The calligrapher's daughter_ a novel - Eugenia Kim [124]
We approached a large stately building fronted with pilasters, surrounded by tall iron railings and draped with a huge imperial flag. “Perhaps this is the Manchu palace,” said Calvin, pausing as if to take in the enormity of change that fact elicited. If it was indeed where the last Chinese emperor resided, we were witnessing the home of the end of the Qing Dynasty, as ignoble an end as our nation had suffered.
We walked on and passed other buildings newly built in European styles, their austere profiles brightly lit. I looked to the heavens and noted how few stars were visible from beneath the streetlights, and I thought that maybe the price of progress was too high. “It’s as modern here as downtown Seoul.”
He smiled. “The government office in Pyeongyang is not as prominent as any of these. Yuhbo, here’s the plan. Tomorrow early, we’ll take the train and I’ll pick up the trunk I stored at the Pyeongyang station. My father will meet us, then he’ll take you to the passport office while I travel on to Busan. After you get your papers, he’ll help retrieve your luggage from the stationmaster and you’ll follow me to Busan. I hope you’ll have time to visit my mother. I’ll give you the cable address of the Presbyterian mission, and you can wire when I should meet your train.”
“Thank you for thinking of everything.”
“We’ll see. I’m afraid it might take more than a day to secure your papers. You’ll have to wire in any case. There’s a telegraph near the passport office; my father will show you.”
“Yes, thank you.” Our footsteps fell quietly side by side.
“If you’re delayed, at least you’ll have a few days with my mother. I do want her to meet you.”
“It would be an honor to serve your parents.”
“I’m afraid the house is small, not at all what you’re accustomed to, but it would only be for a short time.”
I wondered what happened to the two-story house busy with patriots and serving as a sock factory. “Please don’t worry. I already regret that I’m not entering your household properly.” We turned a corner where the buildings stood short and squat and the streets narrowed, and instinctively we turned back toward the hotel.
“We should practice English,” he said. “Where can I send a cable?” He repeated the phrase in English, as did I, savoring the consonants in my throat. He corrected my pronunciation with new phrases pertaining to travel, and I recorded them in my mind in phonetic Korean. By the time we entered the lobby, we were laughing lightly from the lessons, and I didn’t flinch at all when he took my elbow to climb the stairs.
He excused himself to the bathroom, and I busily packed the photographs and turned down the bed. He appeared in shirtsleeves, his tie unknotted and draped like a minister’s shawl. I lowered my eyes and slipped past him carrying my nightgown. “Dear God,” I said silently disrobing. “Help me to not be afraid.” Trying to banish anatomy textbook images of reproductive organs that floated behind my eyes, I tied my nightgown over breasts swelling helplessly to quickened heartbeats, and scrubbed my feet, face and hands. Noiselessly, I hurried across the empty hallway and was grateful to see the room darkened and him beneath the covers.
The silhouette of blankets lifted to welcome me. I placed my dress over the chair, my fingers shaking, and lay beside him, flat and scared and as far away as possible. Shifting near, he drew a finger from my ear to my chin as my eyes adjusted to the dark. I saw his full lips smiling, his lopsided front teeth, and focused on his night-deepened eyes. His hand traveled to my neck, over the knobs of my collarbone, sending coolness through my body. Putting his lips to my ear, he fumbled with the ties of my nightgown and whispered, “My wife.” His hands slid to caress me.
Surprised that my body warmed, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to push him away or embrace him, but I lay still, conscious of my duty to my new husband. He tugged the gown aside and caressed me, his hands fumbling across my hips. On their own, my legs parted and bent.