Honolulu (4 page)

And so Mother drew her sister into a series of loving recollections of people and places of their youth, which made Obedience smile and even laugh.

Mother quickly took charge of the household and set about cooking a chicken dish known as a health rejuvenator. As this unfortunately required a chicken, I was given the onerous task of purchasing one at the butcher’s shop. Auntie insisted on paying for it and pressed a handful of won into my hand. Boldly, I decided not to wear my veil. No one on the street seemed to take notice.

My pleasure at being out bare-faced and unescorted was mitigated by my revulsion at the shop, its floor streaked with the blood of fowl, swine, and cattle, whose short lives had all reached the same unhappy end. No one who grows up in the country, of course, is a stranger to such matters, but the concentrated stench of so much dead meat turned my stomach. The butcher offered to let me select a chicken from the coop outside but I merely picked out one of the plucked carcasses already on ice, which he hastily wrapped in slick brown paper.

I paid for the poultry and returned to Auntie’s. Mother took possession of the carcass and set about sprinkling it with ginseng while Obedience examined the bill to make certain I had not been shortchanged. When I saw her taking in not just the numbers but the few words of hangul on the bill, I blurted out, “Auntie-can you read?”

“I can certainly read a butcher’s bill,” she said with a sniff.

“Could you teach me?”

“What silliness is this? Why does a young girl of marriageable age need to learn to read?”

My response, I admit, was not without a measure of calculation.

“Because I wish to make something of my life,” I said.

I saw the desired flash of sympathy in her eyes, but then, surprisingly, she glanced away in embarrassment.

“Your uncle taught me to recognize certain words and numbers, in order that I might not be cheated by an unscrupulous grocer,” she admitted, “but that is all. Forgive me, niece. I cannot help you to better yourself. I wish I could.”

There was such shame in her tone that I felt immediate remorse for having raised the subject. Auntie retreated into the kitchen with Mother and I spoke not another word about the matter….

Until that night, when I was awakened near midnight by the touch of a hand on my arm. I was sleeping on a straw mat in the front of the houseMother shared a room with her sister-and I opened my eyes to see, in the hovering glow of a candle, Aunt Obedience squatting at my side.

“Niece,” she said softly, “do you truly wish to learn to read?”

“Oh, Auntie, please don’t trouble yourself over my foolish whims. I understand that you can’t-”

“Oh, hush.” The word came out with surprising gentleness, but it was followed hard by a scraping cough. When she recovered her breath she went on: “I … might know someone who could teach you. But it would have to be our secret, just the two of us; you understand?”

I didn’t, but said that I did.

“Dried-up old women like myself rarely have a chance to better anyone’s life,” she said with familiar self-deprecation, but an unfamiliar hint of a smile. “At least I shall try.”

She stood, and the wobbly pool of candlelight floated out of the room with her. I had no idea what to make of this, but even the faintest hope of learning to read made it difficult for me to fall back asleep any time soon.

The next morning I awoke to find Mother puzzled and concerned because Aunt Obedience had insisted on going out to the market alone, despite her cough. But when Auntie returned an hour later, she seemed fine: “At the market I happened to see my friend Mrs. Li, who has a daughter the same age as Regret,” she announced casually to my mother. “I thought it might be pleasant if the two of them met.” Mother agreed, and was as startled as I when her sister promptly took me by the hand and whisked me out of the house to meet this new friend.

Out in the street, obedience smiled again. “She has agreed to meet you,” she told me excitedly.

“Mrs. Li’s daughter?”

“What! Don’t be silly, that was all blather, for your mother’s benefit.”

“Why can’t Mother know what I’m doing?”

“I would prefer that she did not,” was all Auntie would say. “And if she asks what you and Mrs. Li’s daughter did together, say you spent the afternoon sewing, or cooking, or whatever enters your head.”

“Yes, Auntie,” I said. “Thank you.”

Within minutes we were at the marketplace, where we paused in front of the fish market as Obedience surveyed the crowd in search of someone. As five, then ten minutes crept past, she seemed to worry; until at last she sighed in relief, declaring, “There she is,” and once more took me by the hand.

As we hurried forward I followed her gaze, and caught my first glimpse of this person who would be so pivotal to the course of my life.

She was standing at a flower stall, a strikingly beautiful woman no more than thirty years old, with fair skin and piercing eyes. She was colorfully attired in red petticoats and a brilliant blue blouse made of lustrous silk and ramie. Her face was impeccably made up with powder and kohl, as in the pictures of royal women I had seen. But her beauty was not the most remarkable thing I noticed about her.

The woman, you see, was chatting with the flower vendor, and I was flabbergasted to see that she did not deferentially avert her gaze but instead looked directly at the man as she spoke to him. Even more astonishing, she smiled at him! Her face was not the diffident, expressionless mask that other women decorously presented to men, but warm, open, and even a little flirtatious.

I can scarcely begin to describe the nearly electric shock that crackled through my body at the sight of this. The woman nodded a goodbye to the florist and moved on. I watched in amazement as she brazenly made eye contact with at least half a dozen other men-smiling, speaking a word or two of greeting, even exchanging laughter with one prosperous-looking gentleman. And the men, far from being shocked or offended by her boldness, actually smiled back at her! I had never seen anything like it, and I must confess, my first reaction was one of dismay and disapproval.

As she drew closer, the woman looked up, recognizing Auntie. The warmth in her face cooled a bit, her expression becoming, it seemed to me, merely polite. I expected my aunt to bow first in greeting, as one of lower rank does upon meeting someone of higher rank; but to my surprise the woman bowed first and said, cordially enough, “Good morning to you.”

Even more surprising, she used the “high” speech form that a person of lower stature used when speaking to one of higher rank.

“Good morning,” Aunt Obedience replied with a small bow. “May I have the honor of presenting my niece to you?” And she gave me a little jab in the side.

I bowed and introduced myself with what I hoped was proper form: “I am Regret, of the Pak clan of Pojogae, and I am meeting you for the first time.”

When I told her my name I thought I saw her wince a little, quickly covered by a small smile.

“I am called Evening Rose,” she said, “and I have no clan. At least none that matters.”

I was startled by this and did not know how to reply.

“Your honored aunt tells me that you wish to learn to read. Is this so?”

“Yes, teacher,” I said, using a common honorific. “I do.”

“And why is it so important to you to learn?”

I started to tell her what I had told Auntie, that I wished to better myself, but this time it came out a bit differently: “I wish to become a person of value,” I found myself saying, “so that my parents might not be ashamed of giving birth to me.”

I had only ever articulated this thought to myself, and I felt suddenly embarrassed at voicing it, fearing it might be too emotional and, therefore, in poor taste. Had I said too much?

The woman called Evening Rose looked at me, her expression unreadable, then turned to my aunt and said, “You may come for her at my house in one hour. That is all the time I have to spare today.” To me she merely said, “Come along, then,” and like a straggling puppy I followed her out of the marketplace.

She walked so gracefully that I felt like a stumblebum trailing in her wake. As we passed men in the streets I avoided their gazes, even as Evening Rose met those gazes openly, warmly. Who on earth, I asked myself, was this beautiful, regal lady who walked so boldly among men?

We arrived at a little two-story white house with a blue tile roof not far from the marketplace, tucked into a quiet corner and half-obscured beneath the billowing green leaves of a paulownia tree. The grounds surrounding it were bright with hyacinth, azaleas, forsythia. Lilies floated on the blue-black surface of a small pond beside the house; a stone lantern guarded the walkway. We ascended three short steps onto a tiny porch and then entered.

The interior was simply yet artfully furnished. Low tables squatted on rush mats that smelled sweetly of sedge. Folding screens-some adorned with mountain scenes, some with calligraphy-broke the main living area into smaller, more intimate spaces. All at once I found myself amid a flock of women as beautiful as Evening Rose, though most were a good deal younger; I’d say between the ages of seventeen and twenty. Like her they were impeccably made up and colorfully attired, some wearing sleeping robes even though it was the middle of the day. I felt acutely inadequate amidst all this loveliness. My hostess rattled off introductions to girls with names like Fragrant Iris, Plum Flower, Moonbeam, and Snapdragon, who each bowed and smiled cordially in greeting.

The sole exception was an older woman with a face as blunt as a mallet, who took one quick look at me, snorted contemptuously, and advised Evening Rose, “Don’t waste your time on this one. She’s not pretty enough.”

My companion frowned. “Curb your tongue, old woman. This girl is my guest, and I shall entertain whomever I please in my room. Oh, and arrange to have some refreshments sent up, will you?” she added sweetly.

She took me by the elbow and guided me past the grimacing old woman, up a staircase to the second floor, passing more beautiful women along the way. I was just beginning to wonder what they were all doing in this one house when we entered my hostess’s private room, and all thoughts paled next to what I saw there.

Like the rest of the house, it was simply but tastefully furnished: a sleeping mat separated from the living area by an ornate folding screen, a wardrobe chest made of dark burnished oak, and a vanity table on which was assembled a veritable armada of combs, brushes, powders, oils, and other cosmetics.

Yet none of this is what commanded my attention when I stepped across the threshold. All I had eyes for were the lacquered shelves that covered an entire wall of the room-shelves that were filled to bursting with books. Leatherbound books, clothbound books; short books, tall books, fat books and thin. Their spines, in a variety of colors and textures, stood out like a peacock’s plumage, and their sheer numbers dwarfed even my father’s quite respectable library.

“Are these books … all yours?” I asked in amazement.

“Yes, of course.”

“You are a … scholar, then?”

She laughed for the first time, a pleasant, musical laugh. “Of a sort, perhaps. I am a kisaeng.”

“Pardon my ignorance, teacher,” I said blankly, “but what is a kisaeng?”

A servant girl entered the room carrying a dining table on which were balanced a kettle and two china cups, then placed it beside a pair of cushions on the floor. We sat, and as my hostess poured me a cup of hot rice water she explained, “A kisaeng is a kind of entertainer. We are trained from childhood in arts like dance, poetry, song, calligraphy … the highest grade of kisaeng once performed in the royal palace.”

Impressed, I asked her whether she had ever performed for the king.

“I’m proud to say that I did … when we still had a king. Before the Wai barbarians came.” This was a common pejorative for the Japanese. “Now I live here, and perform at … private functions.” These latter words contained, I thought, a hint of melancholy.

“And what sort of books are these?”

“Oh, all sorts. Some are novels. Some are p ansori, a kind of song-story. Some are history-Korean history, the kind our oppressors would have us deny.”

I asked her where she had learned to read.

“The court schooled me in both Chinese characters and Korean. We had to know these things, you see, if we were to socialize with yangban men at royal banquets and other festivities.”

“My father says that book reading is the province of men, and great harm will be done if women enter that province.”

She laughed a short, less musical laugh.

“Your father is both misinformed and unoriginal. He was quoting the great scholar Yi Ik, who had many enlightened ideas about the underprivileged, but none, alas, for the female of the species. Would it surprise you to know that one of our nation’s greatest poets was a mere woman?”

She rose as gracefully as a doe, went to her bookshelf, and almost without looking took down a volume from an upper shelf. She sat down again and opened the book. “Several remarkable
sijo
poems are handed down to us from a kisaeng who went by the name of Bright Moon.” She read aloud:

You, blue stream, flowing around mountains,
Do not be proud of moving so swiftly.
Once you get to the open sea,
You will never be able to return.
Why not stop for a moment while the bright moon
Gleams down on the world?

Evening Rose turned the book around so that its pages faced me, but they might as well have been upside down or sideways for all that I could make sense of them. “Someday, perhaps, you will read these for yourself. I am not a teacher by trade or by temperament, but I will do my best.”

Now she produced a long black pen and a paper scroll. With the pen gripped between exquisitely manicured fingers, she drew a single character that looked like this: L

“This is the letter we call nieun,” she told me. “Say it aloud.”

“Nieun. ”

“Now start to say it again, but not quite. Vocalize only the very first part of the word.”

I thought this odd, but did as she instructed: a guttural “Nnnhh” was all the sound that came from my throat.