The only thing I saw of him at first was his hand. A hand with a ring on its finger. Right away, I recognized the deep navy stone lodged in the platinum band as an aquamarine. It isn’t an expensive stone, but it isn’t all that common either. I don’t particularly have an eye for gemstones. Far from it. A friend of mine used to own a jewelry shop in the basement of a five-star hotel. Drawn in by her uncanny knack for telling stories, I frequented her shop, but what I learned about precious stones from these visits had nothing to do with the pragmatic business of discerning the faux from the real stuff.
Was the gist of her stories that beauty has a price? Like a beautiful woman who keeps a man under her thumb, a gemstone can meddle with the fate of those who fall under its spell. My friend knew so many fascinating and tragic tales about gems and the insatiable human greed for precious things in life. And she unraveled these stories with such finesse that I lost all sense of time and reality when listening to her. It seemed to me that she was in the business of selling precious stones not because of money or passion but because she was captivated by these stories herself.
How she told the story of the aquamarine differed somewhat from the elaborate manner in which she narrated the romantic legends surrounding other stones. High quality aquamarines— ones displaying the rich hues of the deep, deep sea—are very rare. The reason for their rarity was explained to me in the following tale. There once was a young man who lost the love of his life to the sea. For the rest of his life, he spent all of his earnings buying up the best aquamarines his money could afford. In his old age, he had enough to fill a huge burlap sack. Instead of plunging into the ocean after his beloved, he exchanged his life and soul for those ocean-hued crystals. For some reason, my friend told this story plainly and indifferently. But now that I think about it, what better tactic was there to maximize dramatic effect? Although I listened to the story with only a passing interest at the time, a second look at the aquamarines’ intense navy blue color pierced my heart like a sharp and cold razor, giving me goose bumps all over.
Having missed the last train, I arrived at the bus terminal huffing and puffing, only to be told that all of the seats were sold out. No tickets, with Seoul-bound busses leaving every ten minutes and still two hours left until the last departure! It was a Saturday afternoon. Even at the train station just moments before, what I had lacked was not the time to catch the train, but the time to buy a ticket at the crowded ticket counter.
I was on my way home from attending my nephew’s wedding. As a so-called family elder, I was outraged by my nephew’s thoughtlessness in not preparing for my safe return home. Perhaps it was my own fault for not having bought a round-trip ticket, but the truth of the matter is that I wasn’t expecting to return on the same day. My oldest nephew, who relocated to that city for work five years ago, always extended an invitation to visit him whenever I talked to him on the phone. I naturally assumed that he would have his aunt stay for a night or two after attending his brother’s wedding. My family is originally from Seoul, but after my older brother and his wife passed away one after the other, their four children went their separate ways, finding jobs in different cities. The youngest was the only one working in Seoul, but he met a girl from Daegu and was getting married there among all of his bride’s clan. If it weren’t for my oldest nephew and his wife, I would have felt even more like a fish out of water on the bride’s home turf. Actually, it’s no accident that the bride is from there. My youngest nephew wasn’t overly choosy, but he didn’t meet a suitable girl for marriage until his older brother’s wife set him up on numerous dates with girls from Daegu.
The reception hall was noisy with everyone speaking in the thick Daegu dialect. That upset me even more, when I was already feeling down after being treated like a second-class citizen by my oldest niece-in-law. I was wearing a traditional hanbok for the pyebaek ceremony, where the newly wedded couple bows to the elders in the groom’s family. But my oldest niece-in-law had told the bride’s family not to bother. “We don’t really have any elders to disappoint” was her justification for passing over this tradition. What, no elders? So an old aunt on the male’s side of the family is not an elder? I was rendered speechless by her audacity to insult me to my face, and I instinctively looked around for an ally.
My, my! If they’re going to skip pyebaek, then why bother with a marriage ceremony? They can just live together. Never in my life have I seen anything like this, especially from such a respectable family. Nope, this is pure madness. What will others say about this family? And what about the bride’s family who agreed to this preposterous idea? This is not just a bad reflection on individual families. This is a terrible infraction of our sacred cultural traditions.
Someone my age, just as offended as I was at my niece-in-law’s bogus good intentions, might have been eager to bash her in this manner. But everyone around me was a stranger. Who is a paternal aunt-in-law? I suppose someone who has married out of the family, according to the letter of tradition. It occurred to me that the proper treatment of an elder denied me by my niece-in-law was a calculated move to deal with an outsider. I suddenly lost my nerve. Without the parents around, should pyebaek still be performed, or is it okay to omit it? I wasn’t sure anymore. What am I sure of? For someone turning sixty the following year, it was depressing as well as baffling to be disregarded as a family elder.
With an ice sculpture of a phoenix hovering over them and artificial fog misting their feet, the happy couple cut their cake and popped open a bottle of champagne amidst much clapping and cheering. From the guest tables all I could hear were the excited, celebratory voices in the regional dialect. After the brush off I got from my nephew and his wife, the accented voices ganging up on me and mocking my isolation added insult to injury. The pink hanbok I wore at my daughter’s wedding, made of God knows how many yards of fabric, sprawled out uncontrollably, trailing behind me in all its pathetic tackiness. How unbearable it is to be an unimportant person in an ostentatious dress, to suffer so many looks from judgmental people! Aware of every painstaking second that ticked by, I hardly tasted my food.
“By the way, Auntie, what time is your ticket for?” My second niece-in-law, who had been too busy fussing over her kids to mind me, suddenly turned to me, wide-eyed and innocent.
“Ticket, what ticket?
“Your return ticket. Oh, no, you didn’t reserve it? But it’s Saturday . . .”
Instead of answering, my eyes searched for my eldest niece-in-law, who was busy making rounds among the guests. But my second niece-in-law, who was quicker to find her, made a big fuss to her about how I was still working idly on my slab of steak without a clue as to how I was going to return home.
“It may not be too late, if we hurry now . . .” my eldest niece-in-law said, looking at her watch. I had no choice but to accept that I had to leave that day. I felt crushed as the last thread of expectation that I’d be asked to stay, even out of obligation, disappeared. Lest I spill a tear of disappointment, I kept shoving pieces of cut-up beef into my mouth.
“Oh, please take your time with your food, Auntie. I think we still have some time.”
“Actually, we don’t. We have to take into account the time it takes to get to the station.”
“We can leave a little early and take her with us on our way back. I’m sorry, Elder Sister, but I won’t be able to help you clean up here.”
“You’d do that? Good thinking. There’s nothing to clean up anyway. Taking Auntie with you would be a big help to me. Thanks.”
This was the dialogue exchanged in my presence between my eldest niece-in-law and the second eldest, who lives in Woolsan. They must have driven. As it turns out, they had brought their old Excel. Except for the bride and the groom, only the nephews and their wives saw me off. The second niece-in-law sat in the back with her two children while I sat in the passenger seat. I looked at my nephew, who was driving.
“Why are you staring?” he asked.
“Because I think you look the most like your father . . .”
“I think you told me when I was young that I take after my mother’s side.”
“No, no, I didn’t,” I firmly denied without any real conviction.
“I haven’t seen Hyung-Seok in a while. I thought he’d come down with you.”
“Didn’t I say that he’s on a business trip? His wife works also.”
“Honey, when will you be going on a business trip, huh?” an impudent voice chimed in from the backseat.
“Why, you want to be free and single?”
“I just want to be spared from these family events from time to time.”
“How is a cousin the same as a sibling? The things you say . . .”
Although the words out of his mouth were disdainful, the smile on his lips showed that he couldn’t get enough of her adorable whining.
“What’s so different? I didn’t get a single thing from the new bride. Elder Sister told her family not to worry about wedding presents. Humph, when I got married, she made no such exception for me. I don’t know what she has against me. Look at me. What’s not to like?”
“All right, all right. Why do you even care? The only person you need to find favor with is me.”
All the way to the station, they didn’t give me the slightest chance to join in their playful banter. At Daegu station, the attendants were blowing their whistles and blocking cars from entering the fully occupied parking lots. Jumping at the chance to make a perfect escape, they left me on the sidewalk like a piece of luggage and took off. It was as if I could hear them going, “Yippee!” as they drove off. Well, the feeling was mutual. The relief of being spared from their sickening exchange was more immediate than my worry over obtaining a ticket home. I also took pride in the fact that my kids, Hyung-Gook and Hyung-Seok, would never behave that way in my presence.
New Village Railway was completely sold out; the Rose of Sharon Express barely had any tickets left, and they were for standing room only. Taking the train was out of the question. If I were to spread out my dress on the ground, at least five or six people could sit on it comfortably without getting a speck of dirt on themselves. Stuffing as much fabric as possible into my hand, I dashed bravely toward the Express Bus Terminal. Fortunately, the bus terminal was not too far from the train station. Discovering upon arrival that bus tickets were also sold out was the last straw.
Jam-packed with people, stale air, and a frenzied din echoing with the Daegu dialect—more than these things, what I couldn’t stand was my pink hanbok. I had to get home that night just to be liberated from that garish dress. My unspeakable distress must have shown on my face. Someone asked me if I was alone. I just nodded. Then I was told not to just stand there, but to get myself over to the platform. Apparently, it was easier for single travelers to get a hold of a no-show ticket. I guess there’s always a way out, even from hellish pandemonium. Though immensely grateful to the stranger who gave me this invaluable piece of information, I ran off toward the platform without thanking him properly.
But I wasn’t the only clever one. There was already a line of hopeful people waiting for a chance standby ticket. It was actually better for me that people were patiently waiting for their turn instead of eyeing one another or bickering. In my anxiety, ten-minute intervals seemed to crawl by, although one or two people in line did get to board with each departure. Even so, the hope of ever leaving this town was becoming increasingly bleak. Priority was given to people with reservations who showed up at the last minute over people waiting in line. I didn’t have the patience to wait endlessly for such an unpromising endeavor, especially because of the damn silk dress I had on. Silk from the old days hugged your body in warmth, but the newer, supposedly four-season fabric was flimsier, puffing up with the slightest gust of wind. The platform was in the middle of nowhere. As the autumn sun was smothered, I could feel the chill on my skin.
Turning to a young woman behind me, I pretended to be in a hurry to go to the bathroom and asked her to save my spot. It seemed that I’d have to be inside the waiting room for anything to happen. If the bus company had any concern for travelers, they should operate more Seoul-bound busses on Saturday afternoons. Perhaps other people felt the same way and we could voice our opinion in solidarity. With renewed energy, I barged into the waiting room, flapping the train of my hanbok like a proud flag. There, as in a dream, a miracle was waiting for me. As soon as I saw the pair of tickets—tickets that I had been praying for—in the waving hands of an elderly man, I knew right away that he was on his way to return them. Before he could reach the ticket counter, I blocked his way and quickly checked the destination on the ticket. It was for a bus leaving for Seoul in thirty minutes.
“Grandpa, sell me this ticket. How much?”
“Well, I can return them for the full price at the counter . . .”
I had meant that I was willing to pay more. My open wallet and the shrewd expression on my face must have scared him into thinking that he might be ripped off, for he tightened his grip on the tickets. When I told him that I would pay him fairly, he said that he wanted to sell both tickets. He obviously didn’t want to go back to the ticket counter to return the other. That was not a problem for me; I could return the other one myself. Before I could say so, a hand appeared from nowhere and someone said, “I’ll take the other one.” It was the hand with the aquamarine ring. I didn’t get a look at the face. I didn’t have a chance to, nor was I really interested in doing so just then. Having secured a ticket home thrilled me more than winning the lottery.
To prolong this feeling of bliss, I grabbed a cup of coffee from the vending machine. Thirty minutes was just the right amount of time, neither too long nor too short, to do so. I didn’t expect to get a seat in the waiting room, but leaning against a wall in a cozy corner felt just as divine. I didn’t care that I wasn’t dressed appropriately for slouching against the wall. The bittersweet coffee caressed the tip of my tongue. Perhaps what I was savoring was not the coffee, but aquamarine-tinged nostalgia.
I boarded the bus five minutes before the departure time and sat in a window seat. He boarded just before the bus left. I didn’t glance in his direction. He took off his khaki-colored trench coat and raised it up to place it on the rack, and as he did so, the coat fabric folded over, revealing the London Fog tag. I must say that his refined and clean-cut appearance pleased me. The worst thing that can happen to you when you travel alone on a train or a bus is to sit next to someone who incessantly munches on pastries, milk, or tangerines while insisting that you have some too. It looked like I didn’t have much to worry about with this man. Even up until that point, the aquamarine ring and the London Fog coat roamed separately in my mind. Outside the window, the darkness was changing from a smoky fog color to a deeper shade of ink. Leaving behind the foggy city of Daegu, the bus entered the highway. Opening a newspaper, his arm brushed against my shoulder. “Excuse me,” he said politely. Without looking at him, I nodded my head curtly in a gesture of acknowledgment. The ringed finger holding up the paper clearly came into my peripheral vision, bringing together the separate images in my head. The simple but stately metal setting holding the gemstone well suited his thick, manly hand. Someone else’s clothing and accessories had never intrigued or titillated me this much. My keen interest in him disconcerted me, so I decided to leave it at that. Reclining in the chair, I closed my eyes and soon drifted in and out of delicious, light sleep. Although the long travels of that day had been exhausting, my curiosity over who he might be held back one stream of my consciousness from more restful sleep. Pretending to awake from deep sleep, I sat up abruptly and looked out the window. But the frosted window was opaque. I was about to wipe the window with the curtain hem when he handed me a small bundle of tissues. Instead of saying “Thank you,” I nodded my head again and wiped the window glass with the tissues. The bus was speeding through vast, empty fields. Road signs appearing every half a mile or so indicated the distance left to Seoul, but what I really wanted to know was the amount of time the remaining journey would take. But converting distance to time on a congested Saturday evening was an exercise in futility.
“We’ll be stopping shortly at the Keumkang rest stop,” he said.
“Oh,” I replied tersely, conveying that I understood.
A twenty-minute stopover was announced. I took my time getting off the bus long after he did. The bathroom was not dirty but it was sopping wet. When I was inside the stall, someone hosed down the tiled floor again, flooding the place. I walked out irritably, desperately trying to keep my long hanbok skirt hem off the wet floor. Outside, while looking around for my bus, I spotted him some distance away sipping a drink under a streetlamp. He smiled at me. It was the kind of smile that could break a few hearts, so I quickly averted my eyes. Standing there like that, he could have been the male lead in the memorable final scene of a movie. He had on a burgundy sweater over a navy button-down shirt and a chartreuse woolen scarf carelessly knotted over his collarbone—an outfit loud enough for a young pop star but somehow flattering against his silver hair. Pouting, I quickly let go of the skirt hem I was clutching and scurried over to the bus. I was angry and embarrassed that I had my skirt lifted up to my knees on dry land with the slip underneath showing.
Inside the bus, I continued to watch him. I could tell that he was not only stylish but fit as well. He wasn’t carrying any weight around his mid section, and his long legs made graceful but powerful strides. I glanced woefully at his neatly folded trench coat on the rack. I, too, own a fairly decent trench coat of a different brand. If it weren’t for the cursed pyebaek, I might have worn it that day. It would have made me look ten years younger.
Before I knew it, I was imagining myself with him, entering a swanky bar for a drink with the hems of our trench coats flapping against the breeze. This kind of strange behavior on my part probably had something to do with the aquamarine gemstone. Or perhaps it was because I knew of a perfect bar for such an occasion. I was a much younger woman when I frequented my friend’s jewelry shop. Well, not that much younger. I had spent many years plodding through the daily grind of taking care of the kids and my husband. Toward the end of it all, I was left with mixed feelings of both fulfillment and emptiness. I was well into my forties. My children had grown up to be decent, well-adjusted young adults and my husband had become a respectable upper-level manager. Once I began feeling empty, however, these successes seemed lackluster. And once things became lackluster, all energy drained from me until the tips of my fingers and toes ached with numbness. When my well-off friend opened the jewelry shop around that time, I visited her day in and day out even though I couldn’t afford anything on my tight budget. My visits had a lot to do with the emptiness and listlessness I felt. The inevitability of aging that lay ahead terrified me more than death.
In the hotel basement where the shop was located, there was a bar called Casanova at the corner of a corridor lined with restaurants. We used to go there once in a while to have a glass of wine or a cocktail. We were drawn to the place not because we liked to drink, but because we liked its elegant atmosphere. At first, we were a little timid about going to a bar by ourselves, worried that our husbands might frown upon the idea. So we got them to join us a couple of times. Coincidentally, they were alumni of the same school. But neither man felt obliged to consent every time we asked them to take us out for drinks. If they had lectured us about going out so often, we may have gone straight home like good little housewives. Instead, they claimed to be otherwise engaged and magnanimously suggested that we go by ourselves. Middle age for men appeared to be far less miserable than for women, making our own experiences infinitely worse. Being dismissed by our husbands did nothing to uplift our crushed spirits. I knew that going to an elegant bar to sip pricey drinks paid for by my friend was as pathetic as going to a fancy ball decked out in borrowed jewelry, but it was a comforting and pleasurable diversion I could not turn down at the time.
More than the wine or the whiskey, it was the ambience of the place that kept us returning. And one thing that could not be discounted when it came to creating such an ambience was an older couple who were regulars there. This classy, sophisticated couple always sat on stools across from the bartender, and the long-legged, backless bar stools added to their elegance, like high-end accessories. There were other more private, dimly lit seating areas in the bar, but ironically, their usual place in the spotlight at the bar seemed more romantic. When they were there, other customers who also preferred the bar area steered clear. It must have been because their intimacy exuded a peaceful calm that no one wanted to disturb. We secretly liked to assume that they were elderly lovers instead of a married couple. That idea stemmed purely from our overactive imaginations, and we never did find out the truth about their relationship. From the dark nook where we sat, we delighted in observing them. When the good-looking bartender added ice to their pumpkin-colored whiskey or served them simple hors d’oeuvres like cheese or pickled treats, we devoured their every move like captivating scenes from a famous movie. The couple always nursed their drinks slowly, savoring each drop with every lick, but they clinked their glasses quite often. Though we were not privy to their conversations or facial expressions, their seemingly fulfilled lives provided us with much-needed hope and consolation. Watching them, a new realization hit me that a true connection between two people would be possible only at that age.
Although my middle-age, middle-class life was becoming more stable, relationship issues with my family and relatives were beginning to annoy me like an early onset of rheumatism. In retrospect, those problems were mere trifles, but they seemed serious enough for me at the time. My friend often said that she didn’t know what she lived for anymore, and I’d heave a deep sigh in reply. Idealizing the old couple was our way of coping with these feelings of futility and the fear of impending deterioration in old age.
The final curtain fell on our bar-going days when my friend went out of business. Curtains are supposed to come down slowly and dramatically, but this was not the case for us, because losing one’s wealth can happen in the blink of an eye. My friend’s husband defaulted on his debts and fled overseas. The creditors claimed the store and my friend was left alone and penniless. Then one day she left without a word to join her husband. That was all the wake-up call I needed. I quickly came to my senses and returned to my domestic duties, grateful that my family fended well for themselves during my emotional absence.
How long has it been since I stopped going to that hotel? It could easily have been yesterday or a lifetime ago. I wondered if Casanova was still there. Casanova and the elderly couple may both have been gone by then, but my memory lived on. Like someone who had finally found the right person to carry out a long-lived fantasy, I dreamed of clinking crystal glasses with him in a fancy, exotic bar. He boarded the bus and handed me a paper cup. It was Job’s tears tea. I finally looked him in the eye and thanked him properly. His face was devoid of excess flab and the chiseled features hinted at a fine moral character. Warmth radiated from his eyes. My heart skipped a beat. Who would believe that one could have such feelings at this age?
After the bus left the rest area, we began to encounter traffic. Without notifying the passengers, the bus driver took the liberty of getting off the highway, so I no longer saw the road signs with the remaining mileage to Seoul. The bus sped through the darkness on what seemed to be a national parkway or a shortcut known only to the driver. Whenever lights appeared as the bus went past a small village, I peered out the window to get an idea of where we were. Each time I did this, he handed me tissues to wipe the window. After long stretches of dark fields or mountains, I welcomed the occasional appearance of store lights, but they proved to be quite unhelpful. These days, even rural towns are fraught with misleading store signs like Seoul Hair Salon, Myeongdong Boutique, or German Bakery, so of course it was impossible for me to guess where we were. Instead of moving forward, it felt like the bus was forever meandering through a dark void. At almost ten o’clock, we suddenly came upon a bustling city. Vehicle plate numbers indicated it was Daejeon.
“We’re in Daejeon. So I guess we were headed to Seoul after all.” This time, I made the first move.
“Did you think that we were headed somewhere else?”
“It made me nervous to go off the highway. I thought maybe I was in for an all-night bus ride headed nowhere.”
“A bus headed nowhere . . . That’s interesting. You have quite an imagination, more poetic than mine.”
“Why, what were you thinking of?”
“I was thinking that a person with an important mission or loads of money was on board being kidnapped along with the other innocent passengers.”
“If the driver hears us, we may offend him. I’m sure he was just trying to get us home faster by taking a shortcut.”
“I’m sure we offended him just by being awake. Look around, everyone’s sleeping. They wouldn’t be sleeping so soundly if they didn’t trust the driver to take them safely to their destination.”
I looked around and it was true that we were the only two passengers awake. For some reason, that fact exhilarated me.
“Do you live in Seoul or Daegu?” he asked.
“I’m on my way back from my nephew’s wedding in Daegu.”
“Ah, that’s why you’re dressed so nicely.”
“Yes, I thought it’d be fitting to wear a hanbok as an elder, with the pyebaek ceremony and all.” I conveniently left out the part about not having received the formal bows. But what a relief it was to be able to explain my ostentatious dress that was obviously inappropriate for a long bus ride.
The traffic was very slow all the way from Daejeon, and the bus arrived in Seoul well past midnight. The other passengers continued to sleep, and the two of us remained awake, acting like a couple of hip, young kids. We didn’t bring up stuffy topics like the Korean War, how old we were when it happened, where we’d fled to, or how we endured the hardship. Instead, we talked about old movies, actors, music, good restaurants, and current events. I never realized before that I was such a chatty and cheerful conversation partner, well-versed and quite witty on various subjects. It felt good to know that. Incidentally, we didn’t share the same opinion on all of the subjects we discussed. Of course we passionately agreed that it was tough to live through the oppressive Yushin reforms and the military regimes. But when he mentioned that he owned a pet Jindo whom he considered family, I reacted vehemently, as if I had a strong allergic reaction to the mere mention of a dog. All these trivial exchanges provided endless merriment for us. It was past midnight but I couldn’t believe how quickly we arrived in Seoul.
The subway had already closed and only a few city buses were in operation. Most of the passengers headed toward the taxi stand once they got off the bus. The night air was frigid. He took off his coat and put it over me. I complied willingly, curling up inside his coat. No longer was I conscious of, or acting, my age.
“Where do you live?” he asked. “Near Goduk,” I replied. What were the chances of us living in the same area? It’s an ordinary neighborhood, but how can it still be ordinary now that I know he lives there? I immediately remembered that there were many beautiful wooded areas and hiking trails in the outskirts of our town. My heart fluttered like a smitten schoolgirl. Naturally, we shared a cab. Although in the same town, his apartment was quite a distance away from my house. Before dropping me off first, he gave me his business card.
The light from the student’s room in the second story was a welcoming sight. Not that I knew what the student looked like. His mother had pleasant manners, and I had on occasion asked her to pay my utility bill on her way to the bank. Once I heard her mutter after comparing our electricity bills, “A high school senior sure can run up the bill . . . ”
My house is a three-story house built to bring in rental income. As the property owner, I live on the top floor. Unlike the other floors, each accommodating two separate units, I have more than a thousand square feet of living space all to myself. One might expect me to feel depressed about returning to my big, empty house in the middle of the night, but it felt good instead. Although I live by myself, I know that a fourteen-member family portrait is waiting for me. The photograph is half the size of my front door and was taken before my eldest son’s family moved to the United States for his work. My husband and I, our two sons and a daughter, all with spouses and two children each, make fourteen. My husband passed away after the photograph was taken, but I gained a grandchild around that same time so the number remained the same. I have yet to see my new grandchild because he was born in the States. My son is undeterred by the expense of international calls and checks in on me at least once a week. Sometimes he puts his newborn child on the phone and lets me listen to the sweet baby talk. My daughter lives nearby, and my other son’s family is also not too far away in Bundang. They both call me every day without fail. In this way, the telephone lines in my home empower me by keeping me closely and constantly connected to my loved ones. As I stepped in, the lights in the foyer automatically went on, and before they went off I quickly stepped into the living room and turned on the lights there. As usual, I greeted the family portrait and breathed in the stale air that was as familiar to me as worn clothing left on the floor. I looked at his business card. It was a simple card with neither a title nor a company name—just the three characters of his name and a home and an office number. I rather liked the simplicity of the card because I thought it suited him well. Funny I should think that because I really didn’t know much about him. At any rate, I was not too curious about where he worked.
In a few days the weather turned colder. The view outside my third-floor window showed autumn at its peak with leaves in splendid colors. Already, the foliage in the Seorak Mountains was said to be past its prime. What time of the day does he walk his Jindo, I wondered. His apartment was too small to keep such a big and active dog, so it went to and from his place and his second son’s house, which had a yard. He said that up until then, he had never broken a single rule in his life, but he had to make an exception to keep his Jindo in the building. He also said that he walked on eggshells with his neighbors, especially the women, who might take issue with the dog being there. From our conversations it was evident to me that he was a kind and educated person of means. That’s all I really needed to know. I placed his card neatly next to the telephone. I never gave him my number, but I often thought of him when answering the phone. Of course, the person with the number should call first, but I couldn’t. I never even considered calling. The fact that he knew where I lived was quite useless in my hopes of seeing him again because his going there unannounced would be so out of his gentlemanly character. If anything were to happen, I needed to initiate it. This opportunity presented itself sooner rather than later.
An in-law passed away. It was my younger daughter-in-law’s mother, who lived alone in a rural area. The whole family, including the kids, went down to her hometown, entrusting me with a tiny puppy belonging to my grandchildren. A poodle, I think they said. It was small enough to be a hand-held stuffed animal. Every time it wiggled, it moved like a wind-up spring toy instead of a living thing. Because it felt like a toy, I didn’t really raise objections when it was thrust into my care. But I was not properly instructed on what it liked to eat, where it went to the bathroom, and other necessary details. The whole family had left in such a hurry. I left the bathroom door slightly ajar just in case it knew what to do, and to my surprise and delight, it did its business only in there. But the puppy proved to be precocious only in relieving itself; it refused to eat anything. I tried to feed it everything from milk and porridge to pound cake, but it just ran away without even sniffing the food. Left to its own devices, I was sure that it would starve to death. When nothing I tried worked, I sought help from the student’s mother on the second floor. She told me that the dog was probably used to store-bought dog food. She was planning to go into the city tomorrow, so she offered to stop by a pet store and bring some for me. That evening, I poured soup broth over some leftovers and pushed the bowl under the puppy’s nose. I knew it would turn away in refusal, but I had nothing to lose. Instead, the dog madly bolted to the bowl and started lapping up the broth, flashing its red tongue in and out. That’s right, I thought. Even the almighty gods kneel before hunger. A small thing like you is in no position to be so picky, right? Before I could complete my self-congratulatory smile, however, the dog began writhing violently, shrieking in pain. I panicked, thinking that it might roll over and die. I couldn’t think straight about what went wrong. How would I face my son and my daughter-in-law, let alone my granddaughter, who was like a mother to this dog? In my frightened state, he was the first person I thought of. I dialed his number with shaky fingers and when his voice came through on the line, I was overcome with tears. I could hardly speak. He must have understood my babble between sobs, because he came over right away and drove us to a nearby veterinarian. When I saw him, tears began pouring out again inexplicably. He drove with one hand on the wheel and the other hand patting my shoulder. The dog cried out even more pitifully when it was being treated, and I sobbed miserably in his arms. I knew that I was being a pathetic damsel in distress, but I couldn’t stop the flow of sentimental tears. The veterinarian showed us a fish bone he dug out, commenting that he’d seen plenty of kids crying over their pets but never a grandmother in such distress.
The dog was fine and returned to its home in a few days. I of course felt no grief in parting with it because I hadn’t grown to love it. But while the dog was under my care, he and I started contacting each other. What began as an inquiry into the dog’s well-being naturally progressed to a get-together for coffee. Then I met him for a morning stroll and on the day of the first snow, we went to an elegant bar much like Casanova and sipped whiskey together. I treated him that time, and he returned the favor by taking me out for rice wine at a traditional pub, a place just as charming as a Western-style bar. When I bought him Korean food, he bought me Western food; when I treated him to something cheap, he treated me to something more expensive. We reciprocated, but not in accordance with any rules or norms. Nothing was set in stone, and we let our moods dictate our actions. I became acquainted with his handsome Jindo, and it sometimes accompanied us on short drives to scenic places near Seoul. On such jaunts, it felt like we were discovering these places for the very first time. All this happened after I stooped low enough to weep over a dog I was babysitting. When visiting beautiful places or savoring good food, I was not above squealing in delight or skipping around like a sixteen-year-old girl. People say nowadays that young celebrities “pop” in their performance or demeanor. I felt something akin to that inside me, a playful and bouncy ping pong ball invigorating my every move. Moreover, I couldn’t deny that there were elements of playacting in what we did. The carefree joy I felt inside came from frivolous gestures performed for amusement. This kind of fun was by nature far removed from reality. When fantasies come true as in a dream, the reality bares no difference from the dream itself.
One day I had a rude awakening. I was taking a bath when the phone rang. I have one phone in the bedroom and one in the living room, and neither are cordless phones. The phone in the bedroom is on a chest next to the dressing table. I strutted out of the bathroom into the adjoining bedroom naked—moments like this undoubtedly being one of the perks of living alone. I threw a small towel under my feet to catch the water dripping from my body and reached for the phone. Then I froze in mid-action. Who was that hideous old woman? I almost screamed out loud at the reflection in the mirror. The dressing table is an old piece of furniture that I have kept since my wedding. The dresser mirror is small, and it reflected only the bottom half of my bare body. I had been pregnant three times in my life and have three children, but I had given birth to four. My last pregnancy resulted in twins, but I lost the younger twin within a year. Given that my lower abdomen had accommodated several babies, including twins, it was in dreadful shape. The protruding bulge of wrinkly flesh below the belly button slumped steeply toward the pelvic bone like a wrung-out lump of laundered silk. My flesh obviously hadn’t gone saggy overnight, but my shock came from the fact that I usually saw only the upper (and better) half of my nude body in the fogged-up bathroom mirror. I’m sure that my subconscious was selective in what it wanted to see. I quickly picked up the towel under my feet to cover up the unsightly half of my body, swearing to myself that I would never again expose it, not even to a mirror.
For Christmas, I gave him a wool scarf and he gave me a silk one. Both were hip and bold in color and pattern, too young for our age. We obviously thought alike, placing more importance on shock value and fun than on practicality in choosing our gifts. He said that it had been a while since he’d bought a gift for a woman. Three years, he said, casually adding that that was when his wife died. We had had plenty of opportunities to reveal our present situations as a widow and a widower, but that was the first time he mentioned it openly. I showed no interest and changed the topic of our conversation. I didn’t feel the need to exchange private information like we’d exchanged scarves.
The New Year marked the year of my hwangap, or sixtieth year. That’s one complete rotation in the sixty-year Korean calendar cycle. I don’t understand why everyone wants to celebrate it when the phrase “spinning through the sexagenarian cycle” is hardly a compliment in Korean. When my oldest son called on New Year’s Day, that was the first thing he mentioned. Instead of a big celebration, he wanted me to visit him in the States. He said that a party could be postponed until my seventieth birthday. My three children apparently agreed to go along with this proposition if I were willing.
“I don’t know. You shouldn’t worry about this. Really, I won’t be hurt if you don’t throw me a party. And don’t think that you have to do something else. Sixty already—that’s depressing enough without making a big fuss,” I replied in a lukewarm tone. I wasn’t being modest. I really felt that way.
“That’s why we want you to travel and not mope around. I’ll make sure I get enough time off from work. Heck, let’s go all the way to Europe, Mother. We only have a year left here. If you miss out on this opportunity, you’ll regret it for the rest of your life.”
It sounded almost like a threat. I wasn’t surprised. He’d been nagging me to visit him ever since his company transferred him overseas. But just as I didn’t want a tacky sixtieth birthday bash, I didn’t want to become a wide-eyed tourist in another country just because my son was there. I know that most people my age jump at such chances of a lifetime. How often had I seen one huge mob from the wife’s side of the family pile onto a plane and another from the man’s side follow suit soon thereafter? I hung up the phone without giving my son a definite yes or no. It wasn’t unusual for me to hang up first, fretting over the cost of international calls.
I guess my sixtieth birthday was just as much of a nuisance to my children as it was to me. They wondered if they should interpret my reluctance to travel as a preference for a party. Once convinced that I didn’t want a party, they then fussed over finding out what I really wanted. It was ridiculous that they wanted to know what I wanted when I didn’t even know myself. But their concern and effort warmed my heart. What parent wouldn’t be moved by such filial piety? My daughter was entrusted with the task of figuring me out. As the oldest, she was closer to me in age than my other children and some things were easier with her because we were both women. She had always been mature for her age so I often considered her as a friend. Her younger brothers also treated her with respect and sought her advice on all matters. Thus, not many things happened in the family without her knowledge.
Her officious tendencies kicked in soon enough. She became curious about the mysterious man her mother was dating. Our society is so small that unless you are dropped off from outer space, you can’t escape the extensive networks of families, schoolmates, and regional acquaintances. Once Hyung-Sook set her mind on finding out about him, she easily unearthed everything I knew about him as well as everything I didn’t. The fact that he was a professor who’d retired the previous year from a regional college, that he and a few other colleagues who taught Korean history now ran a small research office, and that his wife passed away three years before—these things I already knew. What came to light was: that the couple had a very loving relationship; that in addition to their son’s house he owned one more residence as well as some land in a rural area; and that his daughter-in-law was a smart, beautiful woman from a wealthy family. There was plenty of information about his daughter-in-law, who turned out to be the same age as Hyung-Sook. Although they never attended the same schools, they were bound to have some connection simply by going through the educational system in Seoul. Having learned much about him, my daughter asked me pointedly what I was going to do with this old fogy. She sounded like a parent trying to steer a daughter away from a bad relationship.
“What do you mean ‘an old fogy’?” I protested.
“How can I be nice when he seduced you?” she said, her eyes getting moist. I immediately regretted taking his side without hearing her out. After all, he and I weren’t having an illicit love affair that we had to hide from our children.
“No one seduced anyone. That’s crude. Someone might hear you and misunderstand,” I reprimanded gently.
“Do Hyung-Gook and Hyung-Seok know about him yet?”
“So what if they do?”
“Oh, Mother. What good is there in their knowing? They might not like the idea of you being in a relationship. Don’t give away any information that can be used against you later.”
“How will they ever find out if you keep quiet?”
“Fine. I’ll keep quiet so please be discreet in what you say to them. I’m sure you don’t want to make yourself or your children look bad.”
Again, she acted like an indulgent mother promising her wayward daughter to keep the father in the dark. My daughter’s meddling did not end there. Truthfully, he and I never made any effort to change because we had nothing to hide. But regardless of what we did, my daughter was able to obtain firsthand information from his side of the family. Hyung-Sook’s best friend in high school turned out to be his daughter-in-law’s college classmate. Furthermore, his daughter-in-law lived in the same apartment complex as Hyung-Sook. Once that connection was formed, nothing was off limits. We were like two families bound by multiple relationships, and no secret could be kept from anyone who made it her business to know. It wasn’t inconceivable that the mutual friend acting as a mediator distorted or exaggerated some of the facts. Even so, what the other side brought to the table must have been impressive enough to win over my skeptical daughter. She changed her position to such a degree that she would tease me playfully about my feminine prowess over men.
One day, she asked me with a straight face, “Mother, do you love Dr. Cho?”
I was drinking coffee at that moment, and I almost burned myself. Bursting out laughing, I choked on the sip I was taking and spilled the rest onto my lap. It was funny that an “old fogy” had turned into “Dr. Cho,” especially when I knew that he wouldn’t care for either moniker. Once when we were together we had run into his former, now middle-aged, student. After warm greetings were exchanged and the student left, he commented that students from long ago used to call him “Teacher,” a much more endearing title he preferred. He didn’t feel as close to younger students these days because they called him Doctor or Professor. These titles seemed perfectly fine to me, but I guess he did have his own quirks.
“What’s so funny?” my daughter asked.
“You don’t think it’s funny that an old fogy has suddenly become a doctor?”
“I can see that you do love him. You seem so happy,” she said, pouting a little. I could tell that she didn’t harbor any resentment, but I detected a tinge of loneliness in her voice. I knew then that I must soon make my position clear for everyone involved. I might end up being lonelier than what my daughter was feeling at the moment, but I couldn’t let things drag on at the same time.
Soon after the old fogy turned into Dr. Cho, Hyung-Sook met his daughter-in-law in person. The mutual friend introduced them, and Hyung-Sook recognized his daughter-in-law from seeing her at the supermarket and other places around the neighborhood. Without a mediator, I could see that Hyung-Sook was getting to know his family better and developing even more favorable feelings toward them. Seeing her siding with them more and more each day disheartened me for some reason.
“Mother, are you worried about what Hyung-Gook and Hyung-Seok will say about your relationship? Is that why you can’t make up your mind? Don’t worry. I’ll talk to them so they’ll understand,” my daughter told me.
Were the two younger women up to something we didn’t know about? Otherwise, why would Hung-Sook say such a bold and specific thing? I became concerned about him because that would also mean that his daughter-in-law was in a hurry to see this matter through.
“Get to the point. Are you saying that you want to marry off your mother?”
“You love him, right? A second marriage based on love—not because you need to lean on someone financially or because your children won’t take care of you—well, how neat is that? I’ll be proud of you and defend you, no matter what other people say.”
I stared at my daughter, who was babbling on about love. What does she know about love? Love isn’t so grand. It’s just life itself. I wanted to make light of the whole situation, but my heart felt heavier the more I tried to do so.
Before long, his daughter-in-law came up in conversations between him and me. When I asked, “Oh, is that a new jacket? So stylish!” He replied that she’d bought it for him, scratching his head bashfully and adding that he didn’t know why she was trying so hard to make him look younger. I’ve never met his daughter-in-law, but the more prominent she became in our relationship, the more I felt overwhelmed. One day he told me that she wanted to invite me over to her home at my convenience. I almost lost my temper because I was sick and tired of hearing about her. Seeing that I avoided giving an answer, he didn’t pursue the subject. Although he smelled of expensive, fragrant lotion, something about him came across as shabby just then. His daughter-in-law conveyed the same message through my daughter. Presuming that I would naturally accept the invitation, Hyung-Sook immediately began fussing over what I should wear to impress his fashionable daughter-in-law.
“She must be such a decent daughter-in-law. A rarity these days, I’m afraid.”
“She is, Mother. She’s so good to him. Still, it can’t be easy taking care of a widower. She says that when things get hard, she just thinks of it as volunteer work for a good cause.”
A pang of sorrow seized my heart. But I couldn’t let a passing sentiment of anger or compassion rule over an important decision.
“I want you to listen to me, Hyung-Sook. I want to be buried next to your father.”
She remained silent upon hearing my declaration. Although we don’t own a private family graveyard, my husband’s burial ground was designed with room for me to join him upon my death. There is a tombstone with our names on it. Yes, I already have a grave and a tombstone with my name and birth date. Only the date of my death has yet to be engraved. I have always enjoyed visiting the grave site, and my relationship with Dr. Cho did not change that. My feelings for him never once made me feel guilty toward my husband. Nothing I do is so free of any hidden agenda as my impulse to visit my husband’s grave. The joys and heartaches of everyday life are nothing but currents that skim the surface of the deep and complete peace I experience there. The peace that I feel is not the peace of death, but of life. There, the grass is greener and the ants, grasshoppers, and snails that live among the grass blades are lovely. I feel one with all living creatures. His body is feeding them, and one day mine will do the same alongside his. This thought makes me unafraid of death even though I have no specific convictions of an afterlife. It is my intention to ask my children to cremate the remains of my body after it has nurtured the small creatures at the grave. Then my ashes can be scattered to freely roam the mountains and rivers. Nothing could tempt me away from this kind of peace and freedom promised to me.
My daughter backed down quietly on the day I mentioned my burial, but she soon returned, armed with new feedback from their side.
“Rest assured you’ll be buried with Father, so please don’t worry. Think about it. He also has a wife to be buried next to,” she said.
How could I explain to her that the peace I sought was different in nature than the sordid details she was working out? I didn’t feel the need to explain what she couldn’t understand.
“Enough. This is an inappropriate conversation for a daughter to have with her mother.”
“There’s nothing shameful in what I’m saying. Why do you think that Jacqueline was buried next to John F. Kennedy? Leave it to me. Whatever my brothers or our relatives may say, I can make sure they don’t go against your wishes. No one has the right to make Father stay alone by himself.”
“I don’t want to hear it anymore. Why are you like this?”
“Why are you? Everyone knows that you’re a passionate person. If there’s any fire left in you from the old days, you have nothing to be afraid of,” she insisted.
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing from my daughter. But I could see where she was coming from. Her blunt words gave me no choice but to reflect upon the matters of my heart. As the eldest, my daughter knew a great deal about my life. She was born into our family when we didn’t even have a decent home and witnessed firsthand throughout the years how we struggled to pay the bills. She was also the main audience for my mother’s criticism of the difficult life I had chosen. My mother felt sorry for me but still held me accountable for how my life had turned out. Nowadays my in-laws are much better off, but back then, this wasn’t the case. Compared to my family’s comfortable, middle-class upbringing, they could barely make ends meet. They were also coarse and uncultured, and my husband was the only one to receive a proper education. As a sensitive teenager, my daughter must have wondered about these differences, and I’m sure my mother’s grumblings provided her with easy answers.
When I was dating my husband, my mother thought highly of him as a person, for she referred to him as ‘a dragon from a bog.’ But when I wanted to marry that dragon she opposed it adamantly. She said that marrying a dragon from a bog was not rescuing the dragon but throwing one’s self into the bog. But no matter how much she cried over me, I could only see the dragon and not the bog. She was right, of course, and I floundered in that bog up until the time when his youngest sister got married and left home. But I have no regrets. What other people saw as a bog became the fountain of my life, my raison d’etre. The blinders I had on kept me focused on one man through all the hardship I endured. My daughter was perhaps referring to the power of that blind devotion as passion. Call it passion, call it devotion, or call it stupidity; it was all the same to me.
That’s exactly what I didn’t have with Dr. Cho. The romantic sentiment was the same as it was in my youth, but the blind passion was missing. Love based only on romantic sentiment was only a superficial fascination. What I had with him was nothing more than a charming escapade, an illusion of love. Without those blinders on, I could see so clearly what the future held for us, so clearly the deterioration into old age from which no one is exempt, not even a stylish gentleman like him. Sagging flesh and shedding, dry skin flakes exposed when changing into long underwear; deafening snores that could move high mountains; cigarette ashes flicked everywhere; thick phlegm forced up by a protracted, guttural cough; a stream of farts released from raised buttocks; burps reeking of gastric acid; a gluttonous, selfish appetite; incessant nagging based on groundless suspicion and forgetfulness; and stinginess as if saving up for another lifetime—all these visions were crystal clear. Tolerating these sordid idiosyncrasies in each other required more than love. It required sharing many savage years together, raising children and surviving the daily grind. Only now could I fully appreciate how much more beautiful such animalistic devotion was compared to superficial romantic sentiment. There was no reason for me to look back. And certainly I was too old to be deluded by foolish hopes. My daughter continued to prattle on about things that were better left unsaid.
“If you don’t marry Dr. Cho I’d feel so sorry for him. His daughter-in-law says that she can’t take care of him any longer. She would prefer him to be with someone he loves, but she plans to marry him off soon in any case. She’s confident that someone financially stable like him will have no trouble finding an eligible spouse. But she doesn’t want anyone too young. It can be awkward with a young mother-in-law, but mostly I guess she doesn’t want to be responsible for her later in life. I’m sure she’ll have no trouble snatching up someone needy or desperate. Do you really want someone you love to come to that?”
Her impudent, joking manner made me lose my temper.
“What’s wrong with being needy or desperate? You have no right to look down on such people. Helping them is holier than any charity work, for sure,” I snapped.
Certainly it was holier than an illusion of glamorous love. With those words, I felt the weight lift from my chest. The superimposed image of the face of his daughter-in-law, whom I’d never seen, and my daughter’s face, flitted across my mind. I didn’t want either of them to meddle in my affairs anymore. The day that I met him for the last time, I told him that I was preparing to go to America for an indefinite length of time. I added that I couldn’t commit to a relationship that might make me a widow a second time around. As I said this, I carefully placed my hand over his ringed finger. Although I wanted to let him down gently, I feared that I may have been too harsh nonetheless. I looked into his eyes for any signs of emotion, but they betrayed nothing.