The calligrapher's daughter_ a novel - Eugenia Kim [37]
“How dare you speak to me thus!” he’d said to this rebellious stranger in Chungduk’s body.
“Hyung-nim, it’s 1907! I have the right to choose my own wife.”
Enraged that tradition would be sacrificed so quickly for so little, Han had spoken the last words he would utter to Chungduk. He had stood and turned aside. “No brother of mine would ever consider such a thing.” But now, as he climbed the few steps to the bookstore, Han saw that his heart believed otherwise, for his mind’s eye was full of the laughing dimpled boy he’d taught to swim in the back pond. Perhaps their ancestors or fate—or God—would intervene.
In the bookstore, Mr. Pahk removed his spectacles and greeted him cordially. Han breathed in the comfortable mustiness of aging paper and ink. The dust held the light as if it were filtered through old trees in a forest glen. “Have a seat,” said the bookseller. He produced a stool from behind a narrow counter and slid aside piles of magazines and newspapers. He shook his head, his thick lips gloomy. “I’m afraid more are gone.” He made a striking-match gesture.
Han’s stomach turned acidic. He said nothing for a time, then swallowed. “Yah, I wondered when they’d find your mother lode.”
“They warned me that I must carry only authorized periodicals and books.” Pahk wiped his glasses on his sleeve and rewound them around his fleshy ears. “I know I was lucky for too long.” His eyes appeared enlarged through the lenses as he peered at Han. “Now it’s up to you.”
The two men stroked their beards. Han shuffled through the newspapers and magazines on the counter, then sat upright to examine a slim bound journal printed in Korean. “What’s this?”
“Hmpf. ‘New cultural policy,’ they say. A ‘literary’ magazine delivered from Seoul this morning. Propaganda written in Korean to fool us.” Pahk spat.
Han quickly scanned the bylines. “I’ve heard of this man. He’s an intellectual, and him, too.” He shuffled through the pages. “These are all patriots! Have you read any of this?”
Pahk snatched a copy from the counter and pored through it. “I didn’t believe the rumors, but it’s true. And there’s the government stamp. New cultural policy! So that explains all those Korean Christian newspapers from Seoul.”
“Rumors?”
The bookseller leaned forward, his eyes on the front door. “They say Admiral Makoto is a moderate. They say that his replacement of Governor-General Hasegawa signals a new era—one that is culturally directed. It’s their reaction to international pressure about March First. There’s even talk of a women’s journal, but I’ll believe that when I see it!” He cackled, making a crude gesture about women.
Han reached inside his pouch, but Pahk waggled his ears and waved him away. “First issue, free to you!”
Someone entered the store. “Yes,” said Han loudly, switching to Japanese. “Fine, then. I’ll check back next week to see if you’ve got those translations.” He pivoted away from the arriving customer and exited, taking note of the man’s black cuffed trousers and shined leather shoes. He avoided his urge to examine the man further. There was little he could do at the moment if the bookseller was in trouble.
He walked slowly through the busy market street, arms clasped behind his back, the journal tucked comfortably beneath his vest, the sun warm on his shoulders. In the afternoon, he read the new journal in his study. His restful reading was disrupted by an impolite call, “Abbuhnim!” and his daughter entered abruptly. Always this child managed to find ways to irritate him!
“I hope your message is lighter than your footsteps. Heavy as iron!”
Najin bowed and said, chastened, “Excuse me, Abbuh-nim.” She sat to his nod and waited to be acknowledged.
He tried to ignore her rustles and breathiness, and attempted to finish reading his paragraph, an impossibility. “What is it?