This Burns My Heart

Chapter twelve

Over the next few days, Soo-Ja began to pick up more and more details about Eun-Mee. She learned that in the course of her life, Eun-Mee had had several brushes with fame. The first time, when Eun-Mee was ten years old, she had participated in the ribbon-cutting ceremony for the reopening of the Namdaemun Market after the war. The dress she wore—a pink velvet one-piece with puffed-up shoulders and ruffled hemming—became something of a sensation once it appeared on a photo on the front page of the Chosun Ilbo, with little girls from as far away as Pyongyang copying that style.

Happy with the publicity, the organizers of the market offered Eun-Mee a gift—a glass duck. Eun-Mee, however, turned it down and asked for something else instead. They bated their breaths, hoping it wouldn’t be cash. Instead, Eun-Mee asked that she be given free rein to come in and out of every single one of the shops and stalls in the market, and to let it be known that she was “Queen of Namdaemun Market.” For a year, after school, Eun-Mee wandered around the maze of open-air alleyways. She’d go into stores to chat with the owners and play board games, knowing they could not kick her out. However busy they were, they had to stop what they were doing and entertain her.

In high school, Soo-Ja also learned, Eun-Mee had participated in several beauty-pageant contests and had tried out for Miss Seoul. At one of the early rounds, during a photo session—a rather modest one, Eun-Mee complained, taken with an old, antiquated Brownie box camera—one of the contestants had accidentally tripped and stepped forward in one of the shots. When the photo was later released, Eun-Mee had expected the woman to look disastrous and clumsy, but instead she had managed to look beautiful and to stand out, being a foot or so in front of the group.

At the next photo shoot, for a promotion connected to the renaming of the Shinsegae Department Store, Eun-Mee decided to “accidentally” trip and step forward in every one of the shots. When Eun-Mee saw that the photographer’s flash was about to come on, she’d propel herself forward, as if she were so excited, she couldn’t just wait for the film to come capture her—she had to meet it halfway.

In the final competition, Eun-Mee came in seventh. The disappointment over that ranking, however, did not last very long. After all, Eun-Mee was the kind of person who’d win even when she lost, and what she had won was something precious indeed—the interest of her future husband.

Because Eun-Mee spent so much time in the hallway, it was probably no accident that she spotted Soo-Ja one evening as Soo-Ja came out of her room wearing a dress and makeup. Soo-Ja and Hana were going to a gye meeting. When Eun-Mee found out about this, she invited herself to come along.

“I love gye! I was wondering how I could join one in Seoul, and I suppose I have the answer right in front of my face!” said Eun-Mee.

“I’m not sure if that’s such a good idea, I don’t think my gye is accepting any new members,” said Soo-Ja, trying to make her way past her.

“If they’re not, I’m sure they’d make an exception for a doctor’s wife,” said Eun-Mee, smiling. “Just give me one second and I’ll put a dress on. Don’t you dare leave without me!”

“What about your husband?” Soo-Ja asked, making another attempt at discouraging her.

“Oh, he’s working late. We’ll probably be back before he is,” said Eun-Mee, disappearing into her room.

Once a month, the women members of Soo-Ja’s gye gathered for an informal dinner at a restaurant. While they ate the sundubu and japchae and seolleongtang in the banquet-hall-style room, at long, continuous tables set up like picnic benches, lit by white and red Chinese lamps, a volunteer went around each table and collected dues from all of them. By the evening’s end, one of the members of the gye would go home with all the money collected. The next month, somebody else took home the money.

Everyone contributed to the pot religiously, and you did not dare miss a payment, otherwise you’d never be eligible to be a recipient. There was, of course, the risk that somebody who’d been a receiver in an earlier round might disappear, or refuse to continue contributing (in which case they’d say the gye was “broken”), but those cases were rare, and people did in fact pay back their loans. For that’s what they were—loans. You couldn’t rely on banks, with their excessive collateral requirements and high interest rates, but you could rely on your friends and other members of the gye.

It was a more formal extension of a common practice in extended families—Soo-Ja’s own relatives were always giving money to one another, to help cousins start businesses, to finance a niece’s education, to pay for weddings and funerals. You gave, yes, but you always got back, and some of Soo-Ja’s aunts even kept notebooks, recording how much they had received and from whom, so they’d know who deserved their loyalty and help later on. The gye simply expanded this spirit of helping one another on a larger scale, following the notion that money should always be flowing, and friends should help other friends.

When they arrived at the restaurant, Eun-Mee had Soo-Ja introduce her to everyone she knew, and Soo-Ja discovered the first of Eun-Mee’s many magical charms: the ability to make strangers instantaneously fond of her. In a matter of seconds, Eun-Mee became closer friends with some of these women than Soo-Ja had been for years. Initially, Soo-Ja was a bit annoyed by this. But then the feeling was replaced by a sense of relief, as she realized she would not have to spend the entire evening by her side. She was sure Eun-Mee did not know about the history between her and Yul, but Soo-Ja still felt awkward on her end.

So Soo-Ja ate her bibimbap, a medley of beef and vegetables mixed with hot chili paste, still cooking in the pot it was served in, while attentively watching the volunteer, an old woman whose face never shifted expressions as she collected one white envelope after another. If Soo-Ja were chosen as the gye recipient, she could take home all the money, and she’d be able to buy the land she wanted. She hoped that the members of the gye would choose her. (This was one way their gye differed from others—instead of randomly selecting winners through a random drawing, they were able to vote for someone each month, until no one was left. This meant if you were well liked and considered trustworthy, you’d probably get selected early on. If you rubbed others the wrong way, you might be dead last. At the end of the day, they chose character over chance, though Soo-Ja wasn’t sure what that said about them, that they put so little stock in luck.)

Soo-Ja was waiting for the evening’s business to start when she heard a roar of laughter coming from the front of the restaurant, followed by smaller chortles, like a wave’s ripples. She thought she heard Eun-Mee’s voice, and she turned around to see a group of women gathered in a circle. Soo-Ja could not see the source of the activity, since their backs were to her. Curious, she rose from her seat and walked in their direction, the laughter drawing her in like a siren’s song.

When she reached the group, Soo-Ja peeked in among them in almost childlike excitement, as if about to enjoy a street performer. Soo-Ja smiled. These were peers; she liked them; she longed to share a laugh with friends. The circle broadened slightly, to let her in.

Indeed, it was Eun-Mee, standing near the area where everyone took their shoes off before coming into the restaurant. Eun-Mee stood there alone, as if on a stage, and held in her hands an old pair of women’s shoes. She had them as far from her as possible, her arms stretched out, her fingers becoming imaginary forceps.

“Have you seen anything like this before? It’s like something out of the war! Look around, everyone, we have a refugee from the North among us!” said Eun-Mee, with the timing and delivery of a comedian. Eun-Mee waved the sandals in the air for all to see—it was a sorry sight, with the straps falling off slightly, and the soles barely hanging there. They looked as if they had been patched up repeatedly, their owner insistently prolonging their life.

Soo-Ja was about to join in the laughter of the crowd when she suddenly recognized the shoes being held up. It was strange, to see them up in the air, used as a prop, instead of on her feet, but there was no doubt about it—they were Soo-Ja’s own shoes. Her smile slowly dissipated as she felt the mortification rise in her body.

“We don’t need to take a vote anymore, we’ll just give whoever this belongs to all the money! Since clearly, she needs it more than any of us!” Eun-Mee continued, drawing another thunderstorm of laughter from the group. “I mean, have you seen anything like this? Look at this strap, it’s crying out for dear life!” Eun-Mee touched it lightly, and the strap, in her hands, seemed to quiver back. “Somebody put this out of its misery!”

The crowd laughed again, and this time the roar was so heartfelt, it almost crested into applause. Eun-Mee smiled and shrugged her shoulders, prompting more chuckles from the audience. Soo-Ja looked around at the laughing faces, their glee prickling at her ears.

Eun-Mee curtsied. She had a performer’s uncanny ability to draw everyone’s attention to her. You could be walking through a crowd and you’d notice her. Soo-Ja thought about how at one time, she, too, had that quality; but that had been a long time ago.

She slowly retreated from the crowd. She wanted to get away before someone pointed at her, or discovered that the shoes were hers.

“What’s happening over there?” asked Hana, when Soo-Ja sat down next to her. “Can I go look?”

“No. It’s nothing,” said Soo-Ja, digging into her plate with her fork, and trying to maintain her composure. “I wish they’d put more chili pepper paste in my bibimbap. I’m not sure it’s spicy enough.”

There was about an hour or so delay from the start of the meal to the end, at which point everyone would write their choices down on tiny pieces of marked paper. About halfway through the meal, Soo-Ja noticed that Eun-Mee, who had chosen not to sit with them, had changed seats again and gone to eat at a different table from the one she started at.

Eun-Mee fit into the restaurant about as well as a mermaid, with her long, curve-hugging white gown, much more expensive than anything the other women were wearing. She also carried a fan with her, decorated with the peony rose, one of the three flowers of ambition. Eun-Mee fluttered the fan in front of her, concealing half her face, and she seemed to make a point of avoiding women her own age, talking only to older members of the gye, which was what she was doing right now, sitting next to a grandmother.

Soo-Ja turned to Hana and, speaking quietly so as not to attract the attention of the other two families near them at their table, told her to walk by Eun-Mee and see if she could find out what she was doing. A little too theatrically for Soo-Ja’s taste, Hana cleared her throat, put down her chopsticks, and leaned forward, asking the woman seated across from her if she knew where the bathroom was.

Soo-Ja watched as Hana lingered next to Eun-Mee’s table, with her back to its occupants. Hana positioned her body so that she was right behind Eun-Mee and the other women didn’t notice her. She remained in her spot for a few minutes, until she drew the attention of one of the waitresses, who told her to return to her seat.

Soo-Ja turned to her expectantly, but Hana said nothing as she sat down, shaking her head. According to Hana, Eun-Mee was simply socializing. They continued their meal in silence, with Soo-Ja feeling foolish that she had asked Hana to spy on Eun-Mee. But then, a few minutes later, as a waitress began to go from table to table serving small plates of sliced tangerines, Soo-Ja saw Eun-Mee get up once again, and instead of heading back to her original table, she went to yet another one, her third of the night, where she sat next to a senile-looking old woman, presumably to enjoy dessert with her. Soo-Ja was about to ask Hana to go stand near her again when, much to her surprise, Hana leapt out of her chair without her prompting, again feigning a need to go to the bathroom.

“It looks like I’ve had too much tea. That boricha goes right through your system, doesn’t it?”

Soo-Ja followed with her eyes as Hana walked toward Eun-Mee’s new table, not too close lest she be noticed. Hana did not know what to do with her own body, and she stood there awkwardly at first, until a friendly ajumma emerged, and Hana engaged her in brief conversation. After a few minutes, the ajumma finally disengaged herself and Hana had no choice but to return. This time, however, Eun-Mee noticed her, and she shot her a strained smile, aggressively flaring her nostrils. Hana stared back at her with uncharacteristic fear, as if confronted with Medusa. As Hana almost ran back to her table, Soo-Ja could see Eun-Mee watching her, too, her lips shaped into a disdainful frown.

When Hana sat down, Soo-Ja took advantage of the fact that the woman across from them had the entire table engrossed in a tirade of hers—about how the widows of Cheju Island had no business diving for shellfish naked—and she asked her what she had overheard.

“I couldn’t really tell at first,” whispered Hana, “but it sounded to me like Eun-Mee offered Yoon-Shin Kang, the pharmacist’s mother, to put her name down next month in the ballot if she put her name down this month.”

“Some kind of backroom deal—that’s exactly what I thought she was doing,” Soo-Ja whispered back.

“I’m a little confused, though. I heard her offer Ae-Rin Bae, the bathhouse manager, the exact same thing. She told her if she put her name down in the ballot this month, she’d do the same for her next month. How can she do that if she’s going to put down the pharmacist’s mother’s name?”

So she had been going from table to table making deals with different women, and keeping each of them in the dark about the others! Soo-Ja tensed up. The voting would begin in less than fifteen minutes. There was no time to do anything about this. Eun-Mee was going to take home the pot.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if she disappears next month and breaks the gye,” Soo-Ja said.

“What happens if the gye breaks?”

“Then all the money we’ve put into it over the past year is gone, pfft.”

“Say something,” said Hana. “Do something!”

Soo-Ja thought about her options. She could go speak to Hyung-Soon Oh, the organizer of the gye, and tell her what Eun-Mee was doing. But the thing was, she didn’t want to be a tattletale, and, more practically, if Hyung-Soon confronted Eun-Mee and the others, she knew they would all deny it and say it was just a slanderous rumor. Soo-Ja could go to each of them separately and reveal Eun-Mee’s plans, but there was no guarantee they’d believe her. Eun-Mee struck her as a smart improviser who could charm her way out of any situation. Finally, Soo-Ja could speak to Eun-Mee directly, and demand that she withdraw from the gye, or else she’d expose her. Would she believe her bluff?

Soo-Ja did not have a chance to make a decision, as out of nowhere Eun-Mee herself appeared in front of her. She pulled up a chair and sat next to her. She was fuming, her face pinched like a small ball, her gaze burning into Soo-Ja’s skin. She placed her hand on top of hers, like a lover, and she spoke with the clarity of stones being dropped into a river.

“Awfully sneaky of you to send your daughter to spy on me,” said Eun-Mee.

Hana pretended not to hear her, though she could not help occasionally shooting daggers at Eun-Mee with her eyes.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Soo-Ja.

“What did she tell you, Soo-Ja?” asked Eun-Mee, with a sharp edge in her voice. “What did she hear?”

“You already know the answer to that, or you wouldn’t have come here to speak to me,” Soo-Ja replied, nonchalant.

“I’m oversensitive, that’s all, that your daughter—with her adorable ears—may have misunderstood what I said to Mrs. Kang. I simply wished my sincerest hopes that she should be blessed soon with the gye. She’s very deserving, you know.”

“Not as deserving as quite a few other people here,” Soo-Ja said, unswayed by Eun-Mee’s charm. “Like the woman whose shoes you were mocking earlier. Or Bog-yan Lim, whose tailor shop caught fire last month when her clerk left some candles unattended. If I don’t get the money myself, I’m hoping she will.” Soo-Ja pointed discreetly at Mrs. Lim, a serious-looking woman with long, permed hair sitting a few tables away. Mrs. Lim had not told anyone about the fire; Soo-Ja was one of the few people who knew.

Eun-Mee rolled her eyes. “She doesn’t dress very well for a tailor. I can’t imagine she has that many clients.” Then, Eun-Mee fixed her gaze upon Soo-Ja again, speaking barely above a whisper: “Don’t even think of saying anything about this to anyone, especially my husband. If you have to gossip, then do it after they count all the votes and hand out the money.”

Soo-Ja moved her hand away from hers and sat with her back very straight. Eun-Mee, however, remained leaning forward toward her awkwardly, as if she were frozen in the middle of a bow.

“Eun-Mee, you’re going to go to Mrs. Oh and tell her you’re withdrawing yourself for consideration this month. And then next month, you’ll compete fair and square, without making any deals.”

Eun-Mee stifled a laugh. “Hana’s mother, you’ll never get anywhere with that mentality. Half the room is making deals, and the other half are suckers.”

This made Soo-Ja snap. Was she one of the suckers?

“This is your first time at our gye! How can you expect to win the pot? Why don’t you just sit and watch for the first few meetings?”

“That’s not my style. I like to make a big first impression, and grab everyone’s attention all at once,” cooed Eun-Mee.

“And why do you even want the money? Your husband makes a lot, I’m sure, as a doctor.”

Eun-Mee sighed. “He does make a lot of money, but he likes to spend it on practical things, like furniture and appliances.” To Soo-Ja, Eun-Mee looked about as practical as a peacock. Even her way of speaking seemed luxuriant, the cadences dripping lazily, stretching out like spoonfuls of syrup.

“He also buys you nice clothes and jewelry,” said Soo-Ja. “I can’t think there’s much he’d deny you.”

“But a woman likes to have her own money,” said Eun-Mee, her eyes betraying a weariness Soo-Ja hadn’t detected before. “And I’m not cut out to work part-time as a perfume clerk or a secretary. In fact, I find women who work outside the home to be rather sad spirits.” Eun-Mee quickly added, “No offense intended.”

“None taken,” said Soo-Ja.

“The thing is, I need money and I need it desperately. I need money more than you do. Or anyone else in this room.” Eun-Mee stared straight ahead, as if hypnotized.

“Why is that?”

“I owe money. A lot of it,” said Eun-Mee. She did not sound like herself, and for a moment, Soo-Ja felt sorry for her. “I joined a women’s savings club in Pusan, and I, like always, enjoyed taking charge. I promptly became the leader—well, actually, I staged a bit of a coup d’état. I mean, if that’s good enough for President Park, then it’s good enough for me—and in my role as leader, I decided on the first investment for us: imported Western goods, mostly cosmetics and perfumes from France. Alas, it turned out to be a scam, and I lost everyone’s money. The worst part is that a lot of the wives and their husbands were patients of Yul’s, and things became very awkward for him. I was so embarrassed!” Eun-Mee looked at Soo-Ja as if they were old confidantes, holding nothing back. She reached for Soo-Ja’s hands again, and this time Soo-Ja let her. “That’s why I insisted that we move to Seoul, even though our friends and our lives, really, are back in Pusan. In fact, I was surprised when Yul so readily agreed to move here. I thought he’d fight me on this. He’s so fond of the families he works with in Pusan.”

Soo-Ja bit her lower lip, thinking of her name and phone number on Yul’s desk. She urged Eun-Mee to go on, though she realized pretty quickly Eun-Mee did not need much prompting to tell her stories.

“So, if I can get money, I can pay back all the other wives, and show my face around Pusan again.” Eun-Mee smiled, glowing, and Soo-Ja understood why Yul had fallen in love with her: Eun-Mee had the gaiety of a child, and, like a child, she could make your anger for her turn into pity, or even affection, in the flash of a second. Soo-Ja tried to hate her, but she couldn’t. Eun-Mee kept you too busy trying to protect her from herself.

“Eun-Mee, I’m sure it wouldn’t take very long for your husband to earn the money to pay them back,” Soo-Ja said to her, trying to be reassuring. “And even if you never did, an investment is an investment. Those women can’t be mad at you for losing their money. There’s always a risk. It’s not your fault; you didn’t know you were dealing with con artists.”

Eun-Mee laughed again. “Hana’s mother, I can tell we’re going to be friends, since you’re so naive, and I find you amusing. Of course I knew the investment was shady. How else did I expect it to return double the amount? I just wasn’t counting on the man to run off with all that cash. Hana’s mother, this is a new society. Everyone looks for an angle, cuts a corner here, gives out a bribe there—”

“Of course I’ve heard that before, but I don’t believe it,” said Soo-Ja sharply, letting go of Eun-Mee’s hands. Their sudden, instantaneous friendship dissipated as quickly as it had materialized.

“I’ll tell you what, if I get the pot today, I’ll share some of it with you—”

“Eun-Mee!” Soo-Ja cut her off. “It’s like a compulsion. You just can’t stop making deals, can you?”

But it was too late. Soo-Ja knew already that she wouldn’t expose Eun-Mee. As sorry as she felt for Mrs. Kang and Mrs. Bae, Soo-Ja couldn’t afford to draw too much attention to Eun-Mee, who had come as her guest. Everyone associated her with Soo-Ja at this point. A vote against Eun-Mee would never be a vote for Soo-Ja. And there was the potential humiliation for Yul, who had just arrived in Seoul and would need new patients. If people heard of his wife’s behavior, it would make him look bad. Seoul, for all its size, could sometimes feel like a small community, and Soo-Ja couldn’t risk tainting people’s first impressions of his name.

Still, Soo-Ja was no saint, and for a moment she felt the urge to tell everyone about Eun-Mee’s deeds, just for the sake of shaming her. For a second she fantasized leaving an anonymous note under Yul’s door: “Know your wife!” Soo-Ja pictured Yul throwing Eun-Mee out, his right arm stretched out, pointing to the door. Eun-Mee, her coat on, her bags under her arms, walking to the exit. But the fantasy died as quickly as it arose. The only thing that lasted was a smile on her face, which Eun-Mee must have seen and misread, for she hugged Soo-Ja tightly and whispered, “So we are sisters, after all! Thank you, eonni.”

Soo-Ja had gained her trust. She didn’t mean to win it. Eun-Mee’s trust seemed superfluous, or even, frankly, disposable, and if it were a gift, she’d have returned it unopened—an empty box full of air.

In the end, neither of the women won. Nobody knew Eun-Mee well enough to vote for her, and she received only three votes. Soo-Ja, much to her surprise, received five (which did not include her own—she thought it would be tacky to vote for herself). The person who won the pot, with twenty votes, was the person she had voted for—Mrs. Lim, the woman whose shop had caught fire. Mrs. Lim immediately began weeping and praying, in gratitude, as seemingly countless hands touched her to congratulate her.

Soo-Ja did not feel bad that she did not get the money; she was too busy enjoying the fact that Eun-Mee hadn’t, either. If it seemed petty on her part, fine, thought Soo-Ja, but this was the woman Yul had married, and in that choice lay a thousand questions. For Soo-Ja, Eun-Mee was as fascinating as some old religion, and that was the reason she hadn’t exposed Eun-Mee: it was to keep her own self cloaked, as she lay exploring her love’s truth, in this stranger’s face.