This Burns My Heart

PART THREE

Plum Blossoms

Nine Years Later

Seoul

1972





chapter ten

All of this nothingness could be mine, thought Soo-Ja, as she walked through the empty fields in the neighborhood of Gangnam, south of the River Hangang, with Min and Hana following her. It was a cold Friday morning in early winter, and Soo-Ja was on her way to a meeting with a real estate developer who knew her father. Gi-yong Im sold plots of land in undeveloped parts of Seoul, and speculators (or aspiring speculators, like her) bought and sold those lands for profit. The appointment she had with Gi-yong was her first real business meeting, and though she should be nervous, Soo-Ja was in fact elated. Min was the one sweating; he had repeatedly asked if he could stay with Hana at home. Soo-Ja, too, would have liked to have gone on her own, but she knew the developer would never do business with her. She had to pretend she was simply tagging along, and that Min was really the one interested in investing.

Soo-Ja dressed Min in an elegant brown suit, with a form-fitting, flattering cut that gave him square shoulders and a slim frame. She herself wore a yellow silk blouse with ruffled trim along the buttons, and a long beaded necklace hanging down to her waist, just above her red polyester pants. She didn’t wear hanbok anymore—she thought only maids and old people stuck to it. Western fashions seemed to be all the rage, especially American and French—miniskirts, bright colors, and even things like gold spangles and folk-music-inspired patterns.

Gi-yong had them meet at the plot of land itself, a barren desert of rocks and parched soil, a sea of brown and faint yellow, as lifeless as straw, framed by the clear blue sky above and the cerulean water from the adjacent river. She spotted Gi-yong in a heavy woolen trenchcoat, wearing black leather gloves and a white mask over his mouth to keep his face warm. He looked to be in his late forties, though his hair was still a lustrous black. It was hard for her to tell a man’s age, since their faces often had few lines; she could tell much quicker a man’s status, since powerful men in Seoul never acted humble.

The land was more desolate than she expected, and the closest buildings were kilometers away. Nobody had any interest in constructing here, and so the land was worthless. All the building was being done on the other side of the river, in Gangbuk. As far as everyone knew, that’s the direction in which Seoul would continue to grow. In addition, no one knew if the city had reached capacity, or if it would grow more. The President had been very keen on stimulating the countryside, making those areas more livable, and if he succeeded, the constant move to the capital could soon stabilize. But that, of course, was the beauty of investing. In five, ten years, this land could be worth either ten thousand won or ten million won.

As Soo-Ja stepped forward to walk to Gi-yong, Min reached for her arm and stopped her. For a moment, she thought that he wanted to check her appearance, and she remembered to take her red scarf off her head and wrap it around her neck—she didn’t want to look like she was fresh off the bus from sigol. But Min instead flashed a stern look at her, and he shook his head softly.

“Let’s go home, Soo-Ja,” said Min. “This kind of thing is not for us. Meoggo-salja.”

Soo-Ja looked back at him, stifling her frustration. Min’s motto literally meant “eat and live,” or in other words, if you have enough to eat, be content, for it’s enough. It was an old saying, and many people lived and died by that notion. But just being fed wasn’t enough for Soo-Ja. She saw all around her people becoming rich overnight, like the owners and managers of the large electronic export manufacturer chaebols.

Her country was changing. Some folks lived like peasants, toiling in rice paddies all day and coming home to huts with thatched roofs at night, while the men and women of the city (and in her own hometown of Daegu for that matter) bought into Western-style apartment buildings with—and this would have been unimaginable a decade ago—playgrounds for the children, and well-lit, air-conditioned, indoor shopping centers nearby.

“This doesn’t look like a good investment,” he continued. “Who’d want to build here? It’s too close to the river, and there’s nothing for kilometers.” Min pointed to the vast open space around them, at the fields of dried-up, barren soil.

Soo-Ja noticed Gi-yong looking in their direction, waiting for them, but she knew she had to have this conversation with Min. She stood closer to her husband and spoke quietly, so Hana would not hear. “Even if I brought someone from the future who said we’d become rich, even if I showed you a lab report saying there’s gold under the ground, you would still deny me this, and say no. Isn’t that right?”

Hana, who had been quietly watching them, pointed to someone behind them, and they realized Gi-yong was making his way down, apparently tired of waiting. Soo-Ja turned away from Min and took a deep breath. She tried to wipe the anger off her face.

“Annyeong-ha-seyo,” Gi-yong greeted them, a crescent moon smile on his face. He bowed deeply, and then shook their hands. He also tried to pat Hana’s head, but she moved out of his reach.

“She’s not a child. She’s almost a teenager,” Soo-Ja said, smiling.

To Soo-Ja’s surprise, Gi-yong did not look offended or embarrassed. He simply laughed heartily, nodding, and Soo-Ja could tell he didn’t laugh out of some social obligation, but rather because he seemed amused by his own mistake. She liked this—she liked people who had a sense of humor about themselves.

“Mr. Lee,” said Gi-yong, looking at Min. “This is the land you are interested in buying. It is eighty percent sold. I hope to have it one hundred percent sold by the end of the month.”

Min gave him a scornful look. “Your land doesn’t look like much.”

At that moment, a young woman who looked like an assistant of sorts came to Gi-yong and spoke to him for a second. Gi-yong made some hand gestures to them—part apology, part request for them to stay and wait, and he followed the woman back to a makeshift office erected a few meters away.

“Let’s go now, let’s go before he comes back,” said Min, eager to continue with Soo-Ja the conversation Gi-yong had interrupted.

“No! Let me do this,” said Soo-Ja, pulling away from him as he tried to reach for her arm.

“You can give the money back to your brother,” said Min.

Soo-Ja walked a few steps away from Min and kept her back turned to him. She had told Min that the money to invest had been loaned to her by her younger brother, who now worked as an architect. In reality, Soo-Ja had been saving the money from her job as a hotel manager. Whenever Min asked her how much money she had made, she would show him only half. The other half she’d stuff in the pockets of her clothes in the dresser. She had managed to save 200,000 won.

“The investment is risky, yes, but I believe in this city. Everyone is moving here. I run into old acquaintances from Daegu and Pusan all the time—women with children I knew as babies. The future is in Seoul.”

“You sound like President Park. You know he tortures people,” said Min.

“Well, if you spruce up your old skills with the student revolutionaries, you can fight him back. Although I think fighting me is enough,” Soo-Ja said, turning around and facing him again, with her hands in her pockets.

“That’s very funny,” said Min, not smiling. He then turned to Hana. “You have a very funny mother. Tell that to your prospective husbands; they’ll be sure to ask for your hand.”

“I have already decided on this. We’re not going to live hand to mouth. We are going to invest, and buy some of this land,” said Soo-Ja, walking away from Min. No one could mistake the seriousness in her voice.

“‘I already decided.’ What do you think you do to your husband when you say things like that?” asked Min. “Isn’t it my job to decide? It’s bad enough I have to ask my wife for money.”

“And I always give it to you,” Soo-Ja calmly replied. “I have never complained or made you feel self-conscious about anything. If you have issues with that, there’s nothing I can do about it.”

This was a sensitive topic, the fact that for the last few years, Min had not had a job. It was understood that the reason wasn’t because he was lazy or unintelligent, but because of his bad back. Seven years ago, Min’s parents had decided to immigrate to the United States, and they had asked Min to come with them and bring his family, so they could work together in a factory there. Soo-Ja refused to go—unable to live with them after the way they had deceived her—and Min had to decide between obeying his parents and staying in Korea with his own family.

At the time, Min was walking by a mini–grocery store near their home in Daegu when an old woman—a distant acquaintance—asked him to help her carry boxes of apples into her store. She did not mention how heavy they were, and when Min lifted the first one, he heard a loud crack—it was his back. At this point, Min should have dropped the box on the ground, but, afraid to embarrass himself in front of the old woman—for she might think he was weak—he carried it all the way into the store, taking one long, excruciating step after another, and cracking his back even more.

Min suffered great pain for days, and his back never fully healed. He could not, he told his parents, move to America, and they left without him. By the time he could again move normally, Min also decided that the bad back would become the official reason why he couldn’t work. It had become an essential part of how they constructed their lives—it explained to Hana why, unlike other men his age, her father didn’t have a job, and it helped explain to others why Soo-Ja was the one earning their bread.

“I’m so sorry to keep you waiting!” Gi-yong waved his hands in front of him, animated.

“It’s no problem at all,” said Soo-Ja, after realizing that Min, now sulking, would not reply to Gi-yong, even though he was the one being addressed. “My husband is very excited about this investment opportunity. There are those who say our country will not grow, but I disagree. I think this is all just the beginning.”

Gi-yong nodded. “There’s one thing I want to alert you to, before we move any further.” She noticed that though he kept looking at both of them, Gi-yong was now really addressing her.

“What is it?” she asked.

“When we spoke before, it was almost a year ago, and I said I was selling the land for three hundred won per pyeong. Because interest in the land has been so high, the prices have gone up since then. If you change your mind, I will understand.” He looked embarrassed as he said this.

“How much more?” Soo-Ja asked.

“Five hundred won per pyeong, and I’m selling a minimum of a thousand pyeong.”

Five hundred thousand won. And she had only 200,000.

Soo-Ja nodded silently. “I expected the price to be higher, with inflation and all, just not that much higher.”

Gi-yong looked directly at her. They both dropped the pretense that he was doing business with Min.

“You look like a good person, and I want you to be able to buy the land. But I have to think of myself and the other investors. I can’t make an exception for you.”

“You won’t have to. I may not have all the money right now, but I will. When do I have to put down my share by?”

Gi-yong sighed. “The end of the month.”

Soo-Ja tried to hide her hesitation. “I’ll have the money by the end of the month. Don’t sell my share of the land to anyone else.”

“I can’t hold them for very long.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll have the money. When I see you again, Mr. Im, I’ll have the payment and those acres of land will be mine.”

Soo-Ja could see in his eyes that he did not believe her, but the friendly smile on his lips told her that he’d do her the favor of waiting. As they parted, she decided to memorize the look of doubt on his face, as she knew she would need that look to encourage her in the long, hard weeks ahead.

Since Soo-Ja and Min had moved to Seoul seven years earlier, they had watched as the city stubbornly rose from the ground, crushing the earth on its way up, with hundreds of new buildings built on slums and empty lots. Walking around the streets of downtown Seoul, Soo-Ja could see bulldozers and trucks digging through the hard soil every day, the landscape filled with scaffolding and brickwork. Thousands of new businesses and industries sprouted around the city, manufacturing goods that could be exported to rich countries. Rickshaws gave way to Kias, and streetcars surrendered to trains. President Chung Hee Park had been borrowing money heavily from the Americans and was using it to open factories, modernize shipyards, and build highways. Soo-Ja had not expected to see her country change so much in the course of less than a decade.

But, as Soo-Ja quickly realized, modernity seemed to require an endless amount of labor and sacrifice. Everyone around her appeared to be working sixty-hour weeks, from the factory assemblymen to the shoe shiners. Students like Hana, from first to twelfth grade, had to rise in the early morning and make their own breakfast before spending the entire day doing their rote memorizations and math exercises. No one spoke about happiness, or enjoying the day. Their entire lives they’d been taught to sacrifice, either for their parents or for their children, and now they were asked to extend those feelings to their bosses and their jobs. So they worked, and watched, as the buildings began to reach the sky, and money started to flow.

President Park ruled like a dictator, everyone knew. With the adoption of a new constitution—one that he drafted himself—he had made it impossible for anyone to remove him from office (or be dethroned, as some snickered). But he’d been effective in raising everyone’s standards of living, and his occasional show of populism—prosecuting corrupt businessmen, or replacing the straw roofs of rural homes with cement—gladdened the hearts of the poor. Park had become his countrymen’s father and mother, and established capitalism as their new religion.

Soo-Ja worked twelve-hour days at the hotel, but she found nothing extraordinary in this, since everyone else worked similar hours. To be productive was to be honorable, and to raise capital was one’s duty. Confucianism had taught them to be dutiful, and capitalism had given them something to be dutiful to—the laws of economic prosperity. It didn’t matter what happened behind closed doors, in bedrooms, and in private—what tears were shed or desires suppressed. Feelings, emotions, aspirations—all that had to be set aside, as there were no individuals, only a collective will to succeed.

And Soo-Ja planned to be a part of that success. She rejected the notion of meoggo-salja; for her, it wasn’t enough just to “live and eat.” She wanted her family to reside in one of the impressive new gated houses being built in Seoul for the nouveaux riches sons and daughters of electronic export manufacturers. She wanted to buy her daughter clothes in the elegant ateliers and boutiques sprouting around the city, selling Paris-inspired fashions. And above all, Soo-Ja wanted the money to pay back her father. In her fantasies, Soo-Ja found some way of getting her father-in-law to return the money. But in reality, she knew that wasn’t likely, and that if she was to pay her father back, she’d have to earn the money herself. The land in Gangnam was the key.

Ever since they had moved to Seoul, Soo-Ja and Min had been supporting themselves by managing a hotel. As in most small businesses in Seoul, Soo-Ja lived with her family there as well, in two small rooms near the entrance. This work, which included demanding patrons and required long hours, did not pay very well, and Soo-Ja knew there was no future in it. What Soo-Ja liked even less was that the idea to do this had come from a friend of her father-in-law, and she hated being indebted to him for the introduction.

Soo-Ja also disliked the male customers who showed up late at night, without a reservation, in need of a room to sleep off the alcohol, or with a girl by their side, or both. Often, they’d ask her to send a girl to their rooms. At first, Soo-Ja ignored the requests. But then women started to come on their own, asking if there were lonely men in the hotel. They did not wear fox furs or miniskirts. They did not curse or leer. They looked like ordinary women, some with children in tow. They were hungry, with tired eyes. Soo-Ja began to tell them what doors to knock on, and sometimes, she’d warn them about a particularly nasty guest.

When Soo-Ja listened on the radio to the President talking about his five-year plan to modernize the economy, and his lofty goal of turning what he called a “backward” country into a great superpower, Soo-Ja thought about these women. She wondered what their roles would be—the women abandoned by their husbands or disowned by their families. They reminded her of the rose of Sharon, the national flower of Korea. White with purple throats and hardy petals, it had been chosen for its ability to survive droughts, heat, and poor soil. They were lovely in bloom, though that required patience, as they tended to arrive late in the spring. Once they bloomed, however, they lasted all through summer, long after other flowers had perished.

When they returned to the hotel from their visit to Gangnam, Soo-Ja forgot her usual worries and, though she was still short on money, she felt a rush of excitement—like a child on the eve of summer break, the future looming warm and inviting. In fact, it was Hana who took her out of her reverie when she handed her a note. Soo-Ja was still taking off her coat and scarf when Hana’s soft fingers placed the folded-up paper on the counter. Min had gone inside to take his daily afternoon nap by then.

“What’s this?” Soo-Ja asked.

They were standing in the front desk area, where Soo-Ja spent most of her hours greeting guests. A modest affair, it featured a white wooden counter, some worn-out oak chairs, and a glass table with out-of-date magazines. In the far corner, some bamboo plants covered the back wall, and a bulletin board featured deals on tourist attractions and nearby restaurants. There wasn’t much space, and when guests came in from outside, they were almost immediately face to face with Soo-Ja.

“That man slipped it to me as we were leaving. He said to hand it to you when you were alone,” said Hana.

“You mean Gi-yong Im? The man we just met with?” Soo-Ja reached for the note and quickly opened it, intrigued.

I would consider giving you a break in the price if you went on a date with me. You’re very pretty, and your husband can wear a blindfold for now.

Soo-Ja stifled a curse word, amazed that he thought she’d agree to such a thing. She felt the bile rise, and the frustration, too. She hated that she couldn’t phone him and give him a piece of her mind, but she needed him more than he needed her. Trying to contain the humiliation she felt, Soo-Ja crumpled the paper into a small ball. She placed it in her pocket lest the hotel maid found it in the wastebasket or, God forbid, Min himself ran across it.

“Hana, you didn’t open this, did you?” Soo-Ja asked her daughter, trying to sound casual.

“No,” said Hana. “Why?”

“No reason. Now help your mother and tell Miss Hong to do another once-over in room 312. The woman who called to book it seemed very particular, and won’t appreciate a dirty room.”

“Oh, I know, I spoke to her,” said Hana. “She called again this morning. She couldn’t believe we don’t have showers in the hotel. What does she think the bathhouse across the street is for? And then she asked if she could have an extra room free, for her to leave her clothes. Sure, but are those clothes going to earn money by themselves and pay for their own room? Some ukineon women out there.”

“Hana, please don’t use that expression,” Soo-Ja said.

“But she is out of her mind! What is she thinking? And she asked if we have rats in the hotel! Can you imagine? What kind of a question is that?”

“Hana, go speak to Miss Hong, please.”

Hana made to leave, and she had her back to her mother when she asked, “You’re not going to accept Mr. Im’s offer?”

Soo-Ja detected some disappointment in her daughter’s voice. “You read the note?”

“Are you going to?” Hana asked again.

“Hana, if you knew what you were asking, you wouldn’t be asking it.”

“Why don’t you?”

Was Hana betraying her adored father in this moment? Or was she simply voicing what he himself might say, her husband who was at once insanely jealous of other men and completely casual as to Soo-Ja’s worth to him?

“Hana, he’s not just asking me to go get some jelly cakes with him at the grocery store. When grown men say ‘dates,’ they mean much more.”

“I know. He wants whatever it is that happens in the movies after a man and a woman kiss and the screen goes black,” said Hana.

It occurred to Soo-Ja that Hana herself was using euphemisms, that she was well aware of what happened after the screen went black. Soo-Ja looked at her daughter’s smooth teenage face, her hair in two tiny pigtails in the back, her pink angora sweater with a white collar and buttons in the front. Hana was twelve, and looked twelve, but she was the oldest twelve-year-old Soo-Ja knew.

“Hana, I know it can be frustrating for you to see your friends ride in taxis and buy new clothes every season at the baeg-hwa-jeom, but listen to me, they are absolutely no better than you. Now go to your room and do your homework. And for sure do not tell your father about the note. It’ll hurt him.” Soo-Ja added the last part because it was the only way she’d keep her daughter from sharing its contents with him. Hana doted on her father, loved him more than she did her mother; mostly, Soo-Ja suspected, because he let her get away with more.

When Hana left, Soo-Ja pictured her daughter going to their bedroom, where Hana and Min would sit on the floor and eat tiny oranges together. Min would diligently peel off the skin and remove the white pith from each slice before popping them in Hana’s mouth, one by one. Hana loved how her father always had time for her, more time than any other adult his age. Min said yes to her every whim, agreed to the most outrageous demands, and bought her records, comic books, and fan magazines. He treated her more like a small, about-to-be-deposed queen than a daughter.

At times, Soo-Ja caught the showiness of his love for Hana, and she noticed how it was more for her benefit than their daughter’s, as if to say, Look, I’m not a bad father, I have redeeming qualities, and I am, after all, capable of love—just not capable of loving you, as you’re not capable of loving me.

Meanwhile Soo-Ja told Hana no all the time. She was always too busy checking in guests to talk to her daughter about her crushes on the singer Jung Hyeon Shin and the actor Sung-Il Shin. She refused to buy Hana new dresses when it was so cold and she’d be covered by a winter coat all the time anyway. (Soo-Ja was of the school that you didn’t spend too much on things other people couldn’t see, which explained the sorry state of her own undergarments.)

When Hana was six and seven, Soo-Ja had to spank her just to get her to do the simplest things, like put on her pajamas or eat her meals. When she did so, Hana would yell out, “It doesn’t hurt at all!” This brazenness amazed her mother, and only made her want to hit her harder (which she didn’t). Hana never backed down, and Soo-Ja was, by turn, infuriated and impressed by her willfulness.

Hana had grown a bit calmer lately and was too busy with school to really give her any troubles. Occasionally Hana would catch her mother staring at her and she’d ask, “What are you looking at?” And Soo-Ja would smile mysteriously and say, “I’m looking at you.” For yes, Soo-Ja was still amazed by this porcelain-skinned beauty who had been given to her twice—once at birth, and once in Pusan—and was therefore twice loved, twice adored.

Hana, do you know that I love you? I envy the mothers in American movies, able to say that out loud.

I know I can’t say it, but I say it when I tell you to put on your jacket and your hoodie. I can’t say it, but I say it when I make seaweed soup for your birthday, and also get you coconut cake, your favorite. Your father and I compete for your love, never openly admitting this, but instead simply reminding you to be respectful and obedient. Be obedient, my daughter. Be obedient.

“Did you have a good stay?” asked Soo-Ja, smiling at the two guests in front of her. They were women roughly her own age, and they did not respond, as if Soo-Ja were a machine of sorts, there simply to check them out. From their nice clothes, Soo-Ja guessed these were married ladies enjoying a vacation away from children and husbands. While Soo-Ja added up their bill, she noticed that the two of them were staring intently at her, and whispering to each other. “Is everything all right?”

“Yes,” said one of the women. “My friend thinks she recognizes you, but I think she’s wrong.”

“Oh,” said Soo-Ja, looking at her with curiosity, trying to place their faces as well.

One woman was tall, and had a perm, with curls chasing down her cheeks. The other was short, and looked to be about sixteen, though she was probably twice as old. Soo-Ja didn’t know either of them, but didn’t rule out the possibility that the woman was right. In her college years, especially, many people had known her—by name or by sight.

“My friend here thinks you’re Soo-Ja Choi, from Won-dae-don.” Soo-Ja smiled, about to confirm that, but could not get a word in as the woman continued, “But I’m telling her she’s wrong. That Soo-Ja was, well, rich. What would she be doing working as a hotel hostess?”

“I’m not a hostess,” said Soo-Ja, instantly losing her smile.

“It’s her!” the other woman interrupted. She leaned forward, inspecting Soo-Ja’s face. She spoke as if Soo-Ja weren’t there. “She doesn’t look anything like her, I know. She’s not as pretty, and the Soo-Ja I remember wouldn’t be caught dead in those bargain-bin clothes, but it’s her!”

“You’re wrong, Bok-Hee. Do you really think Woon-Gyu Choi’s daughter would be working in a place like this? She’s probably in France now, redecorating her château.”

They were talking to each other, acting as if Soo-Ja couldn’t hear them. They stared openly at her, scrutinizing her clothes, her posture, her looks.

“It’s her, I know it’s her,” said Bok-Hee. “It’s you, isn’t it?” Bok-Hee finally addressed Soo-Ja. “You’re Soo-Ja Choi.”

Bok-Hee spoke dripping with self-satisfaction, and looked at Soo-Ja as if she had unmasked her. Bok-Hee had a broad smile on her face, clearly thinking she had won in the game of life, and couldn’t wait to share her discovery with her old classmates. Soo-Ja looked away from her and presented them with the bill.

“I have no idea who you’re talking about,” said Soo-Ja curtly. “That’s not me.”

“Of course not,” said Bok-Hee, her smile hinting at the glee she’d feel when she started spreading the news.

You will never guess who I just saw working the front desk of a one-star hotel…

After the two women left, Soo-Ja thought about closing for the day—and maybe even for the rest of her life. But she knew she couldn’t do that. Unlike the guests who had just left, she didn’t have a husband to support her. Only the land in Gangnam could buy her freedom.

At that moment, Soo-Ja wondered if that was the real reason she had moved to Seoul—to get away from her old classmates, who would have run into her frequently had she stayed in Daegu. The irony was not lost on her—more than ten years ago, she had longed to come to Seoul to attend diplomat school, but when she had finally arrived, it was to work as a hotel clerk. With so many bills to pay and the weight of real life on her shoulders, the mere idea of just being a student sounded like a faroff fantasy.

Soo-Ja looked at the list of guests who were supposed to check in, and she thought once again of the woman she had spoken with on the phone the day before. Eun-Mee Kim. Did she know her? Had she gone to school with her, too? It would not surprise her if Eun-Mee Kim turned out to be an old elementary school classmate who wanted to see for herself what fate had befallen Soo-Ja Choi, the once famous beauty of Won-dae-don. Eun-Mee Kim, Eun-Mee Kim.

Soo-Ja spoke the name quietly, under her breath, and tried to see if it evoked any memories. It was barely a few seconds after she had realized who the woman was that she saw her materialize in front of her. She did not need to be introduced. The woman’s identity was unmistakable as she came into the hotel and was followed by her beloved Yul himself. Soo-Ja felt the earth stop spinning as she found herself face to face, for the first time, with Yul’s wife.