“Koh Hansu, please,” she said in her best Japanese. “Please.”
“Who are you?”
“My name is Boku Sunja.”
Hansu’s wife, Mieko, nodded. The beggar was no doubt a Korean who wanted money. The postwar Koreans were numerous and shameless, and they took advantage of her husband’s soft nature toward his countrymen. She did not begrudge his generosity, but she disapproved of the beggars’ boldness. It was evening, and this was no time for a woman of any age to beg.
Mieko turned to the servant girl, “Give her what she wants and send her away. There’s food in the kitchen if she is hungry.” This was what her husband would do. Her father had also believed in hospitality toward the poor.
The servant bowed as the mistress walked away.
“No, no,” Sunja said in Japanese. “No money, no food. Speak Koh Hansu, please. Please.” She clasped her hands together as if in prayer.
Mieko returned, taking deliberate steps. Koreans could be insistent like unruly children. They could be loud and desperate, with none of the coolness and placidity of the Japanese. Her children were half of this blood, but fortunately, they did not raise their voices or have slovenly habits. Her father had loved Hansu, claiming that he was not like the others and that it would be good for her to marry him, because he was a real man and he would take care of her. Her father was not wrong; under her husband’s direction, the organization had only grown stronger and wealthier. She and her daughters had enormous wealth in Switzerland as well as innumerable fat packets of yen hidden in the stone walls of this house. She lacked for nothing.
“How did you learn that he lives here? How do you know my husband?” Mieko asked Sunja.
Sunja shook her head, because she didn’t understand exactly what the woman was asking. She understood the word “husband.” His wife was clearly Japanese—early sixties with gray hair, cut short. She was very beautiful, with large dark eyes fringed with unusually long lashes. She wore a light green kimono over her elegant frame. The rouge on her lips was the color of umeboshi. She looked like a kimono model.
“Fetch the garden boy. He speaks Korean.” Hansu’s wife extended her left hand and gestured to Sunja to remain by the door. She noted the rough and worn cotton clothing and the tired hands, spotted from outdoor work. The Korean could not be very old; there was some prettiness in her eyes, but her youth was spent. Her waist was thick from childbearing. She was not attractive enough to be one of Hansu’s whores. To her knowledge, all of Hansu’s whores were Japanese hostesses, some younger than their daughters. They knew better than to grace her doorstep.
The garden boy came running to the front of the house from the backyard, where he’d been weeding.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, bowing to the mistress of the house.
“She’s a Korean,” Mieko said. “Ask her how she learned where the master lives.”
The boy glanced at Sunja, who looked terrified. She wore a light gray coat over her cotton work clothes. She was younger than his mother.
“Ajumoni,” he said to Sunja, trying not to alarm her. “How can I help you?”
Sunja smiled at the boy, then, seeing the concern in his eyes, she burst into tears. He had none of the hardness of the house servant and the wife. “I’m looking for my son, you see, and I think your master knows where he is. I need to speak”—she had to stop speaking to breathe through her tearful gulps—“to your master. Do you know where he is?”
“How does she know my husband lives here?” Hansu’s wife asked again calmly.
In his wish to help the desperate woman, the boy had forgotten his mistress’s request.
“The mistress wants to know how you know that the master lives here. Ajumoni, I have to give her an answer; do you understand?” The boy peered into Sunja’s face.
“I worked for Kim Changho at a restaurant your master owned. Kim Changho gave me your master’s address to me before he left for the North. Did you know Mr. Kim? He went to Pyongyang.”
The boy nodded, recalling the tall man with the thick eyeglasses who always gave him pocket money for candy and played soccer with him in the backyard. Mr. Kim had offered to take the boy with him to the North on the Red Cross ship, but his master had forbidden it. The master never spoke about Mr. Kim and would get angry if anyone brought him up.
Sunja stared hard at the boy as if he could find Noa himself.
“You see, your master might know where my son is. I have to go find him. Do you think you can tell me where your master is? Is he here now? I know he would see me.”