The calligrapher's daughter_ a novel - Eugenia Kim [91]
We sat together in comfortable silence, and the cloudy light filtered through the shuttered window in muted hues. After a while I asked if I could open his shutters to freshen the room, and he nodded. Soon, we heard the side gate creak open and shut and Hansu being met by my mother at the front door. I stood aside as he greeted my father with bows and a proper exchange of conversation about the weather and everyone’s health. Then Hansu and I bowed and he vigorously shook my hand. “It’s wonderful to see you, Dongsaeng! I’ve counted thirteen years since we last met.”
Although my eyes stayed low, they shone with pleasure. “It’s also good to see you again, Oppapps.”
“I’ve been hearing about your wonderful accomplishments in Seoul and Yoju.”
I reddened with his enthusiastic praise and glanced at Father, who fondled his pipe, long empty of tobacco. “Someone’s been making up stories,” I said lightly.
“I heard that your school post ended for the same reasons mine did. May I ask what happened?” Hansu sat near Father, who indicated that I should sit and answer.
“Since it was a small private school and far from the city, it didn’t seem to matter how many Korean teachers we had.” The year I’d graduated from Ewha, a new ordinance decreed that all teaching be done in Japanese language, and required that Japanese nationals comprise half the staff in any school, private or public. “At least girls were learning to read and write, but by the end of the term, with scarce supplies and food even scarcer, everyone was fired, myself included. They closed many rural schools, and I heard that in the city all the teachers are Japanese now, and the principals too.”
“It was the same in Pyeongyang, sir.” Hansu correctly addressed Father. “The Depression must have hit Japan as hard as here. Hundreds are looking for jobs. My replacement used to work in a dry goods store in Kyoto—a sales clerk turned mathematics professor! At least he can add and subtract.”
I hid my smile at his familiar teasing humor. I was curious to know what work he’d seek in Gaeseong, but conscious of Father’s presence, I asked a question more appropriate for a woman. “How is your wife?”
“Very well. She looks forward to meeting you. Perhaps you’ll join her singing in the church choir?”
“Not likely,” said Father. “No offense to your wife, you understand, but it’s time to think about a husband.” It was just like Father to get to the point.
Mother entered with drinking water and dried plums. “Perhaps Hansu-oppa will say something about his friend,” she said. I dutifully served the men and sat beside Mother, who handed me a laundered shirt to reconstruct.
“Before I tell you about my visit to Reverend Cho and his second son,” began Hansu, “may I tell you what I know of him?”
“A close friend of Hahm Taeyong, isn’t he?” said Father. “Whatever happened to Mr. Hahm?”
“Yes, sir. He’s exiled in Shanghai.” The men exchanged looks, and Father nodded for Hansu to continue. The moment revealed to me how much things had changed at home. Not only did Father treat a younger man as an equal in his sitting room, he directly sought information from him as well.
“Reverend Cho is the minister of West Gate Presbyterian Church and an influential community leader,” said Hansu. He met my eyes to acknowledge the coincidence of the church’s name to West Gate Prison in Seoul, where Hansu had met this man who became his mentor. “When