Waxing Moon

by H. S. Kim

  Nani wanted to say many things but couldn’t say a word. Min stood there, wiggling his big toe, which peeped out of his straw shoe. His state was no better than that of a beggar. He was looking over at the man who whetted knives and tools for the fishermen. The blade he was honing on the whetstone glinted in the sun.

  “I am going,” Nani warned him.

  Min didn’t turn to look at her.

  She pulled his sleeve to get his attention. “I am leaving,” Nani said, placing a coin in his sleeve. But Min refused to take it. He had money left after he had paid the ship fare for Blane. He pulled out a pouch from inside his trousers and showed the money to her.

  “Where did you get it?” she asked suspiciously. But she couldn’t linger any longer. Mistress Yee might be looking for her.

  “What are you going to do now?” Nani asked, thinking that she didn’t care what he did with his life. But she choked on her words and tears rolled down her cheeks.

  Min shook her shoulder and looked into her eyes. He wanted to live there with her.

  “I can’t stay here with you,” Nani said. If only he had asked her the year before! She would have gladly gone with him to the ends of the earth. But now she felt differently.

  “Don’t let Mistress Yee see you. Her servants can catch you instantly. You know how she is. She’s gotten worse. Go! And don’t follow me,” Nani said.

  Min went over to a vendor who sold rice malt pumpkin candy, and bought a few candies. He offered them to Nani.

  “Go,” Nani said again, taking only one. If they were meant to be together, they would meet again like two rivers at a confluence. She turned toward the restaurant. Min didn’t follow her.

  Mistress Yee was taking a short nap in the private room where she had dined. The low table had been removed. Nani sat on the attached bench before the entrance to the private room, staring at her mistress’s shoes. Suddenly, she conjured up the sharp pain that she had felt when Mistress Yee whacked her head with a shoe on the night of the first shamanic ritual. Nani had become Mistress Yee’s favorite dartboard.

  Thinking of Min in rags, filthy from head to toe, Nani felt a pang in the middle of her chest, but she didn’t feel like chasing after him. When Mirae had revealed their frivolous affair, Nani had cursed him to hell. She realized now, though, that she didn’t hate him. On the contrary, she thought that she would always love him. For the first time, she realized that she didn’t have to live in the same nest with a person in order to love him.

  Mistress Yee woke up with a sharp pain in her abdomen. A doctor was summoned to the inn to check on her, and a messenger on a horse was sent to deliver a message to Mr. O that his wife was staying another day in the harbor city due to her illness.

  After a treatment of acupuncture and herbal medicine, Mistress Yee fell asleep rather early that evening, and the male servants snuck out to an open pub by the water where squid catchers were getting ready for night fishing.

  Nani went out to see if by chance Min was still around. And there he was, standing under the eave of a large store that sold souvenirs for foreign seamen and travelers. The store still had its lights on. When he spotted Nani, Min was so glad that his face turned tragic.

  “Did you have dinner?” Nani asked him.

  Rubbing his tummy, he nodded. Earlier he had grilled sardines and a bowl of rice.

  They strolled on the pier, but there were too many drunkards, so they walked down to the shore where mussels covered the rocks and seaweed gathered thickly around their feet.

  Min pulled something from his pouch. It was a jade necklace. Nani looked at it. She had never owned such finery.

  “What good is a jade necklace to a maid!” she said sarcastically, her eyes still fixed on the pretty stone.

  He put it around her neck, and Nani didn’t protest. They sat down on a dry spot among many empty shells.

  Nani wanted to ask him whether what Mirae had said about a passionate fling was true.

  Min wanted to hold Nani. When Min joined the subversive peasant group to fight against the aristocrats, he had given up his future with Nani. He had purposefully stayed away from her, but now that he had defected from the movement, he wanted her again. When he was ordered to set Mr. O’s house on fire, he couldn’t bring himself to do it because Nani was there. He didn’t want to be a hero. His dream turned out to be small: he wanted to be happy. And he couldn’t imagine happiness without Nani.

  Mirae couldn’t have made up the story about Min. Nani mentally reviewed all the things that Mirae had said to her. Every word had pierced her heart, and all of those words were still there. They had taken up residence in her heart.

  After he had put Blane on the ship, he had been planning to return to Mr. O’s house and elope with Nani. Meeting her in this harbor city had served to show him, once more, that Nani was his fate.

  There was now no noise but the soothing waves, spreading their foamy blanket again and again. The air felt cool and calm. Nani was tired. Min stretched his arm around her shoulder. Nani allowed it, but she realized that she was no longer desperate for his touch.

  Min groaned, pulling her closer to him. But Nani untangled herself from his arms. She said, “I am not going to be your wife.”

  Min stared at her, overcome with desire. When he had been with Mirae, he had felt disgusted and good at the same time. He pulled Nani close to him and tried to kiss her. Nani slapped him and said, “Idiot, it’s too late!” She ran away as fast as she could, but she didn’t go back to the restaurant right away. She saw squid catchers unloading their boats at the pier. Thousands of squid spilled out from the net onto a large mat. She asked one of the fishermen how many squid she could free with a silver coin. “Thirty,” he said. So she freed thirty squid while making a wish.

  34

  When the messenger on horseback from the west coast set out to Mistress Yee’s house to inform her husband, Mr. O had already left for a meeting. All the landlords in the region, with several military officers from the capital city, gathered in a private house to discuss important matters over a late luncheon.

  Good-looking maids brought in exquisitely arranged food and drinks and placed them on the low tables. Musicians played ancient instruments from a pavilion in the middle of a pond filled with colorful carp and lotuses bursting into full bloom. It was a closed courtyard, providing perfect acoustics, and from all four sides one could see the musicians and the other visitors. The banquet was sumptuous. Kisengs, professional entertainers who covered their faces with fans, were there to serve the drinks, to tell tales, and to get pinched by the naughty powerful men.

  One of the officers gestured to the musicians to lower the volume, so only the flutist was now playing; his tune was as ethereal as the sudden blooms of flowers in the spring season.

  “His Highness is concerned about the riots of the so-called peasant revolutionary group here in our region. Most of the members have been captured and beheaded, but some are still around, indoctrinating innocent people. And this is what brings us here together,” the officer began.

  “In the capital city, we have implemented a new rule that the immediate family of these criminal peasants be stripped of their possessions, and be ineligible for employment,” another officer said.

  “And how may we strip them of their possessions? Do we need to do this by ourselves or do we hire government officers?” a landlord from a neighboring village asked. It brought some laughter around the table.

  “We will be providing one officer per one hundred inhabitants. This village, exceeding one thousand inhabitants, will receive ten officers before the moon begins to wax,” the same officer announced.

  “In the capital city, we hang the heads of the dead peasants at the entrance of the village as a deterrent,” another officer said.

  By this time, not many landlords were listening. Mos
t of them were getting red in the face, and their limbs were relaxed; some of them were making clandestine eye contact with the fan-covered kisengs.

  Small conversations broke out in layers while the officer talked loudly at the prominent landlords about various schemes for preventing further riots.

  “Who is that girl over in the corner?” asked a landlord with a beard.

  In the society of kisengs, there was a strict rule that newcomers were not permitted to engage in conversations with men at a party, unless, of course, the men they were serving initiated the conversation.

  “She is a newcomer. Needs much training,” a middle-aged kiseng, named Dimple, replied quickly and poured another bowl of ginseng wine to distract Lord Ahn.

  “What is her name?” he persisted.

  “She is called Pumpkin,” replied Dimple, smiling.

  It was also customary that one didn’t go by one’s real name in the world of kisengs. Each girl had a pseudonym, which she picked when she joined the society. The pretty girl’s pseudonym wasn’t Pumpkin, but Dimple was playing with the landlords. As expected, the men laughed, examining Pumpkin’s hand, which held her fan, and her shoulders, which were encased in silk the color of an orange azalea.

  “Exceptional looking!” Lord Ahn exclaimed.

  Some kisengs giggled.

  “Amuse us with a story,” he suggested to no one in particular.

  Dimple began quickly, “Once upon a time, there was a woman hauling water at a well. A general came her way and asked her for some water. He was returning from a battlefield, weary and spent. The woman took a gourd and filled it only half full, and then took a few leaves from a willow branch to drop on the water. The general, very thirsty and impatient, was incensed. He threw the gourd to the ground and chided the woman severely for her odd behavior. He asked once again for water. She did exactly the same, leaves afloat in a half-full gourd. She explained that there was no remedy for choking on water. So she wanted him to drink slowly, blowing the leaves away from his mouth which would slow down his gulping. The general was impressed and grateful for her wisdom. He took her to be his wife.”

  They all clapped.

  Lord Ahn pursued his quarry: “How about you, Pumpkin?”

  Pumpkin thought for a moment and said, “I heard this story quite recently.”

  Caught by the familiar voice, Mr. O, who sat near Lord Ahn, turned around to hear the story.

  “Once there was an evil concubine whose jealousy soared up above the sky, for the mistress of the house was having a baby,” Pumpkin began. The gentlemen gave her their undivided attention. “She asked her faithful maid to go and make a voodoo doll. The maid didn’t know what it was for, but her mistress wanted her to make one, so she did. The concubine pierced the doll with a needle between its legs and gave it to the maid to bury behind the quarters of the mistress of the house. The maid then realized what her mistress was up to, but she did as she was told, for a maid has no choice. The mistress of the house died after she gave birth. Sometime later, a dog unearthed the doll. The master of the house wanted to know what it all meant. The concubine accused her faithful maid of the crime. But the wise master of the house said, ‘She is your maid and does what you tell her to do. She might have buried the doll, but the idea must have come from you. So you are the guilty one.’ The master ordered eighty lashes for the wicked concubine and sent her away.” Pumpkin trembled slightly as she ended the story.

  The men applauded.

  “That was a great story,” said Lord Ahn. “Don’t you think so?” he asked Mr. O, who was unable to utter a word for his heart was pounding so loudly.

  Mr. O was aghast. He was at once ashamed, and all he hoped was to leave the place as soon as the meeting was over.

  “How about you, Mr. O?” said Lord Ahn. He was asking for a story.

  “Oh, I will pass. I am not much of a storyteller,” he replied uncomfortably, his face reddening.

  “What’s Pumpkin’s real name?” asked Lord Ahn.

  Dimple raised her eyebrows in alarm and sulked, “Master, don’t you like Dimple anymore? I am going to cry if you let me down.”

  He laughed, pleased.

  Mr. O watched Mirae behind her fan and was impressed with how similar she was to his wife. They had the same body shape and crimson lips and shiny, pitch-black hair. They both carried themselves with aloofness. But he had to say that Mirae—for now he was convinced that the woman was indeed his former maid—was even prettier. Why hadn’t he noticed that while they had inhabited under the same roof?

  At the end of the party, Lord Ahn got up and reluctantly walked out, turning back once or twice to see Mirae again. But Dimple took his arm and saw him off. Other kisengs were also seeing off the visitors. Mirae sat in the room while the maids came in to clear the tables.

  Mr. O got up and went close to Mirae, dropped the pouch he had on his waist, and said, “I want to compensate you for my misjudgment.”

  Mirae looked down at the gold coins that spilled out of the blue silk pouch and then looked up without hesitation. Her eyes were fiery. She smiled suddenly and said, “If Master would like to soothe my scarred heart, he should grant me the ring on his finger for me to live by.”

  “The gold coins in the pouch amount to more in value than the ring,” he said. But Mirae didn’t reply. Mr. O was moved. This maid, who could have had Lord Ahn, the richest man in the province, was in love with him! He blushed. Mirae smiled coquettishly, taking his hand to gently wriggle the ring off his finger. At her electrifying touch, he parted his lips involuntarily. As he caressed her hair clumsily, his lungs expanded, making him feel that he was above the floor.

  Dimple came in abruptly to have warning words with Mirae, but upon finding her flirting with Mr. O, she was jubilant.

  “Ah, Lord O, you are one step ahead of everyone!” she exclaimed excitedly. “This is Cherry Blossom. Her beauty could melt the heart of the toughest samurai on the neighboring island,” she babbled.

  Mr. O stood like a broomstick, not knowing what to say. The situation was unfamiliar to him.

  “Please, Lord O. Let me know what you would like. If you would like to have a meeting with Cherry Blossom, I can arrange it. Just name the time and the date,” she said, twisting the end of his sleeve.

  He forced an awkward laugh because he thought it was the right moment to laugh, but it did not make him feel more comfortable. He hurried out, still laughing awkwardly. As he got on his horse, he had a hunch he wasn’t going to be able to sleep that night.

  When he got home, the news awaited him from the west coast that his wife would be delayed by a day, due to a violent stomachache. He was relieved.

  35

  Dubak’s wife, Jaya, came home from the open market feeling furious. A vendor had refused to sell to her, accusing her of having killed her mother-in-law. “You stuffed the old woman with sticky rice cake,” he shouted, attracting attention from the shoppers and other venders. And it hadn’t been the first time she was humiliated in public by a stranger. She cried, screwing up her face, when she got home. Her neighbor was babysitting her son, but Jaya didn’t feel like picking him up right away. Instead, she sat on the floor where red peppers were drying on a straw mat. She had been going out of her way to make interesting dinners for Dubak after the funeral of his mother. He hadn’t really forgiven her for who knew what, and he still had his doubts which he could use against her should an occasion arise. But for now, his wife was feeding him well—the gods only knew how she managed to, with their meager household budget—and she cooperated in bed pretty much every time he was stiff before dawn. She used to push him away, hitting him between the legs with a pillow and complaining that it was an insane hour for such activity.

  Today, Jaya had visited the market because she heard the news of the squid arriving from the west coast. Dubak loved seafood, bu
t it was hard to get it, except in the spring, when the road from the west coast was no longer frozen and the weather was not too hot to make everything go bad immediately. Jaya had meant to stuff squid with ground-up soybeans, greens, and chopped carrots, and steam them on the cooking rice. She would have sliced the colorful dish and arranged it artfully. The taste would have cheered up any sulking heart. But now she saw her stupidity plain and clear. It didn’t matter how hard she worked to make sure her husband wouldn’t try to stab her again. The whole village was bloodthirsty.

  “You can have my innocent blood,” she said and took a rope made of straw.

  She walked over to the totem poles at the entrance to the village. She lowered her head and proclaimed that she was innocent. She had fed her mother-in-law rice cake, true, but who could have predicted that the old woman would choke and die like that? Jaya cried mournfully, telling the totem poles once again that she was innocent. It was true that her senile mother-in-law, who had wanted to be served a meal every time she turned around because she had forgotten she had just eaten, was a nuisance. Whenever Dubak came home, the mother complained that Jaya starved her. And sometimes she did starve her, but just a little. Who could have withstood such a mother-in-law? She had done a decent job taking care of her. When her mother-in-law choked on the rice cake, she didn’t know what to do but watch her die. She tried to pour water into her mother-in-law’s mouth, but it was no use. She turned blue and ceased breathing.