Suki Kim - The Interpreter

Grace. Only Grace would know. Grace, the sole evidence of her family.

Without Grace, there remains no trace of her parents. The Woodside brownstone. What did Grace do with all their parents’ things? Whenever Suzy pictures Grace sorting through them, she imagines her amidst a pile of blankets in rainbow colors. They each owned thick winter blankets, which Mom called “mink blankets.” Fake silky furs with complicated flower designs in pink and orange. They were very warm, but Suzy found them too heavy and flashy. Both Suzy and Grace left the blankets behind when they went off to college. That was one thing Mom objected to. Although nothing aroused her reaction much, she seemed hurt when her daughters would not take what she considered to be the family heirlooms. Suzy felt bad when Grace cut her short with, “Please, Mom, it’s not mink and it’s not an heirloom.”

A few months after the funeral, Grace contacted Suzy once through the accountant. It should have been handled by a lawyer, but Korean accountants often extended themselves over all matters, from inheritance rights to tax returns. There was money, he told Suzy over the phone one morning. Not a whole lot, but a good enough sum to see her through for a few years. Suzy refused her share. They had disowned her up until their death. It seemed unthinkable to take their money. “Sleep on it for a while,” the accountant dismissed her refusal. “Heirs often react this way. Inheritance evokes guilt. You think you’re compromising your parents’ death. Especially when their death isn’t natural. But believe me, you’ll change your mind in a few months.” The accountant was adamant. When Suzy said no for the third time, he barked, “That won’t bring them back, you know.”

What is his name? She had not thought to write it down. During those few months after the funeral, nothing quite stuck with her. It is still a wonder how she managed from day to day. Getting up each morning. Finding a place to live. Finding something to do. Finding ground to stand on. You’ll regret it, the accountant warned. But he was wrong. She could not have taken her parents’ money. It did not belong to her, although it might not have belonged to them either.

You’re so fucking stupid, Suzy, you wouldn’t care what kind of money it is as long as it puts food before you .

It wouldn’t be a bad idea to look up the accountant. The guy might know something. He had done paperwork for her parents for a few years. Not for long, he insisted. He made a point of emphasizing “few years,” which, for an accountant-client relationship, was not a long period. Later, it occurred to her that he might not have wanted to be associated with her parents’ death. At their only meeting, she found him abrasive. But no one seemed to be on her side then. Everyone appeared unsympathetic, unfeeling, including Suzy herself, who remained living while her parents were shot down in a remote corner of the Bronx.

Suzy is about to grab the Yellow Pages when it dawns on her that most Korean accountants would not be advertised in it. What would be the point? No American clients come to them anyway. She would do better with the Korean Business Directory or Korean newspapers, neither of which she has in her apartment. His office had been located in Koreatown, above a restaurant that specialized in bone-marrow soup, 32nd Street in midtown Manhattan. A part of the city she rarely visits. The pervading smell of kimchi along the street. The posters on windows displaying jubilant Korean movie stars. Bright neon signs in Korean letters. Too close to home, although her home had never been that festive. Suzy had been to his office once to sign papers. It was a simple procedure. It took five minutes, and all her claims to her parents were over. Afterward, she sat before a bowl of oxtail soup and wept.

She is zipping up her knee-high boots when the phone rings. Ten-thirty on Friday morning. Who else but Michael? His daily phone call. His daily declaration of love, or need. It is good to have a routine. The only problem is that, by the time you get used to it, something inevitably happens to break it. She picks up the phone on its third ring. He should be impressed. He knows she is bending rules for him.

“Michael, I’m on my way out, can you call me later?”

No response. His phone must be acting up again. He must be out of Germany now. The connection is never a problem from there.

“Michael? Your cell’s not connecting. I can’t hear you.”

He must be calling from Southern Europe. Portugal, maybe Spain, if he is lucky. Michael chuckled when Microsoft announced the downsizing of their Madrid office. “Those hotblooded Spanish will rock you with their fiestas and siestas. But are they Web-ready? Do they care? They’ll be the last civilization to hook up. Why should they, when they actually prefer their world to the virtual one?”

“Michael, it’s useless. I’m hanging up.”

Then she hears it. The perfect silence. No static. No distance on the connection. This call could be coming from down the block. It is not Michael. It is not Michael on the other end.

“Who is this?” Dropping her bag, she throws a quick glance at the dead irises dried up in the Evian bottle.

“Damian?” Part of her is hoping. Of course it cannot be Damian. He would not be calling her. Not like this anyway.

“I’m going to hang up if you don’t speak.”

She is about to take the receiver off her ear when the voice stops her. A male voice. Shaky and unnaturally low, with a distinct Korean accent.

“Don’t.” It is not clear if he just has a feeble voice or is talking in a whisper.

“Who is this? Who are you?” She speaks slowly, strangely calm, as though she has been expecting him.

“I call to tell you… No more. Stop. No more talk with people. No police.” His English is just barely comprehensible. But he won’t speak in Korean. Maybe he is afraid that she will recognize his voice if he speaks with fluency. Maybe he is calling from somewhere not private. She tries anyway and asks in Korean, “Stop what? What’re you talking about?”

“Your parents dead. No more. Stop now.” He insists on his broken English. Barely a whisper. She won’t recognize his voice even if she hears it again.

“What do you mean? Who are you?”

“No. Nothing. They do not kill your parents. So stop.”

He is about to hang up. She can sense it. She cannot let him get away. He is the only clue she’s got.

“Wait! Who’s they? What did they have to do with my parents’ death?”

“Your parents dead. Nothing change. They watch you.”

He is gone. She can tell even before she hears the click.

Stop poking around, unless she wants to get hurt.

Is it a warning, or a threat?

Who is watching her?

Who are they ?

Who is he?

She is slumped on the kitchen floor staring at the phone when it rings again. She snatches the receiver almost instantly. Has he changed his mind? Is there something he forgot to say?

“Wow, what’s with you?”

It is Michael. The real Michael this time.

“Babe, what’s going on? You been waiting for my call or something? Suzy, are you there? Suzy, hello ?”

Her heart is beating too fast. She shuts her eyes and counts to three.

“Suzy, what’s the matter? You sick or something?” He is not used to a sick mistress. He sounds uncertain suddenly.

“Hi, I… I’m just a bit out of sorts.”

“Shit, I thought I’d have to jet over, scoop you in my arms, and lick your wounds!”

“Michael, I’m a bit scared.” She cannot help it. Sometimes the truth is easier with someone for whom it won’t matter much.

“ Christ, Suzy, what’s going on with you?” He sounds more alert now. He is not used to vulnerable Suzy. He is not sure how to respond.