E-Book, Englisch, 224 Seiten
Lee Drifting House
Main
ISBN: 978-0-571-27619-6
Verlag: Faber & Faber
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark
E-Book, Englisch, 224 Seiten
ISBN: 978-0-571-27619-6
Verlag: Faber & Faber
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark
Krys Lee is the author of the short story collection Drifting House and How I Became a North Korean. She is a recipient of the Rome Prize and the Story Prize Spotlight Award, the Honor Title in Adult Fiction Literature from the Asian/Pacific American Libraries Association, and a finalist for the BBC International Story Prize. Her fiction, journalism, and literary translations have appeared in Granta, The Kenyon Review, Narrative, San Francisco Chronicle, Corriere della Sera, and The Guardian, among others. She lives in Seoul, South Korea, where she is an assistant professor of creative writing and literature at Yonsei University, Underwood International College. Find out more on kryslee.com or follow her on Twitter @krysleewriter.
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FOR THREE YEARS after her ex-husband and their daughter, Yuri, disappeared to California, Mrs. Shin had designed clothes by day and sold handprinted scarves by night to save the necessary sum of money to depart Seoul and come to America. In order to find her daughter, she had assented to move into a stranger’s two-bedroom condo on the fringes of Culver City—like two apartments! They would share the common space, nothing more. That had been the agreement.
But now that she had arrived, she saw that the living arrangements could be dangerous. The duplex was hot and cramped inside: a thready chintz sofa, the display cabinets heavy with souvenirs, the cumbersome oak table stained with the marks of sweating glasses, all seemed to touch one another. The kitchen faced the living room, and the living room, Mr. Rhee’s bedroom. If he leaves the door open, she thought, we will see each other each time I look up from the cutting board. The lamp that Mr. Rhee switched on cast more shadows than light.
“Welcome to your new home.” As Mr. Rhee spoke, his hands fluttered skittishly, batting at the air as if there were invisible mosquitoes. “Well, not really so new, but everything works well, well enough.”
“Yes, it is a new home for me, isn’t it?”
She did not want to look at him, understanding that she was aware of him as a man, and that gave him an immediate advantage over her. But she found herself looking. He was gangly and quick like a badminton player, unlike her ponderously built, strong ex-husband, and she disliked her disappointment. His doughy eyelids and sagging cheeks wore more sadness than she approved of, aging his face beyond his fifty years; his baggy peppermint-striped sweatpants smelled like a hospital gown and telegraphed his recent misfortunes. Even after the shame of her husband’s departure five years ago, she had behaved like the fashion designer she was: she had never sanctioned mix-matching her bras and panties or privileged anyone to see her without an Hermès silk scarf, all efforts that gave her the appearance of confidence. Even after she lost her daughter, she had not allowed herself public displays of grief.
“I’ve left you the large room upstairs,” he said. “I don’t need a lot of space.”
Mrs. Shin thanked him, all the time wondering if he was as innocuous as he looked.
“Well, shouldn’t we document this—predicament?” she asked.
They needed photos to authenticate their engagement, then their marriage, to immigration.
“Predicament?” he said. “Well, yes, I suppose that’s what it is.”
She tolerated Mr. Rhee’s arm around her shoulder, his parched white hair like the roots of spring onions, the dry-cleaning chemicals on his plaid shirt—a professional hazard of running Pearl Express, a dry-cleaning business. His garlicky breath scraped her nose. He, too, must have endured her stale travel smells.
After he set up his camera on the living room table, they both forced a smile until the timer clicked, the shutter snapped back, and she drew away. He continued to gaze.
She said into the silence, “Is there a rice grain on my nose?”
She had chosen not to marry some lonely Korean widower in America the old-fashioned picture bride way. The K-fiancée visa, and the next step, the marriage visa, had cost her a tidy sum precisely so he would not confuse this “predicament” with love.
“You have such young skin,” he said, admiring her smooth, round face, her eyes the shape of plumped kidney beans.
She said, “I’m not looking for a real husband. I thought that was clear.”
She was tired and frightened, so her words clicked like stilettos on tile.
She added, “I prefer a world without men.”
“Don’t worry,” he said, blushing, twisting bunches of his hair with his hand. “I live for my boys. If you had children, you would know what I mean.”
*
During Park Chung-hee’s dictatorship nearly thirty years ago, Mr. Rhee had quit his engineering job at Hyundai Heavy Motors and immigrated to America with his wife. The family of four had settled in the basement of a kind American couple and cleaned office buildings until purchasing their own dry-cleaning store. They had done well enough until the recent recession, which had even lawyers watching their expense accounts. Until Mr. Rhee’s wife had abandoned him for an American man she met in salsa classes, he had watched Korean news clips of the developing country’s daily disasters—student demonstrators attacked by pepper-spray bombs in 1986, the Sampoong Department Store collapse that killed generations of families in 1995—and convinced himself that he had been right to leave, even after the country flourished and began giving academic scholarships to the brightest from Guatemala to Mongolia, and setting trends in film and technology.
Mrs. Shin knew another Korea. In 1996 she had married up. A glittering four-hundred-guest Hyatt Hotel wedding, a Tiffany diamond flashing on her finger, and a villa nestled high in the hills, like a medieval castle overseeing the neon signs and pollution of Seoul, had transformed her. But money in Korea meant residing with the in-laws until the new bride was made acceptable; it meant surveillance and criticism. While hip-hop became the rage and women were sworn in as senators in the National Assembly, Mrs. Shin had subordinated herself to her husband’s will, rivaled her mother-in-law for his affections, and accepted all blame when she remained childless the first six years of marriage. After nine years of a difficult, exciting life together, her husband had said that he could not do it anymore, that they were not healthy for each other, and left with their daughter. She was no different from Mr. Rhee; she felt that she had failed at living.
On that first night in America, Mrs. Shin’s failures returned to her in her dreams. As she slept, her hands, those animals of habit, clutched at her crotch, a spot that she forbade herself to touch when awake. She dreamed of a missed appointment, a flippant remark, and the rituals of violence they would cause. Her husband lifted her by the slant of her black hair. His fist smashed her nose; his right foot bruised her ribs, her breasts. A purple flower bloomed across the ridge of her back, her hair fell out like dried leaves. She woke up trembling with excitement, her arms filmy with sweat and the residual scent of sex. She reached for her dressing gown in the dark and covered herself.
Downstairs she sat and sipped from a glass of water only after she spread a handkerchief on the sofa. The carpet roughened up by previous tenants and the desperate cheer of the coffee table’s dusty plastic roses insulted her sense of propriety, so she started up, unwilling to sit any longer in the germ-infested room, when she heard a repetitive tapping. She could not bear not knowing, so she tiptoed over and cupped her ear to Mr. Rhee’s door. To her horror, and delight, the door gave in and opened.
There he was, in ridiculous reindeer-patterned shorts and a shirt covered with tiny coconut trees. He stood behind a Ping-Pong table, the room’s only substantial piece of furniture—if it could be called furniture. Across the table from him, a squat ball machine spat out a ball from one of the five mouths in its rotating head. The whip of his paddle shook the net as he chopped, covering the entire table with his forehand. He was more aggressive behind the net than the man she had determined him to be.
She laughed nervously. “Surprise,” she said.
Mr. Rhee dashed to the robot and switched it off.
“Have visiting hours changed in 2011?” he said. “It must be past two in the morning.”
He fanned himself with the paddle as he took in her billowing white gown and her cropped hair matted to her scalp like hairnetting.
He added, half-smiling, “I thought you liked your world without men.”
His mouth was thin and stretched back. A line of sweat ran down toward his solar plexus. Her body became alert when she saw the bottle of rice wine that he had been drinking alone, and with head bowed, hands clasped behind her, she approached, aroused by the idea of this man out of control.
“A drink? Korea’s finest,” he said, balancing the cheap rice wine that Korean men favored on his head.
She nodded, suddenly thirsty.
He walked to an orange crate, his table, and poured her a thimble-size glass of the soju. She accepted the clear rice wine. She was so close she could see a vein in his neck throbbing, and she found herself wanting his dry lips, his hands tight around her neck. But when he kissed her, his lips were tame, disappointing. His hands stayed limply at his sides.
She turned so his second kiss missed her lips and descended on her cheek.
Immediately after, she patted her lips dry on her sleeve—she would wash before bed. He rubbed furiously at his hair, his eyes looked for somewhere to rest. Then he crawled underneath the Ping-Pong table and fumbled with the cotton yo that he now lay on top of, escaping into sleep.
“Sleep will do us good,” she said decisively, and fled upstairs. She locked the door behind her.
*
The next morning Mrs. Shin disinfected the bathtub with a...
