The calligrapher's daughter_ a novel - Eugenia Kim [126]
He angled his body just so in the tub. “You don’t have to do that. They have maids.”
“I couldn’t! It’s too embarrassing—” I quickly ran water on the linens.
He laughed. “More embarrassing than walking in on a man taking a bath?”
“I’m not looking at my husband!” I left the sheets to soak and ran out.
A bit later I thought I heard him rinsing the linens. I hurried across. “Let me do that. That’s my work. You shouldn’t!” I didn’t want him to see my blood.
“If you insist on sharing the bathroom with me, bring my shaving kit from the suitcase.”
“Yuhbo,” I called after a few minutes. “I can’t open it.”
Dressed in his trousers and undershirt he brought the wrung linens, which we spread over the end of the bed. We bumped as he leaned to show me how to release the suitcase latch, and he held me then, my head naturally drawn to his shoulder. A sigh passed through me as quickly as his touch had awakened the ache from below, but I slapped at his hands and said lightly, “There’s time later.” Then I reddened thoroughly, for I’d meant to say there wasn’t time.
“A lifetime!” Calvin pressed his lips to my palm. He swept up his shaving gear and retired to the bathroom, and I brought my hand to my nose to see if I could smell his touch.
The Linen Closet
SEPTEMBER 1934
IN THE CROWDED SECOND-CLASS COACH TO PYEONGYANG, CALVIN spoke little and smiled often. We’d eaten the rice balls from Cook earlier in the privacy of our hotel room, with coffee and iced water he had somehow ordered to be delivered. The train stopped at the border town of Anteong on the Yalu River, and passengers quickly filled every available space. For the remainder of the uneventful trip to the city of my married residency, with food from home in my belly and his companionable jostling against my hip and shoulder, I was content.
Reverend Cho was waiting for us at the depot, and Calvin, before boarding his train, reviewed the plan once again. Conscious that my father-in-law was present, I said goodbye to my husband with a simple bow. I needn’t have worried, for Reverend Cho grasped Calvin by the shoulders, pressed lips to his son’s forehead and they embraced fully, both their eyes wet. Stunned by the public display, I turned aside. Calvin’s train pulled out from the station and I waved once, whereas Reverend Cho held his arm high, waving long after the smoke had cleared. I remembered that on the promontory overlooking the beach Calvin had said, “I am a bumpkin,” and also, “Your father told me what a refined upbringing you’ve had.” I felt both shamed and proud and understood I’d have to work on humbleness in my marriage. But it was not an immediate concern; in America I’d be mostly separate from my husband, busy with English language studies and coursework.
The Pyeongyang station, three times the size of Gaeseong’s, bustled with vendors, porters, passengers and police. Streetfront trams rattled below their electric wires, men with carts jostled by, a few rickshaw drivers boasted speed and beggars cried for alms. I clutched my bundle to my chest and dutifully followed my father-in-law into the city. He stopped at corners to offer me a ready smile and a few words of chitchat.
“Heavy clouds coming. Perhaps just a shower this time. Maybe thunderstorms, eh? We go down this street and turn left. See that high wall? That’s the west side of our mission compound.” He pointed out a few churches and named landmark buildings, each time waiting for me to respond.
Thus far I’d merely nodded, but his persistent remarks seemed to require something more. “So big!” I tried.
He smiled as if discovering that indeed I could speak. I took note of his large narrow teeth, all the uppers edged in gold. It appeared the Cho line suffered with soft teeth. “The manse is behind the church. See that steeple? This restaurant is patronized by Westerners and that one across the way, Japanese.” He waited