The calligrapher's daughter_ a novel - Eugenia Kim [39]
One such evening, Han visited Deacon Hwang. The two men had finished eating and pushed aside their tables, Han silently regretting that Hwang’s lay position prevented the serving of wine or tobacco. A portly graying man who wore Western clothes, Hwang, a yangban of lower status, had gained notoriety as a result of an education from the missionaries in Pyeongyang. Unfortunately, a terrible stammer undermined his desire to become a minister. He liked to say that his affliction was his calling to be a more humble man.
“Yuhbo!” called Hwang, adjusting his knees. Mrs. Hwang entered with a skittish young woman who presented yellow melon slices and sweet rice tea. Under Mrs. Hwang’s critical eye and unceasing instructions, the young woman bowed nervously, served the fruit, cleared the dishes and slid the door closed.
The melon’s ripe scent reached Han, giving him a sense of contentment that almost made up for the lack of wine. He nodded toward the door. “How’s the daughter-in-law coming along?”
Hwang shrugged. “F-f-fine! Fine. Very shy. My eldest is probably more pleased than his mother, ha!”
Han grimaced at this remark, thinking that Hwang’s efforts to overcome his verbal weakness left little opportunity to edit the appropriateness of what he said.
“At first,” said Hwang, “she scorched my shirt trying to d-d-dry it by the fire, but now she’s doing better. A mediocre cook, sadly. My wife will improve her soon enough. I’m told she’s not crying herself to sleep anymore. Rises early and doesn’t talk much.”
“A blessing.”
“Yes.” The deacon cleared his throat and lowered his voice. “Reverend Ahn told me something he heard from the mission director. Overseas, it seems they’re finally getting reports about the March First bloodbaths. There’s political outcry, especially from the Russians and Americans.”
“Ya-ah.” Han put his cup back on the table; overly sweet and burnt-tasting.
“As a result, Admiral Makoto’s every move is bound to be monitored. It’s said the Japanese relied too heavily on the outdated B-B-British model of military colonization. They now think it more politically apt to focus on education and social reforms.” Hwang bit into a melon slice and juice dripped down his chin. He wiped it with his fingers and flicked it aside, sprinkling the mat. He slurped another bite and smacked his lips. “What do you think of this, Brother Han?”
Han turned his head to hide his annoyance at Hwang’s use of familiar address. He attacked the messy melon with his handkerchief ready. “I can easily imagine the title of this reform proposal, ‘Educate the Natives.’ Education? It’s brainwashing!”
“An important distinction, to be sure. Time will reveal their intent.”
Although this platitude was what Han expected from Hwang, its passivity aggravated him. He shifted to accommodate a growing stitch in his side. Mrs. Hwang’s kitchen had yielded greasy dishes, heavily overspiced. The food had compacted to a clod in his gut, which he felt starting to rebel. “I’ve heard about new cultural reforms like these.”
“You have? F-f-from whom?”
Han ignored the question and chose not to mention the new journal. Hwang would see a copy soon enough. “What can we expect? More schools so they can lie to our sons?”
“As a matter of fact, they’re planning new universities, and reform for that women’s college in Seoul, Ewha, to—”
“So they mean to further undermine our core principles!”
“Brother Han, women are b-b-bound to be given more latitude regardless. You know how many mothers were slaughtered and jailed in the name of their country.