“I heard you singing, before, before you went underwater.” The man stood up on the rock. He wore a dark, shiny blue suit and tie, not the traditional clothes worn on Cheju-do. His hair was slicked back. A cigarette dangled from one hand. “You have a beautiful voice.”
Hye-yang crossed her arms over her chest. She knew the loose white diving garment turned see-through when wet. She hadn’t been singing; she had been letting the air out of her lungs, sending out an eieieieieieie that filled the whole cove before she dove underwater.
“I would like to offer you a job,” he said. “Singing. At a nightclub, on the mainland. Our girls do very well.”
“I am a diver, not a singer.” Hye-yang set her rope basket onto the rocky ground.
“You could be very famous.” The man threw down his cigarette and jumped off the rock. He walked up to her and pulled a pink card from his inner jacket pocket.
Hye-yang did not reach for it.
The man stepped even closer. He slid the card beneath Hye-yang’s wet collar, then reached his hand deeper. Hye-yang froze as his fingers grazed her nipple.
“You will call me.” He smiled as he drew his hand back out of her clothes, but his eyes were cold.
Hye-yang felt the card, plastered to her skin, start to slide down her left breast. She began to shiver uncontrollably, but she couldn’t move. She watched the man light another cigarette and walk away.
Hye-yang’s mother and grandmother soon came up behind her. She could hear the water drip off their bodies, a light patter against the ground.
“Hye-yang,” her mother said sharply as she dropped her heavy bag. “Was a man talking to you?”
“I told him he wasn’t supposed to be here,” Hye-yang said.
Hye-yang’s grandmother gestured to the card glowing through Hye-yang’s clothes. She reached in and pulled it out.
“What is this?”
“He told me I could be a singer.”
“Well, you’re not much of a diver.” Hye-yang’s mother laughed gruffly. She picked up Hye-yang’s rope bag and shook the small number of abalone shells out onto the rough dark sand.
Hye-yang’s grandmother threw the card back at her. She and Hye-yang’s mother walked away, dragging their rope bags full of hard and spiny animals. Hye-yang could hear them saying something about more and more shame.
Hye-yang crumpled to the ground, tears spilling down her face. She had brought shame to her family’s house even before she was born. In utero, she was promised as a bride to a neighbor’s two-month-old son, but a week and a half before she was born, the boy succumbed to crib death. Hye-yang came into the world a widow, a fallen woman. No man would ever want to marry her, her mother was always quick to mention.
Hye-yang scooped the abalone shells back into the bag. Still shivering, she made her way back home, past the barley fields and acres of yellow rapeseed flowers, the pink card curled soggy in her hand.
A spray of gulls flew overhead, crying into the wind. Hye-yang walked faster. Tall harubang, grandfathers carved from volcanic rock, lined the dirt path. Despite their goofy faces, the stones looked menacing to Hye-yang, dark and foreboding against the gathering storm. The abalone shells clacked together in her rope basket in time with her steps.
Hye-yang looked at the pink business card. It was written in English, except for one Korean phrase that meant “we hire entertainment ladies.” Her face smarted when she remembered the man’s hand in her clothes. No man had ever touched her skin before, not even her hands. Her father may have held her, but he died when Hye-yang was three, and she couldn’t remember anything about him.
Hye-yang turned the bend and her family’s small stone house came into view, its thatched roof battened down with ropes and rocks. One pole was gone from the gate, a sign that her mother and grandmother were out, but not far. Hye-yang took down the other two poles and went inside. She peeled off her wet diving clothes and stood shivering before the kitchen fire as she looked at the business card again. If only the man had not touched her, Hye-yang would call. Maybe she should call anyway, she thought, eyeing the strange English letters. Hye-yang knew she was not helping her family as a diver. She was nothing but an embarrassment. If she went to the mainland and got a job, she could send money home, more than she could ever earn with her small catch of abalone. Plus, she loved to sing. When Hye-yang sang at the Snow Blossom Festival a few months before, her first time in front of an audience, she felt like her heart would soar right out of her skin.
Hye-yang put on some dry clothes. She brushed out her salty hair and thought about the phone at the farmer’s coop kiosk, the closest one to her family’s house. Hye-yang pulled on her jacket and grabbed a pouch of coins. Then she noticed an envelope on the floor, addressed to her, already opened, its contents jutting out.
Hye-yang recognized the handwriting immediately. The letter was from Hye-yang’s friend Sun, who left Cheju-do four months before to work at the Korean Folk Village in Suwon. Hye-yang wanted to go with her, but her mother refused, saying she needed to stay and learn to dive.
There is still lots of work available here, Sun wrote, on paper thin as onion skin. Sun played a bride each weekend in a traditional wedding ceremony put on for tourists. During the week, she demonstrated women’s seesaw. Come visit me, she pleaded. I need a friend from the island. My best friend.
Hye-yang missed Sun terribly. She missed their cave, the dark craggy cave they found together behind a waterfall, the one that led to strange tunnels and cold little pockets of space. They often took candles and red bean buns and explored the passages, bumping into each other in the dark, giggling with the fear and thrill of it. After Sun left, Hye-yang passed the mouth of the cave almost every day, but she couldn’t bring herself to go inside of it alone.
If she were to leave the island, it would make sense to go to her friend, not to some nightclub in Kunsan where she didn’t know anyone but a man with a shiny suit and rough hands. Hye-yang tossed the business card into the fire beneath the pot of rice. The soggy paper sputtered for a while, sizzling and twitching, before it collapsed into flames, sending black tongues of smoke up the sides of the pot.
Hye-yang’s mother came through the door, waving her hand at the smoke that began to fill the room.
“You want to go?” she asked Hye-yang sharply, gesturing to the letter unfolded on Hye-yang’s lap.
Hye-yang nodded her head. Across the room, her mother slowly disappeared into the swirling gray smoke.
“You go, then.” Her mother’s voice cut through the haze. “But don’t you come flying back here. Don’t even think you can come flying on back.”
Red Lored Amazon (Name: Pippy)
Ava, daughter, 11. Kill bird with candy.
He sit on shoulder when she do homework,
give him MM out her hand. Every day
she give him some. One day he fall
back off shoulder, hard stone to the floor.
I don’t know candy poison for bird.
Ava, she know?
[yellow-shelled chocolate crushed under tape]
[small red feather]
10/16/82
Helen Sing Lo’s Book of Dead Birds
My mother works in bent silhouette, framed by the bright window across the room.
I rustle the newspaper, yesterday’s, to try to get her attention. “Omma,” I ask her, “where’s Estonia?”
“Estonia Hotel downtown,” she says, her voice muffled by her surgical mask. Between this and the sudden whir of the dentist’s drill, I can barely hear her.
“The country, Omma.” I flinch at the reminder of her knowledge of downtown hotels and glance again at the blurb in the San Diego Union Tribune, the one I’ve been saving for her. “Do you know where the country Estonia is? The article says it’s Baltic, but I’m not really sure what that means. I think it’s near Russia.”
My mother grunts and presses a magnifying glass against her goggles. She stares intently at the scrollwork she’s just drilled into
an empty ostrich eggshell, the one she’s turning into a music box. Her eggshell change purses, night lights, ships in bottles, picture frames sell at a small circuit of local craft fairs and gift shops.
“I have something for your book,” I tell her. My mother’s back slowly unhunches itself.
“Listen to this.” I lift the paper. “‘Thousands of swans are in danger of dying along the Baltic coast in Estonia as one of the harshest winters in years has frozen the shallow waters where they feed. Hundreds of swans have already starved to death. The remaining 5,000 are in danger of dying if, as forecast, the waters stay locked in ice for many weeks to come.’”
It sounds like my mother is saying something, but when I look up, her mask is still, collapsed against her lips. A wispy glow emanates from her backlit head, through the slim gaps in her teased-up hair. I am momentarily stunned by its corona. My own hair, cropped close to my skull, feels like a sudden, dense weight. No light could ever pass through it.
“They’re trying to help, Omma. Here.” I clear my throat and start to read again. “‘In an effort to save the swans, rescue teams have smashed holes through some sections of the ice, frozen nearly two feet thick along the coast. A public appeal has also been made for people to feed bits of bread and potatoes to hungry swans languishing near the shore.’”
“Do you think swans would like Oh-Jing-Uh Bok-Um?” I try to joke a bit. “Birds eat squid, don’t they? It’s too bad we don’t live closer by. Maybe we could ship it there.”
My mother looks out the window. Her shoulders start to rise to her ears.
“The pepper paste might be a bit much for them…” I bite my lip and walk toward my mother, but she quickly flips her goggles back down, turns the drill back on, and starts to carve again.
I wave my hand in front of my face to keep the eggshell dust out of my nose and mouth, then trudge off to my room. The room I moved back into after I finished my masters in communications at San Diego State and couldn’t get enough steady work as a sound engineer to pay my own rent. The room I’m not sure I’ll ever quite escape from.
The fact that I have a degree—two degrees—in communications is a bit of a joke. I spent most of my time at school behind a sound-board with headphones clamped over my ears. I didn’t have to communicate much with anyone. I’m just grateful for my drum. Without it, I don’t think I could communicate with my mother at all.
The article about the Estonia swans will end up in my mother’s scrapbook by the end of the day, I’m sure of it. I flop down on my bed and grab a lump of candied ginger from the bag on the nightstand. My mouth fills with its bright, soapy flavor. I can imagine flying off to Estonia, wherever it is, with bushels of bread and potatoes and covered dishes of spicy squid. I can imagine standing at the frozen shoreline, tossing food everywhere, crumbs disappearing like light down one cygnet throat after another. I can imagine hefting swans under each arm, carrying them back to my tiny hotel room that smells of borscht and wet wool.
I can almost feel the birds’ solid weight strain against my biceps as I work a fibrous strand of ginger between my teeth. I can see myself folding the swans into dog carriers for the long flight back to San Diego. I can see myself filling my mother’s bathtub with the birds, the living, unharmed birds, their long necks swooping against the shower curtain, their beaks cool and smooth as plastic against my palm.
I swallow the broken threads of ginger and listen to my mother’s drill buzz like a mosquito in the next room. Kane’s recorded voice occasionally rises above the hum—I don’t understand. I don’t understand. Are you at peace?
Ava, daughter, age 6.
Go to park together.
No seesaw,
pond full of birds.
Bring bread from home
to feed in pieces.
Ava walk up to goose—
soft brown body,
black head, black neck,
stripe of white under chin.
She gives bread.
Too big piece, maybe?
Ava lift up hands,
bird fall down,
stick pink tongue
from black beak.
Look like person tongue,
so pink. Didn’t know bird
could have pink tongue.
—5/23/73
Against my better judgment, I buy my mother a zebra finch, scrabbling madly inside a Chinese take-out container, from a man on a blanket outside the Tae Kwon Do studio. My mother names him Yukam, “Regret.” She keeps him in a cage by her bed and bars me from her room.
I wake up around 3:00 A.M. to the sound of my mother’s singing. It is the pansori, of course. I grab my chang’go and sleepily carry it out into the dark living room. My mother is sitting there on the floor, Yukam settled squarely on top of her head.
My mother once told me that pansori singers train by standing underneath a waterfall and singing until their voices cut through the rush of water. They practice until they spit up enough blood from their throats to fill three large jugs. Listening to her voice, it’s easy to believe this.
I sit cross-legged and begin to thrum at the hourglass-shaped drum in response to my mother’s song. Pansori songs can go on for hours; my mother always weaves her own words in with the traditional lyrics. Often, she forgoes the traditional lyrics entirely. Bits of her life stream out of her, in English, in Korean, of which I unfortunately have very limited knowledge. She periodically stands up, whips her folded fan around, lifts her arms in sweeping gestures, then she sits back down, her voice a touch quieter, her face still blazing with her story. I talk with my mother through the drum—soft, sympathetic, thrums at times, angry thumps at others. The song doesn’t stop until the room is tinged with the first wash of morning light. I go back to my room and write down as much as I can remember.
CHEJU-DO
Hye-yang told her mother and grandmother it was her bleeding time, so she would be excused from diving for the day. She imagined the women were reaching for sea urchins as she stuffed her clothes into a bag, looped her archery bow over her shoulder, and walked through the open gate without replacing the three wooden poles behind her.
As she hiked along a rocky ridge above the ocean, Hye-yang thought she could see figures in white garments traveling parallel to her under the water. She wondered if her mother and grandmother were following her, echoing her steps with their ghostly glide. Hye-yang sped up her pace, hoping to lose them, when a gull dove through what she had thought was her mother’s head. Hye-yang’s feet froze beneath her until the bird came back up, a fish thrashing in its beak. The billowy image in the water shuddered, then righted itself again, and she realized it was only the reflection of some clouds.
When she got to the ferry docks, Hye-yang half expected to find her mother and grandmother, dripping and angry, waiting for her, but aside from the ticket taker and some uniformed workers, only a few honeymoon couples milled around by the boat. Hye-yang paid her fare, then climbed aboard the ferry.
She rested her bow against a bench and leaned her stomach against the railing at the front of the boat. The water stretched out forever in front of her, vast and blue and brilliant. A surge of excitement, laced with fear, rushed through her body as the boat lurched, then began to pull away from the dock. Hye-yang had never left the island’s orbit before. She waved at some pelicans as they flew by, their wings fully open, white feathers glinting in the sun.
The ferry arrived in Pusan eight hours later, at dusk. Hye-yang was stunned by the sight of the large city, already lit up for night. As she walked down the ramp off the boat, Hye-yang’s sea legs buckled beneath her; she had to brace herself with the tip of her bow as she walked toward the terminal.
Inside, Hye-yang bought a bowl of buckwheat noodles in sweet radish sauce, and a cup of walnut tea. Hungry as she was, she found it hard to eat, overwhelmed by the number of people around her, all moving so fast. Human voices filled the space like bird chatter. The air smelled strongly of smoke and armpits and fish. Every time someo
ne walked by, it stirred up a new layer of scent. Hye-yang hugged her bow to her body to keep it from getting smashed.
She slurped up a few noodles, then pushed her way through the crowd until she found the bus with a SUWON placard hanging above it. She squeezed herself, her bag, and her bow on board and fell into the last available seat.
The bus smelled like the terminal, but even more intense. Hye-yang tried to get comfortable in her narrow seat, her bow tipped against her chest and shoulder, but she wasn’t quite successful. An elderly woman sat next to her, sound asleep. The scent of squid drifted from her open mouth.
Hye-yang gaped out the window at the tall buildings as the bus pulled away from the station and made its way slowly through a maze of streets, sound and smoke pouring through the scattered open windows.
Just a few minutes into the ride, the bus got snagged in a traffic jam. Hye-yang noticed a crowd of men milling on the street outside, standing in front of windows, going in and out of buildings; men in Western business suits, mostly, but a few wearing old-fashioned chogori. The street was lined with storefronts featuring huge window-panes, all of them glowing inside with a harsh pink light. In every window sat at least one woman wearing an elaborate hanbok and makeup, posed in a little traditional tableau.
The old woman next to Hye-yang stirred.
“Ahhh, Wanwol-dong,” she sleepily muttered to Hye-yang.
“Excuse me?” Hye-yang asked.
“This area—its name is Wanwol-dong,” the woman yawned.
“What are the women doing in those windows?” Hye-yang asked.
“You don’t know?” The woman looked at Hye-yang, surprised.
“Is it some sort of cultural display?” Hye-yang asked, thinking the street might be some urbanized version of the Folk Village she was traveling to in Suwon.
The Book of Dead Birds Page 2
