The Spirit of the Dragon

by William Andrews

  “Do you like it?” he asked.

  “It is pretty,” I replied.

  “Then you shall have it,” he said. He turned to the woman. “How much?”

  “Four yen.”

  Hisashi reached into his pocket and produced a five-yen coin. He gave it to the woman and she handed him the scarf. She reached inside her pocket for change. Hisashi raised his hand. “There is no need,” he said. The woman bowed a thank-you to him.

  Hisashi held out the scarf to me and I took it. “It is too expensive,” I said, admiring the embroidery.

  “I do not agree,” he said. “The red-crowned crane is a symbol of longevity and fidelity. I give it to you as I have given you my promise to be a faithful husband. Anyway,” he said with a grin, “it will look nice on you.”

  “Thank you.” I wrapped the scarf around my neck and showed it to him.

  “I was right,” he said. “It does look nice on you.” If we hadn’t been in the city, I would have kissed him right then.

  We walked our bicycles to the end of the park. Hisashi pointed to the river. “Look over there. It’s the bridge I told you about.”

  I had only seen the bridge across the Yalu River from far away, on the road to my parents’ house. At that distance, it was a thin line across the river. But up close, it was an amazing sight. On top of huge stone piers, twelve steel spans reached all the way across like a giant snake coming in and out of the river. They had swung the center span perpendicular to the rest of the bridge, cutting the snake in half.

  “Why is that part open?” I asked.

  “It’s a swing bridge,” Hisashi answered. “That section swings open to the side to let ships go through.”

  “But there are no ships going through now,” I said. “Why is it open?”

  “To prevent people from crossing.”

  “Why do they have the bridge if they don’t let anyone cross?”

  “Because our relationship with China is not good,” Hisashi replied. “There is talk that we will go to war with them.”

  I wanted to ask why Japan and China would want to go to war with each other, but I was asking too many questions and I didn’t want to ruin the pleasantness of our outing. We walked along the Yalu River for a while. The river was muddy and flowing as if it was alive and slithering to the sea. On the docks, men unloaded heavy wooden boxes from ships with ropes attached to masts. The rigging creaked and groaned under the weight of the cargo. Fishermen shouting at each other in Japanese heaved ashore baskets filled with their catch. The acrid fish smell filled the air. We walked our bicycles a little farther and came to two soldiers guarding the dock. They had rifles, and on their arms they wore a broad white band with red kanji characters. When they saw us, they brought their rifles to their chests.

  Hisashi reached out his hand to stop me. “Kempei tai,” he uttered, staring at the soldiers with the white armbands. “We should go no farther.”

  I had never seen the military police before. I had heard of them, of course. Everyone knew about the Kempei tai. Soo-sung, the blacksmith’s daughter, once told me that they tortured people for information about the resistance by pouring water in their mouths to make them think they were drowning. She had said they had spies throughout Korea looking for rebels, and when they found them, they shot them. I didn’t believe her then. But now, seeing them clutching rifles and eyeing us, I was not so sure.

  “What are they doing here?” I asked.

  “That building over there,” Hisashi said, nodding to a two-story brick building away from the dock. “It’s a brothel.”

  “A brothel?” In front of the building door were soldiers in a line. They laughed and shuffled their feet as they waited. The door opened and the soldier in the front of the line went inside. I had heard of brothels before. Soo-sung once showed me pictures of women with heavy makeup and fancy outfits and said that men paid money to have sex with them. But I thought brothels were only in the big cities of Seoul and Pyongyang, not in Sinuiju.

  “We should leave,” Hisashi said.

  I stared at the line of soldiers waiting to get inside the brothel. I saw a young woman in a window on the second floor. I couldn’t see if she was wearing makeup or dressed in fancy clothes.

  “Quickly!” Hisashi said.

  We mounted our bicycles and pedaled to the park. There, Hisashi bought rice cakes and we ate them as we walked our bicycles again. I wanted to ask Hisashi more about the brothel, where the women came from, if they were Japanese or Korean. But since I had moved into the Saito house, I had learned that some questions were best unasked.

  When we finished our rice cakes, Hisashi said, “Suk-bo, I have something to tell you.” He kept his eyes on the path as if he would rather walk than talk. “It is good for me, but I am afraid you might not like it.”

  For a second, I panicked, thinking he was going to tell me that he had found a Japanese wife and that I would now only be his mistress. But though I worried about it constantly, it didn’t make sense. I knew he loved me. I saw love in how he looked at me, in the way he encouraged me to keep up my studies, in how he called me by my Korean name when we were alone. And I was sure that it was his love I felt when I lay with him at night. Even so, I was not sure.

  “What is it that you think I will not like?” I asked, looking at the path with him.

  “I am going away for a while,” he said. “To Tokyo to study medicine. Father has arranged an apprenticeship with an important man there. He is Surgeon Major Shiro Ishii of the Imperial Army. Doctor Ishii is doing new work on bacteria and chemicals and how they can harm people. The apprenticeship will give me an advantage when I go to medical school.”

  “How long will you be gone?” I asked.

  “Six months,” Hisashi responded. “Maybe longer, but less than a year. I should be able to come home for visits.”

  “I am your wife. I should go with you.”

  He faced me. “I will live on a military base. It will be long hours, but”—he put a hand on my arm—“I promise I will write often.” He offered a tender smile.

  “I will write every day,” I said, choking back tears.

  Hisashi nodded. “I believe you will, my wife. I believe you will.” He put a hand on my arm and looked into my eyes.

  “There is one more thing you need to know,” he said. “I know how my mother feels about you. She says things sometimes, and I’ve heard her arguing with Father.”

  I looked at my feet.

  “Well, she is wrong, Suk-bo. Do you understand what I am saying? She is wrong. Now that we have been together, I know you are the finest woman I could have married.”

  Though we were in the park with people around, and though it wasn’t proper to show affection in public, I threw my arms around him. “Don’t leave me, Hisashi,” I breathed. “Please don’t leave me.”

  He put his arms around me and said, “It will only be a short while and then we will be together again.”

  We held the embrace for a precious moment. Then, we walked our bicycles all the way back home and didn’t say anything more. As we walked, I wondered and worried how I would manage living in the Saito house without my beloved Hisashi.

  TWELVE

  Hisashi left for Tokyo two weeks later. Isamu drove him to the train station in Sinuiju where he was to catch the train to Seoul and then a ferry to Japan. He took a black leather suitcase and books in a satchel. He waved goodbye to me as I stood on the veranda fighting back tears. Six months, he had said. Maybe longer. He would try to write every week, he had said.

  From the time he’d told me he was going to Tokyo, I’d clung to him like a frightened child clings to her mother. I never let him out of my sight. When he studied, I’d sit beside him with my books pretending to read. When he said he had to stretch his legs, I’d say I needed to stretch my legs, too. We ate every meal together. We made love every night. When we were alone, I put my hair up and pinned it with the silver hairpin he had given me.

  I think he understood
why I clung to him the way I did. He continually said, “It will be for only a few months,” or “It will give us a prosperous future,” or “Imagine how happy we will be when I return.” I gave him the red scarf he’d bought me in Sinuiju so that he’d remember me. He thanked me and said, “I promise I will always keep it with me as I keep you in my heart.” His tenderness made me even sadder. I counted the minutes until he was to leave. I’d count the seconds until he returned.

  The day he went away, I never left our room. I lay on the low bed with my face close to where he slept, drinking in the scent of him. I leafed through the books he’d left behind, running my fingers over the pages that he had touched just days earlier. I went to the tansu chest and took out the clothes he didn’t take with him. I draped them over the chair and laid them on the bed like he did, pretending he was still there. I skipped the midday meal and then the evening meal, too. I wore the silver hairpin all day.

  That night, Yoshiko came and asked if I was well. I told her I was, but I wanted to be alone.

  “You cannot stay in your room all day,” she said, picking up Hisashi’s clothes and folding them into the chest. “You must attend prayers tomorrow morning and take your meals with the family at the usual time. Do you understand?”

  I sat on the end of the bed looking at the floor and didn’t answer. She came to me and held out her hands. “Look at me,” she said.

  I put my hands in hers. As it always was with Yoshiko, she revealed no emotion. Her face was neither sympathetic nor stern. Like the hair that she always had perfectly folded on the top of her head, she was a portrait of fortitude. “You must be strong,” she stated. “Hisashi loves you and he will return someday. Until then, you must hold your chin up and be with the family.” She held her eyes on me and gave me a nod. She dropped my hands and left the room.

  Yoshiko’s reassurance helped me sleep that night. Or perhaps I was exhausted with grief. The next morning, I attended prayers with Mr. and Mrs. Saito, Yoshiko, and Haru at the kami dana altar. At the morning meal, it was just me and Mr. and Mrs. Saito. I was terribly uncomfortable sitting alone with my in-laws. After we bowed to the table, Kiyo and Fumiko brought the breakfast and tea, I kept my eyes low and poked at my food with my chopsticks. I think Mr. Saito knew that I was uncomfortable. In his husky voice he said, “The doctor who Hisashi is studying with, Major Ishii, is doing important work for the empire. It is fortunate that I was able to get Hisashi an internship with him.”

  “Yes, sir,” I replied.

  Mrs. Saito kept her eyes forward and her chin level as she ate. She said nothing. It was as it always was with Mrs. Saito. She said very little to me. We were cordial, as she had said we should be when she declared I would only be Hisashi’s Korean wife. But in the cool way she looked at me, in how she ignored me, in how she said “Miyoko” with a slight lift on the final o as if my very existence was in question, I knew that her opinion of me hadn’t changed. So I kept my distance. I prayed that the love I had with Hisashi would prove she was wrong.

  Mr. Saito picked up a slice of pear with his chopsticks. “Hisashi will learn much working with Doctor Ishii,” he said, examining the pear slice. “It will help him when he goes to medical school.”

  “Yes, sir,” I replied. Mrs. Saito continued to sit straight with her eyes forward. She took small bites of food as if she was only tasting it.

  “It is good for the empire,” Mr. Saito said, finally putting the pear slice into his mouth. “For the emperor.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said. I continued to poke at my food.

  Mr. Saito looked at me sideways and swallowed the pear. After a moment, he sighed as if he was frustrated with me. He picked up his napkin and wiped his mouth. He set the napkin on the table. “I must go to Pyongyang this evening,” he announced. “I am not sure how long I will be away. I will ring Haru and tell him when I am to return.”

  Then I said, “I want to visit my parents. I have not seen them since the wedding. May I, sir? Please?”

  “Yes, yes, yes,” Mr. Saito said with a wave of his hand. “Of course. Isamu will drive you.”

  Mrs. Saito turned her head toward him, and her eyes narrowed ever so slightly. Then, she faced the table again. Mr. Saito bowed to the table and got to his feet. Mrs. Saito and I stood with him and bowed. As they left through the sliding door, Mrs. Saito gave me one of her cool looks.

  I sat at the table again. Kiyo and Fumiko came in to clear away the tea and food. As Kiyo took the teapot from the table, I caught a look of hostility in her eyes. I’d seen the look before. It was the look the servants gave me when they thought I wasn’t looking.

  “Why do you look at me like that?” I demanded. I was angry that Hisashi had left me alone here in this house. I was furious that the servants looked at me like I was a traitor.

  Kiyo didn’t seem at all surprised by my outburst. “I am sorry, ma’am,” she said prettily, although she didn’t sound sorry at all. “Did I look at you the wrong way?” She gave a most condescending half smile. Fumiko awkwardly clutched tea bowls and gawked from behind Kiyo.

  “You think I’m a chinilpa for marrying Hisashi, don’t you? Well, I am not a traitor. I married him because they made me do it. But now, I love him. And he loves me too, I know it. What difference does it make that he is Japanese and I am Korean? Should I hate my husband just because you hate the Japanese?”

  Kiyo held her condescending half smile. “Of course not, ma’am.”

  Before she could leave, I asked, “What is your Korean name?”

  “I am sorry, ma’am,” Kiyo said. “I am only known as Kiyo.”

  “Jin-ee,” Fumiko interjected from behind Kiyo. She glanced at Kiyo, then looked at me. “My name is Jin-ee.”

  “Mine is Suk-bo,” I said to Fumiko, who was still clutching the tea bowls. “We can call each other by our real names when we are alone.”

  Fumiko nodded at me. Kiyo’s half smile remained on her face as if she had painted it on. With the teapot in her hand, she went out through the door. Fumiko gave me a quick smile and followed Kiyo.

  I wasn’t able to see my parents right away. Mr. Saito was touring villages in his province and Isamu drove him. I wouldn’t have minded the delay if I’d still been with Hisashi. But now that he was gone, I didn’t have anything to do and I was lonely. I tried to keep up with my studies, but I couldn’t concentrate for more than a few minutes. Haru and Yoshiko had taught me what I needed to know about being a Japanese wife and living in a Shinto house, so I received no more lessons from them. I only saw Mr. and Mrs. Saito at meals when Mr. Saito was home. The Korean laborers didn’t want anything to do with me. Yoshiko was always pleasant, but she was older and busy running the household. The days were growing short and a cold wind blew from the north. I seldom went out.

  I missed Hisashi terribly. I would sit for hours trying to picture where he lived in Tokyo, what he was doing for Doctor Ishii. I wrote a letter to him every day on fine rice paper and in my very best handwriting. I gave each one to Haru to mail. Hisashi had told me he would try to write every week. It had been almost two months since he’d gone away and I still hadn’t gotten a letter from him. At first, I thought it was because the mail must take a long time to travel across the sea from Tokyo. When after a month I still hadn’t gotten a letter, I convinced myself it was because he was busy at his new job and that I would get a long letter from him any day. But now that two months had passed, I worried that he didn’t care about me anymore. Tokyo was certainly full of beautiful women who would lust after a handsome man with a bright future like Hisashi. Images of glamorous women flirting with my husband, pawing at him, whispering in his ear that he should have a proper Japanese wife plagued my mind. I practically went crazy with jealousy. Most days I cried and didn’t want to get out of bed. Yoshiko would come to me and, in her steadfast way, convince me to attend morning prayers.

  I slept poorly. One cold night, a strong wind shook the fallen leaves outside my window and made the tree branches groan. I lay al
one in my bed with the blanket wrapped tight around me, trying not to think about Hisashi. It was dark—the oppressive dark that only comes in winter. I squeezed my eyes closed and tried to shut my ears to the wind. I wanted to cry, but I’d already cried that night and had nothing left inside me. Fatigue seized my entire body. I started to drift off.

  When I was nearly asleep, I sensed there was something next to me. With my eyes closed, I whispered, “Hisashi.” There was no reply. I wanted to open my eyes, but I couldn’t. “Hisashi,” I said again.

  Then I saw the two-headed dragon from my aunt’s comb. It was there, next to me. Its eyes were red with fire and it was clawing at me. Its tongues flitted angrily. Its tail thrashed the air. Behind the dragon were people, hundreds of them, perhaps thousands. They were Koreans and they were shouting at me. “Chinilpa!” they said. “Chinilpa!”

  “Leave me alone!” I screamed. I threw off the blanket and sat up. My heart was racing and my breaths were short. For some reason, I felt nauseous. I looked at the bed next to me. The dragon and the people were gone. I looked around, but only saw darkness.

  On the other side of the latticed door a person came holding a candle. The door slid open and Yoshiko stepped in. She came to my bedside. Her hair was down and the candle illuminated her face, making her look like a ghost.

  “Miyoko,” she scolded, “you have awakened the entire house with your shouting.”

  Then I said, “May I visit my parents tomorrow? Mr. Saito said I could.”

  Yoshiko sighed. “I will check with Mr. Saito,” she said. “Now, go to sleep and do not shout any more. Mr. Saito is traveling again tomorrow and needs his rest.”

  She took the candle and left. I lay down and wrapped the blanket around me again. I felt so alone. I wanted to shut my eyes and go to sleep, but I was afraid that the two-headed dragon would haunt me again. And I was still nauseous. So I lay on my side facing the place Hisashi had slept and prayed that the two-headed dragon would not return.