The calligrapher's daughter_ a novel - Eugenia Kim [52]
Why would his wife persist in creating such outright discomfort between them? Having never seen it before, he hadn’t expected her anger. “Your own mother married at this age.”
“Yes,” she said, her mouth bitter. “And lost three babies because of her youth.”
“The girl is strong—”
“And intelligent and educated and deserving of better consideration than this!”
He smelled bile on his breath. “How dare you talk to me thus! You’ve roused the entire house with your anger!”
“Your action provoked it, your old-fashioned ideas! Are they even Christians?”
He tapped his pipe so hard it broke. He threw it across the room and it narrowly missed striking her cheek before shattering against the wall.
She paid no attention to the tobacco embers smoldering by her knee. Her voice was low and tight. “No one marries at this age anymore. And for good reason! What of a Christian marriage? What of your own Christian vows? I can’t allow her to go, too young, still so much to learn, my hopes, her education—” She faltered as tears captured her breath, but she did not lower her eyes.
“She’s had education enough. And see what it’s done! She’s less worthy as a bride. Her mind is full of the outside and her actions are as bold as a peasant’s. Before she becomes completely useless she must marry! What does it matter if they’re Christian or not? We owe everything to the generational traditions of my family. What is more venerable—a Christian visitation of a mere few centuries or thousands of peaceful years of orthodox living?” His nose flared; his breath flew hot in his lungs. “Woman—you make me argue with you—I won’t have it!”
She bowed stiffly, her face white.
“It’s decided!” He waved her away.
She rose, her blouse stained with disregarded tears as if she’d been caught in a rainstorm. She said at the doorway, so softly he barely heard her, “We shall see.”
He wanted to fly at her and smash her stubborn will. Instead, he stomped furiously on the ember scorching the mat. “The house could’ve burned down! I won’t have it!” His cries rang hollowly in the courtyard.
He paced, every step sending pain to his back. The church’s Western influence was obviously at the root of her disrespect for him. When other men complained about their bickering wives, he had easily, proudly, kept his mouth shut. Now that he understood their grousing, it irked him all the more.
From the other side of the house he heard Najin cry, “No!” then her shouts, rough with tears. His mouth hardened and he yelled for Joong to get his coat, before remembering that he’d sent him out on the very task that had caused this unacceptable uproar. Tying on his hat, he shoved his feet into shoes and strode out the gate.
The downhill slope propelled him toward the market, and the high afternoon’s brilliant freshness soothed his pounding temples. His lunch jostled loudly in his stomach, but his nose soon cleared to the faint scent of plum blossoms swaying high above the slab walls bordering the roadway. They may have chased me from my home today, he thought. They may cry day into night, but they can do nothing to counter my decision. He headed purposefully to the marketplace to engage in civil conversation with the bookseller.
IN THE FOLLOWING days Najin was not to be seen, though he heard her coming and going to school and her occasional donkey laughter or reprimands to his son. His wife appeared only as necessary and spoke perfunctorily, her shoulders stiff and her expression closed. Han quelled his wish to call her to his bed, aware that it was his body’s base need to control her. He felt sure her higher sense of duty and obedience would soon prevail.
Indeed, as the rainy season came and went, his wife’s arms seemed less rigid in her ministrations toward him. He could relax in her presence, and soon he breathed in quiet relief that she had accepted his decision. Sometimes in the gardens and on the outskirts of his awareness, he heard his children playing as before. He assumed a few more weeks would restore everyone to complacency.
One Sunday