Suki Kim - The Interpreter

The boykiller face who slept with the gang for money, and yet picked her own guys.

“Look, I don’t want you coming around here again.” Mina suddenly lowers her voice, her eyes darting nervously, as though she is afraid that Johnny may show up any minute. She seems to ponder something for a few seconds, then says, “If you run into her, tell her to deal with me instead,” quickly scribbling a pager number on a piece of paper and handing it to Suzy. She adds in a softer tone, “Girl, about your Maddog, forget it. Do yourself a favor, get yourself a new man.”

The cold sweat running down her back is an icy shock. Suzy becomes aware that her body is trembling. Leaning her right arm against the wall, she tilts her face a little, as though burrowing under a shadow. “And this Mariana—she looked like me?”

A wry smile crinkling the corner of her mouth, Mina repeats, “Weird, the more I look at you, the more you remind me of her.” Then she adds, as if in vengeance, “Really, you could be the same girl.”

THE HAND ON HER RIGHT SHOULDER is a gentle one. Must be Mom, or Dad finally home. She must have fallen asleep at the doorstep. She must have forgotten her key, and school must have let out early, and Grace must have sneaked out again. So she must have sat here and waited with her homework spread out, and still, when the homework was done, still no one came home, and she must have lain down for a while thinking she was hungry and it was getting darker and the draft from the hallway window sharper, and she was afraid that no one would remember, that no one would find her here, and then sleep must have overtaken her, taken her breath away to an even darker place, where she saw the seven stars in a circle like the misshapen Big Dipper that came loose to join hands to finally surround her, who lay weeping because she remembered where she had seen them before.

But neither Mom nor Dad. Can’t be, they’ve been shot. They will never come home again. When Suzy opens her eyes, her face still wet with tears, it is Mr. Kim stooping over her.

“I tried to wake you, but you were crying in your sleep,” he says.

“Oh,” she mutters, blinking slowly.

“How long have you been waiting?” he asks, turning the key in the door lock.

“I don’t know, what time is it?” she says, making a feeble attempt to get up; the ground beneath feels strangely muddy.

“Six-thirty,” he says, glancing at his watch. “You’re lucky I’m home early today.”

Following him inside, she recognizes the bareness. The white walls. The single sofa. The single bed. The familiar absence.

“I’ve got nothing here. I can heat up some water, or maybe boricha? ” he says, putting a kettle on the stove.

Her body feels numb from the cold concrete corridor. The sleep was a blackout, leaving her spent, hollow, confused. “ Boricha ,” she answers. My favorite, she is about to add, and then realizes that it’s been years since she had it last. Mom used to keep it refrigerated and serve it instead of water. But it had never tasted like water. It was light brown. It smelled of corn, like an autumn harvest. She seems to have forgotten about it one day. Odd how that happens. You swear by certain things—that particular sundress he first saw you in, or that rose lipstick you wore every day, or that barley tea you once declared you couldn’t live without. But then, one day, someone, perhaps a stranger, in a bare, bleak apartment far from home, asks, without a hint of history, “Water or boricha ?,” and you suddenly remember that it’s been years since you’ve even thought of it. But how is that possible? How is it that you could go on fine without what had once been so essential, that you haven’t even been aware of its absence? How is it then you could declare, without hesitation, that it is your favorite? Shouldn’t love require more? Isn’t love a responsibility?

“It’ll warm you up,” he says, taking a mug from the shelf. Suzy realizes how fatigued she feels, and how cold. For hours, she wandered through the streets of Queens. For hours, she could not get rid of the one thought circling in her head—her parents. What did they do to bring on such hatred? And then there was a girl named Mariana.

“Someone’s been following me,” she says, surprised that she is telling him.

“Have you told the police?” His eyes are on the kettle, which is taking a long time to boil.

“No,” she says, leaning on the cushion, glancing at the ashtray on the table. It is filled to the brim. The butts are smoked to their last skin. The sofa faces the opposite direction from the kitchenette. She cannot see him when she says, “I don’t think many people are too upset that my parents are dead, including the police.”

Finally, a hissing noise.

“I’m not interested in your parents’ death,” he says.

Now a shrill from the kettle, but he won’t turn it off, as though he is grateful for its shield.

She waits. The final pitch of the boiling water, but she is patient. It’s been a long day. It’s been a long, long five years.

When he stands before her with a cup of boricha , which he promptly puts on the table, he says nothing. He merely sits opposite her, waiting for her to finish. After tea, you may go. He does not have to say it. She knows she is not welcome. He is doing her a favor. A sobbing girl, frozen out of her mind, who can turn her out?

“Someone’s been sending me a bouquet of irises, someone’s been hanging up on the phone, someone’s even called with a threat,” she says, holding the mug between her cold palms. “What do you think it all means?”

He lights a cigarette. His hands are restless. A chain-smoker.

“The murderer wants to be found,” she says, taking a sip. The tea is instantly familiar, clean and hot as it rolls down her throat. “Not by Detective Lester, but by me.”

He won’t meet her eyes. He does not want any part of this conversation. The furrows between his eyebrows grow deeper as he inhales harder.

“You told me last time that having children didn’t really save my parents. You’re right, it didn’t.” Suzy takes a deep breath before continuing. “I need to know why they couldn’t be saved, what it is that they did to you. I guess I’m asking you to tell me before you tell the police, because the police will come sooner or later.”

He takes a long drag, longer than necessary. “Is that a threat?”

“No, a plea… because I think you understand what it means to try living while circling death again and again,” she says quietly, glancing at the photo of his wife, the dead woman guarding his bedside.

The frigid stillness, except for the clock ticking nearby. Her hands around the mug tighten, as though their hold steadies her. When he finally meets her eyes, she lets out a sigh, realizing that she has been holding her breath.

“Your father had enemies. Many, in fact. ‘Enemies’ might not be the right word. People who held deep grudges against him, let’s say. I was one of them. So I can’t blame you if you were to discredit everything I say. The ones who know the truth are both dead. So who’s to argue over what really happened?…” He pauses, his eyes wavering between her face and the rest of the room. He seems to be trying to find the right words, the right place to begin. His face clouds with something indefinite, something akin to resignation.

“When we met your father, we were working at a store on Tremont Avenue. My wife was at the cash register. I was doing the setup work around the store. We were both too old for the job, but we tried to make up for it by working hard, getting the freshest produce, opening the store before anyone else. One day the owner called me in. He was moving back to Korea. He offered me the store at a bargain. I’d saved some money by then, not a whole lot, but enough for a down payment. There was just one problem. We were both still illegal, my wife and I. We had no green cards, and definitely no right to own anything. That’s where your father came in.”