The calligrapher's daughter_ a novel - Eugenia Kim [114]
From the vestibule came Father’s voice. “I’ll hear no more on this. My mind is made up.” Mother’s face closed somewhat. She told me to help Cook make lunch and to say nothing about the Bennetts. “I’ll tell him myself after he’s eaten and not so …” She waved me to the kitchen.
Later when I unpacked, a large and perfect scallop shell from the beach, bleached by nature, fell from Dongsaeng’s unfinished winter coat. I tucked the shell in my waistband and went to his study, keenly feeling my sisterly obligation toward him, particularly since I’d overheard those few terse words of Father’s. Remembering Father’s eagerness to have me married at age fourteen, I wondered if a wife would soon be found for Dongsaeng, which would force him to accept responsibilities as master of the household. He was still a boy! How could he feed a family and take care of our parents?
In the breezeless sultry afternoon Dongsaeng sat at his desk in an old shirt and school trousers, swirling an inkstick in jerky uneven circles on his inkstone. He didn’t acknowledge my scratch at the door. “I’m going to the graves,” I said. “Come with me?”
“Too hot.”
“Later?”
“Maybe.”
I gave him the shell. “From the beach. See its symmetry?”
He barely looked when I set it at his elbow.
I sat beside his desk and said, “I have something to tell you.”
“I heard already from Abbuh-nim.” He rudely splashed water on the inkstone, and I resisted the urge to caution him against spilling.
“Dongsaeng, I worry—”
“Everybody’s worried about me! Why can’t you leave me alone!” He threw the inkstick, spattering black on his desktop.
Quickly blotting the mess, I used my gentlest schoolteacher voice to say, “Yah, what is it?”
“At least you’re escaping from this prison!” He rose and thumped his hands.
“I know it’s hard to live up to Father’s expectations, but you must try.”
“It’s impossible!” His narrowed eyes pooled and reddened.
“Did something happen?”
“I sold a scroll! You’d think he’d be proud, but he was furious. At least I’m trying to keep my pockets filled!”
“Art for money makes tainted art.”
“Yes, yes, I know—loss of creative purity, innocence of expression—all that crap!”
“You know he thinks it belittles your talent to work for profit.”
“What else is it for then? To sit in my study and read newspapers and study classics for the rest of my life? That’s what it’s for? I don’t want his life!” His voice scraped and broke.
I stood to allow him to compose himself. “Let’s go to the graves before they hear you.”
“Who cares who hears? My life was ruined before I was born.”
“Fresh air is better than sitting around making a mess in your studio.”
He shrugged, rubbed his face and followed me to get his shoes. Going through the garden, I grabbed a straw hat, a hand scythe and an empty bucket. Ilsun plucked a cucumber and munched it noisily. He scuffled his sandals on the courtyard flagstones, and though irritated with his unruliness, I said nothing.
Tall waving branches shaded the steep path that circled the bamboo woods, and I walked faster in its coolness, eager to be out of sight of the house. “Slow down. I don’t want to sweat,” he said behind me.
By the time we reached the stone steps, we were both climbing slowly. We paused at a break in the trees to look down at Gaeseong. To the far west on a hill, I could just make out the steeple of the Methodist church. I looked south to see if I could find Reverend Bennett’s new church, but a haze obscured it. I wondered how American cities looked from above, doubting that any valley could be as enchanting as the one below. Dongsaeng pointed out the plain low buildings of his school and said he could make out his favorite restaurant farther off. “They told you, didn’t they?” he said.
“What?” I wanted him to talk, knowing how talking often helped to understand things differently.
“That I flunked all my classes.”
“Yes.” I knew it was pointless to scold him. “Umma-nim says they weren