by Mia Yun
Translations of Beauty
ATRIA BOOKS
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2004 by Mia Yun
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
For information address Atria Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
With grateful acknowledgment for:
Trees Worth Knowing by Julia Ellen Rogers; Doubleday, Page & Company.
Wildflowers Worth Knowing by Neltje Blanchan; Doubleday, Page & Company.
Excerpts from The Vagabond by Collette, translated by Enid McLeod. Translation copyright © 1954, renewed 1982 by FSG, Inc. Reprinted by permission of Farrar, Straus and Giroux, LLC.
Death in Venice and Other Stories by Thomas Mann; A Bantam Classic, translation copyright 1988.
The New Colossus by Emma Lazarus.
Italian Journey copyright © 1962 by J.W. von Goethe, translated by W.H. Auden. Reprinted by permission of Curtis Brown Ltd.
“Ode on a Grecian Urn” from John Keats-Selected Poetry and Letters; Holt, Rinehart and Winston.
“Holding On to the Earth”
Written by Sam Phillips and T Bone Burnett
1988 EDEN BRIDGE MUSIC (ASCAP)/HENRY BURNETT MUSIC (BMI)/Administered by BUG
All Rights Reserved. Used by Permission.
“Born in the USA” by Bruce Springsteen. Copyright 1984 Bruce Springsteen. All rights reserved. Reprinted by permission.
ISBN-13: 978-1-4165-8959-4
ISBN-10: 1-4165-8959-7
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I dedicate this book to the immigrants
of New York and to their struggles
and triumphs.
PROLOGUE
In my dream, I am in the back of a taxi, speeding to Kennedy to catch my flight to Italy. We slip in and out of the sun-dappled shadows of the Manhattan Bridge, a steel-caged tunnel, and hurtle on, almost flying through the air. The foot-tall deep orange turban elaborately wound about the head of the driver, a Sikh, an actor in a Bollywood epic, floats up like a lotus bloom, almost touching the ceiling of the cab before floating back down. Then, suddenly, I am flying out the open window of the taxicab, and before I know it, I am airborne, riding on a magic carpet. The wind, pregnant with a faint sea smell, whooshes by, its fingers spread. Below and around me, pelted with sunlight, everything seems throbbing and throbbing with new life. The East River shimmers like the iridescent silver scales of a million fish. Lower Manhattan, turning and shifting and flying back and shrinking to the size of a postage stamp, is sparkling like a newly built city. Tree branches writhe and stretch like birds sprouting wings. White pollen balls bloom in the sunlight into a zillion tiny flowers, drifting like confetti over Manhattan. I am thinking it’s unbelievably fantastic. Like flying through a Chagall painting. I wake up screaming and laughing from sheer terror and excitement.
Of course, it turns out to be what Koreans call a “dog dream,” because nothing like that happens when I go to Kennedy today. Instead, Mom’s waiting outside the Alitalia check-in counter with a suspicious-looking bag and a huge old ugly suitcase sporting two electric blue pom-pom tassels Mom tied to the handle (as extra insurance, as though the double strips of iridescent gray packing tape weren’t enough) so, she says, I won’t have trouble spotting it at the luggage claim in Venice. Then at the last minute, from the plastic bag, she produces a humongous bottle of kimchi she made for Inah, my twin sister. It’s her favorite kind, made from radish leaves.
I know I didn’t expect this would be a glamorous, jet-setter’s trip, but neither did I imagine it to be a mule trip. The sight of the kimchi bottle, as big as a ten-gallon cowboy hat, makes me nearly hysterical. Of course, Mom has anticipated my reaction. Undaunted and with the practiced eagerness of an insurance salesman, she assures me it won’t leak. She points to the mouth of the bottle, swaddled thickly like a mummy with the same gray packing tape she’d used to disfigure the suitcase. I am not convinced. I might as well travel donning a dunce cap. Mom knows and I know and every Korean knows that traveling with kimchi is almost as dangerous as traveling with a live bomb. Once it starts fermenting, the juice will bubble up to the top and spill out, ruining everything in the vicinity and, as delicious as it is, the smell, to say the least, is not that pretty. It could be as awful as the most pungent kind of cheese.
I am sure that’s what does it. Later, alone at the gate waiting to board my red-eye flight to Milan, I am all distracted and nervous. I find myself worrying about every-thing: Mom’s kimchi bottle I deliberately lost in the bathroom, leaving it by the trash bin; switching planes in Milan; and whether Inah will really be there waiting for me at the airport in Venice. She is known to be rather unpredictable, to put it mildly. I know she could easily change her mind and not show up. The thought really terrifies me. It’s one scenario I hadn’t entertained until now.
I try to tell myself it’s traveling alone that makes me so nervous. Who knows. Maybe in the back of my mind, I still associate flying with nagging uncertainties and new situations. Maybe I still carry that undefined fear that transplanted people never seem to be able to lose. People who uproot themselves and plant their feet on new soil. People who are permanently marked by memories of another terrain. Immigrants.
But then I remember the first time I called Inah in Rome to suggest the trip. How she’d screamed and hissed and hung up. I think she had been there nearly two months then. I’d had no idea what she was up to. At the end of her five-month backpacking trip through India, instead of coming home as she had promised Mom—even if for a short visit—Inah had gone to Rome. Maybe it had been as good a place to go as any. Vague as always, Inah hadn’t offered much of an explanation. All she had said was that she would be staying with a friend. A girl, she’d added, in case we wondered.
Maybe that was why. That was why Inah had so vehemently protested the idea of my coming to see her. For she had yet to explain it and many, many other things. Like what it really was that had made her abruptly abandon her doctoral studies at Oxford seven months earlier and take off to India. Maybe there had been no particular reasons. She thought she would travel for a while—that’s what she’d said to our parents when she’d eventually called home from New Delhi and broken the news. According to Mom, she’d said it so casually that, for a second, it had sounded perfectly reasonable.
But it was typical Inah. It wasn’t the first time she had done something like that. Making an important decision seemingly on the spur of the moment. Never bothering to consult anyone in advance. Over the years it had become a kind of pattern as she’d transferred from school to school and moved from city to city. Changing states and even continents. Turning into an academic junkie, a perennial student and an intellectual wanderer. Inah simply dispensed facts later. Just skeletal facts, only after they had become unalterable, irrevocable facts. Inah was someone who constantly climbed a slippery hill; she could fall off at any time. Mom lived in a constant state of trepidation. And yet we remained helpless spectators. Out of a sense of guilt and pity, we let Inah get away with almost anything. Like her five-month trip through India.
While she backpacked her way across India, Mom, of course, worried and fretted, biding time, waiting for her to end the trip and come home. She couldn’t stomach the idea of Inah traveling alone. Whenever there was bad news o
ut of India—natural disasters like landslides or flooding, or a bomb exploding on a train in the south or fighting in Kashmir—Mom would call me. Her voice always thick with worry and fear.
Mom knew I was tracking Inah’s trip through the occasional postcards she was sending like afterthoughts. (It seemed a miracle each time that as flimsy a thing as a postcard would find its way from India to my apartment mailbox in Manhattan.) But I was never sure where she was at any given time, as the postcards would arrive weeks after the postmark stamped on them. They came from exotic-sounding places like Goa, Madurai and Bodh Gaya (where Sakya-muni achieved enlightenment, Inah remembered to note). Each invariably filled with a few pretentious-sounding, poetic lines she’d scribbled in her slithery handwriting. I couldn’t really explain why, but at the sight of her handwriting, I always felt a little anger rise inside me. Even though it would pass soon enough, scattering like a wispy trail of smoke, afterward, I’d feel a little like a scrooge. I guess I just wasn’t willing to admit it, but I begrudged Inah her freedom and luxury of “traipsing around.”
But I wasn’t being fair. For one thing, she couldn’t have had much money with her. She had to be traveling on a shoestring budget. Probably surviving on rice and beans, traveling on buses and “hard-seat” trains, and staying at yoga ashrams and dirt-cheap, filthy hostels with communal rooms. After a while, it must have been only grueling. And lonely, although she would never have admitted it. One could travel like that only so long.
The thing was that she kept extending her trip. After a month and a half of making her erratic way down south, from New Delhi, through Rajasthan down to Bombay, staying close to the coast of the Arabian Sea, Inah resurfaced in Calcutta, on the other side of India, on the Bay of Bengal. Then after nearly two months in Calcutta, she was moving again, heading north through Gaya, Varanasi, on to Kashmir. I got the impression that there was no clear plan. That it was more a day-to-day thing. That she was just playing it by ear. Winging it and making decisions based on passive impulses. Like someone following a rumor mill. It was as if she wanted to see where it would lead her. Maybe she was looking for a reason to end the aimless wandering, a motive to return but finding none. And I began to wonder.
It was only when Inah failed to show up after her trip despite her promise (she was a slippery fish that got away every time) that Mom convinced herself that something was very wrong. She could feel it, she insisted. She started asking me to go and see Inah. She practically begged me. So worried and desperate to maintain the tenuous link to her wandering daughter, a forever-shifting island. That was how the idea of the trip, really just an excuse to spy on Inah, was hatched. In Mom’s overactive imagination, Inah was a lone star, roaming and catapulting and hurtling toward the earth. Adrift and lost. Before she fell and crashed and burned without a trace, we had to catch her. And, of course, I was the one who could do just that. If anyone possessed the power to perform such a feat, it had to be me. I was Inah’s twin. I would be able to divine her thoughts and guide her back home. Once again, I had to turn myself into Mom’s movable bridge.
The problem was that Inah just wouldn’t hear of it. I kept pestering her, and she kept resisting. I must have called her a half dozen times. I have to admit that by the second or third call, I was so blindly in love with the idea of a free trip to Italy that I conveniently forgot the whole point of it. (I wonder if I would have pushed as hard if she had been in someplace less tempting, like Lithuania.) I was no longer thinking about Inah or the potential consequences of the trip or the responsibilities it would entail. The more she resisted, the more tantalizing and desirable the trip, or rather the idea of it, became.
So I persisted. And eventually, Inah gave in. She couldn’t stand my bugging her anymore. Reluctantly she agreed to meet me in Venice, and from there, we would make our way down to Rome, stopping in Florence and Siena on the way. Maybe she figured she would put up with me for two weeks, play my travel guide and flick me off. And I was too ecstatic to be scared. Until now.
When I board the plane, a steward looks at me and says, “It couldn’t be that bad.” It’s Inah. She has a way of burrowing into my thoughts, and once she’s there, she stays put, refusing to budge. It’s only then that I realize how wholly absurd all this is. The very idea of going and “saving” her for Mom. Across the Atlantic; a new ocean, not even our ocean of separation, the Pacific. But there’s not a thing I can do about it now. Nor about the butterflies that start flapping about in my stomach. It’s all too late.
On the runway, the plane sits idling for a long time. Outside, the afternoon is stalled in a soundless vacuum. It’s the fuzzy sunlight; everything looks a little surreal and slightly skewed as if in a Daliesque landscape, even the late April sky that hangs lackadaisically over the low-slung terminal buildings in laminated blue. I remember how, growing up as sullen teenagers on Ash Avenue in Flushing, a spring afternoon like this used to bore us to death.
Then suddenly, as though having finally mustered up enough courage, the plane barrels down the runway and takes off in a rumble. Lifting its nose to the sky. Levitating. Shrinking the earth below. Up and up, climbing the sky that suddenly resembles the scorched, chalky sky of summer. Flying over the sparkling blue Jamaica Bay bathed in a reddish glow, and a Long Island girdled with frosted white beaches.
Soon, we are over the slate blue Atlantic, where we will fly through an abbreviated sunset. The red disk of the sun plunges like a dropped ball behind the horizon, leaving a sliver of orange rind at the hems of the azure sky. It turns a deeper and deeper indigo, pitching a swollen tent of Prussian blue all around, toward the horizon. Then, it’s nothing but an endless sea of black tinctured with pearl and zinc. All night, we will be chasing the sun across the Atlantic, and I rather like the idea.
PART ONE
ONE
Mostly and usually, babies are born one at a time to ensure that they get all the attention they deserve. But Mom dreams of a glossy full moon over a mountain peak splitting in two, and soon afterward Inah and I arrive in this world together as “winter twins.” Already a year old by the way Koreans count age. We come in a hurry, barely ten minutes apart under the flood of cold, green fluorescent light in an overheated room at a university hospital in Seoul. Red and wrinkled and tightfisted and kicking feet, each no bigger than a hammerhead, and issuing the shrill cries of a squealing crow. Indistinguishable other than the greenish Mongolian spots we carry on our bottoms, which will fade in time. It’s January 1973, but still 1972 by the lunar calendar, the Year of the Rat. Wet snow falls all night.
We are the first children and will be the only children born to our parents. Mom is a twenty-five-year-old novice teacher at a primary school. Pretty mostly from her youth and her open moon face blessed with beautiful, pale, dewy skin. Daddy is forty-four, considered too old to be a first-time father or, for that matter, even a second-time father. He weeps as he holds his newborn twins in his arms. He can’t help himself.
Afterward, every Saturday, Daddy hurries home for the weekend from his teaching job in the eastern city of Choonchon, Spring Stream, and spends hours sitting next to us twins, transfixed, never tiring of looking at us, lying side by side, babbling and dribbling, sleeping and dreaming, he’s sure, the same dreams. Noticing things like new feathery hair sprouting all over our warm heads. Our faces filling out from Mom’s breast milk. His dark lips open, and smiles leak out. He talks in whispers to us twin girls. He tells us how we will always have each other as a companion on the road of life. How lucky we are.
Time flies, leaving us with no apparent memories. A year passes. Then two, three. We know these stories because they are told to us later. In careless repetition by tired Grandma at our bedtime. We are now four years old. Wispy little things. With spindly legs and arms. People in our old neighborhood at the foot of Nam San, South Mountain, where traditional, tile-roofed Korean houses run shoulder to shoulder along the narrow alleys crisscrossing each other in a seemingly endless gridlock, now refer to our old Japanese h
ouse as “the twins’” instead of “the Japanese house.” On the street, strangers, whom Grandma never fails to meet when she goes out with us in tow, stop and marvel and say we look as if stamped from the same mold. Laughing, they pat us on the head and ask Grandma how she could tell us apart. Every time, Grandma imperiously declares to the curious and always rapt audience, “You wouldn’t guess it, but they are different.” Pointing to me, she claims I am the quiet one of the two, a watcher, and then, pointing to Inah, she says, proudly, “She is the spirited one.”
It’s true. Already such a self-absorbed and self-involved thing, Inah is feistier and more vociferous. She leads, and I follow. Inah thinks out loud and I listen. Inah will try everything a little harder. She even talks faster, as if in a race. Almost in a stutter. In her slightly high-pitched tone. Impatiently repeating words. Stumbling and tripping over them because her mind races faster than she could string them up together and give them voice. Waving her arms. Anxious to keep the attention from slipping away. Her bright, sparkling eyes become two black rambling seas of emotion. It’s as if she knows and is in a hurry to grab what fun, love and attention she can.
Shoving past Grandma, Inah runs after Mommy across the courtyard. Her feet are barely inside her silver, fur-trimmed shoes, and on top of her head, from the elastic bands holding her feather-brown hair in two rabbit ears, the plastic cherry-colored beads jump and go click-clack like abacus beads, and the balloon sleeves of her jacket (iridescent green on one side and iridescent blue on the other; the colors of peacock feathers) go swish, swish making the sound of wind in the trees.