We took several steps before Mother answered. “I learned about the new policy months ago,” she said. “And so, the last time I went to Sinuiju, I told the authorities about you. I want you to be matched with a good family, so I told them you were pretty and well-mannered.” She looked at me out of the corner of her eye. “I did not tell your father what I did.”
I wanted to stop right there, turn around, and march back to our village. Mother had offered me to be married to a Japanese man. She was giving me up! Days earlier, she had said marrying a Japanese man would be a better life for me. But I didn’t want a better life. I was perfectly happy where I was.
I was hurt and angry at Mother, but I didn’t say anything. I had a plan, and now I was more determined than ever to make Mr. Saito and his son reject me.
The rain held off and soon we were in Sinuiju. There were more trucks here, and cars, too. The electric poles carried dozens of wires, and I wondered why there had to be so many. The houses were close together, and they had tile roofs instead of thatch. Many people on the streets hurried here and there. I couldn’t imagine where they were all going and why they had to hurry so much.
By the time we got to the police station—a drab one-story building with a shingle roof—I had blisters on my feet. My legs were tired and I was hungry. Mother gave me some pork, but it wasn’t enough to make my hunger go away. I was thirsty, too, but our water was gone.
We went inside the police station. Electric lights hung from the ceiling, and telephones sat on wooden desks. I had never used a telephone, and I tried to imagine how it would sound to talk to someone far away. We went to a clerk at a desk. Though he wore his hair short like a Japanese, he was tall and light skinned like a Korean. Mother bowed. “My daughter, Suk-bo Yi, has come to see Mr. Saito,” Mother said in Japanese.
The clerk looked at Mother, then at me. “Stay here,” he ordered. I could tell from his accent he was Korean. He went into an office, and a few minutes later, a fat uniformed policeman came out, followed by the clerk.
“I am Sergeant Yamamoto,” the policeman said. “Is this Suk-bo Yi?” he asked, nodding at me.
“Yes, sir,” Mother said.
“I will take her to Mr. Saito,” the sergeant said to Mother. “You are to stay here.”
Mother bowed again, and instinctively I bowed to the sergeant. “This way,” he said, and I followed him outside to the street.
Sergeant Yamamoto’s pace was quick for a heavyset man, and I had to practically run to keep up with him. The blisters on my feet stung, and I cursed myself for not tying my shoes tight. I gritted my teeth against the pain and forced myself to keep pace. We turned a corner and were in an area of larger homes. A few even had gardens. Cars sat parked out front, like the ones I had seen on other visits to Sinuiju.
We stopped at a large house surrounded by a chest-high wall. It looked like a government building or a temple instead of one man’s house. It was the largest house I’d ever seen, larger and grander than the others around it. A veranda several steps above the ground surrounded it. Its walls were white plaster. Slender beams supported wide eaves, and unlike the other houses, the slanted blue roof did not curve up at the corners. Beyond the house, a gardener in a straw hat pruned roses. Another raked the pebbles in a garden containing closely trimmed juniper trees and large rocks that looked like little mountains. One building looked like a garage and another could have been a gardener’s shed.
Everything was square, neat, and clean. There was order and stature here. I remembered my plan to be rude and I swallowed hard. Perhaps Mother was right when she said this was a chance for a better life for me. But I didn’t know these people. I didn’t know how they would treat me, if they would be kind or cruel. And I didn’t know anything about their son, the man who would be my husband. But it didn’t matter. I didn’t want to live here no matter how kind they were or if their son was smart and good-looking. I wanted to stay in my village with Mother and Father, away from the Japanese and their strange houses and demanding ways.
Before we stepped through the gate, Sergeant Yamamoto turned his fat frame to me. “Listen to me,” he said, poking my chest. “Mr. Saito is the director-general of this province. He is a very important man. People say he will become governor-general someday. You must be on your best behavior. Do you understand?”
I backed away from his finger. “I will do what I must do,” I answered. I didn’t bow to him as I should have.
He gave me a hard look and I thought he was going to lecture me some more. Instead, he led me through the gate, up the veranda steps, and to the front of the house.
A middle-aged man in a white buttonless shirt and loose pants met us at the front door. The man was bald, had bushy eyebrows, and wore leather slippers. I didn’t know if the man was Mr. Saito, but I assumed he was a servant because instead of bowing, Sergeant Yamamoto only nodded. “This is the girl,” the sergeant said.
“Come with me,” the man said, and I followed him to the house as Sergeant Yamamoto headed back to the police station. The man opened the door and we stepped inside a narrow, tiled entryway. He took off his shoes.
He pointed at my feet. “Take your shoes off here,” he said. I thought I could start being rude by marching into the house with my shoes on. But removing shoes in a house was something I had always done. So I untied them and slipped them off. My socks were bloody from blisters. The man noticed my feet and said, “Wait here.” He stepped into the house and spoke to someone inside. In a few minutes, he came back to the entryway and handed me a damp washrag and clean socks. I took off my socks and wiped the blood from my feet with the rag. I pulled on the clean socks.
“My name is Haru,” the man said. “Follow me.”
As he entered a large, open room, the man named Haru bowed low. I couldn’t see anyone inside, so it puzzled me why he was bowing. When I stepped into the room, he said, “This is a Shinto house. You must bow when you enter.” I didn’t know why I should bow to no one, and for a second, I thought about not doing it. But I bowed nevertheless.
When I stood and looked around, I saw that I was in the most beautiful room I had ever seen. It had shoji paper sliding walls, and straw tatami mats covered the floor. A paper globe lamp hung from the ceiling. Inside a raised alcove hung a long scroll with Japanese characters and a lovely watercolor painting of a bamboo plant and a crane. On the floor of the alcove was a gold incense pot and an ivory carving of men in a long rowboat. Inside the alcove sat a porcelain bowl filled with water. A low ebony table surrounded by beige cushions was the only furniture. The room’s size, proportions, and simplicity gave it both peace and power.
Haru said something to me, but I didn’t hear him. He pinched my arm. I realized my mouth was open and quickly closed it. “Sit at the table on that side,” he said, pointing. I sat, and he said, “Wait here.” He slid open a door and disappeared on the other side.
After a few minutes, a woman in a white kimono came in with a tray holding a kettle, four small bowls, and a larger clay bowl with ground green tea leaves inside. The woman took no notice of me as she bent at the knees and placed the tray on the table. She knelt and laid out a beautiful silk napkin embroidered with an elaborate “S.” She mixed the tea and water into the bowls, then left.
A wall opened and a middle-aged man and woman came in. The man was not tall, but square, and he looked powerful. He wore a dark waist-length robe over a light-gray kimono. The woman wore a simple white-and-black kimono. From the way they carried themselves, I knew they were Mr. and Mrs. Saito. They were the masters of the household and I should stand and bow to them. But it was time to carry out my plan. I lifted my chin and readied myself to be rude.
A few steps behind them, a young man walked in. He wore a white Western-style shirt and black trousers. His eyes sparkled. He carried a bowl of strawberries. It was Hisashi, the man I had met in the forest.
I gasped. Impulsively, I rose from my cushion and bowed. Mr. and Mrs. Saito returned my bow with a nod. Hisas
hi smiled at me knowingly. All three went to the alcove and washed their face and hands in the porcelain bowl. Then, we sat on our cushions around the table, Mr. Saito at the head, and Mrs. Saito and Hisashi across from me. Hisashi set the bowl of strawberries on the table.
Mr. Saito bowed at the table, then picked up his tea bowl. His short hair was beginning to gray at the temples. His face was square like his torso, and behind intelligent eyes, he did not betray his emotions. Mrs. Saito was a beauty with shiny hair pulled to the top of her head, and smooth light skin. Her face was delicate. She watched me closely and she, too, did not betray her feelings. I could see that with his almost feminine features, Hisashi was more like his mother. Unlike his parents, he wore a grin on his face.
Mr. Saito took a sip of tea and said, “I am Mr. Saito, and this is my wife, Koku, and my son, Hisashi. Have you been given a Japanese name?” His voice was full, loud, and deep.
I kept my eyes low. “No, sir. My name is Suk-bo,” I replied in Japanese.
“I know your Korean name,” Mr. Saito said, “but you are a Japanese subject now. You should have a Japanese name. I will see that you get one.”
Here would have been a good place to be rude. I could complain that my Korean name was perfectly fine and I did not need a Japanese one. I could push my tea bowl aside and say I preferred Korean tea instead of the Japanese tea. I could cross my arms and refuse to answer their questions. But I looked at Hisashi and held my tongue.
Mr. Saito said, “Hisashi went camping a few days ago and picked these strawberries. He thought you might like them. He says they are perfectly ripe and sweet. Have some.”
I bowed to Hisashi. He smiled at me, and in his smile, I saw the kindness I’d seen in the forest. “Thank you,” I said. I took a strawberry and bit into it. It was indeed ripe and sweet.
“Hisashi is my second son,” Mr. Saito said. “My eldest has a Japanese wife. He lives in Tokyo and is an officer in the army. However, to fulfill the Imperial Government’s law to assimilate your people, we have offered to have Hisashi marry a Korean woman. You are a candidate.”
I swallowed and said, “Thank you, sir.”
“Tell me,” Mr. Saito said, “how do you feel about the Japanese?”
With the sweet taste of wild strawberries in my mouth and Hisashi grinning at me from across the table, I changed my mind about acting rude. Perhaps Mother was right and I would find a better life here. It would be a lovely house to live in, and I would have a new and exciting life in Sinuiju. I might even go to Japan someday. And, I must say, Hisashi was very handsome.
But now, I had a problem. Mr. Saito was asking me how I felt about the Japanese. I knew my father hated our Japanese masters, and I had come to feel the same way. I had learned that they executed my uncle. And just a few days earlier, I had seen what the police did to my aunt at the Dano festival. But even though Mr. Saito was the perfect picture of a robust Japanese man, he didn’t seem to be that way. Mrs. Saito hadn’t said anything, but she looked to be gracious and pleasant. And then there was Hisashi. He had picked strawberries for me. I decided it wouldn’t be so dreadful to marry him.
I remembered what the masked satirist had said at the festival. “Sir,” I said finally, “you have built roads and dams and have brought electricity to Korea. Your people have brought order and productivity, too. Without you, we would still be a backward nation, fighting among ourselves, clan versus clan, as we did for hundreds of years.”
“Ha!” Hisashi said. “That is a good answer!”
Mr. Saito raised an eyebrow. “Is that how you really feel, or is that what you were told to say?”
“No one told me what to say, sir.”
“I see,” Mr. Saito said. “Well, you are right. Korea’s only salvation is to become Japanese.”
Mrs. Saito lifted her chin. “Have you learned to sew and cook?” she asked. Her voice was cool and even. “We would expect you to be a proper wife to our son.”
I thought for a second that I should lie and tell her that I was a fine cook and could sew anything. But I shook my head. “I am sorry, ma’am,” I answered. “I do not know how to cook and sew. I study literature, mathematics, and philosophy instead. But”—I lifted my eyes to Mrs. Saito—“if I am chosen, I would be keen to learn what you think I need to know to be a proper wife to your son.”
Mr. Saito grunted. “Literature and mathematics and philosophy. It is unusual for girls to learn these things. Would you continue your studies if you married my son?”
“I would want to, sir,” I answered. “Under your direction, of course.”
Mr. Saito stared at me for a while. Then he turned to Hisashi. “Son, do you have any questions for this girl?”
“Yes, Tōchan,” Hisashi said. “I do.” He put a serious look on his face and said, “Tell me, Suk-bo, do you like the strawberries, or do you think they are hard and sour?”
I smiled a little and said, “I like them very much, thank you. They are ripe and sweet.”
“Yes, I thought so, too,” Hisashi said. His eyes twinkled.
After a few seconds, Mr. Saito stood, signaling that the meeting was over. Mrs. Saito and Hisashi stood with him, and I did, too. “That is all I have time for,” Mr. Saito said. “You may go. We will let your parents know our decision.”
“Tōchan,” Hisashi said, “it has started to rain. Suk-bo has a long walk back to her village. You could send her in your car.”
“Yes, yes, yes,” Mr. Saito said with a wave. “I will have Haru arrange it.”
I bowed to Mr. and Mrs. Saito as they left, and now, I was alone with Hisashi. He led me to the entryway and I put on my shoes. We stepped outside to the veranda under the eaves to stay out of the rain. I touched the red silk ribbon in my hair as we waited for the car.
Hisashi grinned at me again. “I saw you the other day,” he said.
“You did?” I said. “Where?”
His grin grew to a full smile. “At your festival. I was the man in the mask.”
“You were?”
“Yes,” Hisashi replied. “I borrowed the mask from one of the entertainers. It was a good performance, don’t you agree?”
“It was,” I said, grinning at him.
“You used what I said to answer my father.”
“It was a good answer, I think,” I replied. “Tell me, why did you come to the festival?”
“I wanted to see you again. It was fun until the police came.”
“They humiliated my aunt,” I said with an accusatory tone.
“I’m sorry they did. It is not right what the police do sometimes.”
The car pulled up and the chauffeur opened the door for me. Before I left, Hisashi touched my arm. “Here,” he said. “These are for you.”
He handed me an embroidered table napkin with something inside. I opened it and saw the strawberries he had picked. I lowered my eyes to him. “Thank you,” I said.
“Have a good trip,” Hisashi said and gave me his kind smile again. I felt my cheeks get warm.
Mr. Saito’s automobile was big and black like the one I had seen in Sinuiju years earlier. The driver was a Korean man about twenty years old with the Japanese name Isamu. When he saw me, he regarded me with what I thought was disdain. I brushed aside his look and said nothing to him as we went to the police station to pick up Mother. On the road home, Mother and I sat in the back, me with the strawberries in my lap, and Mother looking embarrassed to be riding in such a grand car. The road was rutty and the car lurched from side to side, but I didn’t mind. I didn’t get to ride in a car often, and I thought it was great fun.
As I looked out the window at the rain falling on the rice paddies, I felt happy. I was beginning to like the idea of marrying Hisashi. I believed he would be a good husband for me, and I believed I could learn to be a good wife. When Mother asked how the meeting went, I told her I thought it went well. At this, she nodded and tried to look pleased. But in the softness of her eyes and in the lines around her mouth, I could see t
hat she was sad.
SEVEN
Mr. Saito said he’d inform my parents of his decision about me, but he hadn’t said when. So for the next several days, I went about doing my chores, studying my lessons, helping in the fields, and continually looking at the road for the administrator’s car to come. As the days went by without hearing from Sinuiju, I thought Mr. and Mrs. Saito had rejected me. I was upset that they thought I was unworthy of marrying their son. I wanted to know what they thought was so terribly wrong with me. I had behaved properly instead of rudely. I’d answered their questions as best as I could. It seemed that Hisashi liked me. I wanted them to accept me, and I wanted Hisashi to accept me, too. At night on my mat, I fantasized about strolling the grounds of the beautiful house, driving around in the big black car, and living in Sinuiju. I fantasized what it would be like to lie with Hisashi, stroke his chest, kiss him, make love to him.
But, after many days, I’d settled into my routine, and my mind began to change. I grew uneasy about marrying a Japanese and living in a house and city I knew nothing about. It would be a strange world for me. I thought about how I would miss my parents and my brother when he came home. I would miss my village and my strolls in the forest. I began to think that I had made a mistake by not sticking with my plan to be rude so that Mr. Saito would reject me.
In the end, I wasn’t sure how I felt. Though I wasn’t sure about his parents, I liked Hisashi with his sparkling eyes and almost pretty face, and I wanted to see him again. Mother and Father said nothing about it, although in the heavy silence of our house, I could tell they disagreed about what to do should Mr. Saito select me.
One night when we sat down for our evening meal of millet and beans—our monthly allotment of rice had run out days earlier—Father informed me that my uncle needed me on his farm. “Since he hosted the Dano celebration, the administrator sent his laborers to work in the factories in Pyongyang,” Father said. “His girls are young and not much help. He will need you for several days.”
The Spirit of the Dragon Page 5
