The calligrapher's daughter_ a novel - Eugenia Kim [167]
Unsook and I looked at each other and held hands, afraid that to say more would curse the faint hopes we both held for the baby. She wept, and I sang hymns to soothe her.
THAT NIGHT I tied a thickened face mask over my nose and mouth and stretched out next to Unsook’s pallet. The small room allowed me to spread only half a quilt. I kept my eyes wide open, determined to stay alert to watch and wake Unsook from the dreams that troubled her. We held hands in the dark and waited. For what? I wondered.
I must have dozed, for I was disoriented when I felt my hand tightly squeezed. Unsook was crushing my hand, and then her fingers went icily limp. I was only aware of this peripherally because the sickroom swelled with strange noises. It was startling more than frightening—night spirits could only mean her time was near—but I was being foolishly superstitious. I listened carefully and discerned whispering, and then a woman’s voice. Two spirits were talking. I could barely make out word sounds. Was it Korean? Japanese? Laughter. Moans! The ice from Unsook’s fingers clutched at my heart. I recognized my brother’s voice.
The unintelligible whispers became sighs, breaths, muffled groans, and I realized in horror and humiliation that I was listening to a couple fornicating. My brother with a woman in the room next to his own wife’s sickroom! I sat up, outraged, and toppled the crocus.
The sound of flesh against flesh stopped and the woman whispered, “There’s that noise again next door.”
Dongsaeng must have looked at the adjoining wall because I heard him say distinctly. “It’s nothing.”
Unsook’s fingers tugged at me. Too paralyzed with rage, I couldn’t respond.
“Someone is watching us!” hissed the woman.
“No, I told you before. There’s a sick aunt. Don’t worry—she’s deaf. Only be a little quiet. There are others in the house.”
“You mean quiet like this?” There were kissing, smacking noises and stifled laughter.
In a panic to do something, anything to stop what we were hearing, I tried to cover Unsook’s ears. I felt wet cheeks and pressure mounting in her neck and shoulders. She erupted in coughing.
“Who, who—?” the woman said in rhythm to their slapping bodies.
Unsook coughed mucus and saliva. Helplessly I held her head, supporting her while still trying to cover her ears.
“Shh!” Dongsaeng said, huffing as their tempo heightened and he grunted—
A terrible riff of coughs—
Then sudden quiet across the two rooms. Dongsaeng exhaled, “Ya-ah—shh,” and the woman sighed.
Unsook’s coughs deepened and were productive, each spasm releasing another clot of crumbling tissue from her heaving lungs.
Master of the House
JULY 1940
ILSUN SAT NEAR THE OPEN WINDOW OF A RESTAURANT. THE DAY’S heat, thick with humidity, made him sweat as he sat waiting for the black market fellow. An occasional faint breeze did little to dissipate the stench from the street. The heat had cooked the gutter filth to emit even worse odors than usual. A wad of notes bulged in his pocket, and he wished he had worn loose hanbok instead of Western trousers. The street was quiet—too hot for work or even loitering outdoors—and he lazily regarded the occasional passerby for his go-between man. Perhaps it was too soon for such a purchase, but what was the point of waiting?
Najin was wrong. He had told her it was Father’s idea, but she still wanted to blame him for everything, including his wife’s illness. She almost went as far as to blame him for Unsook’s death. He admitted there was a time when he ignored his wife, but he was good to her toward the end. He had provided for whatever medicine she needed and had sat with her frequently.
He remembered one spring day how she’d smiled