Daughters of the Dragon: A Comfort Woman's Story (25 page)

F
ORTY-FOUR

M
r. Kwan sees
me before I can turn away. He marches up to us. “We have been waiting for you,” he says with his diplomatic smile. He tells us if we had been any later, he would’ve let the plane go and arrested us. He says they’ll hold the plane for us and if everything checks out, he’ll let us go back to America. “You should check in first,” he says, pointing to the ticket counter.

Other travelers stare at us as two male security agents take our luggage and the box with my celadon pot. Dad and I go to the ticket counter and give our passports and tickets to the agent. Mr. Kwan steps to the counter and says something to an airline official. The official bows to Mr. Kwan and then shoots an angry look at us. He disappears into an office behind the ticket counter.

After the ticket agent hands us our boarding passes, Mr. Kwan tells us to follow him. He walks to a door just off the entrance to the concourse. An airport security guard unlocks the door with a key attached to his belt and Mr. Kwan points us inside.

The lights in the room are bright and hurt my eyes. There’s a long metal table, an airport luggage scanner and a people scanner that leads to an outside door. I try not to stare at the security guard who opens the box with the celadon pot. Another guard lifts our suitcases onto the table and zips them open. They begin sifting through the contents, searching the pockets, our shoes, Dad’s shaving kit, our toiletries—everywhere we might have hidden the comb. One by one, they pass everything through the scanner while a third guard stares into a monitor. Bruce Willis has his back against the door and watches everything.

As the guards pick through our luggage, Mr. Kwan tells us that they have to frisk us and then we have to go through the people scanner. A guard stands next to him with a metal detecting wand. Mr. Kwan explains that the ‘examination,’ as he calls it, is necessary to be sure we’re not taking the comb out of the country. “I assure you,” he says, “if you have it, we will find it.”

“This isn’t right,” Dad complains.

“Of course,” Mr. Kwan says, “if one of you has the comb, you can give it to me now and avoid this unpleasantness.”

Dad glances at me, but I say nothing. After a few seconds, Mr. Kwan tells Dad to take off his shoes and raise his arms. The security guard runs his wand up and down Dad’s body and legs. When he’s finished, Mr. Kwan tells Dad to walk through the scanner. Dad does and the light on top turns green. Mr. Kwan points to the door. “Wait for your daughter in the concourse,” he says.

Dad looks worried. “It’s alright,” I say. “I’ll be there in a minute.” Dad frowns and goes out the door.

Mr. Kwan tells me to take off my shoes. I give them to a guard who runs them through the scanner. The guard with the wand steps up to me and waves the wand over me like he did with Dad, just like they did in Mrs. Hong’s apartment. This time, I’m strangely calm, almost as if this is happening to someone else. I’m not embarrassed or the least bit afraid. I feel like I’m someone else. I stare at Mr. Kwan.

“So, it’s true, isn’t it?” I say. “The two-headed dragon is a powerful symbol for Korea.”

“It is just a valuable artifact,” he says as the guard wands my legs.

“No, it’s more than that,” I hear myself say. “A five-toed dragon with two heads. It’s a symbol from Empress Myeongseong.”

The security guard finishes frisking me and hands me my shoes. “Is that what your grandmother told you?” Mr. Kwan asks.

“Yeah, it is,” I say, pulling on my shoes. “She said the comb has been in our family for generations. She said that I’m a descendent of Empress Myeongseong.”

He shakes his head. “I read your adoption papers, Ms. Carlson. Just because she gave you the same name as the Empress does not make you related to her. Many Koreans say they are descendants of royalty.”

“Yes,” I say, “but she had the comb with a five-toed dragon that you want so badly, didn’t she?”

Mr. Kwan nods almost imperceptibly. “Yes, she did.”

I stand before the people scanner with my eyes still locked on Mr. Kwan. He raises his chin. “I see you bought a celadon pot,” he says.

The corners of my mouth turn up. “I got it at Kosney’s,” I say. “I heard the quality is much better than the ones on the street.”

For the first time since I met him, he gives me a genuine smile. And then he says, “Take care of yourself, Ja-young.”

I’m completely at ease as I walk through the scanner and the light turns green.

*

Dad and I sprint to our gate carrying our suitcases and my celadon pot. When we get to the gangway, a luggage handler is waiting for us. He takes our suitcases and we board the plane. As we find our seats, the other passengers glare at us for delaying their flight.

After we settle in, Dad whispers, “What happened? Where were you all day? And what happened to the package?”

“It’s safe,” I answer. “I’ll tell you all about it when we get home.” Dad gives me a look but lets it slide.

We have two seats together next to a window over the wing. Dad’s on the aisle and I’m at the window. The airplane pulls away from the gate and rumbles down the runway. Soon, we’re crossing over the Korean peninsula toward the Sea of Japan. A monitor on the bulkhead shows our progress with a yellow line over a map of the North Pacific. I’m relieved to be going home.

An hour into our flight, we’ve crossed over the Japanese island of Hokkaido. The monitor says we’re cruising at thirty-eight thousand feet heading toward the Aleutian Islands. The airplane hums quietly and there’re only a few overhead lights on. Dad is sleeping. Asleep, he finally looks peaceful.

I’m wiped out. I can’t even begin to grasp all that’s happened on this trip. I know there’ll be plenty of time to think it through when we get home, so I set it all aside. I look out the window at a billion stars.

My eyes are heavy, so I turn off the light and pull the blanket to my chin. I curl up in the seat and soon I’m asleep. As we head home, the people and places of my Korean grandmother’s life story fill my dreams.

F
ORTY-FIVE

W
hen I was
growing up my family didn’t have a big house or fancy cars or a cabin on a lake ‘up north’. We didn’t spend money on boats or snowmobiles or ATVs like many of our friends did. We didn’t buy the latest fashions. But I didn’t mind. We travelled instead.

Dad always said that to understand the world, you had to smell it. So by the time I graduated from high school, I’d smelled Europe and Canada three times each, Mexico and the Caribbean twice each, Central America, Kenya, Australia and New Zealand. I’d been in forty-one states (airports don’t count) and had my U.S. National Park passport book stamped twenty-nine times.

And now I’ve smelled Korea, the country where I was born.

When I get home, everything’s different. It’s all bigger and more alive. Colors are brighter and sounds and smells are more intense. Yet at the same time, it’s somehow more manageable. I can’t explain it, really. I suppose it’s because I have a new context to put everything into—my birth-grandmother’s amazing life and the new knowledge I have of the people I share DNA with. For the first time since Mother died, I’m looking forward to the next chapter in my life.

The day after we get home, I tell Dad that the woman that gave me the comb was my birth-grandmother. I tell him her incredible story and that I promised to try to help her meet her sister someday. I decide not to tell him about me being a descendent of Empress Myeongseong or that Mrs. Hong says I have to serve Korea somehow. I feel guilty about keeping it from him, but honestly, I really don’t know what to believe.

Dad listens carefully and asks questions. I answer them as best as I can. Then he asks about the comb. I tell him it’s just a family heirloom that Mrs. Hong wants me to have to remind me of my Korean heritage. “Why were those government officials so intent on it?” he asks.

“It’s just an heirloom, Dad,” I repeat. He raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t ask any more questions.

That night I think about going back to college to finish my senior year. When I left, Northwestern said they’d let me come back. Dad says I should do it, but I decide to stay home and enroll at the University of Minnesota instead. I log onto the ‘U’s website to see what my class options are. I’m still not sure what I should take and the deadline is only a few days away. I bring up my list of pros and cons for medical school versus law school. Medical school and residency would be an expensive, ten-year grind. But in the end, I’d have a prestigious job and a good income. Law school would be a piece of cake compared to medical school. It’d be three years of school and a few years as a law associate. But a career in law isn’t exactly a sure thing like medicine is.

Or, I could do something completely different.

My choices on the computer monitor stare at me. I search my heart for the right answer like Mrs. Hong said I should. It’s not telling me anything. So I log off. I still have a few days.

It saddens me when Dad falls back into his miserable routine. Each day he leaves for work early and comes home in time to sit in the dark living room before dinner. When he puts on his grilling apron, he makes the same things each week. On Monday, it’s Mother’s goulash. On Tuesday, it’s Mother’s baked tilapia. Wednesday, it’s her parmesan chicken… and so on. Every week it’s the same thing and every recipe is Mother’s. When I offer to make something different, he says, “No. I’ll do it.”

*

One day, I do a search for the Korean embassy and I see there’s an office in Minneapolis. It’s on Park Avenue where businesses have converted the 1800’s mansions into hip offices. I jump in Mom’s Corolla and drive there. The office is on the third floor of a three-story stone mansion. I climb two flights of stairs to a reception area with a flag of South Korea in the corner. A Korean woman sits behind a glass desk. She smiles pleasantly through stylish, red-framed glasses. “May I help you?” she asks.

“I want to arrange a meeting with someone in North Korea,” I say.

“I see,” she says. “You need to talk with Mr. Han.”

She points me to a couch and offers to get me coffee, which I decline. Then she disappears into the back while I wait. On the wall are travel posters for South Korea. It’s really a beautiful country. Rolling hills, jagged granite peaks, two seacoasts, the exciting capital of Seoul where I was born.

Eventually, a man in a navy blue suit and white shirt comes to the lobby and greets me with a handshake. “I’m Mr. Han,” he says. “I understand you want to connect with someone in the North?” He speaks English with only a slight accent. He’s slender and lean. He has an intelligent face. I guess he’s in his mid-thirties.

“Yes,” I answer. “It’s a long story.”

“I would be glad to hear it,” Mr. Han says. He tells me to follow him to his office. We walk down the hall and inside a large office. Embroidered rugs cover the hardwood floors, the walls are wood paneled, and a dormered window overlooks the street. A window air conditioner hums quietly. I sit on a couch off to the side of his desk. He sits in a chair next to it.

He folds his hands in his lap and asks my name. I give it and tell him I was adopted when I was a baby. He asks me to tell him more about my request. I tell him about my trip to Korea and how I met my Korean grandmother. I give him a summary of her story. I’m careful not to say anything about the comb with the two-headed dragon or that I’m related to Empress Myeongseong. I tell him I agreed to help Mrs. Hong meet her sister.

When I’m done, Mr. Han nods. “Very interesting,” he says. “How do you know your grandmother’s story is true?”

I think about it for a second. “I guess I don’t for sure,” I admit.

He smiles. “Well, we will see what we can do.”

I push myself to the edge of the couch. “So, do you think you can arrange a meeting?”

Mr. Han shrugs. “There are times when it can be done. But, I am afraid we are not in one of those times, presently.”

“Why not?”

He leans forward. He then tells me that the North and South Korea are still officially at war. There was no formal peace treaty signed after the hostilities ended in 1953. He says the two sides only agreed to a cease-fire and that tensions are very high right now—especially with the North testing nuclear weapons.

“Yeah, I know. But I’ve read that families sometimes get to meet.”

He nods. “It depends on the state of affairs between the two countries. Sometimes these meetings can shut down for years. And when they open up, it has to be done through… unofficial channels.”

“What do you mean, ‘unofficial channels’?”

“What you call bribes, Ms. Carlson, for both sides. It costs a lot of money.”

I ask, “Okay. So how much does it cost?”

He says an amount that’s a lot more than my tuition at the ‘U’ for a year. “I’m not sure I can afford that,” I say.

“It doesn’t matter if you can,” Mr. Han replies. “As I said, the two countries are not allowing any contact right now.”

“When do you think they will?”

“It is impossible to say.”

I nod. “Well, can you let me know? I made a promise.”

“I will be glad to. Give all your information to Ja-Sook at the reception desk. In the meantime, we will see what we can find out about your grandmother’s sister. She might not even be alive. But if she is, and when things open up, we can help make the arrangements if you have the fee.”

Mr. Han stands, extends his hand, and I shake it. “It was a pleasure meeting you,” he says.

I give him a bow and ask for his business card. When he gives it to me, I remember to examine it respectfully. I thank him and I say I hope to hear from him soon.

*

When I get home, I’m relieved to see that the small celadon pot I shipped from Kosney’s has arrived via Federal Express. I open the box and reach inside the pot beneath the packing paper where I slipped the comb with the two-headed dragon when the store clerk wasn’t looking. It’s still there. Somehow, I knew it would be.

I take the comb to the bank and open a safe deposit box account. The ancient female clerk gives me my key and shows me to a privacy room. Before putting it into the box, I take the comb out of the brown cloth and study it one more time.

It really is amazing, a thing worthy of royalty. And now it has found its way to me. I wonder—and worry—what it will mean for me.