The calligrapher's daughter_ a novel - Eugenia Kim [55]
If I hadn’t been so emotional, the train ride would have been wonderful. Speed and noise, coal smoke, the massive quantity of steel that made trains possible, the passing countryside, soft armchairs in first class, people of all sorts in all manner of dress, the very act of traveling—in my misery I missed the excitement of all these things. I marveled at it in memory after I grew accustomed to sleeping in my little room down the hall from Imo.
Her house was traditional and tidy, with an inner square surrounded by twelve rooms, and a smaller courtyard that was flanked by the servants’ quarters. Many homes lined her street, so foot traffic beyond her walls was steady. In addition to my travel chaperones—the handmaid Kyungmee and her husband, Pang, who was gardener and guard—Imo had a cook, a water girl and a housemaid. My bedding was fine, rather plush in fact, but the unfamiliar light patterns, the room’s strange angles and noise from the street made it difficult to fall asleep. At first I mourned and wept a little, missing my mother’s nighttime voice, but after that pain eased, I could fall asleep by forming the street-cast shadows into mystical words, and by trying to glean the secret messages whispered among the foreign noises.
With no men in the house to cook and sew for, Imo was eager to lavish her time on me. I didn’t know what was planned beyond the vague directive of “court training,” and only hoped to attend upper school. After a day of rest and a few days of sightseeing, Imo took me to her sewing room and showed me a chest full of beautiful fabrics. “You’ll need new hanbok,” she said, tossing bolts of linen and sheer silks on muslin she’d spread on the floor.
“For what?”
“Yah, you need to wait and listen to everything spoken to you before you start asking questions.” She said this kindly, but I was embarrassed.
“Excuse me, Imo—”
“You see? Like a monsoon wind! Everything inside comes wildly out of your mouth. When sightseeing you didn’t talk much, but I doubt you’re aware of your many exclamations and sighs. Monsoon wind!”
I bowed my head silently, my ears feeling as if they were screaming red.
“Much better!” She patted my knee and smiled. “Well, you do sit perfectly and I’ve watched you walk. Your mother shaped your posture well. That’s to your advantage.” I kept my mouth shut and peeked at her face. Her wave-curved eyes showed warmth, but her closed-lip smile had a pronounced artifice. The smile tightened her jaw, accentuating her cheekbones and incrementally raising her carefully drawn eyebrows. I wondered if I would learn that smile.
Imo was a little taller than my mother and not fat, but pillowlike, soft and round in all possible ways: her nearly white skin and hands, full lips, tiny rounded nose, curved elbows and even her earlobes. She looked pliable and receptive, as if you could toss anything at her and it would make a dent, then settle in, but her austere elegance permitted only respect. She wore a scent that brought to mind lilies and oranges, and her artful use of cosmetics required close examination to see the painted lines and feathery powder. The few marks of age on her face only appeared when she frowned. Because she was a widow, she wore her hair in a simple bun, and this, too, was soft and round. Every gesture seemed practiced to perfection. With my pointy elbows, gawky legs, bony hips, wiry hair and scratchy voice, I was like an explosion of needles compared to her. She was right—thanks to my mother, my spine was straight—but I was of an age when all the other bones and muscles didn’t quite know when and how to behave. Apparently, my tongue was in that same league.
“You’ll learn feminine rituals and protocol. You will meet Princess Deokhye. When I told the empress who your family is, she thought the princess might enjoy meeting you, or