The calligrapher's daughter_ a novel - Eugenia Kim [168]
“How are you feeling? You look tired,” he said.
“Me? I haven’t been sleeping— It’s nothing. Here, look.” She grasped his hand and placed it on her belly. Before he could draw away he felt movement beneath the skin.
“You mustn’t think everything will be okay. They said it probably wouldn’t live, and even if it did, it would be an idiot.” He gently disengaged his wrist and saw her skin was waxy, translucent. “I don’t mean to be cruel, but it’s not good for you to hope.”
She turned to the wall and he tied the scroll and stood to leave. “Yuhbo.” She sat halfway up. “I must ask something of you.” Her eyes were bright and Ilsun could guess what she wanted.
He moved a step backward. “It’s impossible. It’s not up to me.”
“But if the baby is born? Will you?”
“I can’t promise you something that isn’t going to happen. You’re only making yourself unhappy.”
“I ask nothing for me. Please? Just keep the child. Raise her. Educate her. Teach her about God.”
“Her?”
“I think so. Will you promise?” She closed her eyes and was as still as death.
He wanted to say it was pointless to swear to something that wasn’t in the realm of possibility, but she was his wife, and dying, and he promised her he’d do as she wished.
And he did. It’s true that a mother knows, because the baby was a girl. Small, early, but miraculously whole. He named her Sunok, pearl of Korea. Nuna said she’d raise the baby in the way Unsook would have wanted. Even Father seemed pleased to be Harabeoji, Grandfather, to this firstborn girl.
Meeja wasn’t happy about all the fuss he made over his baby girl, but she was complaining about everything these days: the gifts he gave her, the hours they were separated, the crowd of teahouse girls where she lived, and in particular, having to visit him in secret.
The waitress brought a cup of wine with a quickly melting sliver of ice in it. The black market fellow was late. Ilsun hoped the man had found what he wanted.
Najin was wrong. It had all worked out well, and what other people said really didn’t concern him. He repeated those words in his mind to mask the remorse that had taken shape inside him. He pressed his lips in a frown and justified his having tears as grief. Finally, Unsook was at rest, free of suffering. He felt proud of the funeral he’d given her, especially since times were so hard. Certainly she was in heaven. And by the grace of God, he had a wonderful baby—a girl, true, but a healthy child.
Najin, who months ago swore she’d never speak to him again, talked to him frequently about the child. He was selling his art at good prices, and Father was satisfied with his work. He put enough food on the table and had extra on hand. Mother had praised his generosity with Unsook’s funeral and had complimented his responsible handling of the family.
Yes, it had all worked out well. As for Meeja, he knew she’d be happy with the wedding ring he meant to give her when she came to him that night.
Korean Royal Treasure
SEPTEMBER 3, 1940 – JANUARY 2, 1944
MORNING LIGHT STREAMED THROUGH THE PAPER SCREENS AND LIT the baby’s cheeks with soft rose pink. I hummed and cooed to welcome her from the dreams of her clean, pure world. The baby’s bones felt as delicate as her mother’s, her skin as pliant, her scent a whisper of summer. One hundred days ago, her mother’s suffering had ended, and I had lifted the baby from her wasted body. Being a Han daughter, nothing had been planned for her one hundredth day. I doubted that Dongsaeng had any idea how many days old his firstborn was. I saw him rarely and spoke to him even less, ever since that woman, my brother’s concubine, had moved in. I was glad that it was proper enough to call her Dongsaeng’s Wife, so I’d never have to feel her name on my tongue, nor would I have to sully Unsook’s memory by calling her Sister-in-law.
At the end of last winter, with war