by Sonia Patel
“Thank you. Did she open it?”
“I don’t know. She said she’d read it when she got home.” He lights up a cig. So do Strike and Patch. Braid looks at me. “No smoke?” he asks.
I shake my head. “I quit,” I say.
He takes a drag, exhales.
“So,” I say, “where’d you meet Ha-na?”
“She insisted I meet her in the art classroom. She was finishing up a painting. Her teacher was there. I bet she wanted to make sure there was a witness in case I acted up.”
“What else did she say?” I ask.
He exhales. “Nothing.”
“Her painting, what was it?”
Braid’s eyes widen. “It was incredible. I mean even Ryu Biho would’ve been impressed,” he whispers. “Unconventional for sure. An edgy, modern self-portrait. Full length. Dark brown skin and thick, jet black hair all sharp, angular. The cuts on her arms were blood red. But she had this soft, Mona Lisa smile. And in the background, Seoul was burning. She was walking out of the flames like a badass.”
“Damn!”
“Yeah,” Braid says. “My amuteur description doesn’t even do it justice. I asked her about it. You want to know what she said?”
I force a slow nod so that my giddy anticipation doesn’t show itself. “Sure.”
“She said it was her ‘leaving hell on earth’, and that she was going to ‘leave hell on earth soon enough for real,’” Braid says. He continues in a taut voice. “It freaked me out when she said that. I was like shit, is she going to kill herself or something? I think she read my mind because the next thing she said was, ‘Don’t worry, I’m taking a trip.’”
“Did she say where or when?”
Braid shakes his head. “I tried to get it out of her, but she wouldn’t tell me.”
She’s taking a trip.
38.
Younger Uncle’s vintage Sansui record player spins the delicate vinyl like a black billowing dress. Pavarotti sinks his being into Maria, Mari, injecting full-blown passion into the veins of the room. I’m paralyzed, but in a good way, listening to how my esteemed tenor can’t find peace because he wants to see her, talk to her…
I hang onto his voice, not wanting a cure for the longing. Maybe someday I’ll even relate.
A quiet knock.
Rhomboids of morning sun dance to the melody, across the tats on my chest, down my shorts, to the hardwood floors.
Louder knock that shakes me from my reverie. Then three more.
Better than four.
I groan as I haul myself off the purposefully weathered chair Younger Uncle and I built yesterday out of reclaimed wood. Was Younger Uncle expecting anyone? He didn’t mention it before he left. I throw on my t-shirt, get to the door. Swing it open. The bottom rail scrapes, I look down. The sweeper has come off. Mental note to fix it later. I thrust my hand into the unruly mop of hair shooting out of my head like soybean sprouts in Jeonju. I start to yawn, but in an instant my mouth slams shut.
That face. Sleeveless short romper. The scars…
Then a sweet voice. “I got your letter.”
It’s Ha-na!
She’s fanning herself with an envelope. My envelope with the red wax seal, broken.
At first all I can do is gawk, the way those guys used to at my mom.
“Well, aren’t you going to invite me in?” she asks in a mostly toneless voice, but I catch the slight tremor in it.
The muscles around my mouth decide to cooperate, they stretch into a slight smile. “Oh. Yeah,” I mumble, stepping to the side. “Come on in.”
My eyes canvass her S-line as she glides by. So crass, I know, but I’m only human. A better human since I got to the island.
I follow her to the miniscule living room.
She stops, her eyes fixed on the Sansui. “Pavarotti,” she whispers. Her hand starts moving.
I’m speechless. My mind flashes to the school dining hall that day I made her eat my cig. Her waving hand…
She’s staring at nothing. Tiny particles float in the sunlight that bathes her face. She starts gesturing with both hands.
I can’t help but think of Claudio Abbado sculpting and shaping a Pavarotti performance at La Scala. I find my words. “One of my favorites,” I say, unable to peel my gaze away from the smooth, dark skin of her conducting hands and her perfect French manicure.
“Mine too,” she says without looking at me. She walks to the window and rests her hands on the sill.
That’s when I notice the bit of blue paint on left hand.
A true artist, she carries her work with her. But how does she keep her fingernails so neat?
Sunny quadrangles illuminate her. The floral print on her romper seems to bloom, but her scars glare at me like faithful guard dogs who happen to be talking guard dogs. They growl, She’s not a black coolie! You’re just a cruel brute! Hurt her again and you die!
I almost put my hands up and back away, but I don’t because I want to make peace. Then I scold my eyes for wanting another look at her legs. I hang my head in shameful repentance.
Awkward silence.
I break it with the only thing I can think of, a question. “Do you want some ginger tea?”
“Ok,” she replies. She follows me to the kitchen.
I set a kettle to boil, then pluck a big piece of fresh ginger from the basket of fruits and vegetables. I peel it, grate it into a glass measuring cup, and add some honey.
Ha-na’s standing next to me, close, so close that I can feel the heat from her body. My hand trembles a little, and I end up dropping the last spoonful of honey. Transparent gold oozes onto the counter. I wipe up the sticky mess.
“Your uncle has a nice place,” she says.
I look up.
She’s adjusting the messy bun near the top of her head. It wobbles a little. So do her dangly gold earrings. “So minimalist,” she says with a blank expression.
“Yeah. My younger uncle prefers ‘less stuff and more living,’” I say.
She nods.
The kettle whistles. I pour the hot water over the ginger and honey. The sharp almost lemony aroma floats through the house.
She closes her eyes and inhales. “Smells divine,” she says.
“Younger Uncle got me into this brew. Better than the whiskey and makgeolli I used to drink like water.”
“I bet your liver is happier.”
I wonder if she’s trying to joke around because even though her expression is flat there’s a hint of sarcasm in her voice.
I nod, straining the tea into ceramic cups. Carefully I lift one cup with the fingertips of both my hands and offer it to her. “Please,” I say with a little bow, the same way my mom used to do when she served my dad tea.
She receives the cup in both of her hands. She bows her head. “Thank you.”
“Let’s go sit,” I suggest.
We return to the living room. She sits on the sofa, I take the chair. Pavarotti’s singing Tu, ca nun chiagne. His emotions and something about the luminous natural light in the room make my mind wander to Naples. Not that I’ve ever been there, but I’ve seen plenty of photos in my dad’s books. I imagine Ha-na and me at an outdoor cafe. A crisp, bright morning. In my head I whisper, “You don’t cry, but you make me cry because I want you.”
Do I?
She examines the amber liquid in her cup, then takes a sip. “Delicious,” she whispers and looks up from her tea cup, gifts me with a full view of her beautiful face. It’s a canvas today—red rouged cheeks, smokey eye makeup, and soft, pink lip gloss.
She’s an angel.
I never noticed her wearing makeup before. Then again I never really noticed her before. Not until recently.
Maybe she wore makeup all along, or maybe she just started. Maybe she’s wearing it today for me? And maybe she got her nails done for me? I draw my face back inside. Shut up! Stop being so full of yourself!
The angel parts her lips. “You were saying about your younger uncle, that he wan
ts to do ‘more living.’ I guess that’s why I’m here,” she says.
I shift in place. “Oh?” I ask, straining to keep my voice and face even so I don’t give away the fireworks exploding in my body. It hits me that it’s never been this difficult for me to be a rock. What would my mom say? Especially about me talking to this half-Indian girl.
Ha-na retrieves the envelope from her pocket and lays it on the sofa next to her. “I read it,” she says, flipping it over. She glances at me, her eyes shine like new black billiard balls. “Thank you,” she says. She sips.
I can’t breathe for a second as her last two words rack up and break in my head.
The record skips, and Pavarotti sings the same word over and over. We both look at the Sansui.
Ha-na gives me a half smile. “May I?” she asks.
I cock my head. “Be my guest,” I say.
She cruises over and lifts the needle, lays it back down at the outer rim. Torna a Surriento starts. She looks over at me with a wide grin.
Warmth spills out of my heart, spreading thick through my body like the honey on the counter.
She plops onto the sofa. She takes two more sips of tea, then looks in the cup. “I think this just might be my new favorite tea,” she says in English, with a British accent. She giggles, I think because she realizes what she said rhymed.
I sit up straight. “Do you want some more?” I ask.
She nods.
I hustle to the kitchen.
She joins me. “So, where’s your younger uncle?” she asks. She leans against a wall and crosses her arms. “Is he doing ‘more living?’” She smiles.
I finish peeling the ginger. “Yeah, I guess fishing counts as that.”
“Well, the fish aren’t too happy about that kind of more living,” she says, then laughs.
I laugh, too. I finish grating the ginger. “So what are you doing this summer?” I ask as I add honey. This time, no mess.
She strokes her arm and smiles to herself. “An art internship in Los Angeles…”
39.
The steam rises in a little dance of twists and dips from the thick yellow-green tea in my ceramic cup. I inhale its fragrance deep into my lungs. It smells dewy fresh and earthy like morning grass. The first sip coats my tongue with a sweet and muddy taste that tumbles down my throat warm and soothing. “I like it,” I say.
Younger Uncle smiles. He takes a sip. “Mmm,” he says, “you brewed it perfect. This time I only had lotus leaf, but next time let’s try to find the flower and root as well.”
I nod. “A triple lotus tonic,” I say.
He chuckles, then takes another sip. “A triple cleansing of all the alcohol and nicotine we’ve dumped into our bodies over the years.”
I hold up my cup. “In that case, let me drink up,” I say.
He laughs and sets his cup down. He lays one arm on the small table. “Your mom loves the triple mélange.”
I half smile. Maybe I can make it for her. I take a slow sip.
“So, how did it go with Ha-na?”
I choke on my sip, all of a sudden I’m a tea kettle on a high flame because when I touch my cheek it’s hot. That means it’s red. I haven’t opened my mouth, but it seems that my face has answered for me. Thanks a lot.
“That good, huh?” Younger Uncle says with a devilish gleam in his eye. “I’m intrigued. Do tell.”
“I think she forgave me,” I say.
“That’s good news.”
I don’t say anything else.
“That’s it?”
“Isn’t that enough?”
He raises an eyebrow.
I open my mouth to say more, but change my mind and close it.
“Come on already.” He drums his fingers on the table.
One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two, three.
I put my palms up. “Ok, ok,” I say. “I can’t believe she forgave me. I think it takes a huge heart to do that.” I pause and drop my eyes. “Especially after the awful things I’ve done to her.” I mumble. “I guess she’s the second person with a huge heart I know. Mom’s the first. You said it yourself, Mom loved Dad. She was always faithful to him. Even after what he put her through.”
He nods. “She still loves him, even though she knew she had to get away from him,” Younger Uncle says. “She says there is good in him…somewhere.”
I look up and try to smile.
“Anyway, tell me more about what Ha-na said.”
I tuck my chin, smiling to myself. Then I lift my eyes only. “She’s going to L.A. this summer, an internship at the Getty. She’s an incredible artist, you know.”
He sits back and crosses his arms. “Oh boy.”
“What?”
“L.A., huh?”
“Yeah.”
“What an interesting coincidence.”
“It’s no big deal.”
“No big deal,” he says with a straight face. “If you say so.”
“I do say so,” I snap. Nothing else about Ha-na is going to escape these lips!
Unfortunately a second later the wires snap and my mouth flies open. “It’s a huge deal, ok?! I can’t stop thinking about her. She’s smart and kind and sweet and gorgeous!”
Younger Uncle nods. “Now we’re getting somewhere.” He leans forward and clasps his hands on the table.
“I feel all weird inside,” I say, leaving out the part about my gochu of course. Then I let out a soft breath. “I don’t know what to do. I mean how wrong is it that a bully likes his victim? That’s totally messed up, isn’t it?”
Younger Uncle takes a sip. He steeples his fingers. “Unusual, maybe. But I wouldn’t say totally messed up. It seems to me that you’ve changed.”
I’m trying.
I raise one eyebrow and give a slow stroke to my sideburn. Deep down, I guess I’m not convinced I deserve to even think about her, let alone like her, with everything I’ve done.
Younger Uncle scoots his chair in. “Listen, change is possible. Living proof right here,” he says pointing his thumb at himself. Then he points at me with his chin. “You aren’t a bully anymore. And she’s not your victim anymore.”
“So what should I do?”
“You have to be honest with yourself and with Ha-na. That’s one of the secrets to more living.”
“Maybe I can be honest with myself, but with Ha-na…I don’t know. I mean all that bullying can’t be erased just like that, even if she forgave me. It seems totally out of line and conceited of me to hope that she’d like me back.”
Younger Uncle shakes his head. “I don’t think it’s either. In fact, you won’t go wrong if you get out of your head and focus on being honest. You’re not hurting her anymore, you’ve apologized profusely, and she forgave you. So you should try to be honest from here on out. It’s the right thing to do.” He pauses for a sip. “Now I’m not saying you should forget what you’ve done. Don’t ever forget the pain you put her through.” He pushes up his sleeves, brushes his tiger and dragon. “I’ll never forget what I did. And that helps me to do the right thing now.” He pulls his sleeves back down. “Every day I remind myself what I’ve done. Every day I remind myself what I want to do instead.”
“What if she laughs in my face?”
“Maybe she will, but being honest is not about predicting or controlling the other person’s reaction. It’s about being your true self. It’s about being truthful in your deeds and words.”
“I guess.”
“Look, I told your mom the truth—that I loved her but not just as a sister-in-law. She told me her truth—that she loved me like a brother, not like a lover. Of course that crushed me. But the honesty we shared made us closer. If we weren’t that close, she might not have told me about what your dad did to her. She might not have reached out to me on that brutal night. I’m grateful she turned to me. I’m grateful she let me help her.” He takes a sip. “I wouldn’t trade that for anything.”
“But the woman you love isn’t here. You must be
lonely,” I whisper.
“It’s true your mom’s not here and that when you leave I will be alone in this house. But I’m not lonely. I’m living how I want. I chose not to be a minister like my dad. I changed my mind about being a gang boss like my brothers. I’ve figured out what I want, what I stand for. I have some good friends, and your mom is one of them. I also have you. Even when neither of you are here.” He pauses to thump his chest once, “You’re both in here.”
I sit straighter as Younger Uncle’s words reassure me. I’m not lonely. I’ve got my boys, my mom, and Younger Uncle. And I’ve made peace with Ha-na. Things are ok right now. In fact, things are good right now, very good.
Dusk tosses muted light through the windows, and I feel lighter. I take another sip, the tea tastes even better. I look at Younger Uncle. “Thank you,” I say with a slight head bow.
40.
I’m waiting to board my flight here at Incheon International Airport. I’m a caged tiger, and I want to pace. But I can’t move, not a muscle. A drop of sweat rolls down my forehead, I want to brush it. Can’t.
More drops percolate out of my skin to form what I feel certain is an unattractive sheen on my face, and I want to wipe it. Can’t. A thousand needles prick me, suddenly I’m sweating all over. I want to peel off my sweater and shirt underneath. Can’t. I want to walk. Can’t. I want to pull out my pocket watch, check the time…
Can’t do anything. Can’t risk it. Because it feels like if I give in to any of my urges, something bad will happen. The worst something bad—I won’t get to see Mom. As crazy as all that sounds when I really think about it, I’m not willing to take any chances. So I will remain a statue with my arms crossed and my back and one foot propped against this thick, wide support column.
I do the only thing I can do—take in the scene before my unmoving eyes. The airport is a swarming ant colony with its mix of faces and bodies scurrying in organized chaos. I count the people wearing black coats. When I get to fifty, I feel a little better so I stop counting.
There are many different looking, different sounding, and differently dressed people here. Way more than on the streets of Seoul or on the island. And with their half smiles or full grins they all seem happy. Happy to travel? Probably. I wonder where they’re all going. Visiting family? Returning home? Going on vacation? Searching for adventure in some far off land?
