The calligrapher's daughter_ a novel - Eugenia Kim [169]
Because the police monitored the church services, we had never grown friendly with our fellow parishioners in Seoul beyond acquaintances with a few men like Elder Kim, whom my father knew from the resistance. It was likely that my family’s old-fashioned manners made the others uneasy, or the mere fact that we were newcomers made them look at us askance, and after Unsook’s funeral—and the sudden appearance of Dongsaeng’s new wife without the benefit of a Christian wedding—even fewer churchfolk took the trouble to greet us. And now, since Shinto worship was required on the numerous Japanese festival days and for all public gatherings, we abandoned going to church altogether, choosing instead to attend the required neighborhood ceremonies, which were shorter and where our attendance could be noted.
I fed baby Sunok millet and soybean broth mixed with precious drops of honey. Like her mother, Sunok couldn’t tolerate milk, and even if she could have, milk wasn’t to be found, neither fresh, nor canned nor powdered. I quickly dressed, changed Sunok’s diaper and took the baby to Mother’s room, eager to take advantage of the spare morning minutes before the men woke looking for breakfast.
My mother—who was now called Halmeonim, Grandmother— looked tiny beside the window as she combed her hair, her legs tucked beneath her skirt. I explained my idea and she readily agreed. We unsealed the false bottom of Mother’s linen chest and dressed Sunok in clothes she’d saved there for thirty years: the blue-peaked cap edged with a gold geometric pattern and the finely woven shirt with striped colorful sleeves. Seeing those sleeves made me remember Dongsaeng at his One Hundredth Day naming ceremony, and how his pudgy fist had grabbed the sorghum ball that fell into his lap. I recalled Mother’s worried look and my unvoiced question about the symbolism of that first item—did it foretell a pattern of self-gratification? And then he chose the king’s signet, and the men at the party had lauded my father’s legacy. It seemed both predictions had come true. Sighing, I cleared my mother’s tabletop and arranged the objects gathered the day before. In a semicircle, I placed an abacus, a twist of thread, the king’s bronze signet, an old inkbrush I’d found on a dusty shelf in Dongsaeng’s studio, and a pencil stub. I added my mother’s wooden crucifix and a sliver of wormwood for nurse or doctor, and covered the table with muslin.
My mother said a prayer with Sunok on her lap. The baby touched her waxen finger to my mother’s murmuring lips, and the air grew sweet with the child’s movement, the scent of her perfect skin and the muted hues of dawn. I lifted the cloth with a flourish. “What will it be, little one?”
Without hesitation Sunok grasped the old inkbrush and swept it across the table, strewing everything else to the floor. Her laughter was so delightful, we laughed too.
“A scholar-artist, then,” said my mother. “Just like your father and grandfather.” She cuddled Sunok and stroked her temple. The baby waved the inkbrush close to her eyes, and my mother took it from her. She exhaled with wonder. “Najin-ah, where did you find this?”
“In Dongsaeng’s room when I cleaned yesterday, on his top shelf.”
She handed me the baby and held the brush to the sunlight. “Your father thought he lost this many years ago, long before the move. He has its case still—but how wonderful that you found it! See on the handle that it’s engraved?”
“It looks like an old brush. What does it say?” I was absorbed in Sunok’s musical giggles from our game of tickling.
“This was a gift to your father from