The calligrapher's daughter_ a novel - Eugenia Kim [163]
His wife beamed as Najin spoke. “He said that Father said Elder Kim was interested in a calligraphic scroll to commemorate his grandson’s one hundredth day. He said he was going to visit the elder to ask what he wanted.”
Clever, cautious girl, thought Han. She had kept her eyes lowered and moved not a muscle, betraying nothing of her feelings about her brother’s unacceptable absence on this winter’s night. He dismissed the women with a gesture. His anger revived, he easily ignored the gentling sound of their conversation fading toward their rooms.
Soon he heard Ilsun stamp snow off his shoes and the boy’s mother hurrying to the door. “Your hands are so cold! Come greet your father. I’ll heat soup.”
Han stood as his son entered, trailing wet sock prints. Ilsun bowed and shifted his feet, his eyes quickly scanning the room. “Good evening, Abbuh-nim.”
Satisfied that Ilsun was taken aback to find him standing, Han knew his son would remain awkwardly on his feet until he himself sat down. The collar of Ilsun’s Western suit was turned up around his earlobes, and he rubbed and blew on his hands. If he insists on wearing Western clothes, thought Han, he ought to keep up with his haircuts. And when had the hunch of his son’s shoulders become so intensely irritating?
He stepped closer, his back erect and sore with old wounds. “You mean ‘goodnight,’ don’t you? Nothing else to say?”
“Forgive me, Abbuh-nim,” he said in the exact intonation of his earlier greeting, infuriating Han. He clenched and unclenched his hands. The silence grew. Ilsun glanced at him nervously.
“Well then. What did Elder Kim say?”
Ilsun’s frightened blink was obvious. Would he have the audacity to keep up with the lie? “He— They said he was too busy to see me this evening.”
“Liar!” He struck Ilsun with the back of his hand. Ilsun staggered, his hand to his cheek, eyes bursting with tears.
“You bring lies into this house! Where have you been these nights? You shame this family with your laziness! Your mother is relying on you as the man of the house, but you’re useless to her! Useless! Do you hear?”
Ilsun fell to the floor, prostrate. A sob escaped him.
“Yah! Are you crying like a woman? What kind of son are you? No yang! Are you even my son? A disgrace. A waste!” Han paced, too disgusted to touch him further.
“I’m sorry, Abbuh-nim. You’re right. Please, please forgive me.”
“Like a woman! Lies and laziness! You ask my forgiveness? You’re supposed to be the man of the house.”
“Yes, you’re right. I’m worthless to you.” Ilsun shuddered and huddled on his knees, a wet ball of sour wool.
Han sat and breathed deliberately to slow the beating in his chest. The house was unnaturally still—not even the flame of the lamp flickered. This had to be woman trouble. Ilsun had shown this weakness before at boarding school. His son never knew that the principal had sent more than one humiliating letter to collect overdue fees—money Ilsun had spent in those fancy brothels. With his son’s marriage, Han thought he’d put an end to this problem for good, but it seemed a wife had solved nothing and, in fact, may have made it worse. Yah, how could Unsook be so ill? A crushing realization struck him and he sat heavily. His own will, his hopes, his expectations alone could do nothing to correct Ilsun’s weak character. He had wanted all his life for this son to be something other than what he had actually become, what he had always been destined to be. With sudden despair, Han saw that he had no control over his own blood. And if not his own blood, then what was his to govern?
“Sit.”
Ilsun kneeled and wiped his face with a handkerchief.
Han saw that his son recognized the depth of his disappointment, and it calmed him to see Ilsun’s features drawn with contrition. “Such places are beneath us,” he said.
Ilsun opened his mouth, his lips defensive, then he lowered