This Burns My Heart (32 page)

“If you’d like, I can give it back to you,” said Yul.

“No. Keep it,” said Soo-Ja, smiling back. She was looking at the sky, and for a moment, she thought she could see the stars linking, forming the stems, the leaves, and the circles of the flower buds. It was as if she were painting again, and her strokes could link different constellations together. When Soo-Ja glanced back at Yul, she could see him staring intently at her. She immediately guessed what he was thinking.

“No, Yul.”

“How do you know what is on my mind?” he asked.

“The way you are staring at my lips,” said Soo-Ja.

“Mouths were made for kissing.”

“They were also made for talking.”

“Maybe if I didn’t kiss your mouth. And I just kiss… your shoulders,” said Yul, his lips pecking her clothed shoulders, and moving up from there, “and your neck, and your ears, and your nose.” He kissed each of those parts, and she felt a slight shiver each time. She closed her eyes, letting the soft touch of his lips press her recalcitrant skin. He rested his hand lightly over hers—half hovering, half grazing—and she found its weight to be at turns alarming and reassuring. She knew it was wrong—this closeness—but the night had a dreamlike quality to it, the promise of forgetfulness. With her eyes shut, Soo-Ja pictured Yul kissing her—he’d kiss her like a sigh, his love filling her lungs. But when he tried to do so, she opened her eyes and pulled away. His face remained in midair—homeless, orphaned. It hurt to say no, when there was nothing she wanted more than to hold him and have him hold her, to kiss and be kissed back. Soo-Ja thought he’d head inside after that, but Yul
remained on the same spot, standing next to her. They were like teenagers trying to figure out what to do with lips and arms and hips. They stood side by side, with their arms pressing together. Soo-Ja rested her head on Yul’s shoulder, and they said nothing more.

The next night, Soo-Ja and Yul met again. This time, the two of them grew adventurous and decided to break curfew. They slipped out of the hotel, again like teenagers, watching for police officers in the distance. At first, they moved a bit surreptitiously, constantly glancing over their shoulders for informants. But then they realized that the streets were empty, and they began their walk, their steps slow and leisurely, looking at their own neighborhood with the interest and curiosity of tourists abroad. They passed by colorful toy stores and candy markets, all built without an inch of free space between them; took in the smell of spicy soups and fried seafood still lingering in the air.

“By the way, have you ever wondered if Hana is yours?” asked Soo-Ja, smiling mischievously.

“How could she be mine? You and I have never made love,” said Yul, stealing glances at her as they walked. The night was cold, and they could see their white breaths bending and coiling in front of them.

“Still, I wonder,” said Soo-Ja, shrugging her shoulders lightly, her hands inside her pockets.

“I like that you do,” said Yul, smiling.

“You know, I never thought I’d see you again after I left you that night in Pusan, and here you are. You are here! I spend so much time thinking of all the different ways I don’t have you, but you’re right here.”

Yul turned to her, his eyes glowing with impishness. “Do you want to list all of the ways that we don’t have each other?”

Soo-Ja laughed. “Oh, Yul, you’re not good at being vulgar. And trust me, you wouldn’t enjoy making love to me. I just lie there.” Soo-Ja was surprised to hear the words slip out of her mouth. But the combination of the night being so still and so
theirs
, and being able to enjoy it alone with Yul—all of it had made her a little tipsy.

“It would be different if you were doing it with someone you loved,” said Yul.

Soo-Ja laughed again, turning her head sideways. “Really?”

“I’m sorry. I just feel like I can say anything around you. I feel completely free around you,” said Yul.

“I feel the same way. That means we’re good friends,” said Soo-Ja. Even though the temperature seemed to drop with each block they passed, she did not feel cold. She could have walked all night with Yul, waking up to the dawning sun, her body next to his on a bench, the moistness of morning in her breath.

Yul shook his head. “Why is it so hard for you to say that I mean more to you?”

“You’re being awfully presumptuous. What makes you think you mean so much? Maybe I can barely stand you,” said Soo-Ja, smiling.

“Is there anyone else you talk to this freely?” asked Yul, suddenly stopping.

Soo-Ja kept walking, leaving him behind. She then stopped, too, and waited for him to catch up with her. When they were next to each other again, they resumed walking. All this was done with the precision of a dance, the movements carefully modulated, the counts invisible but steady.

“I used to. With my father.”

“Why do you say ‘used to’?”

“He and I don’t talk much anymore,” said Soo-Ja, growing a little forlorn. “Every time I do, I can’t help thinking,
I ruined the life of someone I care about.
”

“Why do you think that?”

“Only because he gave me all his money and it went to pay off my father-in-law’s debts.”

“Then you didn’t ruin his life. You gave him the chance to show his love for you.”

“That’s a nice way of looking at it. But in reality, I just avoid the topic. I avoid
him
, actually,” said Soo-Ja, looking straight ahead. The strip of shops had ended, and they could see a walled-in park ahead, the tips of magnolia trees arching over the red brick walls.

“You should talk to your father. Don’t let things be awkward between you. He would be glad to have his daughter in his life again. And when you make a fortune from your investments, you can pay him back.”

Soo-Ja smiled at him. “How do you always know what to say to me?”

“Because I care too much,” he said, with a hint of playfulness in his voice. They were developing quite a repertoire that night, creating an act to take on the road, like the old clowns of yesteryear, who would travel to villages doing mask dances and comic routines.

“And why do you care ‘too much’?”

“Because you were my first love,” he said, taking the edge off the word by lingering on it. “Don’t you know, from the movies you see, that you never forget your first love?”

“It’s too bad you were never able to love anyone else,” said Soo-Ja teasingly.

“What makes you think I was never able to love anyone else?”

“Are you saying you love Eun-Mee?” asked Soo-Ja, in disbelief.

Yul laughed at Soo-Ja’s certainty. “In the beginning. She was a different woman when I met her.”

“Then maybe you should be talking to Eun-Mee right now,” said Soo-Ja, the sharpness in her voice half contrived, half real. “Should we head back?”

“No, wait,” said Yul.

The temperature seemed to drop further, and Soo-Ja could hear the howl of the wind as the cold lashed at her. It would be nice, she thought, if he put his arms around her. It would distract her mind; it would make the cold dissipate.

“Are you ever going to say it? How you feel about me?” asked Yul.

“I don’t know what you mean,” said Soo-Ja, though she did.

Soo-Ja and Yul stood in front of each other, waiting for the other to speak first, each afraid to break the moment. Then, sirens began to soar in the distance, announcing the end of curfew. Citizens would now be able to leave their homes and go to work, drive in the streets, and eat in restaurants. Soon roads would be filled with cars and pedestrians and smoke billowing out of buses. But for now, for those fleeting minutes,
all was quiet, everyone still asleep. If they kissed, or embraced, no one could see, no one would have to know.

“Let’s head back,” said Soo-Ja.

In the morning, Soo-Ja grew bold and decided to do something she’d always wanted to do. She went into the hotel kitchen and made a lunch bag for Yul to take to work. She cooked her own recipe of
japchae
—mixed vegetable noodles, and fried gyoza—and placed them in a hot steel container. She did not say anything to Yul, but simply left it outside his door, without saying it was from her. At night, the brown bag reappeared outside her own door. She opened it and was happy to see it was completely empty—it meant he had enjoyed it and eaten it well. The next day, she cooked something else—
pokum bab
—fried rice with egg, ham, and peas, topped with some strips of meat. Once again, Soo-Ja left it by his door. Eun-Mee never saw the bags, as she always slept in. At night, they reappeared on her own doorstep, always empty.

Soo-Ja pictured Yul eating in his office, enjoying his food. It would make him glad, not having to ask one of the receptionists to fetch him lunch.
No, not today, I have it
, he’d say, and the receptionist would reply,
Good, Dr. Kim, everyone here always felt so bad for you, we all always have our lunch bags, except for you.

One morning, as Soo-Ja dropped the bag off in front of Yul’s room, she rose from the mat to find a pair of eyes peering at her. Unmistakably curious and full of disapproval, the eyes belonged to Hana. Soo-Ja did not speak, but knew that her own surprised reaction would tell much of the story. Hana said nothing, and Soo-Ja knew instinctively that her daughter wouldn’t tell Min. But in the moment that passed between them, Soo-Ja feared that her daughter would swallow up a piece of her mother’s ache, and hoped that it would not damage her.

“Hello, this is Hotel Seine,” Soo-Ja said into the receiver in the morning, hiding a yawn.

“You sound so tired! You really need to get that husband of yours to help you more.” It was Jae-Hwa, with her familiar, singsongy trill.

“Jae-Hwa, did you make it back to Daegu all right?” Soo-Ja asked, glad to hear her friend’s voice.

“Yes. Thank you for seeing me while I was in Seoul. I loved it, although now I have so much dust in my lungs! Too bad the vacuum cleaner doesn’t reach inside my throat.”

Soo-Ja laughed. “It was good to see you, too.”

“So you’re not mad at me for—”

“Of course not,” Soo-Ja cut her off, feeling bad that she had worried her friend. “But let’s not talk about that anymore.”

“But how’re you going to find the money?”

“To be honest with you, Jae-Hwa, I’m beginning to accept the fact that I won’t,” said Soo-Ja, half sighing. “But maybe that’s not such a bad thing. I had money growing up, and it only attracted trouble.”

There was silence on the other end of the line.

“Jae-Hwa, what is it?” Soo-Ja asked, concerned.

“It’s just—well, I lied to you. I said I couldn’t lend you the money, but I could. In fact, the amount you asked for isn’t even that much for me.”

“Jae-Hwa, you don’t need to explain. It was wrong of me to put you on the spot like that.”

“No, it wasn’t wrong. You always lent me money when we were young. Actually, when we’d go out, you always paid for things. And never asked for anything back.”

“I didn’t mind helping you back then,” Soo-Ja said, playing with the long, beige coiled phone cord. She imagined Jae-Hwa at the other end, sitting in one of the brocaded sofas in her living room, probably dressed in her usual cashmere. “I got pleasure out of giving you things.”

“Soo-Ja, the reason I didn’t give you the loan was because… well, when I came to visit you, and saw the hotel, and saw the little rooms you and your family were living in… I thought, she’s not asking me for money to make an investment, she’s asking it so she can make ends meet.”

Soo-Ja felt her face fall. “Jae-Hwa, I’m poor, but I’m not
that
poor. And I wouldn’t lie to you.”

“I know. But I looked at how you were dressed, and I thought, There’s no way she’ll be able to pay me back. And that’s why I didn’t give you the money. Because I was afraid you wouldn’t be able to pay me back. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” said Soo-Ja curtly. In that moment, Soo-Ja decided she did not want Jae-Hwa’s money. What did she take Soo-Ja for? A beggar? Even if she had called to offer her ten times the sum, Soo-Ja wouldn’t have taken it.

“This doesn’t change anything, I hope? I mean, money shouldn’t come between friends,” said Jae-Hwa.

“Of course not,” said Soo-Ja, her lips tightly pursed.

They would never be friends again. The difference in class made it impossible.

Soo-Ja held the telephone in her hands, not ready to dial the numbers. In a moment or so, she’d call Gi-yong Im to let him know that she wasn’t able to raise the money to buy the land. In a moment or so, she’d thank him for waiting for her, and for giving her the opportunity. In a moment or so, she’d hang up the phone, and then it would be over. And because it would be over—taking her hopes with it, and replacing them with the ring of defeat—she hesitated before calling.

“My favorite investor, Mrs. Soo-Ja Choi,” said Gi-yong, in his animated voice, when he answered the phone. He was always selling—a place, an idea, an emotion. “How are you?”

“I am well. I could be better, of course. Which is why I’m calling you,” said Soo-Ja, holding the phone close against her face, her hand made into a fist brushing against her cheek.

“If you’ve changed your mind, it may be too late. The money has already been routed to my account, and once it gets in there, it’s awfully hard to pry it out of my fingers,” said Gi-yong jokingly.

Soo-Ja thought she could hear him tapping against his desk with a pen. “Yes, the money. I’m sorry I don’t have the money. That’s why I’m calling you. To let you know that you’re free to sell the land to someone else. I did the best I could, but I couldn’t get it.”

“Mrs. Choi, the land is yours,” said Gi-yong calmly, and she could hear him leaning forward on his desk, becoming more attentive. “Your money has been deposited, and the contracts have been drawn. I thought that’s why you were calling, to set up a time for the signing.”

Soo-Ja stood confused for a moment, as if Gi-yong had been speaking a foreign language, and it took her a few extra seconds to translate the words, one by one. “Did you say, ‘your money has been deposited’?”

“From your silent partner,” said Gi-yong, a little impatiently.

“My silent partner?”