The calligrapher's daughter_ a novel - Eugenia Kim [127]
A plain building of whitewashed mortar housed the government offices. Cultivated rows of marigolds and begonias edged a graveled yard and paved driveways, all surrounded by iron fencing. Showing my papers, Reverend Cho explained our business to the men in the guardhouse. They refused his request to accompany me and gave brisk directions to the proper office. My father-in-law encouraged me on and pointed across the street to a restaurant next door to the telegraph office where he’d wait for me.
I passed beneath the imperial flag and through glass doors. My papers were checked again and my bundle was inspected. The poured stone floor held my echoing footsteps and those of a few others in need of official business. Signs above two entrances to the passport office divided nationals and Japanese citizens, and from a queue that spilled from the Korean side, young men filled out forms or shifted their feet. The small drab room was quiet except for the occasional whisper of one assisting another with paperwork, and a murmur coming from a grated window behind which a single official asked questions of the applicant before him.
“Excuse me,” I whispered to the young man at the end of the line who wore a student’s uniform. “Where is the application?” He sent a request up the line and a form was passed back.
“Elder Sister, do you need brush and ink?” He looked from my bobbed hair to my traditional hanbok to Mrs. Bennett’s shoes with curiosity. When I nodded, he whispered up the line again and room was made for me at a counter where I could stand and complete the form. I filled it out carefully, firmly writing education in the reason-for-travel box. Back in line, I drew out my other documents: crisp marriage certificate and declaration of Pyeongyang residency, identification, work and tax permit, graduation certificates and transcripts, my photograph in Jaeyun’s dress, a letter of support and sponsorship from the Bennetts on official Presbytery stationery, and the embossed letter of acceptance to Goucher College. I waited patiently for more than an hour, refraining from searching each departing applicant’s face for disappointment or victory. Their stooped shoulders and bowed heads were obvious enough, but I was convinced they weren’t as thoroughly prepared as I was.
At last the passport official nodded for me to approach, his round glasses reflecting glare from an overhead light. He asked perfunctory questions about my birthplace, education and work. I presented my papers and he raised an eyebrow. “Your Japanese is accomplished.” I hoped this was a good sign. “Married yesterday, I see.”
“Yes sir.”
“Did you marry in order to leave the country?”
I hadn’t expected this sort of questioning. “No sir. I was betrothed in May.” I knew that made no sense and remembered what the Bennetts had coached me to say. “I—I am traveling to further my education in medicine, since the women’s professional school in Seoul has limited opportunities in that field.”
“Where is your husband?”
“Traveling to Busan at the moment.”
“And from there you both plan to travel overseas?”
“Yes sir.”
“Same university?”
“No sir. I am enrolled at a women’s college in a nearby town.” I pointed to the Goucher letter.
He scanned the American letters and their translations, the papers mirrored in his spectacles, little miniature documents of hope. He tossed them back under the grate. “Foolish to accept enrollment without official sanction.”
A stone fell, hollowing my body. I kept my tone even and my face impassive. “Forgive me sir. The Presbyterian mission arranged for the college. I was told the matter had been taken care of. These letters show—”
“Denied.”
“What? But sir, the letters—”
“The letters are in order. If you want to further your education, a student visa to Tokyo is granted.”
The fear that pulled inside drained to cold panic.