The calligrapher's daughter_ a novel - Eugenia Kim [69]
Imo and I walked across the courtyards that had become as familiar to me as my father’s front yard. We passed beneath the top-heavy south gate where our papers were checked and checked again, and went home on roads empty except for policemen or mounted soldiers who guarded every turn.
SEVERAL MONTHS LATER, long after the failed second national demonstration on June 10, the emperor’s funeral day, we heard through the underground that seven thousand additional troops had been dispatched specifically to suppress the uprising the Japanese had anticipated for this last emperor’s funeral. Bamboo rakes, sticks, pitchforks and raised fists were no match for swords, guns and military precision. Not long after the funeral, the princess and the royal family and some of their staff were taken to Tokyo. Rumor had it that the strong maid carried the princess on her back as they left Changdeok Palace, which was soon emptied of all but peeling gilt and ghosts of a glorious dynasty that had lasted five hundred years.
PART II
Higher Education
Riding the Bicycle
SPRING 1926 – SUMMER 1928
TRAVELING HOME ON THE TRAIN, I LOOKED OUT THE WINDOW AND noticed that my line of sight now reached above the center bar, proving how much I’d grown in the two years since leaving Gaeseong. I recalled that sad yet exciting journey, which seemed so long ago, and smiled inwardly, remembering how Imo had called me Monsoon Wind. The train lumbered to the outskirts of the capital. Having grown accustomed to swept courtyards and pruned gardens, I saw squalor all around me, even in the first-class compartment. On the other side of the car a middle-aged Japanese couple in Western clothes ate lunch in their armchairs, the man’s newspaper strewn on the floor, the woman’s painted lips shiny with oily fish. They whispered to each other and sent occasional curious glances my way.
I sat erect, my hands calmly folded as if to straighten with my posture the riot of wires barring my view of the sky. I stole peeks at the woman’s skin-colored stockings and high-heeled shoes buckled tidily across the arch, and at the light fabric of the woman’s peach-colored dress clinging to her curves.
The train shuddered as it turned on an overlook of the Han River, and engine smoke blew through the compartment. I coughed and covered my nose with a handkerchief. In its folds I smelled the jasmine incense that Imo had constantly burned in her brazier to mask the sewer odors from the street. My eyes blurred with tears. No one knew what fate awaited Imo. Forbidden to leave the city and fearful of her unknown future, she had quickly arranged for my traveling permits and ticket home, spoiling me once again with her generous insistence on the best ticket. When we parted on the station platform, I wept to express my gratitude and love, for words were inadequate. She held my hands tightly and murmured uncharacteristic praise, calling me Beloved Daughter. Neither of us said when we might meet again.
The Japanese man shut the window with a loud snap. “I’ll open it again when the fumes aren’t blowing in.” I lowered my head in courtesy. He bent, then twisted to arrest his bow to me, and returned to his seat frowning. He told his wife to gather the scattered newspaper and wrap the fish bones. Conscious of his stare, I kept my eyes averted.
“Going to Gaeseong?” He crossed a leg, his foot in the outer rim of my vision.
I nodded, noticing a darned patch on the back of his sock.
“Might I ask why?”
Startled by the polite tone he used, I looked at him. His dark eyes crinkled with warmth.
“My home is there, sir.”
“Why, she speaks perfectly!” the woman said, and they both smiled at me. “How did you learn to speak so well?” She folded the trash in a neat package and wiped her mouth and hands on a train towel. She opened her pocketbook and applied lipstick—a crude display of vanity, I thought.
My Japanese had grown