MYUNGBO RETURNED HOME LATE that week after meeting with his comrades in the Coalition. It tied together groups from all points of the political spectrum under the one banner of independence: the Anarchists, the Communists, the Nationalists, the Christians, the Buddhists, and the Cheondoists. He was one of the senior leaders of the Communists, but among their ranks there were those who saw the struggle as primarily between the bourgeoisie and the proletariat, the rich and the poor, and not between Japan and Korea, as MyungBo had always believed. The Anarchist credo was that any social order was destructive and oppressive. The Nationalists were the conservatives and some of them put more faith in America than in Korea itself. They also opposed the Communists almost as often as they fought the Japanese. Then some of the Christians were Pacifists, although a few of them had gladly assassinated Japanese generals and governors before putting a gun to their own heads. All the groups believed that Japan would send every Korean man to the mines and every Korean woman to the military brothels rather than admit defeat; their opinions diverged on what they could do to implode Japan from within before that point.
When he returned home, MyungBo found out that there was a letter from Dani—and that his wife received it herself from the postman. It lay unopened on top of his desk, but he blushed to the roots of his ears at the thought that his wife, a perfectly sensible woman, would have noticed the neat, feminine handwriting on the envelope. His wife was an old-fashioned gentlewoman who had been taught that a woman’s jealousy was a crime graver than a man’s philandering. If he had brought home a second wife, like so many men of his stature, she would have accepted it without objection. Nevertheless, MyungBo had never deceived her even in secret. It annoyed him that he’d been faithful all these years only to be implicated in something unsavory and beneath his nature. But that he’d felt real passion for Dani at one point was not forgotten. He opened and quickly read the letter, which was dictated to Jade and devoid of any mention of a serious illness. It didn’t take long for him to decide to ignore it.
Unlike MyungBo, SungSoo read Dani’s letter with some warm feeling. Glossed up though he was—for his life hadn’t hardened his exterior as much as sealed it like a glistening, poreless surface—SungSoo could still occasionally recall himself as a young man and fall into a reverie about his lost innocence. Pleasant, spring-scented memories flooded him upon seeing Dani’s letter. He could not fail to acknowledge that some of the most formative moments of his life had involved her. In fact, anytime he wrote a story or a novel, some trace elements of Dani always made it onto the pages. She was the ink of his thoughts. She had been extraordinary in every way.
But the idea of seeing her again didn’t immediately appeal to SungSoo. Dani was fifty-six years old. He now sought the company of courtesans who were younger than his own daughter. If he saw Dani again, he would have no inclination to rekindle their relationship. Rejecting her would hurt not only her feelings, but his own as well. He was loath to see her ravishing beauty diminished and her attractive spell broken. So he wrote back that he only had the fondest memories and the best wishes for her, but that their lives had gone their separate ways so long ago. Of course, if she were in financial hardship, he would try to help her as much as possible. All of this was expressed in the most elegant and courteous fashion, and afterward he reread his own letter with the characteristic satisfaction of writers who take pride in their own work, even correspondences.
*
“PLEASE WAIT HERE,” a young male assistant said to Jade, gesturing at the hard-backed chair outside the office. The auto garage was one huge space filled with cars, military trucks, stacks of tires, parts, and technicians moving rhythmically among the miscellany. Off to one side, a pair of Japanese officers were dropping off their armored truck and explaining something to a mechanic. There was a small, walled-off section in a corner that served as an office; beside its door, a few chairs served as a waiting room of sorts. Jade sat down carefully and watched, mesmerized at the speed with which HanChol’s employees worked. There were at least thirty on the floor—mostly young men but some with salted hair.
Ten minutes or so had passed when the door opened and Jade sprang to her feet. A woman emerged from the office, followed by HanChol himself. Jade stopped herself from calling out his name and stayed rooted in her spot, suddenly wishing she could disappear. But HanChol’s face lit up in recognition.
“Jade!” he said in his low voice as the woman beside him looked on curiously.
“How have you been?” Jade asked, and the young woman cleared her throat.
“Miss Jade, this is Miss SeoHee—SungSoo sunsengnim’s daughter. Miss SeoHee, Miss Jade is a very old friend.”
Though a bit shorter than Jade, the young woman was gracefully built with slender, stemlike lower legs below a maroon skirt. Her nose was imperfect, but her large and wide-set eyes gave the impression of fresh beauty.
“I feel as though I recognize you . . .” SeoHee said. “You’re the actress in One Lucky Day! I went to see it at the cinema when I was in middle school.”
Jade bowed lightly in acknowledgment. She hadn’t been in any new films since 1936 but many people still remembered her. The only movies being made these days were propaganda films. Those days spent on set and at cafés were so faded that she sometimes felt as though she’d dreamed the whole thing.
“It is very nice to meet you,” Jade said, and SeoHee laughed.
“Your voice is very different from what I’d imagined. I’ve only seen your silent films . . . Well, how do you two know each other?”
“When I was a student, I used to make money by driving a rickshaw. Miss Jade was one of my best clients,” HanChol stepped in. “We’ll have some catching up to do.”
“Of course. I will get going then. It was nice to meet you, Miss Jade,” SeoHee said, gazing confidently with her shining black pools of eyes before taking her leave.
Drawing a deep breath, HanChol opened the door to his office, and they both walked inside. A bare lightbulb hung from the ceiling, casting an orange light over the large wooden desk piled high with ledgers and books. HanChol sat down behind this desk and spread his hands, palms down, on the papers.
“How have you been?” he said at last. “It’s been such a long time . . .”
“Seven years,” Jade replied. She always had an awareness in the back of her mind of how much time had passed since she’d last seen him. “I heard about your companies, they’re the talk of the town. I was happy to know you’re doing so well. Didn’t I tell you how successful you’ll be?”
“This is nothing much. I’m only just beginning,” HanChol said, smiling.