The calligrapher's daughter_ a novel - Eugenia Kim [182]
I donned a navy blue wool coat and a headscarf of white magnolia blossoms on a dark green background, both gifts from Calvin. Wearing two pairs of socks for warmth and the rubber shoes he’d bought, I walked to the market, stopping now and then to appreciate the tiny sprockets of fat snowflakes on my dark sleeves. I bought pork bones with rib meat, an impressive fresh flounder, flattened dried squid, precious dried mushrooms and lotus root, and onions, potatoes, carrots and rice wine. There were no greens, not even winter kale, but Calvin had given us cans of green beans, peas and peaches—the latter a concoction so sweet it gave me a headache. I shooed Meeja from the kitchen and spent the remainder of the day cooking a welcome-home feast.
The snow stopped and low clouds opened to a blazing gold and purple sunset. Calvin arrived in the Jeep with a footlocker containing his belongings and two boxes of books and papers. These items were moved into the new house. Everyone joined Grandfather in his sitting room for the lavish dinner. The talk centered on the delicacy and variety of dishes, and it was easy for everyone to pretend that Calvin’s presence was as natural as if he’d been living with us for months. After the meal, however, Grandfather cleared his throat several times and said, “Rice wine?” which Calvin steadily refused.
Grandmother asked for a prayer from Calvin, signaled Sunok and Meeja to join her, and said goodnight a little earlier than she might have on a typical evening. Her nonchalant departure gave me the courage to also say goodnight. It was understood that my husband would come later. The men had the usual news and politics to discuss, especially Calvin’s inside information about the resurging civil war in China, tensions with the Russians about the temporary border dividing north and south, a disturbing rehiring of Japanese collaborators in many government jobs, sweeping reforms in education, and the guidance of the American military government toward democratic elections.
I added fuel bricks to the banked firepit of the new house and fanned its embers until they blossomed into flame, taking pleasure in the cold on my cheeks contrasting with heat on my hands. In the vestibule, I tucked my shoes on a plank step by the unfinished doorway, which I had draped with an old blanket. Inside, I fired a brazier to heat water for the washbasin, rolled out our bedding and lit kerosene lanterns, turning them low. Regretting that I’d left my sewing in Grandmother’s room, I opened my husband’s footlocker and proceeded to unfold and refold all of his clothes, marveling when I discovered the elastic waistbands of his undershorts. The brazier flared and the room grew hot, making the floor coating emit a fusty resinous smell. I opened the window fully and dampened the fire. Still warm, I removed my jacket and sat with chin on knees, waiting with—for the first time in as long as I could remember—idle hands.
The waning moon rose, a not-quite circular disk of mother-of-pearl, small and shining. Through the open window, I caught its mystical smile above the trees. It seemed to invite me to say nothing to Calvin. Since the mask I wore was almost fully integrated into my being, it would be little different than what the days before had been. Nights were for secrets, an easy hour for things best hidden. I thought of the royalty murdered at night, Unsook’s demons, the tortured men, the selfish desires I’d stowed in the night shadows of the rafters that had all turned to dust. No, there was no hiding. Instead, recalling the dream I shared with my mother when Ilsun was born, I would be like water and pour forth my shameful truth around the feet of my husband.
All these years I had been waiting for this moment. I knew he would be disappointed in me—how could he not be?—but I remembered our first walk by the pond and his letters. He had welcomed my questions and my