Pachinko

by Min Jin Lee

  That said, the boarders expected their meals regularly, and an old house needed repairs. The rent had to be paid each month to the landlord’s agent, who was persistent. In time, Yangjin had learned how to handle money, deal with her suppliers, and say no to terms she did not want. She hired two orphaned sisters and became an employer. She was a thirty-seven-year-old widow who ran a boardinghouse and no longer the shoeless teenager who’d arrived on its doorstep clutching a set of clean undergarments wrapped in a square bit of fabric.

  Yangjin had to take care of Sunja and earn money; they were fortunate to have this business even though they didn’t own the house. On the first of every month, each lodger paid twenty-three yen for room and board, and increasingly, this was not enough to buy grain at the market or coal for heat. The lodging fees couldn’t go up, because the men were not making any more money, but she still had to feed them the same amount. So from shinbones, she made thick, milky broths and seasoned the garden vegetables for tasty side dishes; she stretched meals from millet and barley and the meager things they had in the larder when there was little money left at the end of the month. When there wasn’t much in the grain sack, she made savory pancakes from bean flour and water. The lodgers brought her fish they couldn’t sell in the market, so when there was an extra pail of crabs or mackerel, she preserved them with spices to supplement the scantier meals that were sure to come.

  For the previous two seasons, six guests took turns sleeping in the one guest room: The three Chung brothers from Jeollado fished at night and slept during the day shift, and two young fellows from Daegu and a widower from Busan worked at the seaside fish market and went to sleep in the early evening. In the small room, the men slept beside each other, but none complained, because this boardinghouse was better than what they were used to back at their respective homes. The bedding was clean, and the food was filling. The girls laundered their clothing well, and the boardinghouse keeper patched up the lodgers’ worn work clothes with scraps to make them last another season. None of these men could afford a wife, so for them, this setup was not half bad. A wife could have given some physical comfort to a workingman, but a marriage could beget children who would need food, clothing, and a home; a poor man’s wife was prone to nagging and crying, and these men understood their limits.

  The rise in prices accompanied by the shortage of money was distressing, but the lodgers were almost never late with the rent. The men who worked at the market were occasionally paid in unsold goods, and Yangjin would take a jar of cooking oil in place of a few yen on rent day. Her mother-in-law had explained that you had to be very good to the lodgers: There were always other places for workingmen to stay. She explained, “Men have choices that women don’t.” At the end of each season, if there were any coins left over, Yangjin dropped them into a dark earthenware crock and stowed it behind a panel in the closet where her husband had put away the two gold rings that had belonged to his mother.

  At meals, Yangjin and her daughter served the food noiselessly while the lodgers talked brashly about politics. The Chung brothers were illiterate, but they followed the news carefully at the docks and liked to analyze the fate of the country at the boardinghouse dining table.

  It was the middle of November, and the fishing had been better than expected for the month. The Chung brothers had just woken up. The evening-shift lodgers would soon be heading home to sleep. The fishermen brothers would eat their main meal before going out to sea. Well rested and feisty, the brothers were convinced that Japan couldn’t conquer China.

  “Yes, the bastards can take a nibble, but China will not be eaten whole. Impossible!” exclaimed the middle Chung brother.

  “Those dwarves can’t take over such a great kingdom. China is our elder brother! Japan is just a bad seed,” Fatso, the youngest brother, cried, slapping down his cup of warm tea. “China will get those sons of bitches! You watch!”

  The poor men mocked their powerful colonizer within the shabby walls of the boardinghouse, feeling secure from the colonial police, who wouldn’t bother with fishermen with grandiose ideas. The brothers boasted of China’s strengths—their hearts yearning for another nation to be strong since their own rulers had failed them. Korea had been colonized for twenty-two years already. The younger two had never lived in a Korea that wasn’t ruled by Japan.

  “Ajumoni,” Fatso shouted genially. “Ajumoni.”

  “Yes?” Yangjin knew he wanted more to eat. He was a puny young man who ate more than both his brothers combined.

  “Another bowl of your delicious soup?”

  “Yes, yes, of course.”

  Yangjin retrieved it from the kitchen. Fatso slurped it down, and the men left the house for work.

  The evening-shift lodgers came home soon after, washed up, and ate their suppers quickly. They smoked their pipes, then went to sleep. The women cleared the tables and ate their simple dinner quietly because the men were sleeping. The servant girls and Sunja tidied the kitchen and cleaned the dirty washbasins. Yangjin checked the coal before she prepared for bed. The brothers’ talk of China lingered in her mind. Hoonie used to listen carefully to all the men who brought him news, and he would nod, exhale resolutely, and then get up to take care of the chores. “No matter,” he would say, “no matter.” Whether China capitulated or avenged itself, the weeds would have to be pulled from the vegetable garden, rope sandals would need to be woven if they were to have shoes, and the thieves who tried often to steal their few chickens had to be kept away.

  The dampened hem of Baek Isak’s woolen coat had frozen stiff, but at last Isak found the boardinghouse. The long trip from Pyongyang had exhausted him. In contrast to the snowy North, the cold in Busan was deceptive. Winter in the South appeared milder, but the frosty wind from the sea seeped into his weakened lungs and chilled him to the marrow. When he’d left home, Isak had been feeling strong enough to make the train journey, but now he felt depleted again, and he knew he had to rest. From the train station in Busan, he had found his way to the small boat that ferried him across to Yeongdo, and once off the boat, the coal man from the area had brought him to the door of the boardinghouse. Isak exhaled and knocked, ready to collapse, believing that if he could sleep well for the night, he would be better in the morning.

  Yangjin had just settled onto her cotton-covered pallet when the younger servant girl tapped on the doorframe of the alcove room where all the women slept together.

  “Ajumoni, there’s a gentleman here. He wants to speak to the master of the house. Something about his brother who was here years ago. The gentleman wants to stay. Tonight,” the servant girl said, breathless.

  Yangjin frowned. Who would ask for Hoonie? she wondered. Next month would mark three years since his death.

  On the heated floor, her daughter, Sunja, was asleep already, snoring lightly, her loose hair crimped by the braids she’d worn during the day and spread across her pillow like a shimmering rectangle of black silk. Beside her remained just enough space for the maids to turn in when they finished their work for the evening.

  “Didn’t you tell him that the master passed away?”

  “Yes. He seemed surprised. The gentleman said his brother had written to the master but hadn’t heard back.”

  Yangjin sat up and reached for the muslin hanbok that she’d just removed, which was folded in a neat pile by her pillow. She put on the quilted vest over her skirt and jacket. With a few deft movements, Yangjin put her hair into a bun.

  At the sight of him, it made sense that the maid hadn’t turned him away. He was formed like a young pine, straight and elegant, and he was unusually handsome: slender smiling eyes, a strong nose, and long neck. The man had a pale, unlined brow, and he looked nothing like the grizzled lodgers who yelled for their food or teased the maids for being unmarried. The young man wore a Western-style suit and a thick winter coat. The imported leather shoes, leather suitcase, and trilby were all out of place in the small entryway. From the looks of him, the man had enough money for a
room downtown in a larger inn for merchants or tradespeople. Nearly all the inns of Busan where Koreans could stay were full, but for good money, it was possible to get something. He could have passed for a rich Japanese in the way he dressed. The maid stared at the gentleman with her mouth slightly agape, hoping he would be allowed to stay.

  Yangjin bowed, not knowing what to say to him. No doubt, the brother had sent a letter, but she did not know how to read. Once every few months, she asked the schoolmaster in town to read her mail, but she hadn’t done so this winter for lack of time.

  “Ajumoni”—he bowed—“I hope I didn’t wake you. It was dark when I got off the ferry. I didn’t know about your husband until today. I am sorry to hear the sad news. I am Baek Isak. I come from Pyongyang. My brother Baek Yoseb stayed here many years ago.”

  His northern accent was mild, and his speech was learned.

  “I’d hoped to stay here for a few weeks before going to Osaka.”

  Yangjin looked down at her bare feet. The guestroom was already full, and a man like this would expect his own sleeping quarters. At this time of night, to find a boatman to take him back to the mainland would be hard.

  Isak withdrew a white handkerchief from his trousers and covered his mouth to cough.

  “My brother was here almost ten years ago. I wonder if you remember him. He had admired your husband very much.”

  Yangjin nodded. The older Baek stood out in her memory because he wasn’t a fisherman or someone who worked in the market. His first name was Yoseb; he’d been named after a person in the Bible. His parents were Christians and founders of a church up north.

  “But your brother—that gentleman didn’t look like you very much. He was short, with round metal spectacles. He was headed to Japan; he stayed for several weeks before going.”

  “Yes, yes.” Isak’s face brightened. He hadn’t seen Yoseb in over a decade. “He lives in Osaka with his wife. He’s the one who wrote to your husband. He insisted that I stay here. He wrote about your stewed codfish. ‘Better than home,’ he said.”

  Yangjin smiled. How could she not?

  “Brother said your husband worked very hard.” Isak didn’t bring up the club foot or the cleft palate, though of course, Yoseb had mentioned these things in his letters. Isak had been curious to meet this man who’d overcome such difficulties.

  “Have you had dinner?” Yangjin asked.

  “I’m all right. Thank you.”

  “We could get you something to eat.”

  “Do you think I could rest here? I realize you were not expecting me, but I’ve been traveling now for two days.”

  “We don’t have an empty room, sir. This is not a big place, you see.…”

  Isak sighed, then smiled at the widow. This was his burden, not hers, and he did not want her to feel bad. He looked about for his suitcase. It was near the door.

  “Of course. Then I should return to Busan to find a place to stay. Before I head back, would you know of a boardinghouse around here that might have a spare room for me?” He straightened his posture, not wanting to appear discouraged.

  “There’s nothing around here, and we don’t have an empty room,” Yangjin said. If she put him with the others, he might be upset about the smell of the men. No amount of washing could remove the fish odors from their clothes.

  Isak closed his eyes and nodded. He turned to leave.

  “There’s some extra space where all the lodgers sleep. There’s only one room, you see. Three guests sleep during the day and three at night, depending on their work schedule. There’s just enough space for an extra man, but it wouldn’t be comfortable. You could look in if you like.”

  “It will be fine,” Isak said, relieved. “I would be very grateful to you. I can pay you for the month.”

  “It might be more crowded than you are used to. There weren’t as many men here when your brother stayed with us. It was not so busy then. I don’t know if—”

  “No, no. I would just like a corner to lie down.”

  “It’s late, and the wind is very strong tonight.” Yangjin felt embarrassed suddenly by the condition of her boardinghouse, when she had never felt this way before. If he wanted to leave the next morning, she would give him back his money, she thought.

  She told him the monthly rate that had to be paid up front. If he left before the end of the month, she’d return the remainder. She charged him twenty-three yen, the same as a fisherman. Isak counted out the yen and handed them to her with both hands.

  The maid put down his bag in front of the room and went to fetch a clean bedroll from the storage cabinet. He would need hot water from the kitchen to wash. The servant girl lowered her eyes but she was curious about him.

  Yangjin went with the servant girl to make up the pallet, and Isak watched them quietly. Afterward, the maid brought him a water basin filled with warm water and a clean towel. The boys from Daegu slept side by side neatly, and the widower slept with his arms raised over his head. Isak’s pallet was parallel to the widower’s.

  In the morning, the men would fuss a little about having to share the space with another lodger, but it wasn’t as if Yangjin could have turned him out.

  3

  At dawn, the Chung brothers returned from their boat. Right away, Fatso noticed the new lodger, who remained asleep in the room.

  He grinned at Yangjin. “I’m glad to see that a hardworking lady like you is so successful. The news of your great cooking has reached the rich. Next, you’ll be taking in Japanese guests! I hope you charged him triple what we poor fellows pay.”

  Sunja shook her head at him, but he didn’t notice. Fatso fingered the necktie hanging by Isak’s suit.

  “So is this what yangban wear around their necks to look important? Looks like a noose. I’ve never seen such a thing up close! Waaaah—smooth!” The youngest brother rubbed the tie against his whiskers. “Maybe this is silk. A real silk noose!” He laughed out loud, but Isak did not stir.

  “Fatso-ya, don’t touch that,” said Gombo sternly. The eldest brother’s face was covered in pockmarks, and when he was angry, his pitted skin turned red. Ever since their father had died, he had watched over his two brothers by himself.

  Fatso let go of the tie and looked sheepish. He hated upsetting Gombo. The brothers bathed, ate, then all three fell asleep. The new guest continued to sleep beside them, his slumber punctuated now and then by a muffled cough.

  Yangjin went to the kitchen to tell the maids to look out for the new lodger in case he woke up. They were to have a hot meal ready for him. Sunja was crouched in the corner scrubbing sweet potatoes, not looking up when her mother entered the room or when she left it. For the past week, they had been speaking only when necessary. The servant girls couldn’t figure out what had happened to make Sunja so quiet.

  In the late afternoon, the Chung brothers woke up, ate again, and went to the village to buy tobacco before getting on the boat. The evening lodgers had not yet returned from work, so the house was still for a couple of hours. The sea wind seeped through the porous walls and around the window edges, causing a considerable draft in the short hallway connecting the rooms.

  Yangjin was seated cross-legged nearby one of the hot spots on the heated floor of the alcove room where the women slept. She was mending a pair of trousers, one of the half dozen in the pile of the guests’ well-worn garments. The men’s clothes were not washed often enough, since the men owned so little and didn’t like to bother.

  “They’ll only get dirty again,” Fatso would complain, though his older brothers preferred them clean. After laundering, Yangjin patched up whatever she could, and at least once a year, she’d change the collars of shirts and jackets that could no longer be repaired or cleaned. Every time the new lodger coughed, her head bobbed up. She tried to focus on her neat stitches rather than on her daughter, who was cleaning the floors of the house. Twice a day, the yellow wax-papered floors were swept with a short broom, then mopped by hand with a clean rag.

  T
he front door of the house opened slowly, and both mother and daughter looked up from their work. Jun, the coal man, had come for his money.

  Yangjin rose from the floor to meet him. Sunja bowed perfunctorily, then returned to her work.

  “How is your wife?” Yangjin asked. The coal man’s wife had a nervous stomach and was occasionally bedridden.

  “She got up early this morning and went to the market. Can’t stop that woman from making money. You know how she is,” Jun said with pride.

  “You’re a fortunate man.” Yangjin pulled out her purse to pay him for the week’s coal.

  “Ajumoni, if all my customers were like you, I’d never go hungry. You always pay when the bill is due!” He chuckled with pleasure.

  Yangjin smiled at him. Every week, he complained that no one paid on time, but most people went with less food to pay him, since it was too cold this winter not to have coal. The coal man was also a portly gentleman who took a cup of tea and accepted a snack at every house on his route; he would never starve even in such lean years. His wife was the best seaweed hawker in the market and made a tidy sum of her own.

  “Down the street, that dirty dog Lee-seki won’t cough up what he owes—”

  “Things are not easy. Everyone’s having troubles.”

  “No, things are not easy at all, but your house is full of paying guests because you are the best cook in Kyungsangdo. The minister is staying with you now? Did you find him a bed? I told him your sea bream is the finest in Busan.” Jun sniffed the air, wondering if he could grab a bite of something before his next house, but he didn’t smell anything savory.