The calligrapher's daughter_ a novel - Eugenia Kim [60]
I put my sewing down and looked at my aunt. “Yes, Imo-nim, I understand.” She nodded as gravely as I had spoken.
“So then,” she said slowly, placing cards face down in a careful pyramid, “years later, Deoksu Palace was where Emperor Gojong died, as did Lady Om. Neither was sick, yet both died in their sleep.” She collapsed her unfinished game and gathered the cards. “My husband the prime minister and our five-year-old son also died there.”
I felt terrible for my imo-nim but could think of nothing correct or helpful to say. All the words I knew seemed pointless. We sat quietly performing our activities, our backs straight and fingers steady. My needle worked the silk almost automatically, its thread a gossamer shadow in the lamplight. I realized that the high manners and the virtue of decorum permitted and encouraged this silence, and I was somewhat comforted in knowing that it was proper to leave so much unsaid. But it made me feel helpless, uncaring and young, and I felt a frustrated spark of rebellion nudging me toward anger, but I subdued it. After that evening, Imo never again mentioned her husband or son, or anything at all from those years, nor did I ask.
AT LAST, IMO decided I was presentable and sent a note to First Marquis Yun, who was also the empress’s father. An invitation soon came from the palace. Monsoon season had come and gone, washing the city of pollen and the yellow dust from spring’s southwest winds. Bright colors burst from gardens and flowerboxes, and trees grew heavy with birds singing on supple young branches bright with new leaves. I rose at dawn, ate porridge and studied the usual three hours to keep pace with schoolwork. After I bathed, Imo tamed my hair with oil and braided it tightly, added augmenting hairpieces and wound it like a thick halo around my head. She patted powder on my cheeks and clipped white jade yin-yang shapes on my ears. We ate the midmorning meal, then she helped me dress and colored my lips. Wearing the rose-pink skirt with a sheer linen blouse, new socks and gloves, I sat in the entryway and waited for her to dress. The earrings pinched, giving me a headache and adding to my nervousness. I breathed deeply and folded my hands in my lap. The appearance of calm will generate calm, Imo had said.
We walked to Changdeok Palace, where Emperor Sunjong’s Yunghui reign had begun after his father was forced to abdicate in 1907. We regarded him as our emperor, but Imo had taught me that we were to officially address him as His Imperial Highness the Grand Prince, and the empress similarly. That this was clearly a demotion of title was among the many things that remained unsaid during my time with Imo. At the main gate, our papers were checked and a phone call was made. I had never seen a telephone used before, nor had I been near so many Japanese guards. All I saw were pocket flaps, belts, buttons and leather boots. Two guards escorted us across the broad first plaza past a smaller but equally colorful and as heavily guarded gate, through which I could see the abandoned, expansive royal courtyard where all the cabinet ministers and court dignitaries had once stood, ceremoniously facing the audience hall further on, all its doors now shuttered. We walked sedately to avoid raising dust in the immaculately leveled courtyards, and passed