Pearl Buck - The Living Reed

“Why are you willing to do this?” he asked.

She did not hesitate. “I do it for someone I love. He is Korean and so I do it for Korea.”

She did not look at Liang. Was it he? Yul-chun asked of himself. Was it Sasha? Liang inquired of his heart.

“That is to say I am only a woman,” Mariko was saying, “and being a woman I do something for a man, not for a country — unless it is his country.”

Yul-chun waited, still expecting to hear who this man was, but Mariko was finished. She composed herself, folding one hand over the other, her small hands pale against her crimson satin skirt. He opened a drawer in the desk and took out a silver key. With this key he unlocked a compartment hidden in the back of the drawer, and from it he drew three letters.

“I have already written them,” he said, his voice low and solemn. “They are addressed to—”

He held out the letters for Liang to see. Liang nodded and Yul-chun proceeded.

“In case the letter to the President does not reach him, I have this friend—” he pointed to the second letter—“who will then go personally to Washington. He has access to the President. This is essential, for the President does not know our history, else how could he have suggested two years ago that Korea be placed under the international trusteeship of China, the United States and, he said, one or two other nations? We, who have been a nation for four thousand years! What if that one other nation were Russia! In my letter to him I have explained the fearful peril of Russia.”

Here Yul-chun felt compelled to pause, so great was his agitation. He set his lips, he cleared his throat and heaved up a sigh from the bottom of his heart. Then he continued.

“I repeat to both of you, who will outlive me, the day may come when we will look back to these years under the Japanese rulers and call them good. At least the Japanese have prevented the Russians. I say this, although I have known the torture of my flesh and the breaking of my bones under the hands of a Japanese torturer.”

They listened to him in silence, motionless, their quiet expressing their respect and their awe. They loved him for the legend that he had become in their country, the Living Reed, and for what he was now, heroic, selfless, a tall powerful man, worn with suffering, his face noble and bold but lined too early with pain, his thick dark hair already gray. Suddenly Liang spoke.

“Uncle, I told Sasha that she was going to the United States with letters. Did I do wrong?”

“You did very wrong,” Yul-chun exclaimed. Then realizing what he had said, he turned to Mariko. “My son is not evil. I am sure he is not evil. He has not lived in his own country and now he seems somewhat lost here. We must win him to our family. Liang, I cannot blame you, but—”

The door to the right opened, and as though he had heard his name Sasha came in. He was dressed in western clothes, a hat in his hand, a coat over his arm. He looked at the three, surprised. Or was it pretense at surprise? Liang could not decide. Yul-chun spoke immediately and too quickly.

“Come in, my son. Liang has told you. We are sending the letters. I have made them very brief but firm, very firm. As for example, to the President I — this is the copy, I kept it for our own records. Now that you know — I am very glad you know — Liang, I change my mind, it is well that you told him. I would like Sasha to become part of us—”

Yul-chun was fumbling among papers in the secret compartment. “Yes, here it is. Yes! To the President as follows—”

And again Yul-chun lifted the paper and read in his loud clear voice. “We in Korea have been deeply disturbed for the past two years. Those few words agreed upon by you, Sir, and the British Prime Minister and the Nationalist Chinese ruler Chiang, haunt us day and night. I repeat them, Sir, lest you have forgotten what we can never forget. ‘The aforesaid Powers, mindful of the enslavement of Korea, are determined that in due course Korea become free and independent.’ These words, Sir, are carved into our hearts and they bleed. ‘In due course.’ Sir, in the space of these three small words Korea is doomed.”

When he heard this, Liang had one of his moments of foreknowledge. He could not explain the prophetic weight, he tried to escape it, he shrugged it off. He rose and walked about the room, but could not escape. Doom! The heavy word resounded in his ears as though he heard near him the single heavy beat of a great bass drum, and the echoes reverberated into the future.

Behind him, afar off, he heard Sasha’s voice. “I am going into the city, Mariko. The carriage is at the door. Come with me.”

Liang turned. Mariko rose, unwilling, and looked from one to the other bewildered. Her asking eyes rested on Liang’s face. He nodded as though she had spoken and she bowed to Yul-chun and followed Sasha from the room.

“But here are the letters,” Yul-chun exclaimed.

“I will take them to her tonight,” Liang said. “It is better that she does not have them with her now—”

… She was in the house directing the packing of her costumes for her tour when he went to her that evening. Japanese kimono, narrow Chinese robes slit boldly up the thigh, French evening gowns, English tweed suits and Russian furs were piled on the mat-covered floors. Three maids worked silently and without rest under her command. She sat in a deep chair, frowning with decisions made quickly and without argument. At the sight of Liang she rose and went to the other room and closed the wall screens.

“But at last,” she exclaimed when they were alone. “Where have you been? I thought I would have to leave without seeing you.”

“I came by horseback,” he said. “The snow is a foot deep. I inquired at the airport to know if the planes were stopped, but they are not.”

“Are you coming to the theatre tonight?”

“Yes, but not to your room. And not to the airport. We shall not meet again until you return.”

She stood motionless as a deer stands, suddenly afraid. “How has Sasha so much money? Those new clothes!”

“I do not know.”

“Are you afraid of Sasha, too?”

“No, I am afraid of no one.”

“Why, oh why did you let him take me away?”

“It is not the time to quarrel with him. And you must not be afraid. You are an artist. No one can destroy you unless you destroy yourself by fears.”

“Let us not speak of Sasha,” she said with resolution. “Have you the letters?”

“Yes.” He took them from his pocket and she thrust them into the bosom of the Japanese kimono.

“Tell Sasha not to come to the theatre!”

“If I see him.”

They stood looking at each other, suddenly speechless, the abyss of being parted already between them.

“When you come back …” he said and stopped.

“When I come back,” she repeated. “Oh when I come back — yes — yes — yes—”

“The war may be over. And we—”

“Yes!”

The word was a yearning sigh. He put out his hands and she clasped them in hers and then loosed them and pressed herself against him. He bent his head and kissed her deeply. They stood for a long moment, until the maid called from behind the wall screen.

“Mistress, shall I put the gold dress into the box for Paris, or is it to be worn in New York?”

She tore herself away, gave him a pleading look, and left him, and he knew he would not see her alone again.

… Whether Sasha went to the airport Liang did not know. He did not see his cousin at the theatre and he returned to the hospital. The next day he performed a difficult and new operation alone for the first time, the American doctor at his side but taking no part. The necessity for concentration helped the hours to pass, and Liang finished his task at noon, his patient still alive and likely to live.