Min Lee - Pachinko

Bokhee slapped her sister’s forearm. “You’re crazy. A man like that would never marry you. Get these stupid ideas out of your head.”

“But he married Sunja—”

“She’s different. You and I are servants,” Bokhee said.

Dokhee rolled her eyes.

“What does he call you, then?”

“He calls me Sunja,” she said, feeling freer to talk. Before Hansu, Sunja had chatted more often with the sisters.

“Are you excited about going to Japan?” Bokhee asked. She was more interested in living in a city than being married, which seemed like a horrible thing. Her grandmother and mother had been more or less worked to death. She had never once heard her mother laugh.

“The men said that Osaka is a busier place than Busan or Seoul. Where will you live?” Bokhee asked.

“I don’t know. At Pastor Isak’s brother’s house, I guess.” Sunja was still thinking about Hansu and how he might be nearby. More than anything, she was afraid of running into him. Yet it would be worse, she thought, never to see him at all.

Bokhee peered into Sunja’s face.

“Are you afraid of going? You mustn’t be. I think you’re going to have a wonderful life there. The men said there are electric lights everywhere — on trains, cars, streets, and in all the houses. They said Osaka has all the things you could possibly want to buy in stores. Maybe you’ll become rich and you can send for us. We can keep a boardinghouse there!” Bokhee was amazed at such a prospect that she had just invented for them. “They must need boardinghouses, too. Your mother can cook, and we can clean and wash—”

“You think I have crazy thoughts in my head?” Dokhee slapped her sister’s shoulder, leaving a wet handprint on her sister’s jacket sleeve.

Sunja had difficulty wringing out the wet trousers because they were so heavy.

“Can a minister’s wife be rich?” Sunja asked.

“Maybe the minister will make lots of money!” Dokhee said. “And his parents are rich, right?”

“How do you know that?” Sunja asked. Her mother had said that Isak’s parents owned some land, but many of the landowners had been selling off their plots to the Japanese to pay the new taxes. “I don’t know if we’ll have much money. It doesn’t matter.”

“His clothes are so nice, and he’s educated,” Dokhee said, not clear as to how people had money.

Sunja started to wash another pair of trousers.

Dokhee glanced at her sister. “Can we give it to her now?”

Bokhee nodded, wanting to take Sunja’s mind off leaving. The girl looked anxious and sad, nothing like a happy bride.

“You’re like a little sister to us, but you’ve always felt older because you’re smart and patient,” Bokhee said, smiling.

“When you’re gone, who’ll defend me when I get a scolding from your mother? You know my sister won’t do anything,” Dokhee added.

Sunja laid aside the pants she was washing by the rocks. The sisters had been with her ever since her father had died; she couldn’t imagine not living with them.

“We wanted to give you something.” Dokhee held out a pair of ducks carved out of acacia wood hanging from a red silk cord. They were the size of a baby’s hand.

“The ajeossi at the market said ducks mate for life,” Bokhee said. “Maybe you can come back home in a few years and bring home your children to show us. I’m good at taking care of babies. I raised Dokhee almost by myself. Although she can be naughty.”

Dokhee pushed up her nostrils with her index finger to make a piggy face.

“Lately, you’ve been looking so unhappy. We know why,” Dokhee said.

Sunja was holding the ducks in her hand, and she looked up.

“You miss your father,” Bokhee said. The sisters had lost their parents as little girls.

Bokhee’s broad face broke into a sad smile. Her tiny, gracious eyes, which resembled tadpoles, pulled downward to meet her knobby cheekbones. The sisters had almost identical faces; the younger one was shorter and slightly plump.

Sunja wept and Dokhee folded her into her strong arms.

“ Abuji , my abuji ,” Sunja said quietly.

“It’s all right, it’s all right,” Bokhee said, patting Sunja on the back. “You have a kind husband now.”

Yangjin packed her daughter’s things herself. Every article of clothing was folded with care, then stacked in a broad square of fabric to form a manageable bundle. The fabric corners were tied neatly into a loop handle. In the days before the couple left, Yangjin kept thinking that she’d forgotten something, forcing her to unpack one of the four bundles and repeat the process. She wanted to send more pantry items like dried jujubes, chili flakes, chili paste, large dried anchovies, and fermented soybean paste to give to Isak’s sister-in-law, but Isak told her that they could not carry too much on the ferry. “We can purchase things there,” he assured her.

Bokhee and Dokhee remained at the house on the morning Yangjin, Sunja, and Isak went to the Busan ferry terminal. The good-byes with the sisters were difficult; Dokhee cried inconsolably, afraid that Yangjin might leave for Osaka and abandon the sisters in Yeongdo.

The Busan ferry terminal was a utilitarian brick and wooden structure that had been built hastily. Passengers, family members who’d come to see them off, and hawkers milled around noisily in the crowded terminal. Immense lines of passengers waited to show their papers to the police and immigration officials before embarking on the Busan ferry to Shimonoseki. While Isak stood in line to speak to the police, the women sat on a bench nearby, ready to spring up in case he needed anything. The large ferry was already docked and waiting for the passengers’ inspections to be completed. The algae scent of the sea mingled with the fuel smells of the ferry; Sunja had been queasy since morning, and she looked sallow and exhausted. She had vomited earlier and had nothing left in her stomach.

Yangjin held the smallest bundle close to her chest. When would she see her daughter again? she wondered. The whole world felt broken. What was better for Sunja and the child no longer seemed to matter. Why did they have to go? Yangjin would not be able to hold her grandchild. Why couldn’t she go with them? There must be work for her in Osaka, she reasoned. But Yangjin knew she had to stay. It was her responsibility to care for her in-laws’ graves and her husband’s. She couldn’t leave Hoonie. Besides, where would she stay in Osaka?

Sunja doubled over slightly, emitting a little cry of pain.

“Are you okay?”

Sunja nodded.

“I saw the gold watch,” Yangjin said.

Sunja folded her arms and hugged herself.

“Was it from that man?”

“Yes,” Sunja said, not looking at her mother.

“What kind of man can afford something like that?”

Sunja didn’t reply. There were only a few men left in front of Isak in the line.

“Where is the man who gave you the watch?”

“He lives in Osaka.”

“What? Is that where he’s from?”

“He’s from Jeju, but he lives in Osaka. I don’t know if that’s where he is now.”

“Are you planning on seeing him?”

“No.”

“You cannot see this man, Sunja. He abandoned you. He’s not good.”

“He’s married.”

Yangjin took a breath.

Sunja could hear herself talking to her mother, yet it felt like she was another person.

“I didn’t know he was married. He didn’t tell me.”

Yangjin sat still with her mouth opened slightly.

“At the market, some Japanese boys were bothering me, and he told them off. Then we became friends.”

It felt natural to speak of him finally; she was always thinking of him but there had been no one to talk about him with.