The calligrapher's daughter_ a novel - Eugenia Kim [63]
We went back to the palace to line up in the courtyard and wait our turn to bow to the emperor and empress—Imo with her group of the empress’s courtiers, and me with the princess’s retinue. My feet ached from stiff cotton dress shoes, but the pain was forgotten once I reached the steps of Sungjong-jun, the airy hall where, in the olden days, administrative matters were dealt with. That the throne room wasn’t being used for this ceremony joined the things that no one mentioned.
A musty damp smell seemed trapped by the tall colorful ceiling, and the walls painted with decorative patterns and peacock murals were faded and peeling. Dignitaries and ministers and their wives sat on floor cushions in order of rank around the perimeter. The emperor sat in a chair on a raised platform made of red lacquer and mother-of-pearl. He had changed his clothes to a Western-style military dress uniform studded with medals and festooned with gold braid, and as I neared I thought irreverently that he looked stiff and awkward sitting on a gold-leafed chair placed in the center of a cinnabar-colored riser. The chair didn’t belong on a platform designed to be directly sat on. To the right of the platform the empress also sat stiffly on a chair, and on the other side, the chamberlain sat on a floor mat at a table, announcing the name of each person as he or she stepped forward and bowed. Several officials clustered nearby, some with obvious roles, such as the secretariat who recorded every word the emperor uttered, and others, Japanese men—wearing white gloves and what I later learned were tuxedoes—who stood near the walls and behind the platform looking stern.
“Han Najin,” cried the chamberlain. I approached and carefully bowed. He announced I was the daughter of the calligrapher Han, the Gaeseong scholar and literati-artist from the Gwangmu reign. I dared to steal glances at the emperor’s face as I approached, and was reminded of what I had once overheard two ladies-in-waiting say, that his eyes were as empty as a broken pail. They didn’t look empty to me, but melancholy and simple, like Princess Deokhye’s, and with a sweetness that comes from such simplicity. He had the same pale soft cheeks as his half-sister. I found his presence neither commanding nor particularly regal except in posture and dress.
The empress said with just enough volume for me to discern it, “Your Imperial Highness knows the young lady’s father’s scrolls.”
What an honor that she would mention this! I stayed in position and kept my head bowed.
“We remember it. An excellent screen.” His high voice had richness to it, as if his words floated on a river of seed oil. “It was greatly favored and is now on display at Seokjo-jung.” This structure at Deoksu Palace was an enormous and hideous Greek revival that an Englishman had started to build. The Japanese had recently finished its construction and made it into a public art museum. Years later I would remember this conversation with the emperor, when I learned that the best Korean art in that museum had been shipped to Tokyo, and could only conclude that my father’s screens were among that conscription.
I bowed again to the emperor’s recognition, although I wasn’t sure if my father would be pleased or find fault with public display of his work. A pause ensued. The emperor’s features were placid, and it seemed he might be waiting for me to speak. I sneaked a look at the empress, who nodded imperceptibly. “Thank you,” I said, using the elaborate idiom reserved exclusively for the emperor, “for Your Imperial Highness’s kindness to this person’s worthless family.”
“Ah, now we remember that our little sister favors your company. We are glad for your companionship to her.” He smiled beneath his mustache, and I was awed.
“Your Imperial Highness has blessed this person’s family with his generous kindness and affection. May the bounty of heaven on Chuseok