The Spirit of the Dragon

by William Andrews

  I didn’t take any of them. Yoshiko was the head of the house, and this was her father’s study. I left the study and at dinner that night I asked Yoshiko if there was something I could read.

  “My father has books in his study. Take what you want, but be sure to return them. He might want them shipped to Japan someday.”

  Later, I went into Mr. Saito’s study and looked more closely at the books. I selected one on world history. I took it to my room and started reading. I read all day and well into the night when I should have been sleeping. I finished it in two weeks, making notes on rice paper like Hisashi had done when he studied. Then, I went to the study and selected a book on philosophy. I finished that one in a week. In just a few months, I’d read twenty of Mr. Saito’s books.

  One day after I’d finished yet another book, I went to Mr. Saito’s study to get a different one. I’d read half of the books on the top shelves. I scanned the dog-eared, worn books on the bottom shelf. Most had notes sticking out of the pages. At the end of the shelf was a book in French titled Les Misérables. I picked it up and examined it. It was filled with notes in Mr. Saito’s handwriting—more so than any other book. I flipped through the pages. I couldn’t read French, but the letters and words were fascinating. Mr. Saito’s notes were passionate. YES! he wrote next to a sentence underlined twice. Japan needs to learn from this he’d written on another page. I put the book back and took one from an upper shelf.

  That night at dinner, I asked Yoshiko about the strange book in French. “Les Misérables,” she said with a nod. “It was Father’s favorite book. It is a story about evil, lies, and injustice.”

  “You have read it?” I said. “I didn’t know you could read French.”

  “French?” Young-chul said, poking at his food with his chopsticks. “What is French?”

  “It is the language of diplomacy,” Yoshiko answered.

  “What’s diplomacy?” Young-chul asked.

  “It is how nations get along with each other,” Yoshiko replied. “Now stop poking at your food and eat.”

  Yoshiko and I shared a grin at Young-chul’s boyishness. She said, “Father insisted I learn French. I had a tutor for years. He also insisted I read Les Misérables.”

  “I would like to read it someday,” I said.

  “Someday you should. Unfortunately, there are no translations in Japanese or Chinese that I know of. In the meantime, there is something else you should read in my father’s study. It is a play by William Shakespeare translated into Japanese. Have you heard of him?”

  “Yes, I have,” I answered. “He was English, as I remember. I’ve never read anything he wrote.”

  “You are correct, Shakespeare was English. He wrote poetry and plays. You should read his play Romeo and Juliet. I believe you will find it most interesting.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “I will.”

  That night, I replaced the book I’d selected earlier and took two books from the bottom shelf. I took Les Misérables, though I didn’t read French. And I took Romeo and Juliet. The book was in Japanese and was thin, but Mr. Saito had written almost as many notes in this book as he’d written in Les Misérables. I took the books to my room and started reading the story of Romeo and Juliet.

  Two households, both alike in dignity,

  In fair Verona, where we lay our scene,

  From ancient grudge break to new mutiny,

  Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.

  From forth the fatal loins of these two foes

  A pair of star-crossed lovers take their life;

  Whole misadventured piteous overthrows

  Do with their death bury their parents’ strife.

  I read the entire play in one night.

  When I lived with the rebels, the two-headed dragon never haunted me. But now that I was back in Sinuiju, living in a Japanese house, it visited me often. It would wake me at night like a chilling draft or an eerie sound. I’d lie on my mat and remember the warning my aunt had given me when she showed me her comb. I felt the dragon strongest when I sat in the Zen garden by myself. I used to love being in the garden with Hisashi. We’d talk there about his passion for medicine, what our children would be like, our future together.

  I hadn’t believed in the curse when I was with Hisashi. But everything I’d gone through over the past years made me wonder if the curse was real. I worried how it would affect my future. I wondered what it was trying to tell me. I wanted it to go away, but it never did.

  One fall day after I’d been back at the Saito house nearly a year, I sat at the Zen garden wrapped in my coat when Yoshiko came and sat next to me. She looked over the garden with its raked white pebbles and green islands. She didn’t say anything at first, and I got the sense that there was something important on her mind. I drew my coat tight around me.

  “I have heard from my father,” she finally said. “He says the war has turned against Japan. The Americans are winning battles in the Pacific. Months ago, bombs actually fell on Tokyo. The Chinese army continues to fight in the south of China. Russia threatens in the west.”

  “Why are you telling me this?” I asked.

  “Because,” Yoshiko replied, “my father wants me to sell the house. He needs the money. If I can find a buyer, I will go back to Tokyo.”

  “And will you take Masaru with you?” I asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “If you take him, I will go, too.”

  “Japan is not a place for Koreans,” Yoshiko replied. “Especially if we lose the war.”

  “There are thousands of Koreans living in Japan. I can be just another one. I will not leave my son again.” I looked over the Zen garden. I saw the two-headed dragon staring at me among the branches of the sculpted juniper trees. I heard it whisper to me on the winter breeze.

  “Well, it might be some time before we find a buyer,” Yoshiko said. “We will see what we can do at that time. I wanted you to know.”

  And then I said, “I think we should tell Young-chul . . . Masaru that I am his mother. It’s time he knows.”

  “I will think about it.”

  Yoshiko started to leave, but before she did, I said, “I want to ask for a favor.”

  “Yes?”

  “I want to visit my aunt and uncle. They live up the road from my village. Will you take me there?”

  “They are likely not there anymore. The war displaced many of your people. But I will see what I can do. Perhaps I can get gasoline for the car and drive you there. It would be safer for you if we drove.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  Yoshiko left the garden and went into the house. I stayed and tried to understand what the two-headed dragon was telling me.

  It was many months before Yoshiko could get enough gasoline to take me to see my aunt and uncle.

  “When can we go?” I asked.

  “Tomorrow,” she replied.

  It was a bright and cold winter day when we left. After the morning meal, we gave Young-chul to Fumiko and set off in Mr. Saito’s big black car. Yoshiko drove, and I sat in the front next to her. She was the only woman I’d ever seen drive a car. She gripped the steering wheel hard and sat on the edge of her seat as if she was determined to make the car do what she wanted. The car lurched and bucked when she let out the clutch.

  “When did you learn to drive?” I asked.

  “I taught myself,” she said, keeping her eyes fixed on the road. “I had to. When you and Isamu left, there was no one to drive the car. I’d seen what the chauffeur did when he drove, so I copied him. It was not as easy as I thought it would be. There were times I was afraid I was breaking the car. But I kept trying it, and eventually I got it to work.” She grinned. “It’s actually kind of fun.”

  “Thank you for taking me,” I said.

  “You’re welcome,” she replied. “We won’t be able to stay long. The sun sets early this time of year and I do not want to drive in the dark.”

  As we drove into the hills outside
of Sinuiju, I was thankful for Yoshiko. We’d bonded through our shared love for Young-chul and, I think, because we were women on our own. Still, she was older than me and in charge of the household. And she was Japanese. Though she didn’t treat me like Japanese treated Koreans, I knew my place with her.

  Sunlight on the dormant fields made the air shimmer as we drove. Yoshiko gripped the wheel hard and tried to avoid ruts as the car rumbled along the dirt road. Sometimes I was afraid she was going to drive into the ditch. We crested a hill and then another. I remembered walking this road with Mother when I first visited the Saito house. I was nervous about seeing my village. I wondered if I’d see the Kwan girls. I wondered if I’d see my aunt and uncle when we got to their house.

  We crested yet another hill and then, before us, was my village and my parents’ house. The house was deserted. The thatched roof had caved in. The garden was thick with frozen weeds.

  As we drew close, I pointed. “There, that is my house.”

  Yoshiko slowed the car. “Do you want to stop?” she asked.

  My heart ached at the sight of my house in such a condition. But I had to stop. “Yes, please,” I answered softly.

  Yoshiko pulled the car to the front. As I got out, I pulled my coat around me against the cold. I stepped into the house.

  It was empty inside. Everything was gone. Someone had pulled out the wooden floors and had taken the iron stove. They had removed the walls.

  I quickly went back to the car and climbed in. “Go,” I said, shutting the door.

  “Okay,” Yoshiko said. “You said your aunt and uncle live farther up this road?”

  “Yes. About an hour to walk.”

  Yoshiko started the car, let out the clutch, and the car lurched forward. As we drove away from my home, I regretted stopping here. Seeing the house where I’d grown up reminded me that my youth was dead and so, in all likelihood, were my parents. I swore I’d never return.

  We drove the road to my uncle and aunt’s house. “This is it,” I said. Yoshiko stopped the car by the front gate and turned off the engine.

  “We do not have much time,” she said.

  “I understand,” I replied.

  The house was in better condition than my parents’ house, but it was not as neat and well-kept as it was the last time I’d been here. Roof tiles were askew, and a tarp hung where the carved front door had been. Frozen weeds sprinkled the yard.

  And then I saw a woman wrapped in rags, with her back against a persimmon tree. I pushed open the gate and went to her.

  “Sookmo?” I said. “Aunt?”

  The woman looked up at me. A faded purple scarf framed her face. Her lips were blue from the cold and her eyes were watery and red. She stared at me for several seconds and then said, “You, the cursed one. You have come back.”

  My aunt looked years beyond her age. Under her rags I saw her body was bent and broken. Her gnarled hands looked like those of an old woman.

  “Sookmo, why are you outside in the cold?” I asked, crouching in front of her. “Here, I will take you inside and start a fire.”

  She recoiled. “I will stay where I am until the spirits take me,” she growled.

  “Why do you want to die, Sookmo? Where is Uncle? Where are Soo-hee and Jae-hee?”

  “Your uncle is dead. Your cousins might as well be.”

  “Why? Where are they?”

  A sad smile spread across my aunt’s face. “They went to work in the boot factory in Sinuiju.” Her smile slowly twisted into pure pain. “The boot factory . . . ,” she whispered.

  “Then why do you want to die? Why don’t you wait for your daughters until they come back home?”

  “They will not come back,” she said.

  “Why?” I asked. “How do you know?”

  My aunt closed her eyes and didn’t answer.

  “Do you know what happened to my brother?” I asked.

  “Your brother,” my aunt said as if the words were sour in her mouth. “He joined the Imperial Army. He is a chinilpa.” She sighed painfully.

  Finally, she asked, “Are you still married to a Japanese man?”

  “Yes,” I answered.

  “Then you are a chinilpa like your brother. The two-headed dragon will curse you.”

  “Why, Sookmo? Why am I cursed for loving someone?”

  “Because the two-headed dragon is Korea,” she answered. “He begs you to remember him and not betray him.”

  “You think I am a traitor. But is love not important, too?”

  My aunt spit. “Love. I loved my husband and my daughters, but my love could not save them.”

  I looked at my aunt and tried to think of what I could do to help her. But it was clear that she wanted to die. “Where is the comb with the two-headed dragon?” I asked. “I want to see it again.”

  My aunt grinned weakly. “You must have told someone about it. Men came looking for it. They were rebels. They were rough with me, but I did not give it to them. I could not. My grandmother told me I had to pass the comb to my daughters. And so, I did. I gave it to my girls when they left. I did my duty for my country and the spirit of my ancestors. How foolish it seems now.”

  “What about me, Sookmo?” I asked. “Will the dragon always curse me?”

  She turned her red and watery eyes on me. “You are a daughter of Korea. You have a duty to your ancestors and the children of our country. That is why the dragon has two heads. One looks back at our ancestors. The other looks forward to our children. As long as you ignore your duty to them, the two-headed dragon will curse you.”

  “Sookmo, come to Sinuiju with me,” I pleaded. “There are good people at my house. We can make you warm and feed you.”

  “No!” my aunt said with more force that I thought possible from a dying woman. “My life is done.”

  My aunt closed her eyes, and her chin fell to her chest. Her breathing was short and shallow. I stayed crouched in front of her for a while. Then, I went to the car and climbed in. Yoshiko was still at the steering wheel.

  “Let’s go home,” I said.

  Yoshiko didn’t say anything. She started the car and steered it for Sinuiju.

  We bounced along the frozen road for miles without talking. I was thankful Yoshiko didn’t ask questions about my aunt.

  As we drove out of the hills and Sinuiju came into view, I asked Yoshiko, “Is there a boot factory in Sinuiju?”

  Yoshiko took a second before she answered. “Why do you ask?” she finally said.

  “My aunt said my cousins were sent to work there. If they are in Sinuiju, I want to see them.”

  Yoshiko went quiet for a long time. “Miyoko . . . Suk-bo,” she finally said. “There is no boot factory in Sinuiju. ‘Boot factory’ is what the Kempei tai call comfort stations.”

  “Comfort stations?”

  “Brothels for the troops.”

  I took a second to think. “Then they might be in the brothel in Sinuiju with Kiyo,” I said.

  “No,” Yoshiko said. “Comfort stations are at the front lines for the soldiers. You probably will not see your cousins again.”

  As we drove into Sinuiju, I thought of Soo-hee and Jae-hee. They were still just girls of sixteen and fourteen years old. I couldn’t imagine the horrors they were going through.

  And I began to wonder if my aunt was right about Japan. The Japanese had done so many evil things. Perhaps marrying a Japanese man was wrong, as my aunt and my father and the rebels had said. Yet in my heart, I still loved Hisashi.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Yoshiko never found a buyer for the house. A few merchants made absurdly low offers that she promptly rejected. It appeared that Japan was losing the war, and no one was willing to pay a reasonable price for a Shinto house that honored the emperor of Japan.

  I was glad I could stay. I was there with my son, waiting for my husband to come home. Every day when I awoke, I prayed that Hisashi would walk through the front gate and into my arms. When after months and then years of waiti
ng he didn’t come, I began to wonder if he’d been right to tell me I should forget about him. But I could no more abandon him than I could abandon my heart. He’d become part of me and I’d promised to love him for the rest of my life as Mother had told me I should.

  My relationship with Young-chul grew strong during this time. Yoshiko was increasingly preoccupied with settling her father’s affairs. She would be gone all day—sometimes several days at a time on a trip to Pyongyang or Seoul. And when she was gone, I was alone with my little prince. After I’d been there for several months, Yoshiko agreed that we could tell him I was his mother. I was afraid it would confuse him, but when we told him at dinner one day, he went quiet for a few minutes and then said, “Okay.” From then on, he called me “Mother” although he used the Japanese word, “haha,” instead of “ummah.” He called Yoshiko “Oba,” the Japanese word for “aunt.” He grew quickly from a toddler into a little man. His shoulders and arms filled out. His hair grew long and shiny. He still looked like his father. Even his mannerisms were Hisashi’s—the way he squatted when he talked to someone, the constant look of amusement on his face, how he punctuated his words with his chopsticks when he ate. He climbed trees in the orchard and spent hours collecting insects. He would hide from me in the house and jump out to scare me when I got close. Then he’d laugh and run to hide again. I would tell him jokes and he would laugh aloud, making me laugh with him.

  He loved me like a son is supposed to love his mother, and I loved him like only a mother could. Of course, he loved Yoshiko and Fumiko, too, but I was thrilled for what I had with my son. That we were all close to him never became an issue. He was such a fine boy it was natural that we loved him as we did. And he grew in our love as bamboo grows in the warmth of spring.