The calligrapher's daughter_ a novel - Eugenia Kim [123]
Conspicuous in my wedding dress, I was certain that every one of the few scattered people in the lobby were smirking at the thought of my wedding night. My stomach churned. I recognized Calvin’s shoes approaching and saw a large manila envelope by his knee.
“The photographer’s assistant developed our pictures during the reception as a special favor for the newlyweds.” Calvin smiled at that last word. “We can inspect them upstairs.” I followed him up a grand curved staircase, then another more modest stairwell, and down a plushly carpeted hallway to a double shutter that opened to a dark wooden door, into which he inserted the key.
“Yuhbo,” he said when the key in his shaking fingers refused to unlock the bolt. “It’s a beautiful night. Change clothes and let’s walk a while.”
I nodded and heard relief in his breath. His next attempt with the key opened the door to a plain room with a huge Western bed, an armoire, side table and armchair. My bundle drooped shabbily over a shiny portmanteau that had the gold initials CJC embossed by the latch. He pointed to a half-open door across the hall, and I clutched my clothes and escaped into the gleaming bathroom that had an enormous porcelain tub. I bolted the door, struggled to unclasp the complicated veil, dress and garters, and marveled at the wondrous bathtub. What an incredible waste of water to fill this tub for one person! I carefully folded the gown and donned the navy blue Chinese dress, buttoning the frog closures high to the neck.
When I finally reappeared, it was wonderful to see Calvin sitting in the armchair, looking completely relaxed and strikingly handsome. “Comfortable?” he said. My tongue had apparently died in the suddenly intimate and still room, and I nodded, self-consciously smoothing my hair. “It flatters you,” he said of my bob, which made me happy and abashed. “Come and see.” He had arranged the photos on the table.
Unable to look at him further, I gladly studied the pictures. I was surprised to see his hand resting on my shoulder in the portrait where I sat and he stood behind me, not remembering his touch then. He looked as appropriately solemn as I, and I loved seeing the sharp clean lines of his face, polished with the glow of the photographer’s flash. My solo portrait for the passport seemed foreign to me, the dress making me seem more Chinese than Korean. I frowned at an unruly dent in my bob, and at my nose which appeared even larger in the two-dimensional image. Calvin named the half-dozen men and women who had posed with us at the altar, describing their relationship to him or his father. I gazed longingly at the image of Dongsaeng and my mother in this group shot. He divided the pictures and slipped a copy of my passport picture in his pocket, a tiny gesture that encouraged a blossoming sense of closeness to him. “I’ll give these to my father to show my mother tomorrow. You keep the rest until we can frame them.” I thanked my husband, glad to have in my possession the photograph with my mother and Dongsaeng in it, and hoped I’d have a chance the next day to send one of the images home.
To become accustomed to walking in raised heels, I decided to wear the leather shoes handed down from Mrs. Bennett, tying them tightly. We went out. Lit with electric lights, the streets were quiet, a few automobiles and a tram passing now and then as we strolled the paved sidewalks. The stars loomed high above the cluster of tall buildings, the night breeze cool and gentle on my arms.
“A full day,” Calvin said presently.
“Yes.” I thought hard to say something else but was feeling stupidly shy. We passed the stone and brick church where I’d been joined to this man. “A big church. Beautiful,” I offered.
“I’m very pleased.” He touched my bare forearm.
Instinctively I withdrew and crossed my arms, then regretted my reaction. I disengaged my arms and smiled at him. “A good day.” His eyes reflected streetlight and calm, and I relaxed. “Thank you,” I added. His smile warmed me