“That trick was played on me many times before,” said Pak.
“I guess your place is all right. The woman has two kids. She must be normal.”
Pak shook his head gloomily.
“Normal you say—or as I say, not—American woman is hard to understand,” insisted Pak, shaking his head. “I have had only one good job in America. For seven years I had a good job. A very nice man. Very nice wife. Nobody ever was mad at me. But he was mad at her, she was mad at him. Finally both become so mad with each other, they divorce. Nobody can see a reason why. The man goes to live in New York hotel. The lady goes to live with a friend in California. I was so happy with both!” Pak was almost crying. “Neither could take me. The lady cried, saying good-bye. Then the man came, separately crying. But—all up! Our home was broken. One month’s pay, $100 from the man. From the lady, a wonderful letter recommending me. I use this letter ever since. But never find another job like that. No more jobs like that in America!”
“Well,” said George philosophically, “Their jobs are like their marriages. In the American civilization, especially in New York civilization, a married woman is no more than a kept woman, and no kept woman could be kept long. Thus divorce comes. It costs money. But they have it. So social life is a burden to them. . . .”
“Western marriage is no good in New York!” agreed Pak mournfully.
“But being a bachelor in New York is not bad!” Pak didn’t see it that way.
“Not good for a man to be unmarried. Indecent Western way.”
“Look here, Pak, you are not Westernized,” exclaimed George, rising up to preach. “You are not civilized. What is the matter with you? You can’t enjoy the bachelor life when you have it. It is something we don’t have in the Orient. This is one of the advantages of Western civilization. Listen, I read you advice.”
George took down a big fat notebook. He put on glasses.
“These are the wisest of Western men—the greatest of thinkers,” he opened to his self-made index, hunting advice whether or not to get married. “(Not because they are wise and great, but because I agree in what they say.) First. Take Socrates. When asked whether to get married or stay single, Socrates said, ‘Whichever, you will repent.’ (You see, Socrates encourages marriage 50 per cent. He lived in Western classical times.) Another writer says, ‘One was never married and this is his hell; another is, and that is his plague.’ Hell may be bad, still it would not be as bad as plague. The wisest advice I know is that given by the great philosopher and thinker, Bacon, ‘Young man—not yet! Elder man—never!’” And George shut the book with a whack, pleased with himself.
Pak still stood by his own conviction. He seemed not to have heard Jum’s words at all.
“Forty-five years old I am. Not yet married. Already I lose at least five children by not marrying. And no children—no more me! This is fault! This is sin! This is crime . . . of the race suicide!”
2
In the station Pak bought a newspaper, which he could not read. He only bought it to look at the advertisements. He had not had much education at home and none at all in America. I offered to read some to him. But he was only interested to know what had happened in the Korean revolution, which had already quieted down. At least in American papers.
We were met at our destination by a lady in a big shiny car, all enclosed, and she was driving it herself. I examined her somewhat curiously, remembering the stories of George and Pak. She looked very artificial to me and not very friendly.
“He talk not much English,” said Pak, and, uneasy how I would behave, he nudged me. As we assembled our suitcases, he said in Korean:
“Leave everything to me. You just keep in the background. Be shy like a Korean bride.”
I tried to be shy. But the lady would not allow me to do this. As we rolled through suburban green lawns and semi-countrified streets, she directed all her words at me.
“You are the houseboy, aren’t you? What? No experience! I hope we won’t have too hard a time to train you” . . . and on and on. . . . My role seemed more a star than Pak’s.
“And you must say ‘Yes, Madame.’”
The car stopped. All around was free land, laid out for houses regularly with streets, but on it now were only small trees. There was one house. I did not care for the house. It ought out here to be a farmhouse but nobody attempted to make it a farm. It was a three-story concrete, very abrupt to look at in that flat space. There was a tiny hedge a little dog could jump and an artificial lawn with gravel paths. On the wind also you could smell the sea, but there was no sea smell about the house. It negated Nature, but the city was not transported yet. In a few years there would be many houses. I saw on the horizon another going up. I would not be able to recognize this place in 1975. Now, with neither society nor privacy, it was desolate.
“Get out,” said the lady, who seemed a society-pioneer here. “And open the door for me. No, I mean you.” And she pointed at me.
I had difficulty though to open the door for myself. Pak tried to open it too, but it stuck. There was a trick in the button. The lady opened the door, turning around from her seat in front. Then my suitcase, which was on top of Pak’s two suitcases, fell out and opened and all my books fell out, and I fell out of the taxi after them. There I stood and didn’t know whether to pick up my books or open the door for the lady. For she would have to step out on the books.
“Go round to the other door,” said Pak to me in Korean. And he jumped out after me.
“Yes, Madame.”
I tried to get there so fast that I stubbed my toe on Shakespeare and fell down. I jumped up and got the door open at last, and the lady had to step out in a kind of flower bed, while Pak crammed all my books back into the suitcase, and shut it, but only by one lock on one side: the other side wouldn’t close.
“That was very badly done,” said the lady. “Leave the suitcases there—no, on the gravel, not on the lawn. Get into the car and try that over again.”
This time I did very well. Pak breathed a sigh of relief.
“Now whenever I come in, you stand out here and open the car door. . . .”
She was moving toward the house in illustration. I grabbed up my suitcase again and followed after. Pak, too.
She opened the side door with her key.
“Here, you must help to take my coat and overshoes.”
“Yes, Madame.”
I dropped my suitcase again. Again it broke.
“Never mind now,” she said in vexation, “just remember another time.”
I picked up my books.
“I hope they have no germs,” she said, shuddering as she saw the dingy Oriental covers of some second-hand books I bought in Yokohama.
We went inside. Pak took off his coat the first thing. But I kept mine—a missionary had told me that a gentleman never takes off his short coat in the house; forever he must wear it, just like shoes. The lady handed us two white aprons, badges of servitude, ordering us to try these on. Pak tied his around his armpits. But mine was too long. I tied it around my neck and stood attentively.
“No, no, not that way.”
“Yes, Madame.”
Dejectedly I tied it around my waist under the jacket. The upper part looked man now, the lower, woman. Certainly it was a very long skirt. It almost trailed on the floor. The lady was looking at me analytically.
“H’m! What is wrong with you? Well, these are the best I can do until I take your sizes. My former cook was a very tall Negro. He was able to do the work of two. But I hired you to be presentable. Tomorrow I will go into the city to get some white coats—if everything else is satisfactory,” she added with emphasis.
A cultured Korean lady takes small and calm steps full of leisure. This American lady moved out vice versa.
We were late. We must rush to get the first dinner. I only peeled carrots and beans
. Then I cut my finger. But I had to wait on table. Pak couldn’t do it for me. O Lord! George had forgotten to tell me how. I had a short lesson from Pak.
“Fork on left, spoon on right . . . pour water over right shoulder . . . offer meat on left . . . don’t take away plate under soup bowl till end of soup. . . .”
How was I to remember all this? It was like learning the Chinese book of rites in five minutes.
Then I forgot all when I brought in the soup. A girl of eighteen stood there in trousers and shirt like an American man, with long leather boots reaching to the knees. She sat down.
“Oh, I’m so hungry,” said the girl. “I rode clear around the riding school. . . . My horse was in fine spirits and . . .”
She caught sight of me and giggled. Her brother, a boy of twelve, laughed too.
I returned to the kitchen and described the girl to Pak.
“It’s the way women dress on Long Island,” I said.
Pak, however, took it as sinister.
“This job won’t last,” he gloomily shook his head. “Girl dressed like man, hair cut short, Westerners all like ten hells.”
“But she has to, to ride on a horse.”
“Yes! Rides on horse! Son-of-ingenuine-woman!”
The lady’s bell rang peremptorily.
“Quick! Tell me what next.”
But Pak couldn’t. His tongue wouldn’t move that fast.
“Get back,” was all he said.
I went back in and the lady said, “Take the soup off.”
“Through?” I said as softly as I could.
“You must say ‘Yes, Madame.’”
What had Pak said? Don’t take the plates under soup bowls? I left the plates. It was wrong.
“Take these plates off!” said the lady angrily.
“Yes, Madame.”
“Hey, give me some more water, Charley, before you go,” said the boy.
“Yes, Madame.”
The girl and the boy seemed to be giggling and laughing the whole time. They never took their eyes from me. I went into the kitchen again, where Pak was still mumbling to himself about the unnatural evils of Western civilization.
“What would my grandmother say? Running round over country on horseback dressed like men.”
“How can I be there like Korean bride?” I asked indignantly. “The girl and boy are laughing at me all the time.”
“Get back!” was all Pak said. “Before she rings. Here. Put napkin over arm.”
I went in as noiselessly as I could. That was very noiseless. I was facing the boy and girl but the lady’s back was to me. She didn’t know I came in. I stood by the sideboard like a statue, napkin over the arm. The boy and girl were delighted.
“Ain’t we got style?” said the boy. “We got a butler.”
The lady laughed, “Peu! peu!” But she didn’t see me.
Pretty soon I had to sneeze. I struggled for control. I must be Korean bride. No help. It was an awful sneeze. The lady jumped and said “Oh!” She turned in a hurry—the boy and girl buried their faces in napkins and weakly howled. I, too, must laugh to look at them. “Hee!” I, too, put the napkin to my face. But the lady didn’t laugh. “You may go!”
“Yes, Madame.”
3
Pak worked slowly, but he did well, and he was a good cook. To me he was always kind. I complained to Pak about the lady, who interviewed me much more than Pak.
“It is not good that all the time she should get angry—not good for her, not good for me.”
“No man can understand American ladies,” he said patiently.
I had to work from morning to night. I had never worked so hard in all my life with no time to myself. First, beds to make. Pak helped me in this, for it was hard. Pak preached like George, be tight, but for a different reason.
“All Westerners roast the feet to freeze the nose. Western feet are cold, while Western nose is tough, tough as the elephant’s trunk.”
But next day the whole thing was to do over again. I was discouraged.
“All Westerners kick, these more than most,” said Pak. “It is bad conscience maybe. I will buy big safety pins to pin the end sheets and blankets so they won’t come off, after once being done, when the lady kicks at night.”
Then there was so much dusting to do, all seemingly an unnecessary labor to me. Surely such quantities of furniture were only in the way! In Korea, the beauty of a room is in its free space. “The utility of a vase is in its emptiness.” I did not believe Americans got much out of Shakespeare—American domesticity gave no time. And yet there were all sorts of labor saving devices in the kitchen, even an electric egg-beater. I could not understand why I did not get through safely and quickly like George, with plenty of leisure time.
Whenever the lady saw me, she got nervous and irritated. Before she spoke, she would give one big artificial smile, and the bigger that smile was, the angrier she was going to be. She would preach:
“Always rearrange pillows after I—or others—sit on the sofa. . . .”
“Always put on a clean apron before coming out of the kitchen . . . not one spotted with jam. . . .”
“Never leave off your apron as if you were a guest in the house. . . .”
“Dust under each chair with an oil rag, not with a feather. . . .”
“Dry the saucepan before putting it away. . . .”
“Dishwipers must be washed at once after being used; then hang them up carefully. . . .”
“Never use the front door except to open it for others. . . .”
“Don’t stay here . . . go . . . after being called and serving. . . .”
This last was vice versa to the orders of Pak. Always when I came out of the dining-room while the family sat at the table, he ordered, “Back!” He didn’t want me in his way either.
It was interesting in a sense, being treated just like a dog or cat. One could see everything, and go unnoticed, except while being scolded. But how tired my feet got! How discouraged I was! How hungry to get away somewhere, even if I starved! “To keep on is harder than being a prisoner,” I thought. And I remembered George’s advice not to scorn delight and live laborious days.
Still another day of chore work in domesticity began. It was a beautiful morning. I looked out through the window at the green fields of the first April, juicy and wet. Outside the spring odor was penetrating and lyrical. The perfume of the bursting sods and quickened rootlets, all swaying in the west wind, intermingled with the salty tang of the sea. But inside it was tough and bitter, for I had slept too late, having gone to bed too late the night before. Shakespeare was to blame for it. He was too beautiful to be left unread, too poignant to be left uncried. I wished to write letters to my ideal as George did. “From you I have been absent in the Spring. . . .”
The clock indicated that I was an hour and a half late when I got up that morning. Pak did not wake me, because he thought I needed a little more sleep after the night before. He was too kind to me always. Alas, kindness was to spoil the whole business!
I went into the great white mechanized kitchen. Pak said:
“Fired!”
“Something is burning?” I cried, running to the electric stove.
“No. Fired! Job doesn’t last!”
But hoping still to make good, I dragged the vacuum cleaner in to do the living room, my usual morning task. The girl, who was always the latest breakfast-getter, was already up, and so was her mother. They were standing, looking at the living room which was just as it had been left the night before, when the girl, who was already a candidate for somebody, entertained company.
The girl as usual giggled when she saw me. But the lady did not. She looked at me with a hard and spiteful smile:
“I have telephoned for a house servant, not a comedian.”
4
Well, we were fired, and given one week’s pay, fifteen dollars for Pak and four for me. A good share of this must go to Pyun. Pak was not angry with me for our failure. He said he did not believe that I would ever make a good cook, or even could keep a houseboy’s job, but he wished me luck—he thought I ought to make a great scholar. And he asked me to make him a copy of his letter of recommendation—the original was too old and worn out to show now. He was not even very bitter against Pyun. Pak was so patient. He went back to Pyun’s employment agency immediately.
“Here all is alike. Nothing lasts in America,” said Pak stoically. “Such trick is known as business efficiency.”
I however had learned my lesson. I would not try Pyun any more. I went to Hsun. Hsun was extremely sympathetic. He hired me at once, saying he would not be able to pay me much, but by staying with him, I could be assured of living expenses and a little over, and besides have plenty of time for studying. Hsun always saw the importance of studying. In most things, he remained an Oriental, in his habits, his imperfect ways of American dress, his method of housekeeping and of eating and even of doing business.
Hsun occupied an entire floor on an upper story of a tall building at 74th Street and this was his home and his tea business at the same time. The front room was once very large, but Hsun had put up a tall carton partition, making a separate storeroom for tea, incense, and the other things he was selling. At top, the storeroom was open, but there was a door and a key to lock it by. On the other side of the partition, at a folding card table, I worked as Hsun’s secretary. The work was easy. Hsun’s business correspondence was almost entirely confined to the Korean student directory, which stood permanently on my table. The letters he told me to write were not like business at all . . . they had more to do with how boys were getting on and how they need not send money right away unless they had something beyond their school expenses, etc. To those who had not enough funds to carry them through the summer, he wrote, saying he would be glad to send them some tea on credit to sell. To penniless students, west, south, or north, who wanted to come to New York, he wrote encouraging them and enclosing part of the fare, saying that when they came, they could make it up to him by selling tea.
East Goes West Page 10
