The calligrapher's daughter_ a novel - Eugenia Kim [106]
I DECIDED NOT to break bread with Mr. Cho in the hotel restaurant where people watched and noticed things. I also wanted to be free to speak Korean, should our discussion follow a similar direction as the last time. I was certain he was fluent in Japanese, but Korean words had a richer, more fulfilling taste in my mouth. I woke early, found the village market and purchased boiled eggs, steamed buns and dried mackerel, splurging on ripe southern peaches for four picnic lunches. I ordered two kettles of water and tin cups from the restaurant. Back in the room, Jaeyun looked thoroughly modern in her Chinese dress and bobbed hair. I complimented her vigorously, noting in particular the natural shine in her cheeks, and urged her to forget about everything except enjoying the day. Who knew how many such days they’d have? She thanked me profusely for the picnic, which I helped carry until the beach rounded the point.
I walked back and sat on a wooden chaise close to the hotel, watching the waves until the sun rose halfway to noon. In the scant library, I perused the slender volumes and chose a Japanese translation of Pilgrim’s Progress. To avoid the nosy stares of hotel staff, I sat out front in a spare little garden of scattered flowering bushes and a few old cedars, and I read, distracted by the impending visit.
He came bicycling down the sandy road wearing a broad-brimmed gray hat, his sleeves rolled outside of his black suit jacket. I stood and waved, and immediately felt idiotic about the showy hello. The bike wobbled as he slowed, braking, and dismounted. He blotted his brow with a handkerchief, rolled down his sleeves, slapped dust from his jacket and smiled. I remembered his crooked teeth, one lined in gold, and returned his smile, gesturing him to sit. There were a few people about so he spoke in Japanese. As suspected, he spoke it well. “In America, a gentleman remains standing until the lady is seated.”
“Backward style.” I left room on the bench for him, feeling relaxed in his easy company.
“They’d say we’re backward.”
“Soon you’ll learn how backward they think we are.”
“I believe what I might learn is exactly how backward they are. You, on the other hand,” said Mr. Cho, pointing to my book, “are very forward with your language ability.”
I liked his wittiness. “It’s not a very good translation. I read it years ago in Chinese.”
“An odd coincidence that you’d have that book. I don’t want to appear as if I’m boasting, but it’s my mother’s favorite story. I’m sure she’ll tell you one day.”
My stomach lurched at the suggestion of a future with his mother. “Perhaps you’ll tell me first.”
Smiling faintly, he looked distantly to the sea, a view mostly obscured by the hotel. “When I was three, an aunt passed away. Many people gathered at my grandfather’s house for her funeral, and my mother wanted to entertain them in some way. Not able to read Chinese herself, she’d always been overly proud that I could read at such an early age. In the bad light of a fish-oil lamp, I read a chapter from Pilgrim’s Progress and can still hear the murmurs of surprise. My father says this is the reason I was such a lazy student—too much pride, too early. Naturally he was correct.”
“The pride is justified.” I thought of my own struggles with pride. “But you said finding God helped.”
“It did. But that’s a long story for another time.”
Again a reference to the future! I quickly proposed the simple picnic rather than the stuffy restaurant on such a beautiful day. “Unless you think it’s too humid.”
“Not at all. If it gets hotter, perhaps you won’t mind if I remove my jacket?”
I looked at him and saw only the question he’d asked. I lowered my eyes. “Excuse me for staring, but it’s unusual that you’d ask me permission. Is it because of the Western learning you’ve had?”
“Perhaps it is. I’m sorry if I’m making you uncomfortable.”
“You’re not. You’re very kind.