The calligrapher's daughter_ a novel - Eugenia Kim [158]
No matter. The criticism Nuna had tried to cast on him withered to nothing during those evenings at the teahouse. The warmth of the memories trembled in his thighs, and he looked again at the shuttered windows from which he faintly heard laughter and singing. This was his favorite teahouse. These ladies boasted lineage to famous courtesans—a status that fit a man of his distinction and talent. He thought it shouldn’t matter that his family’s wealth had dwindled. Life was worse for everyone, yet Koreans still knew what was important, particularly if it was prohibited, such as their given names. The teahouse ladies had certainly fussed and cooed when he explained how he’d come up with the name Kiyamoto. He’d drawn the Chinese ideographs on a scrap of paper with the proprietress’s fountain pen, to show those ignorant girls how Kiyamoto meant “deep well” or “deep source,” a fair iteration of Han, which meant “ancient dynastic place in time.”
When the edict came that all nationals must choose a Japanese name, Father had accepted Ilsun’s choice of the Japanese surname Kiyamoto, but refused to officially register at the precinct, saying that task was Ilsun’s responsibility as master of the house. It seemed to Ilsun he was master only when it came to dealing with outside affairs. Lately, however, Father kept his door shut more often than not, carving panels out of cheap pine or reading the same tired books from what little was left of his musty old library.
The name-change ruling outraged many. Spontaneous demonstrations by students ended with spilled blood, more arrests, more prison terms. But it warmed Ilsun to think of the name change, for that was how Meeja had caught his eye. Wine had spilled on the scrap of paper and wine-diluted ink dripped on his lap. A woman he hadn’t noticed before crouched beside him in an instant with a cloth and a cup of water. She grasped his leg and dabbed at it, saying, “We can’t have your prestigious name running down your leg. It will want to go back to the well!” Her wit made him laugh and her touch made him interested. She had coarse hands, the knuckles large and the skin loose, but her fingers were bold yet discreet in exploring where the ink might have fallen. Although her features were unexceptional—eyes too narrow to be alluring and lips too thin to convey ripeness—she had charming ears and a gracefully curved chin. The confidence in her back and neck appealed to him. When she kneeled at his feet, he could smell the perfumed oil in her hair. She wrung the cloth, looking directly at him, and her inviting smile made her eyes darken sensually.
By the lamppost, a chill crept down Ilsun’s collar and made his testicles itch. His woolen suit was useless in the sleet, but it corrected an unflattering line in his shoulders, and Meeja had admired it. He hoped for a glimpse of her. One glance and he swore he’d be satisfied. He willed the door to open, or perhaps a shutter would blow wide and her silhouette would be haloed in yellow light as she searched the road for him. He was convinced that she felt his presence nearby, just as he still felt her firm palms pressing him into her. He pictured her closed-eye little frown, the wink of her tongue as her mouth parted, the soft warmth of her energetic hips rising to meet him. Aroused, he stopped pacing. He had spent hundreds on food, dancing and wine for three days before she had allowed him to lie with her. And she had moaned and thrashed, her breathlessness tantalizing, goading him unlike any woman he’d known. He’d been with her twice and felt bewitched. She was all he could deliciously, painfully think about.
The teahouse rang with laughter. “Damn her!” he said, certain she was coyly teasing someone else, “She’s just a gisaeng—a peasant or bastard’s daughter—nothing!” Yet he could see