bottom, his flowing silk pants were cut off at the calf area, revealing black boots made of cloth.
As the bearers rested the palanquins on the floor, Soo-Ja and Min emerged, facing the two hundred or so invited guests sitting on long rows of white foldout chairs. Guided by their attendants, Soo-Ja and Min took their initial places, standing a few feet apart from each other. With the sound of a twelve-string zither underlining their movements, Soo-Ja’s and Min’s respective attendants gently guided them so that they would face each other. Soo-Ja and Min performed their first bow—long and slow, in perfect unison.
Then, Soo-Ja alone began a second bow, as her attendant filled a gourd with rice wine and handed it to her. Taking it with both hands and her head down, Soo-Ja kneeled on the ground and stretched out her arms, offering Min the drink. Min made sure to also hold it with both hands, his elbows out, and drank slowly, before handing the empty gourd back to his bride.
After that, it was Min’s turn to receive a gourd of wine from his attendant and offer it to Soo-Ja. Once the two of them had performed a quarter bow, not as deep and long as their initial one, Min handed her the drink. According to custom, Soo-Ja was supposed to take only a sip, express her embarrassment, and hand it back to Min. But much to his surprise, and that of the guests, Soo-Ja drank it all, in a single gulp, making a point of enjoying it.
At this point, like seasoned actors, Min’s parents took their places on the ground. Soo-Ja and Min turned to them and performed a long, elaborate bow, one in which they folded their entire bodies, hands touching the floor, and heads lowered in respect. Then, Soo-Ja walked to them in small steps, her head slightly lowered, as customary, and offered them wine. Min’s father bowed back lightly and took the wine from her. The attendant then refilled the gourd, so Soo-Ja could offer it to Mother-in-law, who took a small sip in a solemn manner.
Her offerings done, Soo-Ja rose, as Min’s father threw jujube fruits into the air. Soo-Ja had some trouble navigating the way out, having to maintain her arms in a difficult position, and keeping aloft the costume’s heavy silk fabrics. Min, walking slightly ahead, seemed only dimly aware of her presence, almost leaving her behind.
During the meal afterward, Soo-Ja mentioned the awkwardness of the moment to Jae-Hwa, who told her not to be paranoid about such silly things, and that from the outside, she looked glorious, and it was one of the best ceremonies she’d ever been to.
When a young woman finally marries, the custom rules that she spend three days with her own parents, and then go live with her husband and his parents at their house. But as she stepped past the gates of Min’s home, Soo-Ja felt like she was trespassing. Her arrival there was marked by the fact that neither of her in-laws had stayed up to greet her, and both the main house and the adjacent quarters were completely dark. All of the lights were off, including those outside in the courtyard, and she had to walk carefully so as not to trip. Min made his way easily, clearly accustomed to this, but he never looked back to check on her, and she finally had to ask him to slow down.
Soo-Ja followed Min into the compound, walking past a small garden and toward the back. There, Soo-Ja saw where the main house ended and Min’s own adjacent, one-story house began, as humble and unassuming as a distant cousin. Min and Soo-Ja had two rooms to themselves, one for him to receive visitors, another for them to sleep in. They would be sharing the kitchen in the main house, where she was expected to cook and eat with the rest of the family. The single outhouse, on the other side of the courtyard, would also be shared with the others.
They went into Min’s quarters, and Soo-Ja waited for him to turn on a light to illuminate her way, but he didn’t. Finally, she reached for the lamp herself and turned the knob. Min looked at her as if she had violated a rule.
“You’re not supposed to do that,” he said.
“What? Light the lamp?”
“My mother doesn’t like us to waste electricity,” he said, pointing to the lamp.
“But it’s dark.”
“I know. We should be asleep. Turn that off.”
“I can’t see anything. How am I supposed to find the blankets?”
“They’re in the back there, on top of the armoire. Now turn that off. My mother will see the light,” said Min, pointing at the lamp again.
“Is she still up?”
“She’s in the house, praying.”
“Praying for what?” asked Soo-Ja, confused.
“What do you think?” Min retorted dismissively.
A grandson, of course. Already. And every night, until Soo-Ja delivered the expected news, her mother-in-law would pray, sometimes loudly outside, rocking her body back and forth with her eyes closed. During their honeymoon, which was to begin the next day—a trip to Cheju Island—Soo-Ja was expected to conceive. It was not unromantic; it was practical. Two days away from home, they could be noisy if they wished.
Soo-Ja reluctantly turned the light off, but only after she quickly memorized the position of everything in the room. There was not much furniture to speak of, only the armoire with mother-of-pearl for their clothes and blankets, and a small oak table resting against the back of the wall. As she began to make her preparations, Soo-Ja remembered something she had noticed a while back, during their wedding reception.
“Who were those three boys standing near your parents all the time at our wedding?” It was dark, and Soo-Ja could not see Min, just hear him breathing. She felt her way among the unfamiliar comforters, measuring through touch their thickness. The thinnest one went on the floor, and they’d sleep over it; then, they would place the thicker one over their own bodies. It would be unclean to sleep directly on the laminate and, no matter how hot it was, it would go against custom to sleep without something covering them. Soo-Ja began to spread the mats and comforters on the ground, waiting for Min’s answer.
“They’re my brothers,” he finally said.
“I thought you said you only had one brother and one sister.”
“You must’ve heard wrong.”
Sudden
ly, she heard the flick of a match, illuminating Min’s face for a second as he lit his cigarette.
“How old are they?” she asked.
“Chung-Ho is seventeen, Du-Ho is ten, and In-Ho is eight. And then there’s Na-yeong, my sister, and she’s fourteen.”
“So you have three brothers and a sister,” noted Soo-Ja, surprised.
“Two sisters. Seon-ae left when she turned eighteen.”
“Where is she?”
“Who knows.”
“Why didn’t you tell me you had such a big family?” she asked, without moving.
“Are you getting the blankets ready?”
“Almost. You should have told me, Min.”
“I couldn’t risk it. I didn’t want you to slip away from my hands.”
“Like a bird, you mean?” Soo-Ja asked, half joking. She was on the floor now, unfolding the blanket and spreading it out to four corners.
“I can’t believe it. It’s done. I got you here,” said Min to himself, as he lit another match and watched it burn. His voice sounded completely foreign, as if he’d been using an accent and had finally dropped it. His features, too, seemed to rearrange themselves, returning to some earlier, previously unseen mold.
“What’s done?”
“My parents didn’t think I could find a wife. Because of my… poor economic prospects. But they underestimated the power of looks. Parents do that. They never know when their kid’s handsome.”
“I didn’t marry you for your looks,” said Soo-Ja sternly.
“Did you see my friends’ faces? Did you see how envious they were? Nobody thought I could do it. Nobody believed in me.”
Soo-Ja was done arranging the mats and pillows on the floor. Though she could not see Min well, she could tell from his movements that he’d taken his shirt and pants off before he slipped under the comforter in his undershirt and long pajama bottoms. She did not join him.
Instead, she leaned her back against the wall and stayed there, listening to the hum of his inhaling and exhaling the cigarette smoke. Min did not call for her or demand that she join him, as if he were already spent, as if the important act had already taken place, and all he wanted to do was rest and revel in its aftermath.
