The calligrapher's daughter_ a novel - Eugenia Kim [99]
I understood, and felt again the thud behind my ribs. Did he walk a little closer to me? Yes. I was sure that he did.
We approached a low granite bench at the edge of our pond circled with willows. Dotted with lily pads and lotus buds, the water smelled green and earthy, the shaded grove active with dancing light and flitting insects. I untied and spread the carrying cloth on the cool stone seat, arranged the red lacquer bento box and unstoppered the tea. “Please sit and eat a little.” I poured tea into the two cups nested under the padded jar, filling mine halfway.
“Thank you. How pleasant it is here!” His voice shook a tiny bit from nerves, which only made me more nervous. A silence followed. It was too soon to start serving lunch. I tried to think of something natural to say and almost asked if he’d had gardens like these to play in as a child, but remembered at the last minute that his family were commoners.
“I—I often did my schoolwork here when I was young,” I said at last, uncomfortably stuck between the awkward pause and the impropriety of talking about myself.
“I can see why.” He sipped tea—somewhat noisily—and seemed to come to a decision. “Well, then. It’s the trees. These trees remind me of a willow we had in the schoolyard when I was a boy.” He smiled. “I’m afraid I was quite a lazy boy.”
Relieved, I sensed a story coming and sat receptively.
“In sixth grade, there was a difficult class where we had to recite the most complex Chinese letter writing—very hard to comprehend. The teacher insisted we memorize the readings. He said those who doubted the accuracy of their memory should bring three sticks for punishment in the event they failed to recite properly.”
“Cruel,” I murmured, thinking I’d never struck a single student in my charge. I opened the bento boxes and spread the linen towels, charmed to see they were from the set decorated with Seoul’s gates that I had crafted with Imo. Though many years had passed since those days, sitting beside this man I felt as naive as I was that afternoon with the princess and the young Japanese guard. I fingered the golden-brown embroidered images, and unexpected sadness tightened my throat for the brief yet treasured friendship and a past that could never be revisited. The willow tendrils sighed, and I focused on listening to Mr. Cho.
“Not at all. That was the style at the time,” he was saying. “Instead of memorizing the readings, I went to the schoolyard and found dead willow branches, like these, and peeled off the bark so they’d break at the slightest touch. In class, instead of reciting, I offered these branches to the teacher. As expected, he used them to whip me. But each time they broke as soon as they touched me, and I received three whippings to no ill effect!”
I laughed. “You were a clever boy.”
“A clever, lazy boy, I’m afraid.”
“And now?” I dared.
“I’ve found God.”
Thinking I should have anticipated this sort of answer from a future preacher, I nodded and offered him a lunch box. After saying a simple grace, Mr. Cho ate so fast that I thought he must’ve been starved. “What a feast,” he said between mouthfuls. “Please excuse me. I know I eat quickly, but this is superb.”
I picked up my box and noticed that he’d eaten all of his whitefish. “Why, you must have more,” I said, dividing my food to give him half, and in my haste I nearly thrust my box onto his lap. A miniature dumpling popped out and fell on his lap towel. I sat back as if Father had cried out, “Clumsy oaf!” but Mr. Cho said “Aha!” He picked up the dumpling with his chopsticks, tossed it in the air and swallowed it in a single chew. Both shocked that he’d play with food and amazed that he caught it between his teeth, I laughed, covering my mouth, and noticed, as