The calligrapher's daughter_ a novel - Eugenia Kim [46]
“Teach me.”
“Listen.” I took a breath and said carefully in English, “Whe-la eesu bus-u stop-u tow-tow-nuh?”
“Wonderful! What does it mean?”
“Where can I catch the bus going downtown?”
His smiled warmed the room. He had me repeat it and then tried it himself. “There are buses in Seoul, and trams, trucks, automobiles, rickshaws, dozens of carts, hundreds of shops. So many things you would have loved to see.”
“Maybe one day,” I said, my eyes down.
“You would’ve loved our parade of patriots! So many men—and nearly as many women—shouting and marching together. I’ll never forget that. A sea of people, and I was swimming among them.” He closed his eyes, his lips peaceful.
“We had marchers too. Not as many as yours, I’m sure. We saw Father marching.”
“You have much to be proud of. Another great patriot.”
I had never before considered my father as someone to be proud of. I remembered my fear on the night of his arrest, then felt shame. Although he’d been beaten, he was home after sixteen days, while Hansu and others, like Teacher Yee’s poor family, had suffered much more. “But others fared worse. You’ve been gone a long time …”
“You mustn’t think like that. Your father is an important scholar, well known in Gaeseong. They couldn’t keep him locked up the way they could a marginal student who was merely one of hundreds, could they?”
“But you’re not a marginal student!”
“Maybe not marginal, but still one of many. I’m blessed to be back in my own home, my parents strong, my betrothed still willing, my purpose renewed, my dongsaeng, little sister, beside me.” He clasped my hand.
He seemed older and wiser, and I knew exactly what it meant to feel blessed—to have him as my honorary oppa. I gripped his hand. He was someone I could tell anything to, and it wasn’t long before I opened my mouth, then frowned, then acted as if nothing had happened.
“What is it? You’ve grown—very pretty, I might add …”
“Don’t say that!” I blushed. “My nose is huge.”
“Yah, you’re right about that. Big as a stubborn boar’s.” He laughed, and I slapped his arm. “I know you too well,” he said. “You’re thinking about something you’re afraid to ask. Ask away! I’ve nothing to hide.”
“I heard something today I don’t understand, but it’s a secret.”
The outer edges of his eyes curled with familiar mischievousness. “Can you go outside the secret part and tell me generally?”
“Well … if a woman is to be married but her future husband suddenly dies, can she not get married at all?”
“Is this your way of telling me you’re betrothed, little one?”
“Me? Never! Oh, you’re teasing again.”
“I’m sorry. How does the future husband die?”
“Um, an accident, or illness, or maybe in prison, like you were. Does that matter?”
He studied me gravely. “None of the causes you name matter. Especially the last. Maybe the woman says she won’t marry again because she is suffering a broken heart.”
“Is that the same as broken virtue?”
His eyebrows flew up.
“What’s wrong?” I saw his neck then his ears turn to flame. “Please excuse me! Did I say something rude?”
“Not quite the same, Najin.” He averted his eyes. “These are quite grown-up questions for a—um—young lady. These are subjects a girl might discuss with her mother.”
“Oh!” Understanding by his response what I’d asked, I blushed just as deeply as he. “Oh!” I covered my mouth.
“Never mind. I’m your oppa, right? No secrets between us.”
I was so humiliated that I said an abrupt goodbye, stammering that I had homework and I hoped he felt better soon. I ran from the room, trying to keep the image of his indulgent smile foremost, anything to mask my embarrassment at broaching such an unbelievably crude subject— with a man!
It was only a little later in my room that I began to suspect the appalling thing that had happened to Yee Sungsaeng-nim. I was distressed at the horror of it and frustrated by my ignorance and that I had no one to ask.
I USUALLY WALKED to and from school with Mun Jaeyun, with whom I shared a desk. She was the only child of the doctor who had stitched up my father’s forehead on March