Suki Kim - The Interpreter

Rain on the brink.

Sky churning.

Empty, gray asphalt in its last light.

There is no such thing as a warning. No gentle first drop. When the rain comes, she crouches on the stoop, her arms hugging her bent knees, her hair now hanging below her waist.

“BABE, PICK UP.”

Almost noon. She had lain awake most of the night. The rain must have gotten to her. She sure asked for it. Over an hour on that stoop, much of it under the threat of the storm. Maria Sutpen never even showed up. The girl at the accountant’s office was right. For an emergency contact, Maria Sutpen was useless. Friday afternoon, silly to think that she would miraculously turn up just to greet Suzy.

“Suzy, pick up already, will you?”

“Hi, I was still in bed.”

“You sound like hell. Apparently, you told Sandy to forget about the doctor.”

Sandy called right after his phone call yesterday. She took down all the information and promised to get back to Suzy as soon as she finds out anything.

“Michael, I’m fine.”

“ Christ, Suzy, you never listen, do you.”

She can hear the tone of disapproval. He does not like things to be out of control. He does not want Suzy sick in bed.

“I’m listening right now, aren’t I?”

That puts a little spunk in his voice. “Then where the fuck were you yesterday? Sandy called you all afternoon and you never even picked up!”

“I was asleep. I was out cold.” She does not want to get into it. She does not want to rehash the whole business of the anonymous phone call and the accountant on 32nd Street. The house in Woodside. None of it would mean a thing to Michael.

“ Hey, I was worried sick yesterday.”

These are the terms of their relationship. Contrived intimacy. Lots of it. The sort of things a man never says to his wife. The sort of things he can freely admit without sticking to the consequences.

“Well, don’t you have other things to worry about over there? Where are you anyway? Frankfurt still?”

“Fucking Germans. Everything’s such a goddamn secret. No one tells me a goddamn thing. They think all Americans are out to fleece them, which I might just do so fucking gladly.”

Suzy smiles, comforted by Michael’s familiar grunt. Suddenly everything seems a bit simpler, easier.

“I swear, babe, the minute they come begging, I’m outta here. The bag’s all packed. The chauffeur’s getting antsy.”

“Then where to?”

“Why, you miss me?”

Typical. He ducks the question again. He never shares his itinerary beforehand. He lets her know where he is each time, but never before getting there.

“Does it matter?” She does miss him, but she won’t say.

“Babe, you have no idea.”

She is beginning to miss him more. It is all in her body. She must still be dreamy. “So what did Sandy have to say?” She changes the subject.

“Not good, I’m afraid.” He is hesitant.

“She didn’t find out?” A pang of disappointment. But it is hardly surprising. The INS, not the easiest place to crack.

“Believe me, she tried. Actually, it was some INS stringer who did. But the damnedest thing. It’s all blank. Nothing comes up.” Michael sounds unconvinced. “Yeah, you’re a citizen all right. So were your parents, and your sister. But that’s all there is. No past record of green cards or even visas. The guy said that it could be a case of special pardon or amnesty, or even NIW, which means National Interest Waiver, but that’s usually for only serious professionals like scientists or academics—you know, the sort of gigs considered to be of ‘national interest,’ which I assume wasn’t your parents’ case. But that still doesn’t explain why the file draws a blank. Whatever it is, it’s all classified. Suzy, take my word, leave it alone.”

That Park guy, he had it coming to him… He had friends in all sorts of places… I knew I didn’t want to mess with him. I’d seen what happens to guys who stand up to him.

“Babe, you okay?”

No one is as sharp as Michael. He can estimate any situation to its n th degree and react accordingly. A born businessman. A gift. So entirely different from Damian.

“Hey, forget it. It’s all in the past, useless.”

But the past is all she has.

“Thanks anyway. I appreciate this.”

“ Christ, you sound like you don’t even fucking know me.”

When she puts the phone down, her first instinct is to grab her notepad to look up Kim Yong Su’s phone number. But then she remembers that he did not have a phone number, only a pager, which never picked up. Besides, he is probably not at home right now. There was something in his testimony about working part-time on weekends. Moonlighting as a watchman at a fruit-and-vegetable store. The Hunts Point Market closes on weekends, and he needs the extra cash. She can feel the sudden aches coursing through her body. She puts her coat on, although she cannot remember where Kim claimed that he works on weekends. The Bronx, she vaguely recalls, near Yankee Stadium. That doesn’t tell her much. There could be at least twenty Korean markets around there. Korean store-owners generally tend to know each other, especially if they compete in the same neighborhood. Maybe one of them would direct her to him. It would be crazy to roam the streets of the Bronx in this rain, in her state, when she is shivering even here in the warmth of her apartment.

Once outside, she immediately realizes that she has the wrong shoes on. The rain is mixed with something resembling hail. Pelting ice drops. The pavement is a mess, wet and slippery. Hardly anyone on the street, a rare thing on St. Marks Place. Gone are the usual brunch crowds who flock to the East Village on weekends. Some have skipped town altogether for an early Thanksgiving break. Some are holed up in their railroad flats with movies and takeout. Just two more blocks to the Astor Place subway stop. It is then that she remembers she meant to get a bottle of cold medicine. Benadryl, Sudafed, even echinacea, any of them will do.

So, instead of walking straight, she turns north on Second Avenue. There is a Korean market on the east side of the avenue. They sell fruits mostly, but, like all other Korean stores, they also carry almost everything, from candies to cashew nuts to condoms. The prematurely balding man behind the cash register always tries to speak Korean to her, but she never engages. She is not good at small talk, especially not with a stranger from whom she buys fruit almost daily. The storefront reveals a colorful display of clementines, cantaloupes, plums, strawberries, even cherries. New York is the Garden of Eden. Even in such November rain, most tropical fruits are all here, right on Second Avenue. She shuts her umbrella and picks up a few clementines before going inside, where the cashier stands grinning at her. He must have seen her entering in the surveillance mirror on the ceiling.

“ An-nyung-ha-sae-yo, ” he greets, as if daring her to answer in Korean.

“Cold medicine, please, anything you think good is fine,” Suzy says in English, hoping to discourage him.

“Anything?” he responds in Korean. He is extra-friendly today. Or he is bored, not many customers this afternoon.

“Anything,” she repeats in English. Now that she is inside, she can feel cold sweat running down her back. The sure sign of a fever.

“This good?” He grins, handing her a bottle of echinacea. Of course, the East Village’s first choice. No one believes in synthetic drugs anymore. She is about to take out her wallet when she notices that the man is still grinning.

“Boyfriend?” As he leans forward, the bald spot on his head catches the ray of the lightbulb.