The calligrapher's daughter_ a novel - Eugenia Kim [94]
Mother raised her eyes to Father. “Studious writing,” he said.
“A proper letter,” said Mother, reading quickly. “You say he’ll be coming to visit you soon?”
Hansu said yes, grinning as my alarmed eyes rounded. Mother folded the letter and nudged Father’s hand when she returned it to him. A look passed between them. She resumed her sewing and Father reset his pipe on its stand. Everyone waited. I slanted my eyes at Hansu as if we were still kids, daring and double-daring each other. His shoulders shook with quiet laughter, as innocent as a fox.
At last Father said, “It would please me if the young man came to visit.” And it seemed that Hansu and Mother released an enormous joint sigh. For me, the walls of the sitting room shrank, the bindings of my skirt tightened and seized my breath. I caught a scent of the outside and inhaled deeply. Be like the rain, like water, I thought, exhaling quietly.
A FEW WEEKS later, the three of us waited in Father’s sitting room for the arrival of Hansu and Mr. Calvin Cho. I hadn’t yet seen Dongsaeng, who was still at school, and since it had been some years since I last saw him, I wondered how he would react to this activity at home. Based on what I’d gleaned from Mother’s letters, I doubted he’d be very interested.
My father read, my mother sewed, and I sat quietly pretending I wasn’t anxious. A windy day, the sound of each leaf skipping on the courtyard’s slate made me quake. I thought, I’m too old for this.
We heard the outer gate rattle open and shut. “Don’t embarrass me,” said Father in a low voice. “Speak only when proper.”
“Of course, Father. I’m not a child.”
“See how you talk back! Will you never learn?” His tone jarred me to realize that I had unknowingly spoken, and with terrible impudence. How had that slipped from my lips? It was disturbing childhood reversion at work. “This is a pointless visit,” he said. “You will grow old and alone, and forever be a burden to your dongsaeng.”
I bent my neck, chagrined and obedient.
Mother whispered, “He’s here.” In the vestibule, the men could be heard shuffling off their shoes, then Joong led them to the sitting room.
Hansu made introductions. Being presented with my head bowed made it only possible to see Mr. Cho from the knees down. I glimpsed a pair of dark green silk socks with brilliant orange and yellow stripes on the sides. Father asked Hansu about the health of his aging parents, then directed questions to Mr. Cho about his education and family. During these structured politenesses, I surreptitiously examined Calvin Cho. He properly kept his eyes only on my parents and spoke in a soft northern accent. His voice was full, deep and round, his diction commanding, and I could easily tell that my parents were impressed. With lowered lashes, I struggled to balance my desire to be fiercely critical of him with some of my mother’s equanimity. I could tell that Hansu was studying my face, and I pointedly kept it bland. I thought that Mr. Cho’s features were clear and open, but yes, he was small, and noting his shiny socks and wide tie patterned with blood-red curlicues shot with yellow, he seemed quite taken with Western fashion. How silly in a man! He does speak well, I thought, but his nose is too big and I am not interested!
“This person,” said Calvin with correct formality, “is fortunate to have Reverend Robert Sherwood as a sponsor for this person’s further learning in America. This person will study the origins and methods of Protestant branches in America, and how they translate to the Christian practices of Korea.”
“Ah, Reverend Sherwood!” said Mother. “He speaks Korean beautifully. He gave a sermon once at our church. How inspiring it was in these difficult times.”
Father clasped both hands to his knees. “I understand you know something about these difficult times through the work of your father.”
“We are simply patriots, sir. Who among us