Suki Kim - The Interpreter

Suzy watched his face soften, and took a chance: “I’m starving.”

When they sat across from each other at Tom’s Diner at 112th Street and Broadway, they were both silent. Gone were her smooth Lolita talk and his seething discomfort. There was nothing more to say. Whatever should be was happening. Damian sat before his tea, watching Suzy biting into a cheeseburger with the sated face of a child.

“I’ll be twenty in one week,” she told him when she cleaned off the plate, now toying with the last fry that remained free of the pool of ketchup surrounding it.

Will you make love to me then, I have never done it before .

Surely she could not have said it. She had never been so reckless. She did not even want him in that way. He did not fill her with lust, as she later learned to feel after learning his body as if it were her own. But that afternoon, leaning on the orange Formica table at Tom’s Diner, she invited him to imagine her. It seemed necessary, almost understood between the two, that it should take place, that a part of him should pour inside her, a significant part of him, not that fresh-faced, long-haired guy he might have once been to Professor Tamiko, but instead this much older, visibly distraught man nearing fifty, bad-mannered enough to kick his wife’s door open, who now sat opposite, undressing her silently, wishing he were not doing so.

Certainly she seduced him, but he encouraged her with silence. He gazed at her, not laughing, not making light of her suggestion, not saying anything to distract her maneuver. He simply watched her eat and waited patiently until she stumbled on her words. Once the waiter took the empty plate away, Suzy felt a slight panic, not knowing what to do with her hands or where to rest her eyes. She thought of taking out a cigarette from her pocket, but she could not decide if that would make her seem even younger. She was afraid that he might get up and leave, although she knew, on some basic level, that he wouldn’t.

“What is your name?” he asked, matter-of-factly, as though he was finally beginning to see whatever lay between them, which had been quite unspoken, quite imagined, which was yet to be convinced or confessed, and the only thing left to do was to say her name, the first uttering of her name, which might be the first decision on his part.

She hesitated. She did not want him to say her name yet. She was afraid of its permanence. She dropped her gaze as if to hide her blushing face from him.

“I’m terrified.”

Later that night, when she lay back in her dormitory bed counting the creeping clock, she wondered what had pushed her so far. Later, much later, when he did say her name once, twice, and again, she shut her eyes and thought that everything was different now, everything had changed permanently: the hollowness she had seen in his eyes at their first meeting, the passing of innocence she had so aptly sensed might have been the premonition of the escape.

What do you want after all, do you want me to tell you?

He might have said before touching her face, before gathering her in his arms. But that happened a week later, on November 24th, her twentieth birthday, when she stood before him like a small, trembling bride and let the white cotton slip off her body.

This body, as he had known so completely, remains now with no vestige of such nights, such hands, coyly innocent in her white terry-cloth robe, which Suzy pulls over any exposed skin as though she cannot bear such a glimpse.

She plays the final message as she steps into the kitchen and scoops coffee into the filter.

“Ms. Suzy Park, is this Ms. Park’s residence? Detective Lester here, from the Forty-first Precinct. How’re you? Listen, could you come on up to the station later this week? Nothing urgent, just a few questions. I’m out on a case but will be back by Thursday. Extension III if you wanna call before coming in.”

It has been years since she last heard from Detective Lester, not since the case was filed away unsolved, which he never admitted. He kept assuring her that these “thugs” would sooner or later be caught. But she has not kept in touch with him either. There was no point. If any new development occurred, she was sure he would find her. Why such faith? She stares at the brewing steam of the gurgling Mr. Coffee machine. Why does he want to see her suddenly? Has he also contacted Grace?

Mr. Coffee lets out a big sigh. The pot is ready. Suzy leans over the boom box and presses the knob marked AM. “1010-WINS!” the announcer is shouting at the morning audience. “The most listened to station in the nation!” It must be true. Every time Suzy hops in a taxi, she is sure that she hears the same greeting on the radio. “The time at the tone will be ten-thirty.” The announcer is a pickup artist. “You give us twentytwo minutes, we’ll give you the world !”

She had lain awake well into the morning. It must have been around seven o’clock when she drifted off to a second round of sleep, which always leaves her feeling groggy and oddly anxious. Suzy pours herself a cup of coffee. The morning is familiar: black coffee, the 1010-WINS cheers, the traffic watch every ten minutes.

Except for Detective Lester. What could he possibly tell her?

Criminal courts are not fun. Just getting past the security is a big hassle. They might as well strip-search you. It’s even worse than downtown clubs on Friday nights, the way those biceps-heavy security guards block the door and make everyone wait in line. Pockets are emptied. Bags are scrutinized. Bodies are felt up and down. It is useless explaining that she is hired by the court, or that the assistant DA is waiting for her inside. It is useless fighting through the crowd. She is easily the only Asian person here. Everyone around her seems to be black, including the security guards, the guys in handcuffs being led by officers, and the rest in line, whose purpose for being here God only knows. Attorneys, though, often are not black. Judges, almost never. None of them are here. They must use a separate entrance, hidden in the back. The power structure is pretty clear. Between those who get locked up and those who do the locking is a colored matter. There are no two ways about it.

She has been to the Bronx Criminal Court once during the last eight months of interpreting. This past summer, she was hired for the investigation of a Korean deli in Hunts Point that burned down overnight. For some reason, there had been no insurance, and the poor guy who owned it was out on the street. He’d lodged a complaint against the Albanian landlord, who, now that the neighborhood had picked up and could fetch a higher rent, had been trying to force him out for years. The case had all the makings of a racial conflict. The store owner claimed that the landlord had brought in the neighborhood’s Albanian gangs to threaten him physically and set fire to his store. Suzy never found out what eventually happened to the case, but it appeared serious, one of those racially charged incidents that, with a bit of brutality from the NYPD, could end up on the cover of the New York Post . For a few weeks afterward, she glanced at the Post whenever she passed newsstands, but she found nothing.

Once past security, Suzy is told to wait in the windowless reception area on the third floor. People pace about. Something urgent is in the air. She sits in the corner until finally a small, slouching man with a drooping mustache peeks out from the door behind the reception desk and waves her in.

“Hi, I’m Marcos,” he says. “Interpreter? So young. We never get young ones like you for Korean.” Given the way no one pays attention to him, he is clearly not the assistant DA. “Follow me; we’re running a little late.” Marcos points to the long hallway beyond the door. On both sides are rows of identical doors marked only by double-digit numbers. Inside, there must be different investigations under way. Burglary, murder, kidnapping, random shooting, all collected behind each door. It would be impossible to find her way back, she thinks, suddenly glad that Marcos is leading her through the labyrinth. After taking a few turns, he stops before a door that is missing its number. “Wait inside; the ADA’s on his way with the witness.” A quick pat on her shoulder. Marcos scurries into the abyss.