This Burns My Heart (3 page)

With that final dismissal, Soo-Ja knew she would not be able to go to Seoul. She’d never be a diplomat. The pain from this realization was so intense, Soo-Ja had to balance on the floor, for fear it would give way from under her. Soo-Ja asked herself why the ground was shaking, until she realized it was she herself who was.

“You’re wrong,” she said. “I will go. I will find a way.”

At around midnight, Soo-Ja was awakened by the sound of wolves howling, except these wolves were also calling out her name. Soo-Ja rubbed her eyes, still red from crying, and quickly rose from the floor, pushing aside the heavy, quilted blankets. She reached into her dresser and grabbed the first thick garment she could find—a long brown coat with fish-hook buttons that came down to her knees. She put it on and rushed out of her room, toward the source of the noise.

Soo-Ja ran through the many wings of the house, her bare feet rapping against the hard cement floors. Her hurried breath echoed through the large, airy rooms, filled with huge armoires, paintings and scrolls against the walls. Her brothers’ sliding doors opened and shut as she went by, their sleepy eyes adjusting to her as her nightgown flew in the air, like wings, underneath her coat.

When Soo-Ja reached the courtyard—dark but for a small lamp over the murky lotus pond—she saw her father standing there already. He wore his glasses and was in his pajamas, listening to the ruckus of the college boys outside the gate.

“Show us your face! Show us your face just once!” they called out. “Just one glance!”

Soo-Ja didn’t feel flattered. It was embarrassing that her father had to listen to this. She knew the boys were drunk with
soju
, and just being young. They didn’t know love; they were only imitating its gestures. Too bashful to even speak to her in class, they couldn’t have become courtly lovers overnight.

“Do you know them?” asked her father.

“Not who they are. Only where they came from.”

“Your college?”

“I think so.”

“Should we invite them in, then, for some green tea?” asked her father, giving her a sardonic look. Soo-Ja knew there was nothing her father would have liked more than to dump a big, cold bucket of water on the boys. He would know how to work out the theatrics of it—how to open the gate slowly, to play up their expectations; how to toss the water from the right angle, to catch more of them; how to deliver the final words, the punchline.

Before he could be tempted to do that, Soo-Ja asked him to wait. She ran inside, toward her mother’s room. When she returned, a minute or so later, Soo-Ja had her face covered by some kind of mask. She headed straight to the gate and pushed it open, like a general opening the fortress to the enemy.

The young men grew noisy with excitement, and then utterly silent. They saw an apparition in front of them: Soo-Ja wearing a grotesque
tal
mask, carved out of alder wood and painted in red and blue colors. It was the traditional
Hahoe
dance mask, worn in old times by actors performing songs. It had exaggerated facial expressions—half human, half spirit—with gigantic eyebrows; tiny slits for eyes; and three red dots, one on the forehead, and one on each cheek. Until a few minutes ago, the mask had hung as decoration on the wall of Soo-Ja’s mother’s room.

“Here I am! You asked for me, and here I am!” Soo-Ja said, from behind the tiny horizontal slits of the mask.

None of the young men knew what to say. As the effects of the rice wine started to wear off, they hesitated—some of them laughing awkwardly—while Soo-Ja stood there, daring them.

“You wanted to see me. Well, here I am!” Soo-Ja felt emboldened by the day’s events. Her parents had hurt her; now she wanted to hurt others.

It was then, as Soo-Ja watched the boys look away, that she noticed the crowd part a little, and someone in the middle moved forward. She recognized him right away as Min, the young man she’d encountered on
the street. She watched as he came closer, smiling his cocky smile, his hair slicked back with Vaseline. She noticed his lip was a bit cut, and his face bruised. She wondered how he’d found out her address.
Were these his friends?
Min wore the same white jacket and white pants, but either they were a different pair or had already been cleaned, and immaculately so. What kind of man, Soo-Ja wondered, had an armoire full of all-white clothes?

Min came close enough to reach her face. For a moment, she thought he’d try to rip the mask away from her. But instead, in a quick gesture, like a military man, he bowed deeply to her. When his head snapped back, he stared at her again, with great respect. Then he turned to his companions and spoke as if they’d been the ones bothering Soo-Ja.

“Everyone go home. You’ve bothered her enough for tonight.”

The young men hesitated—some hissing—but eventually began to disperse, walking in different directions. They did so slowly, curious to hear the words Soo-Ja and Min were to exchange. Like children—who wondered what adults did after they put them to bed—they imagined some magical alchemy might take place.

“What do you want from me?” asked Soo-Ja, once they were completely alone.

“I already told you. A date.”

Soo-Ja sighed and took her mask off. So this is what it came down to—a lovesick boy, caught in some fever, like the youngest member of a tribe long inured to such malaise. Soo-Ja didn’t know what to say. All she knew was that it was an ungodly late hour, and the moment could not be any less romantic. Soo-Ja stepped back and leaned her head against the gate, her body parallel to his, and she liked that they didn’t have to look directly at each other. She stared at her street through Min’s eyes: the rose of Sharon blooming on the ground, stubbornly bursting forth from between rocks and concrete; the rows of acacia trees resting after a long day of giving shade, branches swaying quietly with the wind.

“I’m sorry, I don’t think that’s possible,” said Soo-Ja, turning away from him. She longed to be back in her room, but as she opened the gate, she hesitated. Standing still, her face under a lamp, Soo-Ja watched
as dragonflies danced around her. “Please go now. I don’t want my father to come out and see you here.”

Min placed his hand against the gate, not letting her open it. “Does he like to beat up your suitors?”

“No, he prefers to torture them with long stories about French missionaries.”

Then, as if on cue, Soo-Ja heard her father’s unmistakable footsteps walking toward the gate. Soo-Ja thought about hiding Min behind one of the trees, but just as she grabbed his hand to lead him, her father came out and saw them. Soo-Ja immediately let go of Min. She felt her father’s disapproving eyes corrode her skin, looking straight at her.

Soo-Ja could sense the anger her father felt, but she knew he would not admonish her—not after all the forbidding he’d already done that day. He’d have to forgive this indiscretion the way lords allow peasants a single day of festivity, so they won’t mind the return to the fields the rest of the year.

“Come back inside,” he said sharply, before he turned around and left.

Soo-Ja stood in the same spot, her heart pumping fast. She wondered if she would ever see Min again. He looked at her, the whites of his eyes shining in the dark. Soo-Ja stared back at him. If she had been the man, she might have kissed him. He stood there, silent, unsure what to do with a river to cross, or a sea dragon to get past. He looked like a boy who’s been brought over to the adults’ table and asked to sing. For all his swagger, he was no Romeo. He was barely Mercutio.

“Good night,” Soo-Ja finally said.

“Good night,” Min repeated, suddenly coming to life, as if she’d broken a spell. He turned around and, for some reason, began to run. Never looking back, Min ran as if someone were chasing him.

Seollal, the celebration of the Lunar New Year, began early in the morning, and Soo-Ja woke to the lively sound of relatives being greeted by her father in the main house. They had been arriving since six o’clock, aunts
and uncles Soo-Ja rarely saw and didn’t really think of as family except twice a year, when everyone would gather for the two major holidays—
Chuseok
, the day of giving thanks, was the other.

Soo-Ja thought for a moment of staying in bed, but she did not want to disappoint her dead ancestors—Seollal was the day of honoring them. She pushed aside the heavy quilted blankets, got up from the floor, and staggered to her armoire, where her collection of hanbok dresses waited for her.

Hanbok was the traditional formal dress, made up of a short jacket top, fastened together with a large ribbonlike
ot-ga-reom
, and a long wraparound skirt. The bottom, with the top held tightly over the breasts, funneled outward until it was as wide as a wedding gown. Unlike an outfit made of cotton or nylon, hanbok did not hang limply—the thick hand-woven silk gave the cloth so much body, it looked as if the fabric floated over her.

After methodically getting dressed—working through the many knots and layers of the hanbok—Soo-Ja decided to stop by the outhouse in the back of the compound. The cubicle next to it had running water, and Soo-Ja thought it best to splash some on her face, still a bit swollen from the previous night’s tears.

Soo-Ja walked swiftly outside, holding up the hem of her long hanbok so it wouldn’t brush against the ground. The day, devoid of sun and color, felt like an only slightly less punitive extension of night, its chill blowing against her bare neck and ankles.

Soo-Ja was in a hurry; she could hear in the distance the start of the prayers, and she knew everyone would already be gathered in the main house. But as she was about to turn the corner, she heard something that made her stop in her tracks. It was her name, spoken in the high-pitched trill of her cousin Ae-Cha.

“She really must think she’s something special,” said Ae-Cha, coming off a bit muted, as if inside the outhouse. Soo-Ja leaned against the wall, keeping her breath still so she wouldn’t be noticed. “She wants everyone’s attention, and that’s why she’s creating so much commotion.”

“So you don’t think she really wants to be a diplomat?” Soo-Ja heard
someone else ask. Her voice sounded more clear, and Soo-Ja figured it must be another one of her cousins.

“Of course not! She’s just making a big show of this to get attention. The sorrow she’s causing Aunt and Uncle! How can she be such an ungrateful daughter?” Ae-Cha continued.

“I think you’re being hard on Soo-Ja. Maybe she really wants to do it.”

Soo-Ja peeked from the corner and recognized her cousin Chun-Hee’s short, boyish haircut, heavy glasses, and royal blue hanbok. Chun-Hee sat on a tree stump next to the outhouse, holding a roll of toilet paper. The door—worn out from the wood constantly expanding and contracting in the rain—was left an inch ajar, and Soo-Ja guessed Ae-Cha was inside. Soo-Ja glanced behind her own shoulder, to see if anyone was coming, but there was no one, and she turned her attention back to the conversation.

“Soo-Ja really wants to travel so she can find and marry a brown man!”

“Are you sure you’re not just jealous, Ae-Cha?” Chun-Hee teased her. “Because you’re not as pretty as she is?”

“I’d be pretty, too, if I never did a day’s work in my life. Who ferments her
kimchee
? Who distills her soy sauce? Her servants! It must be very tiresome to have to do all that shopping!”

Chun-Hee chuckled for a while. Soo-Ja listened, in disbelief.

“Diplomat? What a lie!
Secretary
is more like it. She claims she got into the Foreign Service. I’d like to see that letter,” Ae-Cha continued, her voice growing louder and more animated. “Although I don’t blame her for lying. She’s such an old maid—she needs to start looking into other options.”

Soo-Ja could not put up with this any longer. She turned the corner and walked to the outhouse. Chun-Hee saw her first, and immediately her face turned white. She froze to her spot, dropping the toilet paper on the floor. Ae-Cha could see her, too, as the door to the outhouse creaked further open on its own. She squatted uncomfortably, holding up her skirt. Her previous look of confidence disappeared.

“You two are right,” said Soo-Ja, in a sarcastic tone. “I
am
an old maid.
I’m twenty-two years old, after all. And no matter how hard I try, I cannot get men to look at me.”

Chun-Hee fluttered her hands in disagreement. “No, no,
eonni
! You must’ve misheard us! We weren’t criticizing you!”

Soo-Ja stared at her evenly. “I appreciate your being concerned about my parents and me. You two being guests here, I won’t say any more. But in the future, if you’re curious about my life, feel free to ask me directly. You won’t have to wonder or guess. It’ll save you time.”

With that, Soo-Ja turned away from them and walked to the main house. When she arrived, she saw that the ceremony had already started. All of the men were gathered by a large wooden altar filled with plates of food—offerings to the dead. Two tall candles were lit and placed at each end of the altar, which stood in front of a large folding screen with five panels. The screen covered the entire wall and was filled with
hanja
, Chinese ideograms. Below the altar, incense burned from a small table.

Soo-Ja joined her mother and the other women, who sat against the wall, while the men performed the rites. She watched as her father slowly poured a glass of wine, and then placed it on the altar as the first offering. Soo-Ja gazed at her father’s face. She stared at his soft cotton-white hair, and the thick lines on the sides of his cheeks. He had a few days’ stubble on his chin, and bags under his eyes. She realized that because of her, he had not slept well the previous night, either.

“Soo-Ja,” whispered her mother, after waiting for the men’s chants to grow louder and drown out her voice. “It is fortunate that Seollal is today. It’ll remind you of the three Confucian obediences that must rule a woman’s life.”

“Don’t worry, Mother. It has been drilled into me from the day I was born. Obedience to father, obedience to husband, obedience to male child.”

But Confucius was wrong
, thought Soo-Ja.