The calligrapher's daughter_ a novel - Eugenia Kim [45]
Hansu’s father, a gaunt and lanky man, had a long face topped with thick hair that stood straight up, reminding me of carrot greens. He seemed to be dozing, sitting against pillows that obscured my view of a makeshift bed. I bowed and said softly, “It’s the neighbors’ daughter.”
“Najin!” said Hansu. His feet stirred beneath the quilt.
“Don’t get up, son,” said Hansu’s father. “Come in, young lady, and visit a while. I’ve things to do.” He patted my shoulder as he left.
Hansu, pale and shockingly thin, beckoned me to sit on his father’s vacated cushion. Something was wrong with his other hand, which rested outside the blanket. The last three fingers were crooked and bent, zigzagged at wrong angles. I looked at him in pity and gasped at a shiny red scar tracing his hairline down to his ear.
“Just a little cut,” he said.
“Your hand—”
“Still works.” He wiggled the fingers. “I’m used to them already. But mother’s had to give up her dream of me playing the gayageum,” he joked, referring to the stringed instrument women entertainers played.
I settled next to him and soberly held his good hand. “I missed you, Oppa.” It made me feel warm and content to call him Elder Brother.
“It’s good to be home.”
“Are you— Was it bad?”
His eyes narrowed. “It’s past. But I met many patriots! Men from Pyeongyang and Seoul. I wouldn’t have survived without them.”
“How was— Do you mind me asking?”
“It was hard, little one. Nothing you need to hear about. But God was with me, and for that reason I was meant to be there. I’m certain of that.”
“But you’re so good! Why would he want to punish you?”
“No, it wasn’t God’s punishment.” He closed his eyes, and I saw a new frown line cut deep in his brow, which reminded me of Sunsaeng-nim. “It was the Japanese who arrested us, but it’s far more complex than that. One of the good things that happened was I now have an opportunity to go to college in Pyeongyang. A man I met—a famous intellectual, known throughout Pyeongyang!—he offered to sponsor me, even if I decide not to study theology.”
I remembered on our walks home from school, Hansu’s resignation when he spoke of what his future held: the unwanted possibility of a clerical job with his father or the slim chance of an academic scholarship to Yonsei University. Without position, contacts or cash, and with less than stellar grades, the latter option was more of a dream than a hope.
I patted his arm to show him my genuine happiness, and he smiled. “You would have laughed to see how we managed to communicate.”
“What do you mean?”
“Talking wasn’t allowed, so we wrote in the dust with our fingers. It was months before I heard my mentor speak a single word.” His smile faded. As curious as I was about his experiences, I wanted him to not remember bad things.
“Will you still marry?” I said, thinking of my teacher.
“That also is a blessing. She still waits and agrees that more education is a good idea. Otherwise I’d be stuck like my father, working half-pay to fill out papers for the government.” I hadn’t realized that Hansu’s father worked for the Japanese. It must have been helpful when Hansu’s father was arrested. I’d seen him trudge the sidewalks at sunup and sundown, to and from some place of business that I’d never thought about before. It would be rude to ask more about his job. Self-censorship won over my curiosity and kept me silent. I twisted a corner of his blanket, thinking how strange it felt to be tongue-tied with Hansu.
“How’s school? What’s your favorite subject?”
“I love words the best!”
“Ah! There’s a new subject in school, is there? Words?”
“Father studies words!”
“I’m teasing, silly girl.”
I punched his shoulder playfully. “I like reading and writing. We just learned about Shakespeare and I learned something new I