The calligrapher's daughter_ a novel - Eugenia Kim [131]
She showed me how the stove extended through to the back of the house where the roof overhung an outdoor cooking and working area sided with floppy walls of woven matting. A path through a tangled vegetable garden beyond the outdoor kitchen led to the outhouse. We prepared a plain lunch of clear soup, millet, gimchi, steamed beansprouts and dried fish in pepper sauce. When Reverend Cho returned, we ate together around the one small table. They conversed throughout the meal, which took me aback. I couldn’t help but cover my mouth, though neither of my in-laws did, to answer questions about my parents and education. I knew I hadn’t eaten much that day but had no appetite, and with my mouth too full of talking, I ate very little.
After the minister went out again, Mrs. Cho said, “You’re a very lucky newlywed. Your father-in-law won’t often be home. His duties call him at all hours and he regularly eats at the mission.” Lucky indeed, I thought bitterly. And then I remembered Imo telling me her tragic story after I’d asked about Queen Min. Imo had married in 1900, considered an auspiciously lucky year. The terrible losses and personal dangers she had weathered in her loyal decades devoted to the royal family made the intensity of my disappointment and dismay seem petulant and deplorable.
When my footlocker and suitcase arrived, I paid the porter and thought about my money and possessions, all of which had been packed with an opposite destination in mind. I knew what my duty was, but couldn’t yet part with my hard-earned steamer fare. I decided to do nothing for the time being. My unopened trunk dominated the small room like a misplaced palanquin until I shoved it on its end into the bookshelf corner and leaned the suitcase against it.
Rain fell steadily. I asked about the ways of their house. I was to draw water at one of the mission compound’s pumps on the other side of the dormitory, and every morning visit the market just outside the compound walls. Laundry was done with pans and buckets in the outside kitchen, and the garden tended as needed. I readily accepted these duties, causing Mrs. Cho to deliver a prayer of thanks. She would now have time to visit church members at the hospital and mend the seminarian’s clothes. I was too polite, too anxious and too dazed to ask about sleeping arrangements.
That evening after the dinner dishes were cleared and washed, in the pungent smoke of a fish-oil lamp, I presented my in-laws with prized Gaeseong ginseng, sacks of rice and beans, lengths of silk, decorative fans and several embroidered towels. I remembered the original intention of each item I gave—the ginseng for Calvin’s elder brother, the rice and beans to cook on the overseas journey, the silk, fans and towels for my American patrons and teachers—and I felt that a part of me disappeared as each item left my fingers. Mrs. Cho delighted in all the gifts, commenting on their richness and the fine quality of my handiwork, and Reverend Cho suggested the ginseng and rice be given to certain church members who had greater need, the fans and silk be sold for food. I nodded and said nothing more, feeling guilty about the numerous possessions still hoarded in my trunk.
Reverend Cho handed me a folded yellow paper, the copy of my telegram. “I forgot to give you this.”
I absently tucked it in my skirtband. “Thank you. I should tell my parents about—that I— May I write a letter tomorrow?” I felt I should ask to use the one table to write on.
“Of course. Give them our blessings and best regards. You may tell them, despite the unfortunate turn of the day, how pleased we are to have you here,” said Reverend Cho. My mother-in-law reiterated