The calligrapher's daughter_ a novel - Eugenia Kim [93]
Father put away his empty pipe and stroked his beard. The sky thickened and rain pelted the porch. Mother gestured to light a lamp, which I set between the men. Knowing Hansu would soon describe the eligible bachelor, I squeezed my knees together, clamped my teeth and forced my features to relax in order to hide any reaction my body might betray me with.
“We passed through the family’s quarters, and in one tiny room I noticed a young man deeply absorbed in his studies, concentrating as if he were alone praying in the middle of an empty church. Even when his father coughed outside the open doorway, this young man didn’t look up. This was the reverend’s second son.”
“Excuse me,” I said. “May I ask what he was reading?”
“Curious you should ask, because I clearly remember it as being quite odd. He had in one hand the Bible and in the other a Chinese translation of Karl Marx.”
I couldn’t avoid showing Hansu the interest this statement had ignited in me. He smiled broadly. “Of course, when Reverend Cho finally got his son’s attention, he was quite gracious. A very serious-minded fellow, I should think.”
My parents remained expressionless. I remembered that Mother’s letter had touted the Cho family’s Christian and political worthiness, and guessed that most of Hansu’s storytelling was for my benefit. My legs twitched as if they’d forgotten how to sit quietly and graciously receive a guest, as if they wanted to run outside and splash through puddles.
“Cho Jeongsu is his given name,” said Hansu. “But he’s taken an English name, Calvin, since he attended both the academy and Union Seminary. His name is said to have some Christian meaning, but there’s no Calvin in the Bible that I can think of.” Hansu produced an envelope from his vest with a flourish. “Anyhow, with your parents’ permission, Dongsaeng, I wrote to his family a few weeks ago. Reverend Cho was open to any suggestion from such an esteemed family as yours. And so, here is a photograph and a formal letter of introduction.”
Father opened the envelope and withdrew a small photograph, barely glancing at it before passing it to Mother. He snapped the letter open with a crisp pop.
“He’s short in stature and trim,” said Hansu, watching the photograph change hands. “I’m told the eldest is a head taller than he. They were quite poor when he was young, and it’s said he’s short because of childhood malnutrition. There were two younger brothers as well, but tragically, both died of tuberculosis several years ago.”
“How pitiable, how terribly sad!” Mother and I said. I automatically thought of medicines to relieve the symptoms of tuberculosis—ginseng tea and goldthread root powder if you could find it—but there was no cure.
Hansu talked on. “The eldest is already a minister in America, so the second son is lucky to have a brother established there. I’m told Calvin will be going to Princeton and several other seminaries. I’m not sure how he managed that.”
I looked around, but it seemed I was the only one piqued by this information. His study in America was the second thing I found interesting about him.
Mother examined the photo. “Reverend Ahn said that all the American missionaries know of his father’s sermons. How pleasing to think he’ll follow his father’s profession.”
I realized that Mother had evidently queried our minister about the Cho family, and I felt further trapped. She showed me the photo. Calvin Cho had a high forehead—a sign of exceptional intelligence—and strong angles to his clean-shaven jaw. This feature of determination seemed to be softened by an almost-smile. The silvery sheen of the photograph glowed in his eyes, and I was relieved that at least he was pleasant enough in appearance. As the letter passed from Father to Mother, I noted that Calvin Cho’s handwriting was firm and meticulous. I closed my eyes and heard loud drips. The rainstorm had ended. How I wanted to slide the