The calligrapher's daughter_ a novel - Eugenia Kim [73]
That Mother imparted these kinds of details to me proved I had indeed grown up, and beneath my worry for Joong and our family’s situation, it made me feel proud. I swore I’d be worthy of her acceptance of me as a young woman.
“It happened about a year ago,” said Mother. “There were so many refugees here after Kanto, they had to give them land or businesses to work. So the laws changed again, and another land reform …” She was referring to the Great Kanto Earthquake, which had completely devastated Tokyo, killing thousands and causing hundreds of thousands to flee to Korea for the many new opportunities the government had carved out for earthquake victims. I’d seen Japanese in all jobs and styles of life in Seoul but thought it had always been that way in the capital since the annexation. I now realized it was probably as much of a new influx of Japanese citizens as my mother was describing, a condition that might have contributed to the empire’s last breath.
“Much has changed.” Mother’s lips set and she put the rice bowl aside. “Save this for the men’s porridge tomorrow.”
In the kitchen I exchanged the rice for millet, then returned. “Joong must be missing his family.”
“We thought he might join them, but it seems that he and Kira are betrothed.” She beamed. “Their own choice. I don’t know why I didn’t see it, especially since now their happiness seems to fill the house! Your father is agreeable.”
We talked quietly through breakfast. I described the last few weeks at the palace, without mentioning my fears for Imo. Nor did I mention that seeing Mother now made me realize how deeply I had missed her, how essentially I loved and needed her, how grateful I was that she’d sent me to Seoul. She relayed outrageous market prices and news of church families, without mentioning how much she’d missed me, how proud she was of me, how happy she was that I was home, and safe. I had learned to read the meanings behind the politeness of things not said, and for this I was also grateful. And finally, I didn’t mention Dean Shinohara’s card, which I’d tucked into the Chinese-English phrasebook still hidden in my room. Hearing about the farm prevented me from raising the subject.
Mother said Hansu’s parents were well, pleased with his excellent marks from Soongsil Academy in Pyeongyang. With a sideways glance, she said that my old friend Jaeyun had enrolled in the nursing program at Ewha for the coming term. My face remained impassive, but my stomach turned with envy. She also said the public upper schools were now entirely Japanese, and Father planned to send Dongsaeng to a private school in Seoul, following his graduation in two years. I filed this information into the beginnings of a plan. My mother started to take the tray, but I told her I was home now and she could go back to her morning reading. We reviewed the household and gardening schedule, and I made her agree to let me do the heaviest work.
After unpacking my trunk, which Joong had delivered, I spent the morning with Dongsaeng. At seven years old, he’d grown up to my hanbok ties, his hair closely shaved in the required schoolboy cut. I marveled at all he showed me: his favorite rooster in the pen by the kitchen garden, the rock he fell on by the pond that caused the dragon-shaped scar on his knee, bamboo canes he saved for sword fights with schoolmates. I noticed a larger chicken coop and counted numerous hens. I also saw that the azalea, peony and iris gardens had been demolished in favor of cucumbers, squash, beans, peppers, potatoes and cabbage. Dongsaeng led me to his study to examine his schoolwork. “And see!” He handed me a crumpled sheet. “I wrote you a sijo.”
The crying bird that flew away, took breath and light and laughs that day.
No toys to share, my games are hung, my clapping songs are halfway sung.
More suns, more moons, and yet I play. The bird, I know, for me she prays.
These lines moved me to the same gratitude I’d felt with Mother, and I was