Suki Kim - The Interpreter

“Oddly enough, Theo died only six months after Vincent shot himself. They were connected by some desperate blood, like twins.” Caleb shakes his head, still gazing at the painting. “Vincent paid for his genius, while Theo suffered for being sane.”

Except that Suzy and Grace are not twins. Suzy’s guilt is still tucked inside her unspoken. Suzy will continue to live.

“C’mon, enough culture for turning thirty. Let’s go to Barney’s to find you a dress. Your biological clock is seriously ticking, darling!”

Caleb is pulling her by the arm when Suzy notices a painting in the corner. A lime-green vase of violet petals against a palepink background. It is a tame still-life. Quiet, almost dejected, as if the artist has reached the requiem of his madness.

“Oh, Irises ,” says Caleb, following her gaze. “I’m not a big fan of his irises. They’re a bit strange, tense. He painted that one at the mental asylum. It’s like witnessing his death.”

Irises.

It had to have been Grace who sent her irises each November. It was a letter to Suzy. A confession. A bouquet of Mom’s last kiss. Because Suzy is the only one in the world who understood. The only one Grace could have reached out to. Where could she be now? Where has she disappeared to?

It is then that Suzy panics. Leaving Caleb frowning in confusion, she breaks into a run. She is flying past Cézanne , Renoir, Seurat, Monet. She is leaping through the narrow corridor of Rembrandt drawings. She skips down the Grand Staircase in double steps. People turn to look at her. Some move out of her way. A few guards even step forward to stop her. But Suzy sees nothing. All she knows is that something terrible is about to happen to her sister, if it hasn’t already.

Then, running toward the coat check, Suzy stops suddenly at the sight of a man at the front of the line squatting before a bright-red stroller. With his back to her, the man seems to be adjusting straps across the infant’s waist. His hair is dove gray, the color of Dad’s Oldsmobile. His shoulders droop much lower than she remembers.

Damian, here on the ground floor of the Met, in the same line even, hunched over a baby. But it couldn’t be. He couldn’t ever be a father, ever deserve a home, ever own anyone in the world but her.

He does not see her. He does not sense her nearness. He is much too occupied with the baby’s seat belt. The heavy black sweater is wrong on him. He never wore black. Too easy, he claimed, too young. Nothing else is recognizable to her. It is winter. He is covered under the layers. Nothing visible, not even his hands, buried in the stroller. Not even the back of his neck, wrapped in a scarf. She knows the scarf. She picked it out for him. The cream beige to suit his blue eyes. It looks different on him now, on that implausibly aged man in a black sweater bending over a baby, which might even be his.

But Damian could not be a father. He would have flinched at the thought. He would never have allowed it.

Then Suzy notices the woman standing next to him. Handing him a matching black coat, the woman is now stooping as well. It is hard to see her face, beneath the cascading blond hair. She is not much older than Suzy, late thirties maybe. Damian with a white woman. Suzy would never have believed it. He was too adept at caressing her olive skin, too skilled at kissing her black hair, too addicted to her Asian face. Suzy can almost hear the echo of Professor Tamiko’s laughter— He could never love an Asian woman . How could he? His whole life had been about running from his whiteness. His purpose was searching the other. He couldn’t even love his own kind. She was the antidote for his inability to love.

He raises his upper body, slides his arms through the coat sleeves. Turning around, he faces Suzy’s direction for a second. Damian. She has not seen that face for so long. It has been so heartlessly long. Her first impulse is to jump the length of people in line, past the woman and the baby, and explode into his arms. But then she is suddenly not sure if it is indeed him. Perhaps another man who looks much like him. Perhaps her mind is playing tricks. All she can do is to stand still and stare straight at him. All she can do is stay where she is, continue standing. It is not clear if he saw her, although, from where he is standing, he must have. Then, before she can meet his eyes, before he can react, his face is blocked from Suzy as the woman lifts the crying baby from the stroller and dumps it in his arms.

Snatching her coat, Suzy starts running.

Before she can stop and catch her breath, before she can break into tears, she is already out of Damian’s life.

SUZY IS NOT SURE how she got here. She could have run the entire forty blocks. She could have hopped in a taxi. She knew she had to get out of the Met, although she had no idea where she was headed. But now that she is here, standing before a woman with a neat bob and a buttoned-up blouse surrounded by empty desks, it all makes perfect sense. Of course, this is where she had to come. From the moment she saw Irises, from the moment she realized that it had been Grace who sent her the bouquet, the next destination was clear. The New York Public Library. The only place to find facts, fast.

“I need to look up newspapers within the last two weeks.”

She must appear strange to the woman, charging in like this, breathless, soaked in sweat despite the post-Thanksgiving chill outside. But the woman does not flinch. Anything can happen here. Free service. An open door to all New Yorkers. She must be used to all kinds of visitors. In a calm, friendly voice, she asks, “That would be in the periodical section. Is it local information?”

“Long Island. Montauk, actually.” Her voice is strained, sounding almost foreign to her own ears.

“The best thing would be to look it up on Nexis, the online news search.” The woman studies Suzy’s face for a little longer and then adds, “But you need a library-membership number to access it. Do you have your card with you?”

No, she doesn’t. Of course she doesn’t. Even if she did, she could not remember where it might be.

“You okay?” The woman leans forward, as though alarmed by the look in Suzy’s eyes. Such sad eyes, such immense sorrow. “I’ll set you up at Terminal A. Better yet, I’ll look it up for you if it’s a quick one, there’s hardly anyone here anyway.”

“A boating accident, off Montauk coast,” Suzy states numbly. She watches the woman’s nimble fingers punching the keyboard. It is odd how calm she feels. This must be resignation. This must be the final relinquishment. She must have been afraid of such an end.

“That was easy!” The woman’s face brightens with the researcher’s delight at the correct answer. “Here are a few lines from the Long Island Weekly , dated November 19th, five days ago.

A couple disappeared when a boat sank off the Montauk coast. The cause of the accident is not known, police say. The body of an unidentified Asian male in his thirties has been recovered. The only distinct mark is the missing finger on his right hand. According to Sam Kelly, the boat’s owner, the accompanying Asian woman could not swim. The police are continuing their search for her body.

THE FACE ON THE WINDOWPANE must be a lie. Dark eyes in which lights flash, splitting her in two. When did she grow into such a beauty? Little clueless Suzy? Little innocent Suzy? But Grace had been the beauty. She was the brave one. She was the first interpreter. Which one is she? Whose face is this? As she leans closer, the mirror shuts with a heartless snap.

A boat in November.

Montauk, a sure sign of trouble.