The Interpreter (4 page)
Authors: Suki Kim
But those
things
were not what differentiated Jen from Suzy. Two girls of the same age, the same education, the same earnest propensity for Brontë’s
Villette,
and yet their makeups were different from the start. It was neither because Suzy spent her early years moving constantly from Flushing to the Bronx to the inner parts of Queens, as new immigrants often did, nor because Suzy’s inner-city public-school education suffered next to Jen’s suburban private-school history, a deficit that Suzy was bright enough to overcome. But there was something else, something markedly different, something more fundamental, ingrained, almost inborn. Jen seemed to float about their mutual college life with the brightest sunlight, whereas Suzy, no matter how she tried to hide it, was stuck somewhere cold and brooding. And Damian was the first one to notice, and was not afraid to tell her about it.
things
were not what differentiated Jen from Suzy. Two girls of the same age, the same education, the same earnest propensity for Brontë’s
Villette,
and yet their makeups were different from the start. It was neither because Suzy spent her early years moving constantly from Flushing to the Bronx to the inner parts of Queens, as new immigrants often did, nor because Suzy’s inner-city public-school education suffered next to Jen’s suburban private-school history, a deficit that Suzy was bright enough to overcome. But there was something else, something markedly different, something more fundamental, ingrained, almost inborn. Jen seemed to float about their mutual college life with the brightest sunlight, whereas Suzy, no matter how she tried to hide it, was stuck somewhere cold and brooding. And Damian was the first one to notice, and was not afraid to tell her about it.
On their first date, sitting on the bench in Riverside Park—although “date” might be a misnomer, since they had just slept together for the first time that day—Damian gazed at her awhile and said, “Stop looking at me for an answer; you’re not going to
be happier.” Suzy knew that he was telling the truth and kept silent, because she still did not know what she wanted, and could still feel the pain between her legs, and felt no regrets. She looked away instead at the afternoon calm of the Hudson River, across which New Jersey loomed with not much promise, and remembered that she had missed language lab that afternoon. Damian was forty-nine then, a married scholar whose picture she had seen framed at Professor Tamiko’s office. Suzy had just turned twenty, a comparative-literature major, a virgin, which strangely did not matter at all. Neither discussed it. Suzy’s virginity was the last thing on their minds. From the first meeting, there was no doubt that they would make love. What bothered them was the darkness they sensed in each other, which pulled them together, which let them know almost instantly that their union was not a good thing, was doomed, was bound to hurt people and leave scars that might not go away no matter how much time passed, how they reorganized their lives so that one might forget that the other had ever happened at all.
be happier.” Suzy knew that he was telling the truth and kept silent, because she still did not know what she wanted, and could still feel the pain between her legs, and felt no regrets. She looked away instead at the afternoon calm of the Hudson River, across which New Jersey loomed with not much promise, and remembered that she had missed language lab that afternoon. Damian was forty-nine then, a married scholar whose picture she had seen framed at Professor Tamiko’s office. Suzy had just turned twenty, a comparative-literature major, a virgin, which strangely did not matter at all. Neither discussed it. Suzy’s virginity was the last thing on their minds. From the first meeting, there was no doubt that they would make love. What bothered them was the darkness they sensed in each other, which pulled them together, which let them know almost instantly that their union was not a good thing, was doomed, was bound to hurt people and leave scars that might not go away no matter how much time passed, how they reorganized their lives so that one might forget that the other had ever happened at all.
The phone is persistent, and Suzy is not sure what makes her finally answer it. Perhaps she hopes it is Damian after all, perhaps she imagines that he has gotten softer with years and will break down just once. She tightens the towel grip and walks over to the end of the room and picks up the receiver before its fourth ring. She does not say hello. She waits for a voice, a signal. But instead, a pause, a drawn-out silence. She will not speak. She will not give up easily. Then, finally, comes the click—she knew it—a smooth, intentional hang-up. Must’ve been a wrong number, surely a prank call. And yet, for a quick second, she cannot help looking to make sure that the blinds on both windows are drawn.
NO MATTER WHAT TIME OF DAY, it seems, the north wing of Penn Station is packed. Eight a.m., and a horde of men and women in suits and briefcases pour out of Long Island Rail Road trains and rush into the subway to reach their cubicles on Wall Street or the Avenue of the Americas by nine o’clock sharp. The commute costs them the better part of the day, the better mood of their lives. But a small sacrifice for a two-story house with a basketball hoop in the backyard and a cozy public school whose PTA meets for a monthly picnic in the town park. It’s worth one and a half hours each way, three hours combined. Who would want to raise kids in the city, who could afford it? So they recline in their seats with
The Wall Street Journal,
the
Long Island Weekly,
or the
Times
. The clever ones make the best of the lull by balancing their checkbooks, or reading over contracts or invoices, whatever they do all day at work and still take home extra of because there never is enough time, because time is what such commutes are all about. And amidst crowds who
reappear from the LIRR each morning like ants out of mounds, Suzy stands waiting for her 8:25 to Montauk, glad to be going in the opposite direction.
The Wall Street Journal,
the
Long Island Weekly,
or the
Times
. The clever ones make the best of the lull by balancing their checkbooks, or reading over contracts or invoices, whatever they do all day at work and still take home extra of because there never is enough time, because time is what such commutes are all about. And amidst crowds who
reappear from the LIRR each morning like ants out of mounds, Suzy stands waiting for her 8:25 to Montauk, glad to be going in the opposite direction.
Montauk is the final stop. Suzy finds a seat easily enough. The train leaves exactly on time. She will have to make the connection in Jamaica, which is about twenty minutes away. Leaning back, she looks out the window, although the view is nothing, just the outskirts of the city, impossible to place. And yet she keeps on staring, because she is sitting by the window and there is nothing to do except follow this motion and let the barren scenery pass like a dull movie.
Outside is a mess of twisting highways and cement buildings. Some bits seem familiar. The train passed by Long Island City, where they had once lived, many years ago, when her father got a job at a Korean deli for a few months. It was an ugly, depressed part of Queens, and she was glad when he finally quit, or was he fired? Suzy is not sure anymore, but she recalls the fiercely unpleasant drive through the neighborhood and the oversized man with the overlapping front teeth named Mr. Yang who owned the store, who tossed a dollar at eight-year-old Suzy to run along and get him a slice of pizza from across the street, and how Dad had put a hand on the man’s right shoulder and said in a quiet but menacing voice, “Don’t tell my daughter what to do.”
The memory seems slightly skewed. What had she been doing with him at work? Why wasn’t she at school on that day? Did he really say those exact words? Perhaps he mumbled with an awkward slouch to his shoulders, “Please don’t order my daughter around,” or lashed with a stone in his voice, “Who do you think you are, ordering my daughter about?” Or is it possible that he did not say anything at all? It’s been so long, over twenty years. Hard to remember now how it had really been between a father and a daughter, how he might have taken her
small hand and stormed out of the store with the parting spit at the rotund man, “Don’t you
dare
tell
my
daughter what to do!”
small hand and stormed out of the store with the parting spit at the rotund man, “Don’t you
dare
tell
my
daughter what to do!”
Outside, the familiar streets are gone now. The train is moving swiftly, almost gliding. She cannot recall the last time she was inside a moving vehicle in such tranquillity. Perhaps Dad’s Oldsmobile had felt this safe, pure. All you had to do was just hop in and let him take you. Mom never drove, although she kept saying that she should learn, since she could not get anywhere on her own. But she never did, because they had only one car anyway and she had gotten used to being driven around. Dad was the best driver, never got a ticket, never got into an accident, never drove in the wrong lane. Later on, Suzy expected the same when she first rode in Damian’s Volvo, and was shocked to discover that she had to check her seat belt several times before settling down. Luckily, she rarely found herself riding in cars. New Yorkers don’t drive. The city is all about smelly subways and screaming taxis. Subways often get stuck in the middle of dark tunnels, and cabs, of course, are driven by a breed of wild men who zoom through the grids with a certain unexplained rage. The train remains ancient, Suzy thinks, like Dad’s Oldsmobile. It sticks to the right course, from here to whatever its destination.
The first time she went to Montauk was for the ashes. She did not know that her parents had ever been there. Like most immigrants, they never took a vacation. Long Island for them ended in Bayshore, a seedy town where a few Koreans owned dry cleaners and fish markets. Dad once mentioned in passing that the business was not bad over there and the schools were better than the ones in Queens. But both Mom and Grace were fiercely against the idea. Mom could not imagine having to take a car to the nearest supermarket, which meant having to learn to drive immediately, and Grace said she would rather die than divulge that she was from Long Island. Suzy did not care one way
or the other. They moved so often that it did not seem to matter where they went, for she was sure that they would move again before the year was up. Besides, she did not feel that she came from one particular place. When someone asked where she was from, she would pause and run through her mind the various apartment complexes in Flushing, the Bronx, the inner parts of Queens, even Jersey City, where they had lived for a few years when Mom got a job at a nail salon during their first years in America. None of them fit the bill, she thought. Korea, she would ponder, but that also seemed far away, for they immigrated when she turned five, and Grace six. Suzy could hardly remember the place. They had lived in a tiny apartment complex on the outskirts of Seoul, she was told. Oddly enough, the only detail she remembered about this childhood home was the elevator. Their apartment was on the fifth floor, which was the uppermost floor, according to her parents, because the topfloor units usually cost less; most young families did not trust the elevator and feared that kids might fall from the windows, which had happened in some buildings. What Suzy remembered vividly was the tiny box of the elevator, which was not so tiny in her child’s eyes, and the mirror that had hung on its wall. She always wanted to look at the mirror, but it hung so high that she could never reach it. She would ask Mom to hoist her up on her shoulders, but Mom was always carrying bags of groceries and was busily pressing the numbered buttons, because the elevator would never respond to the first try. Sometimes Dad would give her a lift—although this happened rarely, for he came home long after the kids went to sleep—but then she was too high up on his shoulders, and the mirror reflected only her dangling feet. Suzy was not sure why this mirror should stick so distinctly in her mind, but almost always she would look for a mirror upon entering elevators and would immediately feel a lack, or a pang of something distant and impossible to name.
or the other. They moved so often that it did not seem to matter where they went, for she was sure that they would move again before the year was up. Besides, she did not feel that she came from one particular place. When someone asked where she was from, she would pause and run through her mind the various apartment complexes in Flushing, the Bronx, the inner parts of Queens, even Jersey City, where they had lived for a few years when Mom got a job at a nail salon during their first years in America. None of them fit the bill, she thought. Korea, she would ponder, but that also seemed far away, for they immigrated when she turned five, and Grace six. Suzy could hardly remember the place. They had lived in a tiny apartment complex on the outskirts of Seoul, she was told. Oddly enough, the only detail she remembered about this childhood home was the elevator. Their apartment was on the fifth floor, which was the uppermost floor, according to her parents, because the topfloor units usually cost less; most young families did not trust the elevator and feared that kids might fall from the windows, which had happened in some buildings. What Suzy remembered vividly was the tiny box of the elevator, which was not so tiny in her child’s eyes, and the mirror that had hung on its wall. She always wanted to look at the mirror, but it hung so high that she could never reach it. She would ask Mom to hoist her up on her shoulders, but Mom was always carrying bags of groceries and was busily pressing the numbered buttons, because the elevator would never respond to the first try. Sometimes Dad would give her a lift—although this happened rarely, for he came home long after the kids went to sleep—but then she was too high up on his shoulders, and the mirror reflected only her dangling feet. Suzy was not sure why this mirror should stick so distinctly in her mind, but almost always she would look for a mirror upon entering elevators and would immediately feel a lack, or a pang of something distant and impossible to name.
They never did move to Bayshore, and Long Island remained a distant place she never thought much about until shortly before the funeral, when she was told that the ashes would be scattered over the Atlantic from the Montauk Lighthouse. She thought it was a bizarre idea; there had been no will, and she had not realized that her parents had ever been to Montauk. Grace would not explain, and everyone assumed that it was fully discussed and understood between the two daughters. When Suzy pressed the matter, Grace cut her off in mid-sentence and snapped, “That’s what they wanted; since when do you care about their wishes?” Suzy took the LIRR to Montauk three days later and watched Grace scatter the ashes. Suzy merely walked alongside Grace and let her conduct everything, as the older child, which was what her parents would have wanted, she thought. There were only a few people who seemed to have known her parents through work, and a reporter from the
Korea Daily
who showed up uninvited. It was exactly five years ago. November, rain, and her entire world had just ended.
Korea Daily
who showed up uninvited. It was exactly five years ago. November, rain, and her entire world had just ended.
Why Montauk? No one told her anything. Maybe Mom had mentioned something about it to Grace, or Dad had left a diary somewhere in the back of filing cabinets, or Grace knew things about their parents that Suzy did not—but it was a mystery, and there was no one Suzy could ask other than Grace, who, even five years later, would not speak to her. The one thing Suzy knew was that Grace disapproved. Grace was a fervent Christian, and burning the body was unacceptable. If Grace had had her way, they would have been buried in a sunny lot somewhere in New Jersey, preferably near her own church, where the funeral was held, as though her parents had ever believed in Christ.
Her parents had been floaters. They went to churches on a whim. Good for business, Suzy thought. They always had a specific reason for each visit. Either a job connection from one of
the elders or trade gossip or market information. A church was where most Koreans gathered on Sundays, and it would have been foolish to ignore its usefulness. But they were atheists at heart. More than once, she overheard Dad cursing off Christians. “Bastards,” he’d say. “They’d even give up their own mother if they thought it would guarantee a spot in that nonsense called heaven.” Sometimes Mom would say a prayer to Buddha when Suzy or Grace got sick, or Dad would say something about the ethics of Confucius at the dinner table, which all seemed confusing somehow, but the message was clear: Jesus was not for Koreans. One night, Suzy walked into the kitchen to find her father in a heated argument with someone on the phone and overheard only the last bit before her mother pointed to her to get back in her room. He was screaming into the phone, “Your ancestors would weep if they knew you were pushing this Christ shit on your countrymen!”
the elders or trade gossip or market information. A church was where most Koreans gathered on Sundays, and it would have been foolish to ignore its usefulness. But they were atheists at heart. More than once, she overheard Dad cursing off Christians. “Bastards,” he’d say. “They’d even give up their own mother if they thought it would guarantee a spot in that nonsense called heaven.” Sometimes Mom would say a prayer to Buddha when Suzy or Grace got sick, or Dad would say something about the ethics of Confucius at the dinner table, which all seemed confusing somehow, but the message was clear: Jesus was not for Koreans. One night, Suzy walked into the kitchen to find her father in a heated argument with someone on the phone and overheard only the last bit before her mother pointed to her to get back in her room. He was screaming into the phone, “Your ancestors would weep if they knew you were pushing this Christ shit on your countrymen!”
“Ancestors”—that was a familiar word. Suzy heard it again and again while growing up. If she got a B instead of an A on a test, the shame lay on her ancestors, who watched from their graves. If Suzy and Grace fought and did not speak for days, it was again the ancestors, who lamented over these descendants who were not only girls but bad-mannered as well. And of course it was due to the watchful eyes of the ancestors that Suzy and Grace were forbidden to speak English at home. “You must never forget your language; once you do, you no longer have a home,” Dad told them. It was not easy to keep on speaking Korean when English came so naturally, and Suzy and Grace often cheated, falling into English when their parents were not around. But in the end, Dad got his way. Ancestors or no ancestors, the girls never forgot Korean. They were even sent to a Korean-language school every Sunday afternoon, though there was almost no need. The girls spoke Korean with near-fluency.
The train is slowing down again. Everyone is getting up at once. Outside, the sign reads “Jamaica,” a stopover station with several platforms. The morning started out overcast, and now the sky is turning black. Each time she comes out here, the rain follows. Or perhaps she has come only when it was raining. With each year, she can bear the rain even less. It makes her terribly aware of being alone. Her father had said that remembering one’s own language ensures home, but was that true? She wonders if her parents would approve of her coming out to see them so often. Suzy at twenty-nine, still single, still careerless, still stuck with a married man—would they turn away in shame?
From here on, it is a smooth ride. Two hours and fifty minutes, and the train will arrive in Montauk.
Once she boards the second train, she shuts her eyes and pretends that this ride will continue forever. She is on her way to see Mom and Dad. She imagines their new home, a pastel oceanfront house they have just moved into. Dad’s newest whim, the beach, the lighthouse, the moonlight, the edge of New York. “Oh, who would’ve ever thought,” Mom would say, laughing, picking up Suzy at the train station in her brand-new Jeep. Mom behind the wheel in her Christian Dior sunglasses and a sky-blue tank top with tan lines showing through its straps despite the November rain, while Dad is out fishing for fluke, which he would then get the local fishermen to fillet for sushi later. Suzy would present them with a bag of Korean groceries, which her parents would delight in opening; Montauk is not Flushing, definitely not Woodside or Jackson Heights, no Oriental goods within miles. They would gloat over a jar of
kimchi
, dried squid, salted pollack eggs. They would laugh like children, and Suzy would squint from so much sun in their faces. But then, always, Suzy remembers that she is nineteen still, and
college is not easy at all, and she’s come home to tell them:
Dear Mom and Dad, I don’t want to stay in school anymore, I’m afraid of the rules and of breaking them all, I’m afraid of the boys who want me and the men I desire in return, I’m afraid of being stuck out there and not finding my way back unless I hide with you for a while, stay in the bedroom upstairs, and let you take care of me, I will wait for you all day while you fish, while you sunbathe, I will mop the floor and vacuum the living room and even fillet the fish if I can stay just a few nights or weeks or years until I am okay, until I can stand on my own and chase her away who stands in dark with wet hair and a cigarette, afraid of the phone that keeps ringing, until her fingers turn red from the ashes.
kimchi
, dried squid, salted pollack eggs. They would laugh like children, and Suzy would squint from so much sun in their faces. But then, always, Suzy remembers that she is nineteen still, and
college is not easy at all, and she’s come home to tell them:
Dear Mom and Dad, I don’t want to stay in school anymore, I’m afraid of the rules and of breaking them all, I’m afraid of the boys who want me and the men I desire in return, I’m afraid of being stuck out there and not finding my way back unless I hide with you for a while, stay in the bedroom upstairs, and let you take care of me, I will wait for you all day while you fish, while you sunbathe, I will mop the floor and vacuum the living room and even fillet the fish if I can stay just a few nights or weeks or years until I am okay, until I can stand on my own and chase her away who stands in dark with wet hair and a cigarette, afraid of the phone that keeps ringing, until her fingers turn red from the ashes.
The screeching of the engine signals a stop, and Suzy looks out through the rain-streaked windowpane to find one of the Hampton towns. Even in November, she can spot the white-and-khaki ensemble on the platform. This part of Long Island has nothing to do with Bayshore and its Korean immigrants. This is Ralph Lauren land, the
crème de la crème
of Madison Avenue. “Why call this a country? Disneyland would be more accurate!” Damian ranted as they drove across the entire coastline one summer in search of the antique shop where the missing Edo print was found. It was a research trip for the book he was working on. Suzy thought he was overreacting, but she liked that about Damian, his refusal to forgive the tiniest flaw or weakness. She believed that it was a sign of honesty, his unwillingness to compromise, his search for the ideal. She admired his intrepid pursuit of beauty, which she thought was his faith in love, the very essence of what she lacked.
crème de la crème
of Madison Avenue. “Why call this a country? Disneyland would be more accurate!” Damian ranted as they drove across the entire coastline one summer in search of the antique shop where the missing Edo print was found. It was a research trip for the book he was working on. Suzy thought he was overreacting, but she liked that about Damian, his refusal to forgive the tiniest flaw or weakness. She believed that it was a sign of honesty, his unwillingness to compromise, his search for the ideal. She admired his intrepid pursuit of beauty, which she thought was his faith in love, the very essence of what she lacked.
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