Mr. Cho remained visibly thoughtful in the ensuing pause. "Excuse me, sir, for speaking thus," he said. "But I doubt that it will be possible to return to the old ways. New generations are being bred under imperialism. Modern ideas have flooded our universities. My father believes, as do I, that the model of democracy may best serve our nation-a congress of leaders freely elected by thinking men, and a president-figurehead to exemplify the dynastic traditions of leadership."
Hansu interrupted, "Perhaps someone like Kim Il-sung?"
"Yes," said Mr. Cho. "But he, like the Communists, has no God. Without Christian compassion and democratic understanding of the equality of all people, it matters little, ultimately, how strong one's arm is, who one's father is or how charismatic one's personality is."
Father cut in. "Man might be equal in the eyes of God, but heritage cannot so easily be washed away. Are you not your father's son? Was Moses not a son of Israel? How can bloodline be irrelevant?"
"Excuse me, sir. I'm not discounting heritage. I'm speaking of suffering. When people suffer, as ours do, as peasants have for hundreds of years, God has compassion, indeed, proven with the example of his own son, his own bloodline-Christ and his human suffering."
Mother said "Amen" and fidgeted with the fruit plate. I knew she worried that such a discussion might irk Father and ruin his digestion. And I thought Mr. Cho was clever to turn politics toward God, diverting rather than conceding his point. I caught Hansu searching for a reaction from me, and I flushed. With irritation? Eagerness? Embarrassment? Acknowledgment? Discomfortingly, I recognized it was all four.
Father waved the fruit aside and started to respond, but Mr. Cho bowed and said, "Honored Sir, forgive my argumentative tone. There were many such discussions at my father's house, and your hospitality has put me so at ease that I must apologize for having overstepped my manners. How can we be Korean and not respect our bloodline? Naturally and historically, it's an essential part of our national character and must always be so."
"Hm," said Father. His spine softened and he gestured that refreshment should be served. "I see we have much to speak of."
Mother relaxed beside me and Father asked Mr. Cho to pray. He prayed with authority, his intonation as careful and formal as his arguments. He prayed for the nation, the freedom of its people, gave thanks for the gathering of these three families and asked God's blessings for the bread we would break. When everyone said "Amen," Mother lifted her eyes to me, and I saw that she was pleased with his prayer. I served water and precious rice cakes, conscious of how close my sleeves came to brushing the white shirt cuffs peeking from his black suit sleeves. Then I left the room with Mother, but before reaching the kitchen, I escaped outdoors to the vegetable garden and immediately began pulling weeds to avoid her searching eyes.
Hansu and Mr. Cho stayed until midafternoon, which Mother said was a wonderful sign. "Of what?" I said, loudly pounding peas for Father's porridge. She merely smiled and talked to Cook about supper.
THREE DAYS LATER, after Mr. Cho's third visit with Father, Mother found me in the garden where I was picking lettuce leaves for supper. "Aigu!" she said, hurrying in and out again with a wide straw hat. "You mustn't get any darker."
"You wear it. I'll get another."
"No, no! Take it. I'll stand in the shade here and tell you." Beneath the eaves, Mother, incapable of being idle, searched the cucumber vines for fruit.
"Tell me what?"
"What your father said to the visitor today!"
"Oh." I tied the cord of the straw cone hat beneath my chin and bent to my task, glad my hands were busy since I didn't know what to do with my feelings.
"Those men! Always talking politics and philosophy. I go in and out, listening with one ear. Today, I hear your father say, 'I'm not a man to dilly-dally, talking from the side of my mouth.' I didn't want to disturb them with my footsteps, and I stopped and listened to everything-like you as a child behind the screen!" She laughed girlishly, and I jokingly scolded her.
"Then your father says, 'You should know the state of her dowry.'"
"Umma-nim, you already said ..."I moved farther down the rows of lettuce.
She caught up. "Nonsense. It's very wise of your father to consider everything on your behalf. Even if Mr. Cho is lower class, it's only right as your future groom-well, if you insist, your maybe maybe-future groom-that he be treated as a gentleman. Your father said, 'The girl's mother finds you acceptable, your father's letter says he's in agreement, depending on whether you and I are in agreement.' Then not another breath and he says, 'I am in agreement.'"
I wished to be anywhere other than where I was, having to experience this humiliation. A chicken in a cage being bartered!
"Also," said Mother, "he told Mr. Cho that you must be in agreement as well, so you have nothing to fear."
This concession was the result of Mother's work. I looked at her gratefully. "Did he-did the gentleman say anything?"
She smiled-smugly, I thought-and I turned my hot cheeks to the lettuce. "Well, if you mean did he speak his intention, the answer is no. Father was too busy telling him about the farm and Manchuria. Yah, Najin-ah-" Her soft tone made me look at her with concern. "His voice was very heavy, poor man. Then he became angry, thinking about it, I suppose, and he was actually quite brusque to poor Mr. Cho. What must he think of us?"
I shrugged and put Mother's cucumber crop in my lettuce basket.
"Your father said that your dowry consisted only of your personal possessions, your modern thinking and your education."
"I have to admit feeling pride in the 'modern thinking and education,'" I said, smiling.
Mother tilted my straw hat to peer at me. "I'm proud of you too." Our eyes met in a small rich instant. "You'll be pleased with the visitor's response," said Mother.
"Hm."
"'Mine is a simple family' he said. 'We rely less on material goods than on God's goodness.' A fine answer, don't you agree?"
Any other bride would have been consumed with anxiety about how her future in-laws lived and what kind of mother-in-law she'd have, but I wanted to hear no more. Drawing water to wash the vegetables, I changed the subject. "Speaking of family, when will Dongsaeng be home again?"
"Soon. I remember when he was home last spring how he complained about the smell of boiling cocoons." Earlier, I'd admired Mother's modest silkworm farm: the healthy mulberry bushes, mesh-covered frames that protected the larvae as they ate and wove their silken shells, the paddles, reels, spools, and the outdoor cauldron used every two months to boil the cocoons, an evil-smelling process that killed the pupae and loosened the silk. Mother continued, "But it wasn't so bad that he didn't eat the silkworms by the handful later! We harvest next week-he'll be home by then."
"How much do they bring in?" I calculated how the silkworm farm could double or triple with my help. Through my own industry, I could justify my stay at home by paying Dongsaeng's tuition. "How much are his fees?"
"Not your concern."
"He's my dongsaeng. I should contribute."
"Your contribution is to seriously consider the prospect of marriage."
In my attempt to avoid thinking about exactly that, I'd forgotten that my return home meant another mouth to feed, another room to heat. "Yes, Umma-nim, I will."
"Wonderful! Mr. Cho is coming tomorrow to visit you alone."
"Tomorrow!" Water splashed from the basin onto both our skirts.
Mother ignored the stain. "Walk the gardens with him. Take lunch. Take time to think and decide."
"What's the hurry?"
"By autumn he'll be in America to study for a year or more. A betrothal could change everything for you."
I frowned. Less than a month ago, I'd been fired from my country school and had no idea what the future might hold. I had hoped to work at the Seoul Hospital with Jaeyun, but Father forbade it. Teaching was one thing for a woman of our class; nursing-a servile position-was something else altogether. I hid a sigh. Marriage was not among the goals I had cast for my future. Then again, it seemed possible to add an American medical education to my dreams. I smiled at Mother, and when she smiled back, obviously pleased, I guiltily turned to wash the vegetables. I tried to subdue this extremely selfish desire from my mind, but as I scrubbed the cucumbers in the cool water, I couldn't avoid wondering if American cucumbers were as sweet and succulent as ours.
ON THE MORNING of Calvin Cho's visit, I sat before a folding vanity case, its mirror upright, trying to measure my appearance as he might. Wild hair, untamable Wild hair, untamable. I hastily knotted it in a braid. No, men don't notice hair. Yah, but no one could miss this nose! No, men don't notice hair. Yah, but no one could miss this nose! I powdered it, applied lipstick, rubbed it off. I powdered it, applied lipstick, rubbed it off. Skin is clear, thank God Skin is clear, thank God, I thought, too tanned, droopy eyelids, a peasant's jaw-aigu! too tanned, droopy eyelids, a peasant's jaw-aigu! I stood and angled the mirror for full body viewing. I stood and angled the mirror for full body viewing. Straight back, sunken belly, stooped shoulders. Skinny like a farmer ... Straight back, sunken belly, stooped shoulders. Skinny like a farmer ... I kicked the vanity case and it clattered shut. I kicked the vanity case and it clattered shut.
Mother entered carrying a light breakfast of steamed barley and broth with tender wild leeks and tofu. "You give your father reason to be annoyed when you behave like that," she said calmly. "Your visitor is the kind of man, I think, who cares little about appearances, and even if he were to, there's nothing for you to be concerned about."
I remembered his fancy tie and socks and said nothing. Mother sat behind me and undid my lumpy braid, which made me feel increasingly childish. "Why can't I just get a job? Why can't I go to Seoul to work at the hospital?"
"Stop." Mother raked a comb dipped in hot water through my hair. My head bobbed with each firm yank as she folded plaits, and I felt even more petulant and childish. I handed her a green ribbon. "Forgive me. I don't know what's wrong with me today. I know we've discussed this." I took deep breaths and closed my eyes.
"Tell me truly what you think of Mr. Cho," said Mother. She swept the floor for fallen hairs with her hands.
I returned the comb to my abused vanity case and stood. Mother adjusted my slip and drew the skirt's straps over my arms. "He is very polite," I said. "He's intelligent and well spoken, serious and studious. I believe he'll make a good pastor." I paused a moment before confessing, "But I don't know if I could ever be a good pastor's wife."
"Nonsense. Think of what a privilege it would be." Mother fluffed my hem, and I suppressed further expressing my doubt. She tightened the skirt band around my bosom and tucked in the ends. "What else?"
"He's thoughtful and modern, and that's good for me." Thinking that to give voice to my new desire might reduce its intensity and conspiratorial nature, I added, "Perhaps a time will come when we can study together in America." I looked at my mother.
"Perhaps," she said neutrally.
The room seemed to lighten; it was permissible to hope. "I think he's a good man, but how can I know?"
"I, too, believe he's a good man." Mother unfolded the curved sleeves of the blouse. "He has a good heart and is a strong man of God. His evenhanded character could temper your spirit. With your enthusiasm and ambition and his thoughtful ways, it's an excellent balance."
I tied the blouse closed with a single looped knot, trailing my fingers down the ends. Mother brushed my shoulders to soften the creases. "It's a good match. And Cook is right, you've grown taller."
"Have I?" I could've been six years old.
"Eat your breakfast and keep your heart open," she said, leaving the room. "I'll check that your shoes are clean."
I ate quickly and scoured my teeth. I put a dot of lipstick on each cheek and carefully blended it in. The remainder of the morning was spent straightening the already tidy women's quarters to steady my mind, which was running in circles of dread, hope, fear and excitement. Mother said to sit still or I'd wrinkle my clothes. I dusted off the Chinese-English phrasebook from its niche and scanned randomly through its pages. I began a two-page conversation titled "The Value of Fresh Water," amused to read about Willie and his father earnestly discussing the merits of drinking clean and pure water. I flipped to the back of the book and spent the remainder of the morning trying to make sense of such aphorisms as "penny-wise and pound foolish," "fine words butter no parsnips," and gave up when I chanced upon "happy is the bride that the sun shines on."
When the actual sun rose well above the bamboo, I greeted Father and sat with him to wait for Calvin Cho. He peered over his book and said sporadically, "Too much red on your cheeks ... A decent man ... We shall see." He cleared his throat often in his deep digestive way.
After Mr. Cho had spent a respectable ten minutes saying hello to my parents, Mother nudged us to the gardens. I carried a bundle packed with a padded jar of precious hot tea, hand towels, a stacked bento bento box carrying tiny dumplings, steamed balls of fish, rice rolled in seaweed and a single perfect persimmon with a bamboo knife. That one fruit had probably cost as much as everything else. Of course my mother knew that I would give it entirely to him. Embarrassed by the luxurious food, I wondered what had been sacrificed. box carrying tiny dumplings, steamed balls of fish, rice rolled in seaweed and a single perfect persimmon with a bamboo knife. That one fruit had probably cost as much as everything else. Of course my mother knew that I would give it entirely to him. Embarrassed by the luxurious food, I wondered what had been sacrificed.
By the time the house was out of sight, we'd discussed the weather and much of the surrounding flora. He did most of the talking, which made it easy for me to conceal my anxiety. I wondered if talkativeness was his antidote to nervousness. The sky shone translucent blue, dotted with high, dry clouds, and the air was balmy and fragrant with occasional perfect breezes. His comments about the gardens were followed by a stiff silence. It seemed to be my turn to say something, but all I could think about was how tangled and knotted my tongue felt. I remembered he was going to America, and asked, "How many cities will you-" at the same time he said, "What do you think about-," and our laughter released some of our formality and discomfort.
"You first," he said, mirth in his eyes.
"How many cities in America will you see?"
"In three years of study, perhaps I'll see ten. I'm very eager to visit New York City. Perhaps someday you'd like to visit New York?"
"Oh, yes!" I immediately blushed and lowered my head to diminish my outburst.
"Why, perhaps one day you will," he said easily. "I'll write and tell you about what I see and learn. Then you can decide for yourself if you'll come. May I do that?"
"Yes, thank you." My heart jumped inexplicably against my ribs. Was it the idea of foreign travel or something else that made me feel as if I'd swallowed a bucket of air? "Three years abroad! Won't your family miss you?" I refused to guess what his appraising look sought, and gripped the picnic bundle to arrest a strange tingling in my fingers.
"I've been at school for many years, and at this point, it doesn't seem like it'll be very different. Much depends on the work I can find during my studies. But yes, I will miss them terribly. My mother's blood is as weak as my father's is strong. And," he said obliquely, "I have just met your family. What a time to be going to America!"
I understood, and felt again the thud behind my ribs. Did he walk a little closer to me? Yes. I was sure that he did.
We approached a low granite bench at the edge of our pond circled with willows. Dotted with lily pads and lotus buds, the water smelled green and earthy, the shaded grove active with dancing light and flitting insects. I untied and spread the carrying cloth on the cool stone seat, arranged the red lacquer bento box and unstoppered the tea. "Please sit and eat a little." I poured tea into the two cups nested under the padded jar, filling mine halfway.
"Thank you. How pleasant it is here!" His voice shook a tiny bit from nerves, which only made me more nervous. A silence followed. It was too soon to start serving lunch. I tried to think of something natural to say and almost asked if he'd had gardens like these to play in as a child, but remembered at the last minute that his family were commoners.
"I-I often did my schoolwork here when I was young," I said at last, uncomfortably stuck between the awkward pause and the impropriety of talking about myself.
"I can see why." He sipped tea-somewhat noisily-and seemed to come to a decision. "Well, then. It's the trees. These trees remind me of a willow we had in the schoolyard when I was a boy." He smiled. "I'm afraid I was quite a lazy boy."
Relieved, I sensed a story coming and sat receptively.
"In sixth grade, there was a difficult class where we had to recite the most complex Chinese letter writing-very hard to comprehend. The teacher insisted we memorize the readings. He said those who doubted the accuracy of their memory should bring three sticks for punishment in the event they failed to recite properly."
"Cruel," I murmured, thinking I'd never struck a single student in my charge. I opened the bento boxes and spread the linen towels, charmed to see they were from the set decorated with Seoul's gates that I had crafted with Imo. Though many years had passed since those days, sitting beside this man I felt as naive as I was that afternoon with the princess and the young Japanese guard. I fingered the golden-brown embroidered images, and unexpected sadness tightened my throat for the brief yet treasured friendship and a past that could never be revisited. The willow tendrils sighed, and I focused on listening to Mr. Cho.
"Not at all. That was the style at the time," he was saying. "Instead of memorizing the readings, I went to the schoolyard and found dead willow branches, like these, and peeled off the bark so they'd break at the slightest touch. In class, instead of reciting, I offered these branches to the teacher. As expected, he used them to whip me. But each time they broke as soon as they touched me, and I received three whippings to no ill effect!"
I laughed. "You were a clever boy."
"A clever, lazy boy, I'm afraid."
"And now?" I dared.
"I've found God."
Thinking I should have anticipated this sort of answer from a future preacher, I nodded and offered him a lunch box. After saying a simple grace, Mr. Cho ate so fast that I thought he must've been starved. "What a feast," he said between mouthfuls. "Please excuse me. I know I eat quickly, but this is superb."
I picked up my box and noticed that he'd eaten all of his whitefish. "Why, you must have more," I said, dividing my food to give him half, and in my haste I nearly thrust my box onto his lap. A miniature dumpling popped out and fell on his lap towel. I sat back as if Father had cried out, "Clumsy oaf!" but Mr. Cho said "Aha!" He picked up the dumpling with his chopsticks, tossed it in the air and swallowed it in a single chew. Both shocked that he'd play with food and amazed that he caught it between his teeth, I laughed, covering my mouth, and noticed, as he laughed too, the handsome line of his Adam's apple jumping like a fish.
"Excuse me, have some more," I said, laughing, head sideways, mouth covered.
"Miss Han, what a wonderful lunch!"
The tea released its flowery steam, the scent in harmony with the willowy setting. He sighed, finished eating and thanked me again. I was thinking that I hadn't laughed like that since being with Imo, and before the end, with the princess. Taking tiny bites of dumpling and rice, and feeling oddly protective of what remained in my lunch box, I wondered if it was his nature to always devour food so robustly. With this thought came a strong sense of his masculinity, and my body flushed from neck to knee.
"Please excuse me and let me explain myself a little," he said. "When I was young, there were years when there was no food. My mother taught me how to eat the mudworm. Do you know what it is?"
I shook my head.
"This is a small worm, just one or two centimeters long. It lives in the silt of riverbeds and streams. In such places there are no fish, not even scorpions, but the mudworm is a strong survivor."
He sounded like he was sermonizing, but I also acknowledged that he told a good story. I poured him the remainder of the tea and put my last rice roll in his box.
"At the stream my mother and I-at the time I was just a little boy, perhaps four-she showed me how to scoop bowlfuls of the mud and silt. We put five shallow scoops into one large bucket filled with clear water from the stream. It was quite hot out and I remember enjoying wading in the mud. After a while, when I looked in the bucket, there were hundreds of tiny brown mudworms in the clean top of the water, spitting mud out with each wiggle when they swam."
" Aiu Aiu!" I said, horrified.
"I presume you don't much like snakes and worms." He swallowed his tea as quickly as he'd eaten his-and my-lunch.
"Hundreds together? No." My back thrilled with a small terror. "Excuse me for being rude. I'm sorry, go on."
"Not rude at all. An honest reaction." He smiled and my back thrilled in a different way. I listened to his story and focused on skinning the persimmon, its orange flesh firm within my palm, the thin peels delicately curling around and tickling my fingertips, the rare bitter-flower smell scandalously tempting me to lick my juice-anointed fingers, which of course I resisted doing. I listened to Mr. Cho.
"My mother and I scooped the top mudworms and put them in another bucket of clean water, and they would again spit out their mud as they swam around. We changed the water six times until the worms were almost white, and then we strained them and spread them on a mat to dry in the sun. My mother fried them and we ate them with barley. They tasted of the stream and gave us protein. Such an insignificant creature that lives in the beds of streams, yet God gives vital purpose to each thing, no matter if it's as lowly as the mudworms who suffered for the mother and her family who survived starvation because of them."
"Amen," I said, struck by his story and the degree of poverty he'd known. Remembering the earlier cue about his religiosity, I added, "You have made it a gift from God."
"That's why I enjoy eating so much!"
I thought of the mudworms' suffering, as he put it, and it brought to mind Teacher Yee, March First, my father's torture and West Gate Prison. It seemed that people were scooped from their lives as indiscriminately as those worms. I wondered aloud, "But is all suffering to be a gift from God?"
I heard appreciation of my question in his tone. "Think of how many stories in the Bible tell how the grace of God comes as a result of suffering. Think of Christ's example."