The Calligrapher's Daughter (31 page)

“What?” said Jaeyun, slanting her eyes at me.

“I just realized that I was thinking of a future with Mr. Cho.”

“First thing you’ll have to do is stop calling him ‘Mr. Cho.’”

“Reverend Cho is better? Cho
Moksa
?”

“Cho Moksa-
nim!
His Honorable Reverend Cho!” she said with wicked irreverence.

“And you,” I said. “His Honorable Doctor Murayama!” We fell into teasing whispered silliness until even the slurp of her or my noodles, or the curious glances of the other guests, set us to giggling like children.

Later that night in bed, I stared at the ceiling and listened to Jaeyun breathe steadily with sleep. The freedom of the day with my friend unlocked my mind to introspection. Was this what I wanted or was it my duty? I wondered what his home life was like, for it might become my home life, and remembered Hansu’s description of whirring sewing machines and two floors of rooms crowded with patriots. I recalled Mr. Cho’s stories and his odd helpfulness in cleaning up our picnic. Although he’d described his mother as kindly and capable, I wondered what kind of mother would raise her boys to do women’s work. It sounded chaotic compared to the orderliness of my father’s house. Could I fit in? I’d adjusted well to many different living situations already, but I’d be the only daughter-in-law at the Cho home and far from my mother. But what was I thinking? Anything could happen in three years!

Still, he had proven his decency to my parents, and I appreciated his modern consideration of my ideas. His intelligence and knowledge were
certainly appealing, but what could he possibly see in me? With my dowry, he obviously wasn’t an opportunist. He seemed genuine in all things—if a little pedantic in his intellectualism. Would I be doing a disservice to God if I married a man of God? What about sex? This thought rushed through my body as if I were swimming in the sea, its salty waters wholly, coolly enveloping my limbs. I opened my eyes wide and tried to banish all thoughts of marriage from my mind by tracing Chinese characters amid the shadows and light, but I stopped when they formed the letters of his name. I chastised myself for foolishness and bluntly decided to wear my everyday summer hanbok. I forced my eyes closed and eventually fell asleep, the soft-edged characters of his name floating in and out of the edges of my consciousness.

I DECIDED NOT to break bread with Mr. Cho in the hotel restaurant where people watched and noticed things. I also wanted to be free to speak Korean, should our discussion follow a similar direction as the last time. I was certain he was fluent in Japanese, but Korean words had a richer, more fulfilling taste in my mouth. I woke early, found the village market and purchased boiled eggs, steamed buns and dried mackerel, splurging on ripe southern peaches for four picnic lunches. I ordered two kettles of water and tin cups from the restaurant. Back in the room, Jaeyun looked thoroughly modern in her Chinese dress and bobbed hair. I complimented her vigorously, noting in particular the natural shine in her cheeks, and urged her to forget about everything except enjoying the day. Who knew how many such days they’d have? She thanked me profusely for the picnic, which I helped carry until the beach rounded the point.

I walked back and sat on a wooden chaise close to the hotel, watching the waves until the sun rose halfway to noon. In the scant library, I perused the slender volumes and chose a Japanese translation of
Pilgrim’s Progress
. To avoid the nosy stares of hotel staff, I sat out front in a spare little garden of scattered flowering bushes and a few old cedars, and I read, distracted by the impending visit.

He came bicycling down the sandy road wearing a broad-brimmed gray hat, his sleeves rolled outside of his black suit jacket. I stood and waved, and immediately felt idiotic about the showy hello. The bike
wobbled as he slowed, braking, and dismounted. He blotted his brow with a handkerchief, rolled down his sleeves, slapped dust from his jacket and smiled. I remembered his crooked teeth, one lined in gold, and returned his smile, gesturing him to sit. There were a few people about so he spoke in Japanese. As suspected, he spoke it well. “In America, a gentleman remains standing until the lady is seated.”

“Backward style.” I left room on the bench for him, feeling relaxed in his easy company.

“They’d say we’re backward.”

“Soon you’ll learn how backward they think
we
are.”

“I believe what I might learn is exactly how backward
they
are. You, on the other hand,” said Mr. Cho, pointing to my book, “are very forward with your language ability.”

I liked his wittiness. “It’s not a very good translation. I read it years ago in Chinese.”

“An odd coincidence that you’d have that book. I don’t want to appear as if I’m boasting, but it’s my mother’s favorite story. I’m sure she’ll tell you one day.”

My stomach lurched at the suggestion of a future with his mother. “Perhaps you’ll tell me first.”

Smiling faintly, he looked distantly to the sea, a view mostly obscured by the hotel. “When I was three, an aunt passed away. Many people gathered at my grandfather’s house for her funeral, and my mother wanted to entertain them in some way. Not able to read Chinese herself, she’d always been overly proud that I could read at such an early age. In the bad light of a fish-oil lamp, I read a chapter from
Pilgrim’s Progress
and can still hear the murmurs of surprise. My father says this is the reason I was such a lazy student—too much pride, too early. Naturally he was correct.”

“The pride is justified.” I thought of my own struggles with pride. “But you said finding God helped.”

“It did. But that’s a long story for another time.”

Again a reference to the future! I quickly proposed the simple picnic rather than the stuffy restaurant on such a beautiful day. “Unless you think it’s too humid.”

“Not at all. If it gets hotter, perhaps you won’t mind if I remove my jacket?”

I looked at him and saw only the question he’d asked. I lowered my eyes. “Excuse me for staring, but it’s unusual that you’d ask me permission. Is it because of the Western learning you’ve had?”

“Perhaps it is. I’m sorry if I’m making you uncomfortable.”

“You’re not. You’re very kind. Like your note yesterday.” I looked directly at him, then blushed at my true forwardness and his warm smile in return. Noting his lack of luggage and the rental sticker on the bicycle, I said, “Are you at a guest house close by?”

“I took the train up for the day and will return at sundown.”

I nodded, then felt at a loss. What was he doing here? What was I doing with him?

He shifted on the bench and crossed a leg. “I visited your parents for a few days before coming this way.”

I didn’t want to think about what might have transpired those few days. Luckily the word
visit
reminded me of my hostess responsibilities. I told him Jaeyun was visiting another friend and we were left to ourselves. He readily agreed to hike the promontory and have a picnic in the little alcove overlooking the sea. As we headed toward the rocky path, I stayed a respectful few steps behind him, but soon he stopped, removed his jacket, came back, took the picnic bundle, including the teakettle, and gave me his hat to carry. Flustered by all these activities in public, I hardly knew what was going on until I found him walking beside me up the mountain path. I covered my mouth in worried embarrassment. “Shouldn’t we— shouldn’t I—”

“We can talk better this way.” He gestured to the few people strolling the grounds and beachfront. “Besides, most of the guests are Japanese. They won’t give us a second thought.” He had switched to Korean.

I didn’t think I’d be able to speak any language at all and wondered if my father knew just how modern he was.

My worry about his carrying the picnic weighed heavily, making the climb seem far more difficult than yesterday’s hike. He had an energetic step and a sure foot, and he paused often to comment on a rock formation or a peculiarly shaped leaf in an undergrowth plant.

“Let me take that now.” I pointed to the bundle he’d set down to look closer at a fossilized shell in a rock fragment.

“See its impression in the stone? Perhaps this clam was at the bottom
of the sea at one time.” He picked up the bundle and went farther uphill. Shortly, I tried to claim it again. “I see that I’m making you uncomfortable,” he said. “Take the kettle then, and give back the hat. I’m not sure which is making you uneasy—carrying the clothes off my back or me doing, as you say, ‘women’s work.’” I knew he was teasing, but the situation was too awkward for me to smile.

“Really, I’m fine.” I clutched the kettle gratefully and he carried his hat by its brim. My fingers itched for the bundle, but I didn’t want to call further attention to the subject. At a steep part of the path, he clambered up and turned with his hand extended. I gave him the kettle and grabbed a branch to pull myself up. He walked ahead and didn’t stop or look back for some time. I flushed with confusion and shame, sure he was irritated at me because he now carried everything, and I hadn’t even acknowledged the hand he had thoughtfully offered. Was I supposed to have grasped his hand rather than the branch? How improper! But is that what he wanted, and when I refused, did it anger him? Anxiety froze my tongue and his silent back nearly drove me to tears. I saw a break in the pines ahead; the alcove was around the turn.

“Eh— Excuse me, Reverend Cho, it’s just around the corner.”

“I see it! A beautiful spot. Fantastic view!” He set everything down and spread his jacket. I neared slowly, afraid to look at him. “But I’m not ‘Reverend’ quite yet, although you honor me to say so. Please sit on my coat, won’t you?” He breathed heavily and turned to the sea, his hands on his hips.

“I couldn’t!” I nearly shouted.

His eyes grew wide and he opened his palms. “Miss Han! What is it? Have I done something to offend you?”

“No, no!” I sat heavily on the rock beside his spread jacket, twisting my worried hands. “Please forgive me. I’ve offended
you
!”

“But you haven’t. Not at all. I’m very sorry. What happened?”

His question unleashed a blur of tear-filled words. “I don’t understand your Western ways. I don’t know what you want!” Then I saw how ridiculous I was, and covered my face with my hands.

I was aware that he picked up his jacket and sat next to me. I had never felt such humiliation. He said nothing, and after a while I lowered my
hands, red-faced and still. “Please excuse my outburst,” I said quietly. “Forgive me. I’m really quite ashamed.”

He spoke slowly. “Miss Han. Forgive
me.
I am a bumpkin. Your father said you’d spent a few years in the royal court. I can see that my manner must be coarse to you. I apologize again. I’ve spoken to your father and mother, and perhaps now I should make myself very clear.” He rustled in his trouser pocket and brought forth a small padded silk purse, the kind used for jewelry. I refused to think it was something for me. He fumbled with its slippery string tie, and I noticed his flat elongated nails, and how clean and smooth his hands were—hands nicer than mine. I couldn’t breathe when he took my left hand, his fingertips dry and trembling slightly, turned my palm up and pressed in it a fine circle of gold knotted with a fiery dot of red.

“Miss Han, will you be my wife?”

My throat caught, a small breathy gasp. I looked at the jewel. I looked at him and saw he was unsure of my response, his eyes deep, serious, open to me and yes, loving. It shocked me, the unjudging wanting I saw, and I felt my body flood with unexpected relief, gratitude and acceptance. My eyes filled and I nodded.

He cupped my hand and held the ring to show me. “I’m afraid it’s another Western tradition. An engagement ring. In America they give diamonds for longevity, but I’m ashamed to say this was all I could afford.” He slipped it on my finger. “You honor me if you’ll wear it thus.”

“I— Beautiful— Too much—”

“Does that mean yes?”

“Yes! Oh! I thought you were angry. I thought I’d displeased you somehow!”

“That
is
my fault. I was eager to reach this place. Now you can guess why.”

I covered my lips and laugh-cried. “Such a beautiful place. A lovely jewel.”

“A small ruby. I wish it was more.”

“No. It’s beautiful. Perfection.” I smiled at him and saw my unexpected joy reflected in his smile, his gold-edged tooth amazingly endearing.

“Han Najin,” he said.

“Mr. Cho,” I responded. “I mean—Cho Calvin, Jeong—excuse me—”

“Calvin.” He laughed.

“Let me pour you some water.” I wished I had something to give him besides food. “Do Western women give men a token of betrothal in return?”

“They don’t. I believe saying yes is enough of a token for the man.”

I watched my ringed finger as I filled the tin cups and set out the buns. “Mother will be pleased, I think.”

“She was very happy, and I must say she gave me plenty of assurance. I was quite nervous. Your father, too, was more than agreeable.”

I appreciated this little confession about his anxiety and wanted to tell him about Father trying to marry me off earlier, but decided I’d wait a few years before telling that story, maybe after a few sons. The thought of children led to thoughts of conceiving them—with this very man!—and I was so mortified I busied myself unnecessarily with arranging our picnic.

Calvin said grace, thanking God for the blessing of our engagement. We ate looking out over the sea, gentle winds stirring the dark scrub pines above us. Everything appeared brightly saturated with color—salty, sharp and fresh—and I understood by his exclamations over the shining scene below that he felt the same.

He ate as quickly as I’d witnessed before, but this time he refused my offer of the remainder of my fish and bun.

“Miss Han,” he said, and I delighted in hearing my name from his lips. “I’ve taken some liberties with your future.” Surprised, I stopped chewing. “Your mother told me that you hope to attend medical school one day.” A buzzing filled my ears and I swatted the air.