Min Lee - Pachinko

“There is something very selfish in me,” he said. “I’m sorry.” Isak decided to wait until one of the lodgers could take him out.

Yangjin got up. “You’ll need your coat,” she said. “I’ll get it.”

The heavy scent of seaweed, the foamy lather of the waves along the rocky beach, and the emptiness of the blue-and-gray landscape but for the white circling birds above them — the sensations were almost too much to bear after being in that tiny room for so long. The morning sun warmed Isak’s uncovered head. He had never been drunk on wine, but he imagined that this was how the farmers must have felt dancing during Chuseok after too many cups.

On the beach, Isak carried his leather shoes in his hands. He walked steadily, not feeling any trace of illness within his tall, gaunt frame. He didn’t feel strong, but he felt better than he’d been.

“Thank you,” he said, without looking in her direction. His pale face shone in the morning light. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply.

Yangjin glanced at the smiling young man. He possessed an innocence, she supposed, a kind of childlike wholeness that couldn’t be hidden. She wanted to protect him.

“You have been so kind.”

She dismissed this with a wave, not knowing what to do with his gratitude. Yangjin was miserable. She had no time for this walk, and being outside made the dull weight in her heart take a definable shape; it pressed against her from the inside.

“May I ask you something?”

“Hmm?”

“Is your daughter all right?”

Yangjin didn’t answer. As they were walking toward the other end of the beach, she’d been feeling as if she were somewhere else, though she couldn’t say where exactly. This place didn’t feel like the beach behind her house, just a few paces from her backyard. Being with the young pastor was disorienting, yet his unexpected question broke the gauzy spell. What had he noticed for him to ask about Sunja? Soon, her rising belly would be obvious, but she didn’t look very different now. What would the pastor think of this? Did it matter?

“She’s pregnant.” She said this, and she knew it would be okay to tell him.

“It must be difficult for her with her husband being away.”

“She doesn’t have a husband.”

It wouldn’t have been unusual for him to think that the child’s father worked in Japan in a mine or a factory.

“Is the man…?”

“She won’t say anything.” Sunja had told her that the man was already married and had children. Yangjin didn’t know anything else. She couldn’t tell the pastor, however; it was too shameful.

The woman looked hopeless. The lodgers brought Isak newspapers to read aloud for them, and lately, every story was a sad one. He felt an overwhelming sense of brokenness in the people. The country had been under the colonial government for over two decades, and no one could see an end in sight. It felt like everyone had given up.

“These things happen in all families.”

“I don’t know what will happen to her. Her life is ruined. It would have been difficult for her to marry before, but now…”

He didn’t understand.

“My husband’s condition. People don’t want that in the bloodline.”

“I see.”

“It’s a difficult thing to be an unmarried woman, but to bear a child without a husband— The neighbors will never approve. And what will happen to this baby who has no name? He cannot be registered under our family name.” She had never talked so freely to a stranger. Yangjin continued to walk, but her pace slowed.

Since learning the news, she had tried to think of any possible way to make this easier, but could not come up with anything. Her unmarried sisters couldn’t help her, and their father had died long ago. She had no brothers.

Isak was surprised, but not so much. He had seen this before at his home church. You saw all sorts of things in a church where forgiveness was expected.

“The father of the child — he’s nowhere to be found?”

“I don’t know. She won’t speak of him. I haven’t told anyone except for you. I know it’s your job to counsel people, but we aren’t Christians. I’m sorry.”

“You saved my life. I would have died if you had not taken me in and nursed me. You’ve gone far beyond what an innkeeper does for his guest.”

“My husband died of this thing. You’re a young man. You should live a long life.”

They continued to walk, and Yangjin did not seem interested in turning around. She stared at the light green — colored water. She felt like sitting down; she was so tired suddenly.

“Can she know that I know? May I speak with her?”

“You’re not shocked?”

“Of course not. Sunja seems like a very responsible young woman; there must be some reason for this. Ajumoni , this must feel very terrible now, but a child is a gift from God.”

There was no change in Yangjin’s sad expression.

“ Ajumoni , do you believe in God?”

She shook her head no. “My husband said Christians were not bad people. Some were patriots who fought for independence. Right?”

“Yes, my teachers at the seminary in Pyongyang fought for independence. My oldest brother died in 1919.”

“Are you political, too?” She looked concerned; Hoonie had told her that they should avoid housing activists because it would be dangerous. “Like your brother?”

“My brother Samoel was a pastor. He led me to Christ. My brother was a brilliant man. Fearless and kind.”

Yangjin nodded. Hoonie had wanted independence for Korea, but he believed that a man had to care for his family first.

“My husband didn’t want us to follow anyone — not Jesus, not Buddha, not an emperor or even a Korean leader.”

“I understand. I do.”

“So many terrible things are happening here.”

“God controls all things, but we don’t understand his reasons. Sometimes, I don’t like his actions, either. It’s frustrating.”

Yangjin shrugged.

“And we know that God causes all things to work together for good to those who love God, to those who are called according to his purpose,” Isak said, reciting a favorite verse, but he could see that Yangjin was unmoved, and it occurred to him that she and her daughter could not love God if they did not know him.

“I am sorry that you are suffering. I’m not a parent, but I think parents hurt with their children.”

The boardinghouse keeper was lost in her sadness.

“I’m glad you had a chance to walk a little today,” she said.

“If you don’t believe, I understand,” he said.

“Does your family observe jesa ?”

“No.” Isak smiled. No one in his family observed the rituals for the dead. The Protestants he knew didn’t, either.

“My husband thought it was unnecessary. He told me so, but I still make his favorite foods and prepare a shrine for him. I do it for his parents and my own. His parents thought it was important. They were very good to me. I clean their graves and the ones for all my dead babies. I talk to the dead although I don’t believe in ghosts. But it makes me feel good to speak with them. Maybe that is what God is. A good God wouldn’t have let my babies die. I can’t believe in that. My babies did nothing wrong.”

“I agree. They did nothing wrong.” He looked at her thoughtfully. “But a God that did everything we thought was right and good wouldn’t be the creator of the universe. He would be our puppet. He wouldn’t be God. There’s more to everything than we can know.”

Yangjin said nothing but felt strangely calmer.

“If Sunja will talk to you, perhaps it can help. I don’t know how, but maybe it might.”

“I will ask her to walk with me tomorrow.”