The calligrapher's daughter_ a novel - Eugenia Kim [172]
I had resumed studying English when those planes flew triumphantly over the city dropping food packages and the leaflets, as well as handkerchiefs with a similar message printed in Chinese, Korean, Japanese and languages I’d never heard of or seen before. Walking to town, I reviewed the morning’s English lesson, mumbling, “I should like to call on you someday. Come whenever you like. I shall be delighted to see you. Are you free this evening? Yes, I shall be quite free this evening.”
Nearing a checkpoint that American soldiers now occupied, I noticed a G.I. leaning against the stone archway, smoking a cigarette, his eyes closed to the sun. He had similar coloring to the Gaeseong missionary Christine Gordon, with freckles and sand-hued hair. He’d stripped to his undershirt and I modestly looked away, but something he wore glinted in the sunlight. A gold cross, just like Cook’s cross—except surely without the teeth marks—dangled on top of his dog tags. Curious about a G.I. wearing a cross, I stopped and overcame my shyness in favor of practicing English. Perhaps he’d know when the missionaries would return. I blurted, “Esscoos me, herro,” laughing and frowning simultaneously at what was certainly frightful pronunciation.
“Hello there,” he said with a surprised smile.
I tried again, “Hello,” and pointed to his cross. “I am also Christian!”
“You speak English!”
“A nittle.”
“You’re a Christian?”
“Neh, yes. I am Methodist.”
“Hey, no kidding! I’m Protestant too. Presbyterian. That’s terrific! I didn’t know there were any Korean Christians. Where’d you learn English?”
“Missionary teaches, ah, teaching lessons long time past.”
“Well, whaddya know, and you’re the first Korean lady I’ve met. Don’t worry! I’m a happily married man. Ha ha. Hey, excuse my manners. How do you do?” He extinguished his cigarette underfoot and stuck out his hand. “I’m Neil Forbes.” He was tall and skinny, with eyes of an indeterminate hue: gray then blue then brown all at once. His narrow nose cascaded into a slight bump and his transformative smile exposed beautiful teeth that made his face as cute and happy as a squirrel eating acorns.
Attempting to sort through his fast speech, to remember Americanisms I’d learned from the missionaries and my Guide to English Conversation, and trying to introduce myself, I bowed and shook his hand awkwardly. “My name is Han Na—, ah, Najin Han.” He wouldn’t understand that Korean women kept their family name, so I said, “I am Najin Cho. Mrs. Calvin Cho. It is a pleasure to meet you.”
“The pleasure’s all mine! Your English is great.”
“No, it is, uh, very young, like baby. My husband, he is same like you. Presbyterian. He is minister. He is living America.” Then it struck me. “I think New York City. Do you know how is New York City?”
“Sure, it’s right across the river. I’m from Fort Lee, New Jersey. You ever heard of Fort Lee?”
I shook my head. “I know Princeton, New Jersey …”
“Of course you wouldn’t know Fort Lee or the Hudson, but Princeton? Ya don’t say! Your husband’s in New York? It’s a small world! He went to Princeton? Must be a smart fella. What’s he doing there? I didn’t know there were any Koreans stateside.”
“Can you talk softer, uh, slower, please?”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Cho. Right? Mrs. Najin Cho. Sure thing.” He retrieved his shirt from where it hung over a rail and put his long arms through the sleeves, waving me closer to the stone archway and ignoring the odd whistles his fellow soldiers delivered from their posts. “Come on over to the shade. It’s awful hot out.”
I spent twenty minutes by the roadside with Private Neil Forbes, who was greatly impressed that my husband was a Korean pastor, and more, that I hadn’t seen him for eleven years after just one day of marriage. I complimented the beauty of his wife in the photo he pulled from his