This Burns My Heart

Chapter four

The large square classroom emptied itself out quickly, its wooden walls growing darker with the waning sun, and its concrete floors feeling cooler to the touch. The young women collected their bags and coats, while Soo-Ja alone remained sitting on her embroidered mat on the floor. She could hear the silence filling up the room as she waited for Yul’s arrival.

He had sent her a note two days earlier, asking if he could see her. She’d wondered why the sudden communication. He hadn’t been in contact with her for weeks. Yul had no less than saved her life that night outside the city hall, yet he had given her no opportunity to show him her gratitude. She wondered why he had been avoiding her.

Soo-Ja had hesitated before writing back, knowing it might not be appropriate for her to receive him at her house, now that she was engaged. But he could walk her home from her weekly drawing class at the local arts school, and that’s what she had told him. At that moment, as she waited for him, Soo-Ja tried to ignore the nervousness gliding down her spine. She hoped to concentrate instead on the drawings she’d been working on. They were rice paper paintings of the four gentlemen flowers and plant—orchid, chrysanthemum, plum blossom, and bamboo.

As a little girl, her father had taught her about the importance of the flowers; how in precolonial times, a yangban—aristocratic—boy’s initiation started by learning how to draw them, and his brushstrokes both revealed and created character. Though those four flowers may seem delicate, they had great force, too—they could teach a gentleman how to absorb a moral value, like inner strength or courage.

“What a perfect choice of setting,” said Yul, breaking Soo-Ja’s reverie. She watched as he lingered by the steps of the room for a minute, removing his black leather shoes. He placed them on the ground, on the same step as Soo-Ja’s—next to hers, in fact—creating two pairs of perfect lines.

Soo-Ja rose, and the two of them exchanged bows. Soo-Ja thought about collecting her things, since the original plan was for him to escort her home. But instead, she found herself sitting back on her mat, eager to keep him there—keep him still. Yul sat down next to her, on another mat, facing the persimmon-glazed table in front of her.

“I was surprised to hear from you,” said Soo-Ja.

“I was surprised to hear about your wedding,” said Yul, a look of concern on his face.

“Are you here to congratulate me?” asked Soo-Ja, avoiding his gaze, and looking at her half-finished painting instead.

Yul moved his head to the side. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m not sure ‘congratulations’ is the first word that comes to mind. I haven’t spent much time at all with Min, but I can tell you this: he’s the kind of person you date, not the kind you marry.”

Soo-Ja reached for a blank piece of rice paper and laid it on the table in front of her, buying time as she tried to think of a response. She thought of explaining to Yul her reasons for getting married to Min. Would he understand? she wondered. Or would he judge her?

Instead, Soo-Ja kept her eyes averted and dipped her brush into the inkstone. She was about to make her first stroke when Yul surprised her by moving his body closer to hers. She thought he would try to take the brush away from her hands. Instead, in a gesture that startled her, Yul took her right hand into his, holding the brush with her.

“What are you doing?” she asked, looking at the way his hand made a shell on top of her own.

“Teach me. I’ll follow your lead,” said Yul.

Soo-Ja hesitated. “I didn’t know you drew.”

“I don’t. But I’ve always wanted to try.”

Soo-Ja nodded. This would be better than talking about Min. Soo-Ja made their hands trade places and had his fingers hold the brush. She then placed her hand over his. Slowly, they began to draw their first stroke together, starting from the base, and forming a thin, black arc. They crossed the arc with their second stroke, again from the base.

Soo-Ja gripped Yul’s hand tighter and noticed he’d kept his arm loose, so she could guide him freely. She continued, drawing black leaves—six or seven of them—crisscrossing each other. For some of the strokes, Soo-Ja had them lift the brush for a second before continuing the stroke, creating an inch or so of white space right in the middle of a leaf. It looked like someone had erased that part of the orchid, splitting it in half.

“I know I should have come earlier. I debated seeing you, but I wasn’t sure it would be appropriate,” said Yul as they drew.

“You saved my life that night. I wouldn’t have known about the gunfire if you hadn’t warned me,” said Soo-Ja.

“But you also wouldn’t have been there to begin with if you hadn’t met me.”

“I am very glad I was there, Yul,” said Soo-Ja firmly. “Don’t ever worry about that.”

“Maybe if I’d come to see you, you could have avoided this engagement.”

Soo-Ja quickly reached for another blank piece of paper, eager to change the subject. “Do you want to do the chrysanthemums next? You see how in the painting of orchids, we emphasized the leaves? For the chrysanthemums, we have to do the opposite and highlight the flowers. And the flowers are trickier to draw. The petals at the heart have to be drawn with a darker ink than the petals at the edges.”

Soo-Ja and Yul—their hands still moving together—painted the flowers; their petals grew diagonally upward, creating the illusion that they kept moving beyond the frame of the long, rectangular sheet of paper.

“What do you think a gentleman can learn from a chrysanthemum?” asked Yul.

“Well, the chrysanthemum blooms even in the winds, rains, and snow of late autumn and early winter. It follows its nature and is not afraid of danger or death. I might venture that those are the values that a gentleman should have: courage, loyalty, and commitment to ideals.”

As their hands moved together, Soo-Ja felt enveloped by Yul’s warmth. After a while, she started to let go, letting him fill in a dark leaf by himself; then she’d guide his hand along again, to create distance between the stems. Each time she held his hand felt like the first time—letting go of it for a few seconds only made her long for it more.

“Now, I’d like to draw something for you,” said Soo-Ja. “For you to take home.”

Soo-Ja smiled at Yul as he sat back and watched her. She began to mix the ink in the inkstone. Then, Soo-Ja drew a gnarled branch, going in four directions—one to the right, one to the left, one moving into the background, one coming forward. She occasionally lifted her brush in the air in the middle of a stroke, once again creating “breaks” in the branches, white space that would be left empty, and “filled” in by the mind of the person looking at the painting. Then, she mixed some water in the inkstone to get a lighter shade for the delicate round flowers, and she sprinkled them on top of the branches.

“See, there must be harmony between the yin—the female—and the yang—the male,” said Soo-Ja. “That’s why there must be a balance between the empty space and the painted area.”

When Soo-Ja was done, she handed Yul the painting of the plum blossoms. Yul leaned closer and stared at it. Though he did not speak, his eyes looked full of admiration. He rolled the rice paper with great care and placed it inside his bag.

“I sense my advice is unwelcome. Maybe I should go now,” said Yul, a hint of sadness on his face.

Soo-Ja did not want him to go just yet, and watched with disappointment as he headed out of the classroom and into the chatter of the street, now bustling with night students and teachers about to go home. But as Yul made his way out, Soo-Ja quickly realized that his expensive leather shoes—which he’d left by the steps immediately outside the door, as per custom—were gone. Soo-Ja’s were still there, but Yul’s had been replaced with a cheap pair of random sandals.

Soo-Ja was mortified. If Yul’s shoes had been stolen, then, in the eyes of an observer, it was her fault. For that hour, while she had been with him, she’d been responsible for his well-being. She’d been the host, and therefore was accorded some privileges, but also responsibilities. Besides, she was the one who had suggested meeting at her school and initially had them stay in the empty, unguarded classroom. Soo-Ja knew he knew all this, and that, right at that moment, she was about to lose face.

But much to Soo-Ja’s surprise, Yul simply smiled and placed the sandals on his feet, as if nothing had happened and those were really his own shoes. When he saw Soo-Ja staring at him, he told her, “Oh, I just ran out of the house late this morning and didn’t notice what I wore on my feet. Anyway, thank you for the drawing lesson. I’m very glad I got to see you again.”

Soo-Ja nodded, touched by his kindness. He had not wanted to embarrass her. Standing up, Soo-Ja gathered her art materials and made her way out of the classroom.

Just as she was about to go home, however, Soo-Ja felt Yul place his hand on her left arm. He touched her lightly, as if she were a flower. Soo-Ja’s body turned back in his direction, and her senses felt sharper, keenly aware of the region of her arm that Yul had just touched. She felt the air grow warmer as he drew closer to her, his breath soon almost within her reach. Yul gazed at her with his lips apart, but no words came out of his mouth. He looked as if he had practiced a million things to say, but he was now discarding them one by one. Soo-Ja could tell, as his face changed expressions, what each of those opening lines were—she could see as they fell to the ground—a confession, an apology, a request. She wanted to pick them up, one by one, and cradle them in her arms, lest they be the last thing she had from him again.

“Don’t marry Min,” he whispered, his lips brushing against her ears. “Marry me instead.”

Soo-Ja felt the entire world grow silent, and the only thing she could hear was her own heart, beating fast. She looked at Yul, startled, feeling the warmth emanating from his body. Soo-Ja felt as if she had gone mute. Words failed her like broken clocks, trains without rails. Here it was, happiness, offering to dance with her, calling her nicknames, jaunty and giddy, leading her to a bed of hyacinths.

As if pained by her silence, Yul pressed his forehead against hers and took her hand into his.

“Let me build a house for you near the mountains, nestled in a valley filled with groves of mulberry trees.” Yul spoke so tenderly that Soo-Ja could not help but close her eyes. “I will make sure it rests on fertile and healthy soil, so we can plant a garden and watch the azaleas rise in the spring, and pluck the red dates from the branches. I will have the house face south, so it’ll get plenty of light year-round, even in winter, and while everyone else in town shivers, you will stay warm in your room, reading a book, wrapped in a blanket made of the finest lambskin. The house will always smell of jasmine tea and beds of chrysanthemums, and every room will be decorated according to your own whims. We will have a room for you to spend in serious contemplation, another one where you could craft very long, elaborate jokes shared only with me, and a third one where you could draw and paint and practice calligraphy.”

The vision made her smile. Yul moved closer, and it felt like the entire world enveloping her. He grazed his lips against hers. But just as Soo-Ja was about to kiss him, a powerful feeling of guilt tugged at her, telling her to be ashamed to picture such a life when she was already as good as married. The preparations for the wedding had been lengthy, and had involved not just Min and her, but their two sets of parents, who had to meet, talk, and be sure to trust one another. Elaborate negotiations had taken place regarding the dowry, the honeymoon, and their futures.

But what if none of those things mattered? What if I simply ran off with Yul?

And then, a sudden image arose of Soo-Ja’s body under Min’s as they made love. Min’s face, sweat dripping on his forehead, and his eyes almost rolling backward in pleasure. All the noise on the street returned—chatter from the students walking by, cars honking in the distance, a bell ringing as a front door opened. The memory shamed Soo-Ja, and she pulled away from Yul. Even if she lied and kept that night a secret, Yul would find out on their wedding night, just by looking at their sheets. What did the heroine say in that novel she’d been reading? Soo-Ja tried to recall, as the words suddenly felt very urgent. “Men—they have minds like moral flypaper,” or something to that effect. She had not understood what the author had meant until right that second.

“I have to go home now,” said Soo-Ja, almost in a panic.

“Soo-Ja, please!” said Yul, dreadful sadness painted on his face.

Soo-Ja swallowed. This was the moment, she knew, to which she would go back to in memory and say, You fool, you simple-minded fool. This was the moment she would think back to and decide, That was the night my life began, and I stopped being my father’s daughter, and earned my own name.

Soo-Ja shook her head. When she spoke, she could not tell if the apology was directed to Yul or to herself. “I’m sorry. It’s just… impossible.”