“Yes.”
“I’m a Korean working in this filthy business. I suppose having yakuza in your blood is something that controls you. I can never be clean of him.” He laughed. “This is my curse.”
“But you’re not a yakuza,” she protested. “Are you? Mozasu owns pachinko parlors and he’s very honest. He’s always saying how it is possible to be a good employer and to avoid the bad people as long as you—”
Noa shook his head.
“Umma, I am honest, but there are people you cannot avoid in this business. I run a very large company, and I do what I have to do.” He made a face like he’d tasted something sour.
“You’re a good boy, Noa. I know you are—” she said, then felt foolish for having called him a child. “I mean, I’m sure you’re a good businessman. And honest.”
The two sat quietly. Noa covered his mouth with his right hand. His mother looked like an old exhausted woman.
“Do you want some tea?” he asked. Over the years, Noa had imagined his mother or brother coming to his house, discovering him there rather than in his white, sun-filled office. She’d made it easier for him by coming here instead. Would Hansu come to his office next? he wondered. It had taken longer for Hansu to find him than he’d expected.
“Would you like something to eat? I can order something—”
Sunja shook her head. “You should come home.”
He laughed. “This is my home. I am not a boy.”
“I’m not sorry to have had you. You are a treasure to me. I won’t leave—”
“No one knows I’m Korean. Not one person.”
“I won’t tell anyone. I understand. I’ll do whatever—”
“My wife doesn’t know. Her mother would never tolerate it. My own children don’t know, and I will not tell them. My boss would fire me. He doesn’t employ foreigners. Umma, no one can know—”
“Is it so terrible to be Korean?”
“It is terrible to be me.”
Sunja nodded and stared at her folded hands.
“I have prayed for you, Noa. I have prayed that God would protect you. It is all a mother can do. I’m glad you are well.” Each morning, she went to the dawn service and prayed for her children and grandson. She had prayed for this moment.
“The children, what are their names?”
“What does it matter?”
“Noa, I’m so sorry. Your father brought us to Japan, and then, you know, we couldn’t leave because of the war here and then the war there. There was no life for us back home, and now it’s too late. Even for me.”
“I went back,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“I’m a Japanese citizen now, and I can travel. I went to South Korea to visit. To see my supposed motherland.”
“You’re a Japanese citizen? How? Really?”
“It’s possible. It is always possible.”
“And did you go to Busan?”
“Yes, and I visited Yeongdo. It was tiny but beautiful,” he said.
Sunja’s eyes filled with tears.
“Umma, I have a meeting now. I’m sorry, but why don’t we see each other next week? I’ll come by. I want to see Mozasu again. I have to take care of some urgent things now.”
“Really? You’ll come?” Sunja smiled. “Oh, thank you, Noa. I’m so glad. You’re such a good—”
“It’s best if you leave now. I’ll phone you later tonight when you get home.”
Sunja got up quickly from her seat, and Noa walked her back to the spot where they met. He would not look into Hansu’s car.
“We’ll talk later,” he said, and crossed the street toward his building.
Sunja watched her son enter his office building, then tapped the passenger door of Hansu’s car. The driver came out and held the door open for her.
Hansu nodded.
Sunja smiled, feeling light and hopeful.
Hansu looked at her face carefully and frowned.
“You should not have seen him.”
“It went well. He’ll come to Yokohama next week. Mozasu will be so happy.”
Hansu told the driver to go. He listened to her talk about their meeting.
That evening, when Noa did not call her, she realized that she had not given him her home number in Yokohama. In the morning, Hansu phoned her. Noa had shot himself a few minutes after she’d left his office.
9
Yokohama, 1979