Min Lee - Pachinko

Sunja removed her day clothes. At the bathhouse under the electric lights, she had been alarmed by the darkening vertical stripe reaching from her pubis to the base of her round, sloping breasts. She put on her nightgown.

Like children fresh from their baths, Isak and Sunja slipped quickly beneath the blue-and-white quilt, carrying with them the scent of soap.

Sunja wanted to say something to him, but she didn’t know what. They’d started off with him being ill, her having done something shameful, and him saving her. Perhaps here in their new home, they could each begin again. Lying in this room that Kyunghee had made for them, Sunja felt hopeful. It occurred to her that she’d been trying to bring Hansu back by remembering him, but that didn’t make sense. She wanted to devote herself to Isak and her child. To do that, she would have to forget Hansu.

“Your family is very kind.”

“I wish you could meet my parents, too. Father is like my brother — good-natured and honest. My mother is wise; she seems reserved, but she’d protect you with her life. She thinks Kyunghee is right about everything and always takes her side.” He laughed quietly.

Sunja nodded, wondering how her mother was.

Isak leaned his head closer to her pillow, and she held her breath.

Could he have desire for her? she wondered. How was that possible?

Isak noticed that when Sunja worried, she furrowed her brow like she was trying to see better. He liked being with her; she was capable and level-headed. She was not helpless, and that was appealing because, although he wasn’t helpless himself, Isak knew that he was not always sensible. Her competence would be good for what his father had once termed Isak’s “impractical nature.” Their journey from Busan would have been difficult for anyone, let alone a pregnant woman, but she hadn’t whimpered a complaint or spoken a cross word. Whenever he forgot to eat or drink, or to put on his coat, she reminded him with no trace of rebuke. Isak knew how to talk with people, to ask questions, and to hear the concerns in a person’s voice; she seemed to understand how to survive, and this was something he did not always know how to do. He needed her; a man needed a wife.

“I feel well today. My chest doesn’t have that pulling feeling,” he said.

“Maybe it was the bath. And that good dinner. I don’t remember having eaten so well. We had white rice twice this month. I feel like a rich person.”

Isak laughed. “I wish I could get white rice for you every day.” In the service of the Lord, Isak wasn’t supposed to care about what to eat, where to sleep, or what to wear, but now that he was married, he thought he ought to care about her needs.

“No, no. I didn’t mean that. I was just surprised by it. It’s not necessary for us to eat such luxurious things.” Sunja berated herself privately, not wanting him to think that she was spoiled.

“I like white rice, too,” he said, though he rarely gave much thought to what he ate. He wanted to touch her shoulder to comfort her and wouldn’t have hesitated if they were dressed, but lying so close and wearing so little, he kept his hands by his sides.

She wanted to keep talking. It felt easier to whisper to him in the dark; it had felt awkward to talk on the ferry or train when all they had was time for longer conversations.

“Your brother is very interesting; my mother had mentioned that he told funny stories and made Father laugh—”

“I shouldn’t have favorites, but he’s always been my closer sibling. When we were growing up, he was scolded a lot because he hated going to school. Brother had trouble with reading and writing, but he’s good with people and has a remarkable memory. He never forgets anything he hears and can pick up most languages after just a little while of hearing it. He knows some Chinese, English, and Russian, too. He’s always been good at fixing machines. Everyone in our town loved him, and no one wanted him to go to Japan. My father wanted him to be a doctor, but of course that wasn’t possible if he wasn’t good at sitting still and studying. The schoolmasters chastised him all the time for not trying hard enough. He used to wish that he was the one who was sick and had to stay home. Schoolmasters came to the house to teach me my lessons, and sometimes he’d get me to do his work for him when he’d skip school to go fishing or swimming with his buddies. I think he left for Osaka to avoid fighting with Father. He wanted to make a fortune, and he knew he’d never be a doctor. He couldn’t see how he’d ever make any money in Korea when honest Koreans were losing property every day.”

Neither of them spoke, and they listened to the street noises — a woman yelling at her children to come inside, a group of tipsy men singing off-key, “ Arirang, arirang, arariyo —” Soon, they could hear Yoseb’s snoring and Kyunghee’s light, steady breathing as if they were lying beside them.

Isak put his right hand on her belly but felt no movement. She never spoke about the baby, but Isak often wondered what must be happening to the growing child.

“A child is a gift from the Lord,” he said.

“It must be, I think.”

“Your stomach feels warm,” he said.

The skin on the palms of her hands was rough with calluses, but the skin on her belly was smooth and taut like fine fabric. He was with his wife, and he should have been more sure of himself, but he wasn’t. Between his legs, his cock had grown to its full measure — this thing that had happened to him each morning since he was a boy felt different now that he was lying beside a woman. Of course, he had imagined what this might be like, but what he hadn’t anticipated was the warmth, the nearness of her breath, and the fear that she might dislike him. His hand covered her breast — its shape plush and heavy. Her breath changed.

Sunja tried to relax; Hansu had never touched her like this with such care and gentleness. When she’d met him at the cove, sex was initiated in haste, with her not knowing what it was supposed to mean — the awkward thrusting, his face changing with relief and gratitude, then the need to wash her legs in cold seawater. He used to stroke her jawline and neck with his hands. He had liked to touch her hair. Once, he wanted her to take her hair out of her braids and she did so, but it had made her late in returning home. Within her body, his child was resting and growing, and he could not feel this because he was gone.

Sunja opened her eyes; Isak’s eyes were open, too, and he was smiling at her, his hand rubbing her nipple; she quickened at his touch.

“ Yobo ,” he said.

He was her husband, and she would love him.

Early next morning, using the map his brother Yoseb had drawn for him on a scrap of butcher paper, Isak found the Hanguk Presbyterian Church — a slanted wooden frame house in the back streets of Ikaino, a few steps away from the main shotengai —its only distinguishing mark a humble white cross painted on its brown wooden door.

Sexton Hu, a young Chinese man raised by Pastor Yoo, led Isak to the church office. Pastor Yoo was counseling a brother and sister. Hu and Isak waited by the office door. The young woman was speaking in low tones, and Yoo nodded sympathetically.

“Should I return later?” Isak asked Hu quietly.

“No, sir.”

Hu, a matter-of-fact sort of person, examined the new minister carefully: Pastor Baek Isak did not look very strong. Hu was impressed by the man’s obvious handsomeness, but Hu believed that a man in the prime of his life should have greater physical stature. Pastor Yoo was once a much larger man, able to run long distances and play soccer skillfully. He was older now and diminished in size; he suffered from cataracts and glaucoma.