The calligrapher's daughter_ a novel - Eugenia Kim [128]
The money disappeared. “Our Korean sisters are welcome in our universities. With your education, fluency and high marks, you’ll be admitted with ease.”
“Sir, my husband waits—”
His lips thinned. “He can go to Tokyo with you. It is among the finest universities in the world.” He frowned when I leaned heavily against the counter. “Madam, it is not a difficult matter to rescind his visa.” He wrote something across my application, placed it on a stack beside his elbow, collected my documents, stamped my identification—a red seal with a line across it—and slid my papers back to me.
“I beg you, sir!” The whispers from the queue of applicants behind me were meaningless winds passing through my body.
“Denied. Do not attempt to reapply unless for a student visa to Tokyo.”
“I beg you, sir. I plead for your understanding— My husband—” I grasped the bars and the whispering behind me grew louder.
“Denied! Shall I call the guard?”
I took my documents with wooden hands. My eyes were dry, yet I couldn’t see my way out of the passport office and bumped into someone. I dropped my pouch and left my bundle. “You forgot your things, Elder Sister,” said a young man. “Let me walk with you outside.” I followed him numbly, the sound of our footsteps vacant and pounding. At the entrance he said, “Here we are. Are you alone? Do you want me to escort you home?” The concern on this stranger’s earnest face gave me strength and my manners surfaced.
“No, thank you. My father-in-law waits for me. I’m sorry to have troubled you. You’re very kind.”
“If you’re sure—”
I tried to smile without success. I turned to cross the street and was cursed by a man running with a cart, into which I nearly collided. Reverend Cho must have been watching, for he was beside me in an instant. He thanked the young man, grasped my shoulders and led me to the safety of the telegraph office’s sidewalk. He studied my pale expression. “How bad?” he said.
I knew that the word denied wouldn’t pass my lips without a flood of vitriol or tears. I unfolded my identification and gave it to him.
He examined the red stamp and uttered a sympathetic “Hmm.” He returned my document and steered me inside the café. “We’ll have something to drink before we send a cable.” The proprietress smiled at his rapid return and teased him about having a crush on her. He ordered two roasted barley teas and moved to a back table. I sat stiffly.
He sipped and sat silent across from me for some time. “Please drink something. I don’t want you to faint.” I complied, forcing the tea past my throat that was tight with disbelief, my stomach leaden with so much lost in an instant. “That’s good,” he said. I bowed my head to hide my eyes, for at that moment I hated him, his condescension, his patronizing warmth. I hated the clerk behind the grille, the cart man who had cursed at me, the Japanese police who were always everywhere. I hated them all. I remembered from my youth the red-eyed palace guard’s iron stare, the pockmarked soldier who had exposed himself to Kira and me, and they justified my hatred. And yes, I hated my husband. He had taken my future and dreams in his hands and had instead led me here. I had given my body to him, the ultimate act of trust, and he had brought me to this empty table. It would have been better if I had never hoped for America, than to have hoped and have it denied. And I had wondered if my feelings for him were love! Reverend Cho cleared his throat, and I struggled to keep the tea from coming up as bile. Then I felt shame for my weakness in succumbing to such emotion, yet what is shame but hatred turned inward? I closed my eyes and told myself to be still, act properly, dutifully, close the door to the storm inside.
Reverend Cho spoke gently and softly in Korean, as if only our native tongue could give solace. “The stamp on your identification restricts you from leaving the imperium. I have the same as a result of March First, as do