Several hundred guests came. They were people Mozasu knew from his business and many more from his father’s church, where his grandmother and Aunt Kyunghee still worshipped. Mozasu did his best to greet them, but he could hardly speak; it was as if he had forgotten both Korean and Japanese. He didn’t want to go on anymore without Yumi, but this was something he could not say. She was his lover, but more than anything, she was his wise friend. He could never replace her. And he felt he had done her a great injustice by not having told her this. He had expected to have a long life with her, not a few years. Who would he tell when a customer did something funny? Who would he tell that their son had made him so proud, standing on crutches and shaking the hands of grown-ups and being braver than any other person in the room? When the mourners wept at the sight of the little boy in the black suit, Solomon would say, “Don’t cry.” He calmed one hysterical woman by telling her, “Mama is in California.” When the mourner looked puzzled, neither Solomon nor Mozasu explained what this meant.
He had never taken her there. They’d meant to go. With some difficulty, it was possible now for them to get the passports, but he hadn’t bothered. Most Koreans in Japan couldn’t travel. If you wanted a Japanese passport, which would allow you to reenter without hassles, you had to become a Japanese citizen—which was almost impossible, and no one he knew would do that anyway. Otherwise, if you wanted to travel, you could get a South Korean passport through Mindan, but few wanted to be affiliated with the Republic of Korea, either, since the impoverished country was run by a dictator. The Koreans who were affiliated with North Korea couldn’t go anywhere, though some were allowed to travel to North Korea. Although nearly everyone who had returned to the North was suffering, there were still far more Koreans in Japan whose citizenship was affiliated with the North than the South. At least the North Korean government still sent money for schools for them, everyone said. Nevertheless, Mozasu wouldn’t leave the country where he was born. Where would he go, anyway? So Japan didn’t want them, so fucking what?
Images of her filled his mind, and even as the mourners spoke to him, all he could hear was her practicing English phrases from her language books. No matter how many times Mozasu had said he would not emigrate to the United States, Yumi had not given up hope that one day they would live in California. Lately, she had been suggesting New York.
“Mozasu, don’t you think it would be wonderful to live in New York City or San Francisco?” she’d ask him occasionally, and it was his job to say that he couldn’t decide between the two coasts.
“There, no one would care that we are not Japanese,” she’d say. Hello, my name is Yumi Baek. This is my son, Solomon. He is three years old. How are you? Once, when Solomon asked her what California was, she had replied, “Heaven.”
After most of the funeral guests left, Mozasu and Solomon sat down at the back of the funeral hall. Mozasu patted the boy’s back, and his son leaned into him, fitting into the crook of his father’s right arm.
“You’re a good son,” Mozasu said to him in Japanese.
“You are a good papa.”
“Do you want to get something to eat?”
Solomon shook his head and looked up when an older man approached them.
“Mozasu, are you okay?” the man asked him in Korean. He was a virile-looking gentleman in his late sixties or early seventies, wearing an expensive black suit with narrow lapels and a dark necktie.
The face was familiar, but Mozasu couldn’t place it. He felt unable to answer him. Not wanting to be rude, Mozasu smiled, but he wanted to be left alone. Perhaps it was a customer or a bank officer; Mozasu couldn’t think right now.
“It’s me. Koh Hansu. Have I aged that much?” Hansu smiled. “Your face is the same, of course, but you’ve become a man. And this is your boy?” Hansu touched Solomon’s head. Throughout the day, nearly everyone had patted the boy’s glossy chestnut-colored hair.
Mozasu shot up from his seat.
“Uh-muh. Of course, I know who you are. It’s been so long. Mother had been looking for you for a while but couldn’t get ahold of you. To see if you might know where Noa is. He’s disappeared.”
“It’s been too long.” Hansu shook his hand. “Have you heard from Noa?”
“Well, yes and no. He sends Mother money each month, but he won’t give his whereabouts. He sends a lot of money actually, so he can’t be too badly off. I just wish we knew where he—”
Hansu nodded. “He sent me money, too. To pay me back, he said. I wanted to return it, but there’s no way. I thought I’d give it to your mother for her to keep for him.”
“Are you still in Osaka?” Mozasu asked.
“No, no. I live in Tokyo now. I live near my daughters.”
Mozasu nodded. He felt weak suddenly and wanted to sit again. When Hansu’s driver appeared, Hansu promised to call on Mozasu another day.
“Sir, I am very sorry to bother you, but there is a small matter outside. The young woman said it was an emergency.”
Hansu nodded and walked out of the building with his driver.
As he approached the car, Hansu’s new girl, Noriko, beckoned him from within.
The long-haired beauty clapped when she saw him open the door. Her pink pearl nail polish glinted from her fingertips.
“Uncle is here!” she cried happily.
“What’s the matter?” Hansu asked. “I was busy.”
“Nothing. I was bored, and I missed my uncle,” she replied. “Take me shopping, please. I have waited for so long and so patiently for you to come back in this car. And the driver is no fun! My friends in Ginza told me cute bags from France came in this week!”
Hansu closed the car door. The bulletproof windows shut out all daylight. The interior lamps of the Mercedes sedan lit up Noriko’s oval-shaped face.