“It’s just a comb, Dr. Kim,” I say.
He stares at me as if I’m a child. “It’s against the law, against the law for heirlooms to leave our country,” he says firmly. “Anyway, if it’s just a comb, you should be willing to show it to me.”
It’s a law? I don’t need an even bigger mess than I already have, so I take out the package and show him the comb. He leans in and his eyes grow wide behind his thick glasses.
“This is not ‘nothing’,” he whispers. “I should take it and give it to the right people.”
“The right people?”
He slowly shakes his head. “You cannot have this, Anna.”
“Why not?” I ask. He doesn’t answer. Instead, he tells me again that I should give the comb to him. “It’s important,” he says. “You must do the right thing. Give it to me. I take care of it, I take care of it.”
I almost give it to him. Then I remember the woman said the comb means something. I think it might actually mean something to me, and based on Dr. Kim’s reaction, I suddenly want to know what it is. I fold the cloth around the comb and put it back in my purse. I tell Dr. Kim that I don’t want to break any laws, but I want to show it to my dad first. I manage a polite smile.
I walk to the elevator and push the button. As the doors open, I turn to see if Dr. Kim is still there. He’s looking straight at me. “Trust me, trust me, Anna,” he says. “You do not want that comb.”
I step into the elevator and let the doors close.
*
When I get to our room, small and modern with light-colored wood furniture, Dad's crashed out on the bed. He’s folded his hands across his stomach like they do with a corpse. I toss my backpack and purse on the desk and look in the mirror. An Asian woman stares back at me. She’s the backward Anna and I don’t know her. She’s pretty, I suppose. Dark hair; smooth skin; slender and straight. I want to know who she is, but I’m not getting any answers.
Dad asks what Dr. Kim wanted. The woman in the mirror tells him that Mr. Kim wanted to see something someone gave her at the orphanage.
“Someone gave you something at the orphanage?” he asks.
“Yes. Outside, after our non-meeting meeting.”
Dad raises his head off the pillow. “What is it?”
I turn from the mirror and show him the comb. He climbs off the bed for a closer look.
“Good lord,” he says. “It’s magnificent.”
“The woman said I should go to this address to hear her story.” I hand him the note.
He reads it and shakes his head. “I don’t know about this, Anna. Seoul’s a big city and you don’t know who the woman is. What did she look like?”
“She was older, but… I don’t know. I didn’t get a good look at her.”
“What did Dr. Kim say?”
I take the note from him and wrap the comb in the cloth. “He said I shouldn’t take it. He said I should give it to him so he can give it to the right people, whatever that means.”
“Maybe you should.”
“Yeah, I guess, but I want to find out about it first. I want to go to this address.”
“When?” Dad asks. “We leave tomorrow.”
“Not until 7:00 at night.”
“Yeah,” Dad says, “but the bus to the airport leaves at 4:30. During the day, we’re supposed to go to Itaewon to shop. I have to pick up my new suit.”
“And I wanted to buy that celadon pot I saw there,” I say. “It doesn’t matter though. I want to do this instead.”
He thinks it over for a second, then says, “Maybe I should go with you.”
“The woman said I should come alone,” I reply.
He blows out a sigh and sits on the end of the bed. He looks defeated like he has since Mother died. I sit next to him. I promise him I’ll be careful.
He nods. I give him a quick hug and go to the bathroom to get ready for dinner.
*
That night after we settle in our room for the night, Dad finally asks if I want to talk about my birthmother. Yeah, I do. I want to talk about a lot of things. I want figure everything out and get back on the right track again. But for some reason, I say I don’t want to talk. Not now. He looks both hurt and relieved and drags himself to bed.
It breaks my heart to look at him. I thought this trip might help him, but it hasn’t. He hasn’t said more than a few dozen words since we came here. He doesn’t study the tour books or ask endless questions of the guides like he always did when we traveled with Mother. I think being here reminds both of us of her. She would have loved it.
I lie on my bed staring at the ceiling and try to remember the highlights of our tour—the palaces, the museums, a disturbing trip to the demilitarized zone between North and South Korea. And today, the visit to the orphanage and the awful news that I killed my birthmother. I try to pull everything into a complete picture, but I can’t. It’s all too raw. So I crawl under the sheets and wonder what I’ll find tomorrow at the address that came with the comb.
T HREE
Weird dreams haunt me all night. Mother used to say that dreams are who you are when you’re too tired to be yourself. When I was young, I always tried to remember my dreams. But they were totally bizarre and left me afraid of who I really was. So today when I wake up, I push my dreams away. I’m still tired and realize it’s one of those days it’ll be a supreme effort to cope. I pull the covers to my chin and wish I could stay in bed. Then I remember the comb and my plan to go to the address and find out what it’s about. I force myself to get up.
Dr. Kim told us we’d leave for Itaewon at 9:30AM. Dad’s already showered and mostly dressed. He’s got his face in the mirror, shaving. I say good morning and he grunts one back at me. I hope he’ll agree to help me. When he comes out of the bathroom, I tell him I want to go to the address to see about the comb. I ask him to tell Dr. Kim that I’m sick and have to skip going to Itaewon.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” he asks, pulling on his shirt. “Maybe you should give the comb to Dr. Kim, like he said, and come with me today.”
“Dad, please,” I say in a way to remind him that I’m not a child anymore.
He sighs and agrees to tell my fib. “Promise you’ll be careful,” he says.
I tell him not to worry and that I’ll be here at the hotel when he gets back from Itaewon. He hands me two hundred dollars from his billfold and gives me a sad smile. He heads out the door.
*
After Dad and the rest of the families leave, I sneak out of the hotel and crawl in a tiny white taxicab. I give the driver the address that came with the comb. “You sure, lady?” he asks. From the X’s and O’s in his name on his cab license, I can tell he’s Chinese. He’s anorexic thin and stringy hair hangs over his ears. I read the address to him again. “Okay,” he says. “Thirty-five dolla’ American. Or thirty-five thousand Korean won.”
The fare seems high, but I really don’t care, so I say okay. We pull onto the main boulevard and head south toward the Han River. The sky has a brown haze and it looks like it’ll be another sweltering day. We drive through Seoul’s financial district and past big department stores like Kosney’s and Hyundai and dozens of high-end boutiques like Bulgari, Gucci, and Jimmy Choo. There are hundreds of smaller shops with neon signs in Hangul, English, Japanese, Chinese, and a few languages I don’t even recognize. Trendy cafés compete with high-end restaurants. Street vendors push their merchandise at the people walking by. People fill the sidewalks and cars cram the streets. We drive across the Han River over the Map-o Bridge. In every direction, city skyscrapers stand like soldiers at attention.
We cross another bridge and turn a corner into yet another shopping area. I can tell the driver is taking the long way, probably to justify his bogus fare. Okay, whatever. I’m feeling better and actually enjoying his little tour. I push myself to the edge of the seat and roll down the window. Smells fill the taxi—street food, automobile exhaust and big city grit. There are neon lights, and signs in Ha
ngul, and people dressed in all different styles, and tiny cars, and taxis with blue tops, and noisy trucks with more Hangul lettering on the side. Everywhere apartment buildings tower over the city. Car horns honk, truck engines roar, street vendors shout, and energy fills the air.
So this is Korea. Now that I’m finally free from the tour, I’m seeing what it’s really all about. It isn’t just the palaces, museums, and tourist traps we’ve seen on our trip. It’s here, on these streets. This is where I was born. I share DNA with these people. Maybe my answers are here.
And now I have this comb. There must be something to it. It could be important. I haven’t had a chance to study it carefully so I take the package from my purse and open it. I bring the comb close and look for something I might’ve missed. The almost black tortoiseshell is a perfect match to the white ivory of the two-headed dragon. The elegant tines and gentle bow of it are amazing. The gold spine gives the comb a perfect balance. I wonder how an elderly woman got a hold of such a magnificent thing. I wonder why she thinks I should have it.
“What you got there?” I snap my head up. We’re at a stop light. The driver has an arm over his seat and he’s pointing at the comb.
“Just a, ah… gift,” I say.
“A gift?” he asks. “You kidding? It real deal! Who you give it to?”
“No, no. It was given to me.” I quickly fold the cloth around the comb and shove it inside my pocket.
The driver grins revealing bad teeth. “You lucky! Very, very lucky. It real deal. Real deal!”
I sit back and ask how much further we have to go. He tells me we’re almost there and turns back to his steering wheel. The light changes and we drive on.
Soon, the neighborhoods become dirty and the colors change from bright to drab. We’re in what looks like Seoul’s version of a ghetto. There are only a few people on the street and something I haven’t seen in Korea before, litter. I roll up my window and slouch down in my seat. We turn down a narrow street and pull to the curb. The driver tells me we’re at my address.
We’ve stopped in front of a nasty, eight-story apartment building. Rusty air conditioners hang from half the windows. From an open window, a woman is staring vacantly at the street below. An old man shuffles along the walkway. Above a crumbling entry are letters in Hangul and the number 315. I ask the driver if he’s got the right address. He assures me he does. “You want I wait?” he asks.
I scan the street and rows of slummy apartment buildings and realize that if my driver doesn’t wait, I’d have to walk for blocks in this scary neighborhood to find another cab. “Yeah, that’s a good idea,” I say.
“I wait,” he says, turning off the engine. “Fifteen dolla’ American every fifteen minute. First, you pay thirty-five for here.”
I take thirty-five dollars from my purse and hand it to him. I climb out of the cab and look up at the building. I tell him I don’t know how long I’ll be. He tells me he’ll wait as long as I need. “Fifteen dolla’ every fifteen minute,” he repeats.
I walk to the entrance. There are rows of silver buttons on a huge intercom system. I take the note from my pocket and read the apartment number, 627. I scan the buttons until I see it. I don’t press it.
This doesn’t feel right at all. It’s way too intense. And Dad was right—it isn’t safe. I turn to go back to the cab. The driver is watching me. Real deal, he said. I put my hand in my pocket and finger the comb. I remember how the dragon almost seemed real. I turn back to the intercom and take a deep breath. I push the button. Several seconds later, a woman’s voice comes on the speaker and says something in Korean.
I say my name. There’s an uncomfortable pause and I wonder if I got the address right. Then the voice says in perfect English, “Welcome. I am so glad you came.” She tells me to go through the security door and take the elevator to the sixth floor. She says her apartment is on the left.
The security door buzzes and I walk through. It’s gross inside. The lights are harsh and over-expose the stained carpeting and smeared walls. There’s an ancient, broken payphone in the hall. I step inside the elevator and push the button for the sixth floor. The elevator jerks up and a few seconds later, it jerks again to a stop. I get off and when I find apartment 627, I swallow hard and knock.
The door opens and the old woman greets me.
F OUR
She’s wearing dark blue slacks frayed at the hem and a thin cotton sweater over a clean white blouse. Her thick, grey hair falls down her back. She has eyes that are kind, but intense. Her skin is amazing. The only flaws I see are a small scar on her upper lip and another one over her eye.
“Good morning, ma’am,” I say with a half bow.
She examines me with an odd smile. She steps aside and says, “You may come in.”
I remember to take off my shoes and step inside a small, clean apartment not much bigger than our den back home. I smell the sweet, spicy scent of kimchi. There’s a low dresser drawer, a rust-stained sink, a ceramic, double-burner stove, and a miniature refrigerator. On a cheap low table below the apartment’s only window is a purple flower blossom in a glass bowl. Next to it, in a plain wooden frame, are two photographs.
She points at the table and tells me to sit. Her posture is perfect, like I’ve seen in upper-class Korean women on our tour. She doesn’t take her eyes off me and I feel that she’s sizing me up. I wish I’d spent more time on my hair and worn a dress instead of jeans.
“You must have been disappointed you couldn’t meet your birthmother,” she says. Her English is flawless. She has no accent at all.
“Yes,” I nod. “How did you know about that?”
“I volunteer at the orphanage. I have for twenty years now.”
Twenty years? It was a little over twenty years ago that I was brought to the orphanage. This is starting to feel creepy and I’m already regretting coming here. Maybe I can make this quick. I tell her I don’t think I should have the comb and that I came to return it. She says I might change my mind when I hear her story. I ask her why but she doesn’t answer and continues to stare at me. I fidget in my chair. I realize I don’t know her name. I ask her what it is.
“My name is Hong, Ja-hee. And I am your maternal grandmother.”
“Seriously?” I gasp. I take a long look at her. When a birth child looks into her parent’s faces, she sees herself. She has her mother’s eyes or her father’s chin. But for twenty years, I never had that connection to anyone. Until now. Even though she’s sixty years older than I am, the resemblance is clear. She’s petite like me and has my high cheekbones. I’m thrilled that for the first time in my life, I see myself in someone else. Suddenly, I’m not at all anxious to leave.
I try to remember the right way to behave toward a Korean grandparent. “I’m glad to meet you, ma’am,” I say with my eyes low like I remember they taught us in our tour orientation. “What would be the right way to address you?”
“Since we have just met, perhaps you will feel most comfortable calling me Mrs. Hong.”
“Yes, of course, Mrs. Hong,” I say.
“I understand your adoptive mother died last year.”
The image of my dying mother comes rushing in and I feel guilty for the selfish joy I had just seconds earlier at meeting someone from my birth family. I look at my hands and nod.
“It is difficult to lose loved ones. Isn’t it?” she says.
“She loved me,” I reply. “And I loved her, too. It was an awful loss. I guess that’s why I came here, to Korea, to meet my birthmother. They told me she died giving birth to me. What happened? What was she like? Do I have any brothers and sisters? Who is my birthfather?”
Mrs. Hong turns to the window. She keeps her chin high, but her eyes turn soft. She isn’t smiling anymore. “You have many questions, Ja-young.”
“Ja-young? Oh, that’s my birth name. My parents named me Anna.”
“Very well, Anna. You say you have the comb. You can give it to me now.”
I get the package co
ntaining the comb from my pocket and set it on the table. She stares at the lump of cloth but doesn’t reach for it. She waits a minute, then, she takes the package and slowly unfolds the cloth. When she sees the comb, she brings her other hand to her mouth and the lines around her eyes deepen. I think she might cry. “I don’t take it out much anymore,” she says. “It brings back too many painful memories.”
I move to the front of my chair. “Excuse me for asking Mrs. Hong, but if you don’t want it, why don’t you just sell it? You could probably get a lot for it and move to somewhere… you know, more appropriate.”
“I was tempted many times,” she says without looking up. “But I could not. It is too important to sell, Ja-young… Anna. And, you must have it.”
“But Dr. Kim—he’s our tour director—he said I shouldn’t take it. He said there’s a law or something against heirlooms leaving the country.”
Her eyes snap to me. “Did you show this to him?”
“I… I had to,” I say. “He saw I had it.”
“What did he say? Tell me exactly.”
“He said I should give it to him so he could give it to the right people.”
Mrs. Hong clucks. “That is a problem. He might know what it is.” She quickly wraps the comb in the cloth and sets the package on the table.
“Anna,” she says firmly, “I asked you to come here because I want you to do two things. First, you must hear my story and that of the comb with the two-headed dragon. You will know what the second thing is after you have heard my story.”
“Of course,” I say. “I want to hear your story, but I don’t want to get in trouble.”
”Listen to my story, and you will know what is right.”
I let out a sigh. I wonder what I’ve gotten myself into. But why not stay? She’s my birth-grandmother after all, and the tour won’t be back from Itaewon until mid-afternoon. Maybe she has some answers for me. And what trouble could I possibly get into? I mean, if it gets too intense, I could just walk away and leave the comb with Mrs. Hong. Right?
Daughters of the Dragon: A Comfort Woman's Story Page 2