The calligrapher's daughter_ a novel - Eugenia Kim [157]
PART III
Seoul
Empty Pockets
END OF FEBRUARY 1940
IN AN ICY DOWNPOUR, ILSUN PACED BENEATH A STREETLIGHT ON THE far edge of Poncheong, Seoul’s black market district. With hands shoved deep in his pockets, he watched his shadow grow and shrink in the bleak circle of electric light, aware that curfew approached. He had already walked half an hour in snow that had turned to sleet, and his leather shoes were soaked. Across the road, movement in the pink slits of the teahouse’s shuttered windows caught his eye. Earlier when he’d called for entry, the proprietor smiled at his familiar face and opened the door wide until he’d failed to slip the customary wad of won into her ready hand. Stung by the slammed door, he’d cried out, “How dare you! I am a Han!” Having welcomed him dozens of times before, she could have shown a hint of courtesy!
He knew it was pointless to trade on his father’s name. Nowadays, few knew and even fewer cared who his father was. Ilsun shivered and sighed. He’d have to start working soon. His father had finally acquiesced to the necessity of Ilsun selling his artwork to the Japanese and their collaborators, for they were the only ones who could afford such luxuries. They weren’t all heathen. Some were learned enough in art history to know that his father’s style would have lasting significance, and others saw that Ilsun’s work expanded and modernized his father’s breakthroughs. Ilsun enjoyed the attention he received for his work, and had discovered two interesting and ironic facts about his ability for art. The less he cared about the work he was painting, the more it was judged worthy. He was best when he wasn’t trying, and for that he knew to thank his ancestors who had cultivated the talent that had culminated in him. The other irony was how long it took to reach the point of not caring, of being free of worry about how the work appeared and to just be doing it. It was the buildup that was the hard work. He suspected that if he worked more at it, the easy part would come sooner, but the hard part was enough of a hurdle to discourage him.
He enjoyed the accolades and he certainly enjoyed the money his art garnered. It wasn’t about food—the women mostly took care of that somehow. The responsibility of providing for the household made him feel tired and less apt to work. It was about a man’s need for pocket money. The last time he’d seen Meeja behind those shutters had been thanks to Najin. This morning, though, when he’d asked his nuna if she had anything else to sell, the only thing she gave him was a hard look.
Weeks ago, Najin had given him a smoky topaz to buy medicine for his wife. The stone had been a gift from a delighted Japanese jeweler whose wife, assisted by Najin, had successfully delivered a healthy baby boy. Ilsun had accused his sister of hoarding from the family, demanding to know what else she had squirreled away. She ignored his queries and instead listed the medicines, herbs and rich foods needed for Unsook. Nuna told him to use anything left over to buy the manure-and-mud briquettes they used to stretch the coal. On this very street, he had quickly found his most lucrative contact and bartered the topaz for much more than his original estimate of its worth. When he handed his sister the ginseng and goldthread root, cardamom pods, packets of other herbs and a handful of change, he reported that the pharmacist’s prices had doubled since medicinal trade from China had all but ceased. Najin said nothing, but Ilsun had never seen such coldness in her eyes. “It’s enough for several weeks!” he’d said, raising his voice to assert his authority over such matters. The cash he had put aside to visit the teahouse was none of her business. He did not voice his other thought: that one had to be realistic about Unsook’s illness.
It wasn’t as if he didn’t care. In Gaeseong, she’d been the ideal bride and a perfect wife. Father had complimented him on her tasteful and balanced cooking more than once. She was delicate and bony, and compliant in bed. He could easily admit that he