Suki Kim - The Interpreter

All Korean churches advertise. The competition is fierce. Sometimes a newspaper is sponsored by a specific church, like an allegiance to a political party. The prime missionary spots are restaurants and airports. At entrances to Korean restaurants, there are often boxes of sermon tapes provided by different churches. At the JFK’s KAL lounge, it is not unusual to find Korean missionaries approaching those freshly arriving, like the zealous hostel-owners at tourist islands when the ship comes in. So the ad is nothing new, except that Suzy knows the church. Grace’s church, where her parents’ funeral was held. Suzy does not remember its being the largest Korean church in New Jersey. Surely it has grown in the last five years. Grace must have worked hard. All those Bible studies. All that hard-earned cash. A safety-deposit for heaven. Maybe someone there will know of Grace’s whereabouts. Maybe Grace will even show up, if she has not gone too far away.

It is then that Suzy becomes aware of the face at the window, a young woman peering in as if trying to get a better look at her. She is more like a girl, in fact, twenty at most. A down coat with fur trim and a matching scarf. It is odd that so many Korean girls seem to dress the same. A crushed-velvet ponytail holder, the sure sign of an office girl. Finally, she breaks into an awkward smile and mumbles something. Then she seems to realize the absurdity of speaking through the window and moves toward the entrance.

“Hey, sorry about that,” the young woman says, pointing upstairs with her eyes. “He’s been like that for days.”

Quickly swallowing her mouthful, Suzy stares back, realizing that the girl is Mr. Bae’s assistant. Suzy feels compelled to say something, but she is embarrassed at how long it took for her to recognize the young woman.

“Good choice. Sulongtang. No other restaurant on this block throws in as much cartilage, and they even marinate their kimchi with fresh oysters. For doganitang, though, try the place across the street. Ask for ginseng between the knee bones. Costs more, but you won’t get cold all winter.”

The Asian youth these days are so confident, so full of life. She must be only about ten years younger than Suzy, yet there seems to be a gulf of generations separating the two. Suzy wonders if this girl considers herself 1.5 as well. Suzy has noticed fresh radiance among the NYU kids around her block. The Asian-American hip-hop kids. The petite girls in platform sneakers parading their dreadlocked boyfriends. The goateed boys in bandannas scooting around Tompkins Square Park. Being Asian is no longer embarrassing. Being Asian no longer suggests a high-school chess team. Being Asian might even be hip, trendy, cool.

“What if your boss sees you talking to me?” asks Suzy, cautiously.

“He’s in a client meeting. Fuck him. He can’t fire me anyway.” The young woman plops down opposite her. She then waves at the waitress, raising her index finger to gesture one order of sulongtang for herself.

Something about her insolence reminds Suzy of Grace. Young Grace. Suzy feels a sudden rush of affection for the girl.

“Besides, I sort of followed you…” Then she blurts out, “By the way, what’s up with those glasses?”

Earlier, leaving the apartment in a hurry after the strange phone call, Suzy threw on a pair of black sunglasses and some dark-red lipstick. A clumsy attempt to hide her face. She rarely wears lipstick, especially red. It came out of the last package Michael had sent her. Every possible Chanel beauty product wrapped in the newest Prada. Sandy’s choice obviously, although for a second Suzy wondered if the gift might not have been intended for his wife instead. There was a matching nail polish, which she gave away to one of the stenographers on a job. It was silly to think that she would feel less conspicuous behind the shield of glasses and lipstick, but she did feel better as she tumbled onto the N train with the acute sense of someone following her. Apparently, she’s kept the glasses on the whole time. No wonder people seemed to be staring at her. A woman alone sitting by the window, slurping soup while wearing dark glasses indoors.

“A hangover?”

Suzy nods, uncertain what to say.

“I can run to the pharmacy next door and get you a bottle of Bacchus. Or maybe they can fix up something even stronger. One shot of it, you’ll feel as good as new,” says the younger woman, who is now staring at Suzy with concerned eyes despite her tough-girl talk.

Suzy declines, finally taking the glasses off. Bacchus. It’s been years since she’s heard that name. A sort of miracle cure, like those tiger balms in Chinatown. Except Bacchus is a tinybottled drink, used mostly for hangovers or indigestion or anything to do with stomach troubles. Mom used to send Suzy to pick up a box of a dozen on mornings when Dad lay sick from soju the night before. Strange, the way Korean pharmacies just give out whatever they consider a cure. Prescriptions are never really an issue there. If you get sick, you just describe your symptoms to the pharmacist, who fixes up a concoction with whatever he has available behind the counter. It is a leftover habit from a Third World country, where prescription drugs were not carefully monitored. Although Korea has long since risen above its Third World status, the people never seem to have gotten over their easy access to antibiotics such as mycin, which, as Suzy recalls, Mom used for everything, from a common cold to a sore. The whole thing sounds dubious, even terrifying, but for Suzy it brings back yet another bit of her childhood. Illogical, yet sadly familiar.

“Hey, now that the glasses are gone, you look less like your sister.” Leaning close, the young woman squints her eyes theatrically. “That’s funny; if you really look, you don’t look like her at all.”

The spell of the good soup is over. Suzy asks instead, “So why did you follow me?”

“He was so nasty to you. I felt bad.”

“To tell me that?”

“Also, I thought maybe you’d want to know that your sister’s in some sort of trouble.”

Suzy puts down her spoon.

“She called last week to liquidate her assets. Stocks, real estate, everything. Bae’s furious, ’cause he’s been playing the market and she pulled out all of a sudden. I don’t understand why it’s such a letdown, after she did away with all that cash just a month ago. I saw it coming. Between you and me, I smell drugs.” The young woman lowers her voice, as if suddenly aware of the people at other tables.

Stocks. Real estate. Was there more money than Suzy knew about? Whose money is this? Her parents’? Has Grace been investing her inheritance? Suzy is not sure what to say, but the young woman makes it easy by talking constantly. She may be one of those people who talk in order to fill the silence.

“She was supposed to come by Monday to sign the papers, but she totally flaked out. Then I find out her phone’s been disconnected,” she says, shaking her head. “I don’t think liquidation’s a good idea right now.”

Is Grace in some kind of debt? Is that why she has vanished? Selling off everything for cash is what people do when they are planning a drastic move—not a wedding. Last Friday, Grace called Detective Lester out of the blue. Later the same day, Grace showed up in Montauk looking for a boat. Then, on Sunday night, she called Ms. Goldman to say that she was getting married. On Monday, she failed to turn up at the accountant’s. If Grace had planned to take the money and run off somewhere with her new husband, why did she not follow it through with the accountant? Was the wedding a sudden decision? What is it that Ms. Goldman said? A secret from everyone, more like eloping, because they wanted to do it quietly, especially with her parents gone.