The Young Zelkova
by Kang Sinjae
He always smells of soap. Well, not quite. Not always anyway. He
gives off a soapy odor whenever he steps out of the bathroom after
dousing himself with water upon return from school. So I know without
looking that he is coming near, even if I am sitting still at the desk,
facing the other way. I can even guess what kind of expression he is
wearing or what sort of mood he is in.
After changing into a T-shirt, he saunters into my room to flop onto
the sofa or to stand leaning with his elbow against the window sill,
flashing a smile at me.
"What's new?" he asks me.
He smells of soap when he says that. And I know that one of the most
saddening and tormenting moments has come upon me. A tingle spreads in
my heart along with the mild fragrance of soap that his body emits --
this is what I would have liked to say in reply. Then he gazes at me,
wide-eyed. His eyes seem to be spying on my feelings or beckoning me to
cheer up, smile, and be gay. Or else they could be nothing more than an
indication of his cheerful mood. Which is it exactly?
I cannot help gazing into his eyes, focusing all my sorrows, pains, and
wisdom at one point in each pupil. I am anxious to know how I appear to
him. Just like the sound of the breakers that wash the rocks on the
shore day in and day out, this one obsession of mine lashes my heart
and sets my body and soul on fire. No matter how hard I try every day,
I cannot find out. I cannot fathom the meaning of his gaze. Only my
sorrows and torment turn into something so heavy that it sinks to the
bottom of my heart. And then I realize that, after all, I must return
to being what I apparently am, his younger sister without nothing on
the surface to be awkward or uneasy about.
"Is that you?" I ask him in a cheerful voice as if he wanted it that
way. I know how ungraceful it is to be anything but cheerful in a
situation like this. Relieved at my cheerful voice, he stretches his
legs saying, "Yeah, I'm dead tired. How about bringing me something to
eat?"
"Gee, you sound impatient. I just got a breakthrough on my English
composition homework and I've been scribbling along," I mumble as I sit
back from the desk.
"Let me see whether you show any promise of becoming a woman writer." He leans forward, reaching for my notebook.
"My goodness, no!" I hide the notebook under a stack of books and go
downstairs to fetch some food from the refrigerator. As I put a frosty
bottle of Coke, crispy crackers, and some cheese on a tray, my heart
begins to throb with secret joy. Why should he come to my room to ask
for food? He always bypasses the refrigerator on his way and badgers me
to fetch food for him. Certainly he is not too lazy to open such a
simple device; or if he wanted someone else to do it for him, he could
easily ask one of the servants. At least that would be easier than
making me work, putting up with all my grumblings, tardy movements, and
spilling and dropping things. (Somehow I am not adept in these things.
I try to be neat and prompt, but in vain.)
When I return with the tray he is sitting down with his face half
turned, peering through the window at the rose bush outside. Now he is
in such a pensive mood that his eyes look placid and relaxed, unlike
the ones I am used to. His tanned face and finely chiseled features
viewed from an angle appeal to me. Even the side of his countenance
that he would rather not reveal to me looks attractive. His head is
shaped like that of Apollo, and a few curly hairs are drooping over his
forehead.
"They say curly hair means a violent temper," I once said to him.
"No, not really, Sukhui. That's not correct," he replied in all seriousness to what I meant as a mere joke.
After repeating the routine of sitting down for relaxation in my room,
he sprang to his feet, saying, "How about a game of tennis?"
"Fine."
"No. Wait. Didn't you say you're having midterm exams from tomorrow?"
"That's all right. It doesn't bother me."
To tell the truth, I didn't have any exams or anything like that. I
pulled a pair of white shorts and a blue shirt out of the upper drawer
of my bureau.
"You might flunk," he said as he stepped out of the room to pick up his racket.
The sun's rays were warm, but a cool breeze kept the fresh green leaves
in the yard stirring. We walked to the fence at the foot of the hill in
the back. Turning the corner where the stone wall has started to sag,
we slipped into our neighbor's courtyard. By "our neighbor's" I mean
the property belonging to the old royal household, most of which is an
idle tract of land except for a couple of tile-roofed houses in the
distant corner.
The residents of the old tile-roofed houses sweep and clean the yard
religiously every day so that it is kept as clean as the ondol floor.
"It's a shame so large a piece of land should he idle," I said one day,
sitting on the stone fence, looking down at the yard. "We should make a
tennis court here. Don't you think it's a good idea?"
At first he didn't go along with me, but later he gave in, and we
walked over to the house to consult with the warden of the property.
The following day, we drew lines by sprinkling lime. A few days later,
we set up a net and leveled the ground to turn it into a regular tennis
court. The warden couldn't have anticipated that so much work would be
done on his property. If he should complain, we were ready to give it
up any time. So we worked with more hesitation than dispatch.
But the silver-haired, good-natured old man of the house, not only did
not express his displeasure but from time to time watched our games,
leaning on his walking cane. On one or two occasions he spotted me
climbing over the stone fence and appeared to be about to reprimand me,
but said nothing. Perhaps he thought that I wouldn't abide by his
instructions anyway. At any rate, the yard was our favorite playground.
As a physics major in college my brother was under constant pressure to
keep up with his studies. But he was no bookworm to shy away from
games. Although I had played tennis even before I joined his family, I
owe most of my sophisticated skills to him. I was so happy to learn
that he could play tennis better than the coach at my school in the
country.
Dull brains do not appeal to me, nor do people with little or no
athletic inclination. Athletic games enable us to taste the joy of
life. There is nothing so sweet as the air we breathe while we jump
around in pursuit of the ball. But that day, I was in the poorest of
condition; I was not playing well, I relied on his ability to adjust
his pace to none and skillfully to lead me to finish each game.
"Shucks! I ought to be playing better than this. I wonder if I am deteriorating."
"You're playing quite well. How would you like to play a game with Chisu before it gets warm?"
Soon after the sky turned lilac we picked up our balls and headed
toward the valley where there was a spring of medicinal water. The
water seeping through cracks in the rock was so cold it chilled my
teeth, and it tasted of minerals. We scooped the water in our cupped
hands and guzzled it down our parched throats. Our manners added a
jarring note to the scenery there: the willow's light green leaves
drooping over the rock and the clusters of red blossoms on the lone
branch of a nameless tree. It's a pity we've never learned to improve
our manners.
"Drink a lot! Spring water might do you some good."
"What good?"
"For one thing it might improve your tennis."
But this time there was a little gourd dipper at the side of the well. The old man must have put it there.
"From today on we have to drink nicely."
"The mountain god is watching us."
So we took the rest properly. And then he bent down to scoop a gourdful
of water. He put the dipper close to my mouth, looking serene and
strange. The face I saw then was one I had never seen before, one that
was totally of his own. I had a sip and looked up at him. He slowly
drank what was left in the dipper. As he put the dipper back where it
was, he appeared to be overtaken by a gush of emotion in that short
span of time. He didn't look toward me. All of a sudden, I was seized
by confusion. But there was something that never eluded me in that
confusion. Happiness.
I walked along the stone fence with a racket on my shoulder. "Brother,"
for that is what he is to me in terms of formal kinship, but it was a
symbol of irrationality and unreasonableness. My existence was
entangled in that irrational and unreasonable relationship!
I jumped down from the stone fence, which is taller than I am, and
walked straight into the garden without looking back. I walked
barefoot, with a pair of tennis shoes in my hand. The turf was so
smooth and tender that it tickled but slightly, and I felt like taking
my stockings off too.
"How would you like to have your feet shod so you can go anywhere
without shoes?" he said to me whenever he found me barefooted.
"Walking barefoot on the grass takes me back to my hometown. It makes me feel as if I've reclaimed myself."
On an afternoon like this my mutterings would give way to a surge of
mixed emotions so that I would purse my lips like a grandmother and
remain taciturn. I come to the terrace, looking glum. The purple carpet
in the spacious living room, the large pieces of furniture in an
impressive array, the mysterious calm that reigns in it, the peonies in
full bloom around the house, the fragrance of lilacs, the deepening
odor of the fresh green plants -- all these make me perceive painfully
the meaning of my existence afloat in that ethereal purple air.
The brief moments of cheerfulness and happiness I have experienced
cannot be mine for long; aren't they manifestations of my own sorrows
and torment? I am at a loss. Such terms as "younger sister" and "elder
brother" evoke hatred and terror in my mind. I abhor them. The joy and
happiness I have been groping for are not permissible in this category
of kinship.
There was something pathetic about my daily illusions of myself as a
lone figure in the ethereal purple air. I no longer had the courage to
be beside him. He would blink his eyes and crack a joke. He would bid
me to cheer up, smile and be merry, without explicitly saying so. This
is all he could do for me.
Today I felt more miserable because my heart had been filled with
bliss. I stood there for a while. As I stepped onto the shiny wooden
floor, puffing out my cheeks, I left my footprints along the way.
Soiling the clean floor gave me an ironic pleasure.
After taking a bath, I stole a glance outside the window while
dressing. I saw him sitting on a bench under the wisteria. He looked
lonesome, with his elbows on his knees and his eyes riveted on the
laurel bush. Could he be suffering too, even a little? Well, what could
he do? I said to myself. For no obvious reason, I became cruel to him.
I sat down in the comer of my unlit room and looked out at him. He
stood up when darkness began to lap him; he stood there for a while,
his face turned toward the window of my room. I kept the room unlit and
did not go down for supper. Instead, I picked up the glass of Coke he
left unfinished. I brought my lips to the rim of the glass just as his
lips had touched the rim of the gourd dipper in which I had left some
water at the well.
How should I address him? Destiny compels me to call him "brother." I
was escorted to this place by Monsieur Lee one day late in winter two
years ago, when houses in Seoul were glittering like ice candies with
snow and ice piled on tops of their roofs. My mother introduced the
young man to me then. "Sukhui, I would like you to meet your brother.
His name is Hyongyu."
I gazed at him standing on the purple carpet. Mother continued, "He's a
top student at the College of Arts and Sciences of Seoul National
University. I know you've been called a gifted girl in the country, but
now that you're in Seoul, things will look a bit strange. I want you to
get along well with him." Although she said this in a gay tone, a
shadow of fear hovered about her as she gazed into the young man's
eyes.
He wore a brown V-neck sweater with the collar of his shirt, a shade
lighter, turned up over the neckline. His thick eyebrows were spaced
wide apart so that they gave an air of intimidation. His eyes were cool
and yet generous and poised, betraying wit and self-confidence. The
overall contour of his face was one of neatness tempered by vigor and
tenacity. Only the soft and delicate lines of his jaw and neck were
exceptions.
"Of medium height and build, he does look like a prodigy," I rated him
to myself, although I was not so foolish as to evaluate a man on his
physical appearance alone. When I stared at him, he wore a faint smile
on his lips, narrowing his eyes as if dazzled by the sun. The smile was
an awkward but sturdily individualistic one. Perhaps he was reading my
heart as I was trying to size him up. I grew tense at being subjected
to his keen observation.
What he said then was quite simple. "It's a pleasure to have you with
us. We've been much too lonesome in this house." He shook hands with
me.
This was evidence enough that he took me for a child and that he wanted
to honor my mother's feelings. Relief and gratification surged on my
mother's face, as if to vindicate my observation. I viewed the
relationship of Hyongyu to mother as being pretty much an artificial
one that could be upheld only with minute consideration.
Monsieur Lee, a man of easygoing nature, didn't seem to take things
seriously. With a smile on his face, he kept glancing at us, reminding
us time and again that I must be tired from the journey.
At any rate, from this time on, the young man has been calling me by
that easy and simple name, Sukhui -- sometimes simply, "Hey, Suk!" And
he has been generous to me to the point of making me feel embarrassed
from time to time.
Lately, important changes have taken place in his relationship to me,
such as his coming into my room to ask for food and to ask me to dress
wounds on his fingers.
Friendly and unreserved as he was to me, I could never for the life of
me bring myself to call him "brother": in the beginning, because we
were total strangers, later because of other reasons. To call him
"brother" was many times more difficult than to call Monsieur Lee
"father". I was not sure whether I was obstinate or sheepish. Both he
and mother understood my predicament, for they phrased their questions
in such a way that I did not have to struggle to avoid using the term
"brother" in my replies. The only person who added relentlessly to my
predicament in this regard was Monsieur Lee.
I changed a good bit in many ways during my first year in Seoul. I grew
taller and learned to look stylish, and my complexion turned fairer.
Last spring, I was crowned queen of E. high school and reigned one
whole day over campus activities. I felt that my bust measurement fell
short of the title, but the votes were overwhelming in my favor and I
was amazed. Of course mother was extremely pleased, and Monsieur Lee
bought me an expensive watch.
But Hyongyu didn't have much to say, not even a joke. All he said was
that he wanted to congratulate me and he said that in an awkward and
self-conscious manner. And I liked him for it.
Also, my personality had appreciably changed. I felt things more
intensely in this new and quiet atmosphere than in the country, where I
used to have a lot of friends to play and sing with.
I now understand what joie de vivre means. The atmosphere in the new
home is pleasant and cozy with a touch of romantic air emanating from
the relationship between mother and Monsieur Lee. I like the suburban
setting of the home, in the woods away from the center of Seoul, and
this old ivy-mantled brick house itself, in which Monsieur Lee is said
to have lived alone for years.
Hyongyu is well mannered and courteous toward mother, and Monsieur Lee
is content so long as I look healthy and happy. A professor of
economics at a private university, he is a little chubby and looks
every inch good-natured. Even though he has nothing to do with France
or the French, I call him Monsieur Lee because he reminds me of the
hapless father in a French movie I saw. But Monsieur Lee is not
hapless; in fact, he is quite happy now. It is possible, though, that
such a good-natured person may become wretchedly miserable if thrown
into adverse surroundings.
In the tragedy of a young man like Goethe's Werther there is acute
beauty; in the sorrow of a man like Monsieur Lee, nothing but
wretchedness seems to prevail. How fortunate for him to have the
companionship of my mother!
Mother looks happy even though she spends most of her time cooped up in
our new house. Her voice, which was noted for being tender, has grown
more so. She must be harboring a sense of guilt in her newly acquired
happiness, for she refrains from going out or even from laughing aloud.
Nevertheless, she is always well dressed and her light makeup is
pleasing.
But there was something unexpected here which tormented me. It was my
feelings toward Hyongyu that bore down on me day and night. When the
crushing feeling was too painful to bear, I wished I hadn't come here.
But such a feeling did not last long. I shudder to imagine my life
without ever meeting a man like Hyongyu. Just meeting him has made me
happier than any other woman on earth. I wouldn't trade the happiness
of being near him for anything in the world.
It is true that I am at the same time sad and restless. To be more
honest, my feelings keep changing every minute. The absence of Monsieur
Lee, who is now traveling overseas, is a welcome relief, for I don't
have to greet him every morning looking royally happy, or go downstairs
for supper on schedule.
"Mother, you know I don't like fixed schedules," I said immediately
after Monsieur Lee had departed on his journey. "I want to eat when I
feel like eating, and I don't want to eat when I don't feel like it. So
will you please excuse my manners as long as he is away?"
While the well-mannered Hyongyu was keeping mother company in the
dining room, I sat by the window, staring blankly into the darkening
sky. There was a faint glimmer of the river flowing beyond the vast
plain dotted with small houses, patches of woods, and shimmering lakes.
The river was as whimsical as the weather, glittering like platinum one
day and becoming shrouded in fog the next. When the sky turned from
purple to light grey, the river merged with the soft grey of the
hanging clouds.
Viewing the dark river, I thought I must extricate myself from the
confusion of tangled emotions. I couldn't let my whims be my guide, nor
could I make any sense out of my conflicting claims. I was not bound by
any sense of guilt in loving Hyongyu. That was out of the question. But
to betray mother and Monsieur Lee in that sense was tantamount to
ruining the lives of all four of us. I trembled at the dismal and
horrible connotation of the word "ruin".
Before moving to this new home, I had lived in the country with my
maternal grandparents. Until three or fours years before that, mother
used to live with us, but after she left for Seoul there were only
three of us, my grandparents and me. We had a few workers and several
watchdogs for the orchard. One of the dogs, a Chindo, was my pet. But I
was always unbearably lonely, especially after mother went to Seoul.
Even when mother was with us I really didn't feel that our life was
reassuring or joyful. It pained me that mother, a beautiful young
woman, should devote all her time to the monotonous routine of a rural
home. Although she usually had on her lap beautiful pieces of cloth or
woolen yam to make or knit something for me, and spoke about me often,
I felt unhappy and uneasy about her.
If only she would stop sewing or knitting for a change and act like
other mothers -- shouting at me or scolding me under the pressure of
household chores or of carrying a baby on her back -- and live a life
of her own, I would be content.
I cannot recall when mother began to live a shadow-like life. It was
already like that about ten years ago when the Korean War forced us to
move to my grandparents' place. I remember it was like that even before
the war, when I started elementary school in Seoul.
I know nothing about my father. Someone had once told me that he was
dead, but I never really believed that. It was only after the war, when
grandmother told me in a convincing tone, "Your daddy has passed away,"
that I tended to believe it was true.
Probably my parents were separated when I was a baby, and the eventual
death of my father made the separation permanent. At any rate I have no
more information, curiosity, or feelings of any kind about my father.
All that I have inherited from him is my surname Yun, which is nothing
unique.
I have no idea how Monsieur Lee, then a refugee in the area, happened
to visit my grandfather's orchard. I remember sitting on the branch of
a tree one day, munching an apple, when a chubby gentleman, a stranger,
walked into the yard. He stopped at the main gate for a while, took off
his hat, and proceeded inside, hat in hand. As he was passing under the
tree, I threw apple seeds in front of him, but he merely glanced up at
me without a smile and walked away. He looked somewhat confused.
When I was later introduced to him inside the house, he appeared
ignorant of the prankish welcome I had extended to him from atop the
tree. He left before the day was over; and my grandparents had
something very important to mull over. I often found mother taking a
walk at night alone in the apple orchard.
Monsieur Lee paid one more visit to us, and mother went to Seoul
shortly thereafter. "We should have arranged her first marriage like
this," said grandmother in a soft but tearful voice to grandfather in
the adjoining room. "And then it wouldn't have been so hard for the
child." I was shocked.
"If so, Sukhui wouldn't have been born to begin with."
"It's all a matter of luck. We couldn't blame Kyongae for her poor judgment in the past."
Hearing my grandparents refer td mother by her maiden name instead of
the usual "Sukhui mommy," I grew curious about her childhood and
giggled. I no longer had to endure the sorrow of glancing at mother
sitting like a shadow, mending my blouses or sweaters.
Although I was pleased that she had become appreciably happier, there
was no denying that I myself was bitterly lonesome. So I sang aloud day
and night; I sang on my way home from school, turning round the bend of
the hill nearby; I sang in the garden where the crimson balsams were in
full bloom.
"If you sing so loudly, people may laugh at you," grandmother said.
Two years ago, when Monsieur Lee came down late in the winter and
insisted on taking me to Seoul, no one was more surprised than I. The
old couple appeared hesitant at first, but soon gave in to the
persistent demands of Monsieur Lee. But they looked dejected.
"More than anything else, her mother wants it that way," Monsieur Lee
said to them in a serious tone. "She has never said so, but I know how
earnestly she wants her."
I couldn't help smiling. My grandparents appeared fully convinced and
were ready to consent as soon as Monsieur Lee should stop pleading. But
he kept on as if they were dead against releasing me. When he stole a
glance at me while talking, I nodded my own approval. At this gesture,
he stopped talking, flashed a grin, and took out his handkerchief to
wipe his forehead.
Thus I was transferred to E. girls' high school in Seoul. I ponder:
Monsieur Lee and mother are man and wife. If I find it difficult to
call him "father," it is because I am not used to uttering such a word.
I not only like him but also feel a kind of paternal tie toward him --
a feeling of protective tenderness several times more powerful than
toward my grandfather. But he is no blood relation of mine. Nor is
Hyongyu, for that matter. Hyongyu and I are totally unrelated. The crux
of the matter is that he is a man of twenty-two, and I am a girl of
eighteen. Why can't I accept these facts?
I wouldn't want to release Hyongyu to anyone else; nor do I intend to
offer my love to anyone else. I know that what binds us together must
not be my being his "sister." I wish he would feel the same as I do --
if not the joys, at least the agonies!
I cannot shake off trivial memories, expressions, or suggestions that
seem to be responsible for my suffering. Would it be possible for me to
become happy? Doesn't happiness stand for something for which a human
being is born? The fragrance of the blossoms wafted into the room,
shrouded in the darkness of an early evening. Lying face down on the
bed, I finally broke into tears.
"Sukhui, here's something I've picked up for you," mother said Sunday
morning when she saw me downstairs. She was sitting on the sofa,
holding an envelope in her raised hand.
"What is it?" I said, stepping dose to her. "Where did you pick it up?"
I was a little embarrassed, but I couldn't help being inquisitive. I
tried to take the letter away from her.
"Wait, sit down over there." She tried to conceal her momentary strain
as she pointed to a chair in front of her. I sat down, trying to
control my giggles.
Chisu is a cabinet minister's son. He lives in a mansion ridiculously
surrounded by a Great Wall of China at the foot of a hill. Burly and
unsophisticated, Chisu is a medical student and a friend and tennis
partner of Hyongyu's. He drives a jeep every morning, delivering his
brothers and sisters to kindergarten and high school. He gave me a lift
in his jeep twice: once when I was with Hyongyu and had no excuse to
turn down the offer and another time when I was walking home from
downtown and couldn't possibly refuse a ride without appearing foolish.
On my second ride I said, "I don't see any little ones today."
"Those who come to my stops on time get a ride, but those who don't are
left to their own devices," he replied. "You see, my jeep runs on
schedule like a train."
I didn't consider it funny that this simple minded young man should
have sent me a delicately worded love letter. What was funny was
mother's serious concern about the matter.
"Well. I wonder where you picked it up."
"On the bench under the wisteria tree."
"That's right. That's where I left it."
"Listen, Sukhui. You ought to be more careful. Don't you realize how
careless you are when you get through with your tennis? It's always
your brother who brings the rackets in." I smiled in acknowledgment.
She continued, "Don't you think you're being discourteous to the man
who sent the letter?"
"I certainly do, mother. You're right," I said, grabbing the letter.
"Is it something important, something your mother shouldn't read?"
"No, not at all. You may read it. Would I have left it there if it were something you shouldn't read?" I grew a bit annoyed.
"I am relieved. The fact is, I've already read it."
"My goodness, mother!"
"What I want to speak to you about is this. I wish you would consult me
whenever things like this happen to you, instead of trying to solve
them by yourself -- you can at least tip me off about what's going on."
Meanwhile, I grew melancholy and wanted to leave as soon as possible.
"You realize that mom is on your side, don't you?"
"Certainly," I gave a halfhearted reply, walking slowly outside. I
wondered how she would feel about being on my side if I had said to
her, "I am in love with your son."
It was something mother couldn't help, something Monsieur Lee couldn't
help either. I stuffed the letter into my pocket and walked down the
grassy slope, drenched to my knees in the morning dew. I trudged on
toward the swamp in the distance, along a trail least likely to have
people on it. I walked past the patch of acacias, barley fields, and
wild bushes.
My relationship with Hyongyu about this time had reached a stage more
pessimistic than at any other time. I tried to avoid seeing him. It was
an unbearable pain to laugh, exchange jokes, and then part as though
nothing had happened. I grew temperamental even when he didn't say
anything unusual, and then he would turn away.
Birds were chirping overhead. The sky was dark blue like the deep
ocean, and the leaves glittered in the sun. It was high summer. The oak
forest concealed the swamp, and I sat down on the grass, brooding, with
a hand propping up my jaw.
Should I become a world-renowned ballerina and stare at him from the
stage, glittering like jewels? (I didn't pay much attention to my
ballet instructor, but I remember her telling me to be ambitious.) I
imagined him sitting in the audience, accompanied by an unattractive
wife, and becoming heartsore at seeing me on stage. This kind of fancy
-- my bright idea -- disappeared as rapidly as foam on water. And a new
kind of fancy took its place: I ought to be thankful just to have a
chance to serve him like a maid, expecting nothing in return. Soon
teardrops fell on my toes before I became really sad.
I rose to my feet to go back home. Then I heard a rustle in the bush
behind me. A slim hound on a leash nosed its way out of the bush,
followed by Chisu. He was wearing a light grey sports shirt that
matched his robust physique. From behind him darted a boy and a girl,
each about ten years of age. Chisu was taken aback to see me there, but
soon collected himself to greet me with a smile, showing a row of white
teeth.
"Where have you been? Taking a walk?"
"Yes, I'm on my way home now."
The children started playing hide-and-seek, running round the two of
us. Chisu stopped the boy and handed the leash over to him, motioning
him to go ahead of us. Chisu and I walked together silently for a
while. While we were passing by the acacia forest, he asked me abruptly
in an embarrassed tone, "Have you read my letter?"
"Yes, I have."
"Aren't you going to give me a reply?"
"Yes, but I don't know what to say."
He nodded his head impatiently, blushing up to his ears.
"But you understand how I feel about you, don't you?"
I said I did. And to change the topic I told him that Hyongyu wanted to
play tennis with him soon. "Certainly, I'll be there," he replied with
renewed vigor. He started whistling. I heard him whistle all the way
until I reached my doorstep. Brushing off an insect that was crawling
on my shoulder, he said, in a sad tone, "I've had a wonderful time
today. Thank you."
"Good-bye. Don't forget to practice a lot. Our team is quite good now."
He nodded blankly, biting his upper hp as if absorbed in some other thoughts.
I ran up the narrow flight of stone-tiled stairs toward my room,
whistling all the way as Chisu did. I needed to keep my spirits up no
matter what happened. The sleeves of my blouse and hem of my skirt were
damp with dew and smelled of grass. I pushed open the half-closed door.
Unexpectedly, I saw Hyongyu standing there facing me. He normally
didn't come into my room when I was not in. But this was not what
really surprised me; rather, it was his deeply disturbed countenance.
In front of his stormy appearance, I faltered, not knowing what to do.
"Where have you been?" he said in a low but firm voice. I didn't answer.
"Did you leave the letter there as a favor to me, so that I could read it?"
He stepped closer and closer until his chest nearly touched my face. I remained silent.
"Where have you been?"
I kept my mouth pursed tight. I was in no mood to speak up. In a flash,
he raised his hand and slapped me in the face. A flame shot up inside
me. Tears filled my eyes. But he walked out of the room without turning
around.
I glanced outside the window absentmindedly. I saw Chisu in that light
grey shirt trudging along the trail in the woods. And the place where
he had brushed the insect off my shoulder looked as vivid as if it were
within the reach of my hands.
My body tingled as if shocked by an electric current. I understood why
Hyongyu had lost his temper. Happiness swelled in my heart, and I felt
like bursting. I threw myself down on the bed, curled up like a shrimp,
lest the pulsating stream of happiness leak out of my body.
What should I do?
We took a walk in the woods at night.
We held each other's hands in the dark.
And I let him hold me in his arms.
What should I do?
The answer to this question becomes more and more obscure. At any rate,
I ought to stop going to the woods. This is all I can say now with
confidence.
Arriving home from school one afternoon, I was told to go directly to
see mother in her room. I was worried because I hadn't been greeting
her whenever I left or returned home.
"Are you back now? You look pale. Is anything the matter with you?"
Mother put her hand on my forehead. "Your brother comes home late in
the evening, and you're hard to see unless I call for you . ."
She smiled softly, apparently unaware of what was going on. And she
went on: "According to his last letter, it looks as though I might have
to go to the United States. If I go there, I'll be away for a year or
so. But I wouldn't want to leave your brother and you behind. So I've
written him several times that I'd rather not go, but you see," She
turned her face away.
"What do you think? Your brother has agreed to my going," she said, gazing into my eyes.
"It's all right with me, too," I replied, wondering what would happen to us in that event.
"I appreciate it. I'll take up this matter in detail with you tomorrow.
Shall we ask grandmother to come and live with you? Still that wouldn't
improve the security of the family . . ."
Grandmother, whose back is bent with age, would be of little use. What
would happen in this house if mother went away? The thought of living
alone with Hyongyu appalled me. Things, fateful things that no one
could prevent, not even I could prevent by staying away from the woods,
were bound to take place. I couldn't sleep. My nerves bled at the
slightest touch like a fresh wound. As days went by, I couldn't bear it
any longer. I left Seoul, insisting that I must be away for a while at
grandmother's.
I made up my mind never to go back there, nor to return to school. I
felt that it was best to look upon it as the end of a chapter in my
life. It would be as painful as carving out a piece of my own flesh;
but could I conceive of any other plan?
I made it a rule to often climb the mountain behind our house. An hour
or so of climbing brought me to a Buddhist nunnery. That was not my
goal, but past the nunnery, up on the crest, I found a place for myself
where a thicket of roses and fresh green trees stood in the rushing
wind. I would sit there in the wind. Between the trunks of young
zelkova trees wafted the light fragrance of wild roses.
I plucked white blossoms, many of them, and put them on the lap of my
turquoise dress. Under the dazzling sky the blossoms quickly lost their
sheen and began to wilt.
Then I looked up. The next instant, I jumped to my feet in spite of
myself. It was Hyongyu, climbing up the steep slope. He looked
disturbed as he once was before, with his lips pursed tight. The tight
lips made him look more sad than angry. When he halted within several
feet Of me, I was overtaken by an illusion that I was rushing Out to
him spontaneously. Actually, on the contrary, I was holding on to the
hunk of one of the trees.
"Well, Sukhui. Don't let go of that tree. Hold on to it and listen to
me," he said, retreating a few steps. He now looked miserable.
"You must come back and go to school. You must forget everything and
study. I'm going to do exactly the same. We ought to be separated. We
should study separately. Mother will need some money for her trip, so I
suggested that she lease the house.
"I've decided where I'm going to stay. You can go to one of mother's
friends, Sukhui, we must live apart, but that does not mean that there
is no way out for us. Do you understand me?" he said, with his feet
planted firmly on the ground. I was trembling, clinging to the zelkova.
"What happened in the woods at that time was really something that
couldn't be helped. We can never forget nor ignore it as long as we
live. We're parting to meet again. There's bound to be a way out. Such
as going abroad . . ." He wiped tears away with the back of his
clenched fist.
"Do you understand me, Sukhui?"
I nodded with tears in my eyes. After all, my life had not come to an end. It was all right for me to keep on loving him.
"Now, won't you promise you'll come back tomorrow, the day after tomorrow, or as soon as possible?"
I nodded.
"Thank you so much."
He forced a smile on his face. Then, turning around, he ran down the
slope. The wind blew against me. Embracing the young zelkova, I
laughed. With tears streaming down my face, I was laughing till my
laugh rang through the sky. Ah, it was all right for me to keep on
loving him.
The variations on "Flower Dedication Song" quoted in the first essay of
this chapter are, themselves, student readings. Why does this story
still enchant Korean readers? Can an old man be a hero in our
literature? "The Young Zelkova" illustrates the universality of
romantic feeling -here among not just Koreans, but younger and older
Koreans alike.
The Author
Kang Sinjae was born on May 8, 1924, in Seoul and attended Ewha Women's
University. Since making her literary debut in 1949 she has published a
dozen novels, some fifty short stories, and several plays, and won
prizes in 1959 and 1967. One of the recurrent themes in her works is
the destiny of woman in love and marriage; some heroines submit to
convention, but others escape from family or into the recesses of their
minds. Her beautifully chiseled sentences and paragraphs, skillful
exploration of human emotions and actions, sensitive responses to
colors, smells and natural scenes that often figure as motifs of
narrative make her one of the most readable women writers today.
"The Young Zelkova" was first published in the journal Sasanggye for
January 1960 and was subsequently made into a movie (1968). Narrated by
the eighteen-year-old Sukhui, the story concerns her relationship with
her new stepfather's son from his first marriage. Sukhui follows her
mother into her new home when the latter remarries and meets Hyongyu
her mother's new "son. " Instead of accepting the bond artificially
imposed by convention as brother and sister, they fall in love as man
and woman. How they solve the differing claims of society and
personality, convention and spontaneity, is told refreshingly from a
girl's point of view.