by Mia Yun
“Mommy!” Inah indignantly tugs at her arm, looking up at her imploringly. If only she would catch every one of those bad kids and beat them up real good, but she could go to jail for that in America. So Mommy can’t do anything about them. Too bad we aren’t in Korea. Because in Korea, she could scold them good and no one would think it wrong.
“Don’t look. What did I tell you?” Mommy says as Inah turns her head, trying to take a peek at the kids. “Just keep walking.” Ignoring Inah’s protest, Mommy propels us forward, faster and faster, tugging and squeezing our hands, safely imprisoned inside hers. Almost forcing us to fly in and out of the patches of sun and shadow along the sidewalk.
But Inah can’t help it, even though she’ll only encourage them more, just as Mommy says. Busily pedaling alongside Mommy all the while, she manages to swivel her head now and then and stick out her tongue at them. The kids giggle and roar, feeling safe by the distance. Emboldened, they trail us closer and closer. Then when they least expect it, Mommy spins around to confront the gaggle of bad kids. Caught by surprise, the kids freeze up, dead in their tracks. Like swatted flies. Too startled to run, they gape at Mommy, mouths hung open, almost expectantly. At last, to Inah’s great disappointment and squandering the perfect opportunity for revenge, Mommy asks them what they are doing.And of course, one of the bold kids lies and says, “We are only walking home.” Then all too fast, the rest of the insolent kids chime in and say in a triumphant unison, “Yes, we are only walking home.”
FIVE
One afternoon on the way back from a supermarket with Mommy, Inah spots Piggy outside his apartment building. (Kids call him “Piggy” because he’s soft and pudgy all over.) He’s got a new buzz cut, and on his round head, every strand of hair is shooting straight out like chestnut fur.
Inah, salivating, points him out to Mommy, telling her how he’s been calling her “Bug Face.” Piggy notices Inah pointing at him and starts slowly back-stepping, keeping an eye on us. Mommy waves him over, asking him to come and talk to her. Instead of coming over, though, he makes a quick U-turn. But before he can escape up the street, Mommy catches up with him. Nonplused, Piggy places his right hand behind his back and gives Inah and me the Korean finger by inserting his tubby thumb between his fore- and middle fingers. He’s lucky Mommy doesn’t see it.
Mommy is nice and gentle with him, though. She asks him if it’s true he’s been calling Inah names. It’s not a very nice thing to do; what does he think? Piggy doesn’t look like he’s in the mood to answer her questions. He sullenly glances up at her out of the corner of his narrow eye to see if she is serious. He then quickly drops his porcupine head. If it weren’t for her hand firmly placed on his round, sloping shoulder, he would try to run off.
“It’s all right,” Mommy says, “just look at me and answer honestly. Maybe you didn’t know it was wrong. Everything will be forgiven if you now apologize to Inah and promise not to do it again.” But Piggy doesn’t look up or apologize. Instead, he stares at the ground and sulks. His mouth is out a mile. And his perfectly round, flat, dish-face is getting redder and redder.
Mommy doesn’t know what to do, so she finally says, “Do you know I was a teacher in Korea?” But that doesn’t get his attention, either. He shows no sign whatsoever that he will budge soon. Inah and I watch, having stationed ourselves by the doctor’s office sign outside the basement office entrance of his apartment building. Up the sidewalk, kids stand in a cluster and watch Mommy and Piggy in a standoff.
“All you have to do is answer,” Mommy assures him, jiggling his shoulder, which is sagging further and further. “Do you think it’s a nice thing to do, to go around and call people names? Do you like it when kids call you Piggy?” Piggy sullenly stabs the toe of his splayed sneaker into the crack of the sidewalk. He’s got an attitude problem, anyone can see that.
After what seems like an eternity, Piggy finally seems to realize that Mommy isn’t going to let him off the hook easy. He crushes his doe eyes and squeezes out big drops of tears. They roll down his fat cheeks and fall to the sidewalk, drawing dark, knuckle-sized circles on it.
“Chicken shit,” Inah says.
Mommy finally gives up and warns him, “If I ever hear again that you called Inah by that name, I will have to talk to your parents. Understand?” But he doesn’t seem to understand that at all. As soon as Mommy releases him, he turns around and dashes into his apartment building, bellowing and crying for his mommy as if he’s been manhandled. Mommy shakes her head. Inah’s delighted. But I am worried because Mommy can’t be with us all the time.
After school, we stand at the top of the steps, waiting for Mommy to pick us up. It’s dazzlingly bright and hot. Inah scratches her scarred cheek and wiggles her arms out of her green jacket. I drape it for her over her book bag.
“It’s Friday, so it’s frying hot,” Inah says smartly.
“True, but Saturday is very satisfying because we can sleep late,” I say, stepping into the shade.
“Sunday is sunny,” Inah says, following me into the shade. “So we can lie on a sundeck and get a perfect suntan.”
“Eating ice-cream sundaes!”
“They are yummy, says Mummy.”
“Monday is called Moon Day in Korea, but it’s Money Day in America because we get pocket money for the week.”
“It’s a pity that we can’t think of a word that rhymes with Tuesday.”
“True. So true.”
“And then it’s Thank-God-Wednesday for we get to go to Wendy’s!”
“On Thursday, we are oh-so-thirsty because Mommy makes us kimchi fried rice.”
“That makes up a whole week.”
“It’s a merry-go-round for poor us!” We giggle. I wiggle out of my jacket, too, and tie it around my waist. Inah points to my ponytail, and I pull off the rubber band around it, letting my hair fall to the shoulders. I don’t want Mommy to see how I hate to wear the same hairdo as Inah.
We go down the steps and join Jessica Han who is sitting slouched at the bottom step. She’s waiting for her older cousin she calls “unni,” “big sister,” whom kids say is a little loony in the head. She speaks in tongues, they say, but we don’t know what that means. Still, it sounds kind of mysterious. And if you are to believe what Jessica Han says, when her cousin speaks in tongues, she sounds like a quacking duck and her body sways like a tree in the wind and the whites of her eyes show. Otherwise, she is normal, Jessica says, sounding so sure. But she’s strange for sure. Even though she’s very pretty and has shiny black hair that hangs all the way down to her waist, she looks like she’s just woken up from a dream. When she looks at you, you know she isn’t looking at you but through you. That sort of thing. It’s a pity she has to be so very pretty. It’s like letting good food go wasted, bad boys say.
Jessica sees her cousin coming around the gate, jumps up and dashes across the ground. Inah and I follow her. And soon, we are out of the school and walking down the street, surrounding Jessica’s cousin like three small trees around a tall one, skipping and stamping our feet. Luckily, unni doesn’t say we should stay and wait for our mother. She doesn’t say anything or ask any questions at all.
When we are near Bowne Playground, Inah and Jessica Han tear down the street and run through the gate toward the swings. They throw their book bags and jackets to the ground and climb onto the swings and kick them up. I follow unni to a nearby bench and sit down with her. Her white-socked feet peek out from her flower-printed skirt. Her feet are as small as a child’s.
She asks me why don’t I go and ride the swings, too, like she wants to be alone. I don’t ride swings when I have a skirt on, I tell her, because anyone can see my undies. She says it’s all right as long as my undies are clean. I laugh. She smiles, staring at the distance.
Inah, the fearless, kicks the swing hard, flying higher and higher against the blue sky dappled with white cotton-ball clouds. The chains clink and squeak and creak as she swings up and down, drawing arcs. Her blue pleated skirt
blooms like a morning glory and folds down like an umbrella. After a while, she stands perfectly still on the swing, letting it slow down. She has a strange look in her eyes. I turn and see several boys ambling toward us from the direction of the basketball court. They are from Bowne and Sanford. Sometimes they hang around Weeping Beech Park, but they prefer Bowne Playground because it’s got a basketball court. And holy of the holy, one of them is Piggy’s big brother, Hoon.
My heart starts beating loudly. Unlike Piggy, Hoon, who is two grades ahead of us, is willowy and has a pretty, girl-like face, so smooth and pale, like white chocolate. And moreover, he’s got the kind of slitted, smiling eyes I like. (Jessica Han—at eleven, only a year older than us, but already showing the hints of bosoms of thy-kingdom-come, likes him too. She says when he flashes you a smile with those eyes of his, it kind of makes you feel like you have to go to the bathroom!)
“You, the screw face,” Hoon says, pointing at Inah with his pointy chin.
“Why do you call her that? She’s got a name like everybody else,” I say, hoping to sound fierce, but instead I end up sounding meek.
“Huh? Yeah, I know. Like Fuck Face? Ha, ha.” My face burns. Jessica Han scrambles down the swing, picks up her book bag and jacket and slings away. “Anyway, who said I was talking to you?” he says, a little sheepishly. “You girls are twins. Right? So what happened to your sister’s face?” Tongue-tied, I just stand dumbly, getting red and redder in the face. Just then, Inah jumps off the swing, landing real close to him. He steps back, a little startled.
“What do you want?” Inah says challengingly. Hoon looks tickled. He turns to his entourage of kids. A straggle of assorted Asian boys, no more than a year or two older than us.
“Did you see that? The screw face talks.” Then he turns back to Inah and says, “You talk tough, so why did you snitch on my brother Piggy to your mom, huh? I know all about it. So what if your mom was a teacher in Korea? It’s not like we give a rat’s ass about that. And you’re lucky it’s Friday because you got till Monday to bring me a whole box of Choco-Pies. Bring it to the basketball court. Right after school. Got that? And another the Friday after. Until e-ter-nutty.”
“Why should I?” Inah says bravely.
“Because I tell you so,” he says. The other kids giggle. Inah stares him down, fixing him steadily with her eyes. Like she is memorizing every detail of his face. But the crushed, bunched eyelids make her look like she’s crying. I can’t stand it. I hang my head.
“Stop staring, you spooky face,” he says and flicks his thumb, launching a rubber band. It sails over, swats Inah in the right eye and falls. It must sting bad because Inah squeals and bends over, covering her eye with her hand. My heart races real fast. I look around for Jessica Han and her cousin, but they are nowhere. I furiously debate what to do-whether to jump him-when out of the corner of my eye, I see Mommy flying through the entrance. She must have been looking for us all over. She looks like an angry dragon. Hoon, Piggy’s brother, sees Mommy, too, because he slowly takes off toward the basketball court, followed by his cowardly entourage. Inah and I scramble to gather our book bags and jackets. Mommy strides over. Her face is set all tight. She doesn’t seem to notice the red welt on Inah’s eyelid.
“Go home!” she says. We speed out of the playground. We know we are in deep trouble because she doesn’t say a word all the way home. Then as soon as we get inside the apartment door, she grabs my arm and starts spanking me on the bottom. Not Inah!
“I’m late a minute and you just walk off! What am I to think when I don’t see you two?” Her palm rains down in frenzied succession. It stings bad. I squeal like a cornered mouse. If I try to get away, I know it will only get her angrier, so I just dangle at her arm, hoping she will soon get tired, forcing her to move in a circle, chasing my bottom. We go around and around, and Mommy’s face turns beet red.
Inah, who has been standing stiff, like a borrowed broom, smarting in the corner, finally feels sorry for me. She comes over, gets down to her knees and wraps Mommy’s leg with her arms. She swears never to do it again, so stop. She’s so sorry. With the two of us clinging to her, Mommy gets quickly exhausted. She lets go of my arm, and I plop down to the floor and sniffle through hiccups. Mommy is already sorry, though.
“Don’t ever do it again,” she says, getting all choked up. “What if something happens? It would just kill your mother.”
SIX
Usually, at some point every afternoon, rain clouds break up and blow out to sea, and the sun emerges, if only for a brief spell, for an hour or so, but unambiguously, to douse Venice with a million tons of gold powder. But when we come out of the Palazzo Ducale in the afternoon, the steady morning drizzle has left a dense pall of gray mist all over, and it looks very unlikely that the sun will ever make it through.
“Well, still want to go?” I ask Inah as we head down to the Piazzetta di San Marco. She’s been talking about going to see the Lido beach from Thomas Mann’s Death in Venice. And today is her last chance, it being our last full day here. “You know it might just start raining again,” I add, hoping to discourage her. Squinting, Inah looks out at the gray choppy water, hardly distinguishable from the opaque gray sky hanging low over it.
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to wait a little and see.”
“Whatever you want.” Zipping open her backpack, Inah pulls out her wrinkled rain poncho and spreads it on the step, and we sit down facing the water. Before long, she’s completely lost in her book.
To my relief, Inah’s mood has improved, if not dramatically. It probably has to do with the rain: It mutes the lights, rounds off jagged edges and calms frayed nerves. Maybe she simply realized that I wouldn’t be going anywhere, not for a while, and resigned herself to the fact that she was stuck with me whether she liked it or not. Still, I haven’t been able to talk to her at all. (Notoriously evasive, she hasn’t offered any chance, either.) I guess I just didn’t have the heart to bang up on her so soon, seeing her still struggling so. But the real reason is fear. Being with Inah is like gingerly walking through a minefield. A step in the wrong direction, a thoughtlessly placed foot, will detonate a bomb, and shrapnel will be flying before you know it. I’m not sure if I can handle that. Yet. So I think I will wait, earn back her trust. Until then, I will stay out of her hair. I will just try to maintain the tenuous, fragile, hard-earned calm. Who said it—Don’t be afraid of going slowly; be afraid of standing still?
“What are you reading?” I ask.
Inah simply holds up the cover of the flimsy pocket-sized book for me. It’s Goethe’s Letters from Italy. Strangely, that’s what excites her most about Venice. The idea that Byron, Goethe, Henry James and countless other great artists were here at one time or another.
Inah hands me the book, pointing at a paragraph in the open page. It reads:
… at five in the afternoon of the twenty-eighth day of September in the year, 1786, I should see Venice for the first time as I enter the lagoons from the Brenta … this beaver-republic…. Venice is no longer a mere word to me, an empty name, a state of mind…. At last I can really enjoy the solitude I have been longing for, because nowhere can one be more alone than in a large crowd….”
I remember how growing up, Inah always armed herself with facts and details to deflect any unwanted attention from her and her face. That it’s still true amazes me and depresses me at the same time; her capacity to absorb them and dispense them, no matter how minuscule.
I give the book back to her. It looks like the sun is going to come out after all. The upper sky over the water is clearing in pale blue denim.
“So, are we going then?” I ask.
“Yes, we are going,” Inah says, snapping shut the book and springing to her feet. We grab the rain poncho and the book and backpacks and make a mad dash across the quay to catch the vaporetto just leaving for the Lido.
On the boat, Inah is quiet and pensive. I know what it is. It has belatedly occurred to her as it has to me-the iro
ny of going to see the beach in the book that is essentially about the power of youth and beauty, and the great length to which one is willing to go in pursuit of them. But of course, we don’t and can’t talk about it. (Inah’s face is a snag you catch at every turn.) But what is beauty? How do you define it? What did Keats mean by “Beauty is truth, truth beauty”? And what about Inah, who will never know the privilege of being beautiful and the power that’s blindly bestowed to the one who possesses physical beauty? But there is so much beauty everywhere. So many kinds of beauty. Why does it have to matter, how you look? Of course, it matters. Sometimes, it seems that’s all that matters.
There’s a great, inspiring passage in Death in Venice that I once memorized in college but now can’t quite remember. It goes something like this: “ … nearly all the great things that exist owe their existence to a defiant despite: it is despite grief and anguish, despite poverty, loneliness, bodily weakness, vice and passion and a thousand inhibitions, that they have come into being at all.” The passage always made me think of Inah. With some hope.
Of course, aside from the warning in Inah’s guidebook that the Lido is not what it used to be, it’s not at all what we expected or imagined it to be like, at least not from the novel. But it’s still disappointing. There are few things that even remotely evoke the moods of the book. And no “Hotel des Bains,” and no “white-blossoming avenue.” Inah drily states that we’ve come only about a hundred years too late. And as Dad, our family mystic, used to say, everything that once has the privilege to exist is destined to be gone one day.
But still, Inah is happy to have come. She says she would have always kicked herself otherwise. It’s better to be disappointed than to live with regrets. I agree. We each scoop up a fistful of wet, coarse sand and throw it out to the wind. On the far sky, dark billowy rain clouds are gathering again.