Black Flower

by Kim, Young-ha

  They all thought that Yi Jongdo would fly into a thunderous rage. But, rather unexpectedly, that rage simmered down. As boiling foam subsides when the lid is lifted off a pot, so did every part of Yi Jongdo’s being—his eyelids, his shoulders, his wrinkled cheeks, his waist—seem to suddenly succumb to the force of gravity and sink toward the earth. He closed his eyes. He turned his back. Then he called his son: “Jinu.” This descendant of an ill-favored dynasty pricked up his ears at his father’s voice. “You may be right. I don’t know anymore. I just don’t know.” His family was speechless. His son and daughter, who had never learned how to comfort their father, went outside and sat down against the wall. And they said nothing. Yi Jinu felt burdened by his father’s collapse. Was he going to leave everything to him? Here? At fourteen years old, his pay was less than that of an adult, and it was absurd to entrust the family to him.

  “Jinu,” his sister said, “don’t worry. Surely we won’t go on living like this. There will be a way.” Seeing the profile of her younger brother, about to slip into depression again, Yeonsu thought of Ijeong. He would be bearing it with all his strength, like her younger brother. Cutting, binding, and loading the henequen leaves, with cuts on his hands and feet, and then collapsing at night and falling asleep. Is he thinking of me? Her body shook, longing for the warmth of his hand that had touched her breast. Jinu patted her shoulder as she sat there trembling, her eyes closed. “I must learn the language of this land and put food on the table,” he said. “And it’s not really that bad. It was much worse while we were on the ship. It felt like I was completely worthless; I was afraid of what lay ahead. I did not go up on deck because I was afraid I would throw myself into the ocean. But this is much better. I feel like I can handle anything.”

  The two of them went back inside the house and fell asleep with their mother between them. At this hacienda, they were not even supplied with hamacas. Yet their sleep was sweet. Their bodies, steeped in exhaustion, took no notice of the humid air or the vicious mosquitoes. At four in the morning, the noisy bell rang, starting the sound of men whispering as they rose and went outside. And the sound of women, too. Some women were now going out to the henequen fields with the men. Once they learned that women could earn money too, there was no reason for them to stay at home. Even the more traditional men had no choice. If the women didn’t work, there was no way they could earn enough money to escape the hacienda. The Koreans, who were not yet used to the work, couldn’t do half as much as the Mayans, though they worked from four in the morning to seven in the evening. Thus they received less than half of what they had been promised. The women wrapped their small children in blankets, tied them to their backs, and went to work. They spread out blankets between the rows of henequen plants and laid their children in the shade beneath them. The children cried from heat rashes and the ants, but they grew tired of even that, and fell asleep.

  When the women returned from the fields, they had to cook food, look after the children, and mend the tattered clothes and shoes. The men made leggings so that their shins would not be scraped by the thorns, and gloves so that their hands would not be pricked. Now that they had some tools to help them, their work efficiency improved significantly.

  Yi Jinu grew closer to Gwon Yongjun, who was pleased that the son of an aristocratic family was trying to get on his good side. He taught Jinu a few words of Spanish, as if he were doing him a kindness. As the sweat poured off his body, Jinu moved his lips and memorized the words he was taught. Every time the hacienda overseers exchanged greetings, like Buenos días, Buenos noches, and Hasta luego, he pricked up his ears and memorized them.

  One day, Gwon Yongjun brought Jinu home with him after he had finished working. He poured a glass of tequila and offered it to him. Jinu took the glass and gulped down the strong drink. Gwon Yongjun taught him a few more words of Spanish. When he grew drunk he spoke in English, too. Yi Jinu looked at him with rapture in his eyes. He wanted most to become not some senior minister, but someone like this interpreter. He was not unaware of Gwon Yongjun’s obstinate and harsh nature. He also knew of his vice of looking down on others and using them meanly with his modicum of authority. But that was how strongly Jinu wanted to become like him. Gwon Yongjun read in Jinu’s eyes that uneasy fascination unique to young men. They were easily charmed by men older than them. They were completely taken in by power, freedom, and bluster, unable to keep their senses and then readily, willingly submitting. Gwon Yongjun drank the liquor left in his glass.

  “Do you know why I came to this tiny Mexican village?” Jinu looked at him with curiosity. Gwon Yongjun wove the splendid tale of his father’s and brothers’ deaths and of his life of debauchery at the gisaeng house. The sadness of losing one’s family and the memories of a magnificent fall moved the young man even more. Jinu was shaken by the fact that the world was far crueler than he had known. He looked with awe at Gwon Yongjun, who spoke of these things as if they were nothing. Maybe it was the burning tequila on an empty stomach. Gwon Yongjun mixed in some lies and made his comeback even more magnificent. He spoke dreamily of the past, then looked at Jinu with a forlorn face. The young Jinu was captivated by the loneliness, the glorious fall of a man who had experienced everything. It was at that moment that Gwon Yongjun revealed the desire he had kept hidden deep in his heart.

  “There is not a gisaeng in the eight provinces of Korea whom I have not held in my arms, but I have never seen a woman like your sister.” He glanced casually at Jinu. The young boy’s face grew slightly darker, but he did not show open displeasure. Rather, he seemed pleased that Gwon Yongjun had put his trust in him. “Arrange a meeting for me with her.” He reached into his pocket and took out a 5-peso bill. With that money, the family would not have to eat the thin corn gruel they had grown so tired of the past few days. They could buy cabbage and mix it with chili peppers to make something like kimchi. It would take Jinu twenty days to earn that much. This was the boy’s first experience of the power of money. Gwon Yongjun had not mentioned a specific price, but his intention was clear. Ah, no, this is wrong. Jinu closed his eyes. No, she might understand. Could she not make that sacrifice for her family? I pick henequen leaves from early morning to night, pricked by the thorns, for my inept father and my family, so my sister should be able to just stop by this man’s home in the middle of the night. He hasn’t actually said he would do anything to her. And maybe it wouldn’t even be a sacrifice. Though he knew it was wrong, Jinu did not stop thinking: All for 5 pesos. Did not the women of Korea cut flesh from their own thighs to feed to their sick fathers, and did they not cut and sell their own hair to send their children off to study? Wouldn’t this be easier than that? Ah, no. It would not even be human. To sell my own sister. Not even a beast would do that. And if she should tell Father or Mother, I would not escape death. But would she tell them? Knowing that I would die at Father’s hand, would she really tell them? She would just scold me fiercely, and it would end at that.

  Gwon Yongjun saw the struggle in Jinu’s heart as clearly as he saw the back of his own hand, and he took another 5-peso bill out of his pocket and laid it on top of the first. The fourteen-year-old boy swigged the last of his tequila. Then he took the 10 pesos and put them in his pocket. Thus a new contract was formed. He staggered out of Gwon Yongjun’s house and ran to the hacienda store, where he bought cabbage, a little beef, tortillas, and chili pepper flakes, and then trudged home. He stopped a few steps before reaching the house and reflected on what he had done. The milk was already spilled. He went into the house and showed his family what he had bought. They had gone hungry while waiting for him, and their faces brightened. Even Yi Jongdo cheered. Yeonsu crouched down, built a fire, and put a pot of water on to boil. Things that he had never noticed before jumped out at him. Her hips certainly were large. As she fanned the flames, he caught glimpses of her breasts through the armhole of her blouse. He closed his eyes and let out a sigh, and his mother tapped him on the back. He turned around in surprise. “You’ve bee
n drinking.” Lady Yun narrowed her eyes. “Mother, I have committed an even greater sin. But I had no choice. If Sister makes a sacrifice, we can all live easily. You would have done the same thing.” He left the house and looked up at the sky. A spotless full moon looked down on him, clear and bright.

  32

  IN 1883, THE 5,800-ton cruiser Dmitri Donskoi was built in the shipyards of St. Petersburg, Russia. It was named for the legendary king who had attacked the Tatars and liberated Russia from Mongolian rule. Befitting its name, this cruiser was the mightiest war vessel of its time and ruled the Baltic Sea. Some twenty years later, on May 27, 1905, as part of the Baltic fleet, it could not withstand concentrated fire from the Japanese navy in the East Sea and fled toward Ulleung Island. On May 29, Captain Lebedev ordered the crew into lifeboats and landed on Ulleung, and then decided to scuttle the ship. The first mate took the captain’s place and, along with the young officers, stayed on the Donskoi and shared its fate. The 350 crew members were taken prisoner on Ulleung Island, but they were treated with respect by the Japanese navy, which admired their heroic actions.

  But it was the end of the Baltic fleet.

  33

  ON THE SAME DAY, with no idea what had happened in the sea near his homeland on the other side of the earth, a fisherman from Ulleung Island was struggling with a life-and-death decision. “The guards will come with their guns—do you really think we’ll be OK with our bare fists?” This old bachelor, Choe Chuntaek, his face creased with wrinkles, rubbed his hands together and watched for the retired soldiers’ reactions. His skin was dark and rough from the sea winds, and his thick hands were strong and hard. He was only thirty-three years old, but he looked fifty.

  The former soldiers were laying out a concrete strategy. They would make their way around the houses at night, to convey to the others what had been decided upon, and the next morning at four, when it came time to wake up, the men would gather at Jo Jangyun’s paja. The women and children would stay indoors, just in case. When the armed guards approached, the men would face them with rocks and machetes. Deserters would be dealt with severely.

  The night before the strike, the men could not sleep. Choe Chuntaek met with the Pohang fishermen and talked about the next day’s revolt. “We have no choice. At this rate, we’ll all die. A month has passed, so we have grown somewhat accustomed to the work, but at no more than 35 centavos a day, when will we be able to escape those nightmarish jute fields?” At some point they had begun to call henequen jute. There were those who called it aenikkaeng. The workers at each hacienda called it something different.

  The fishermen were ready for a fight. There were more than one hundred Koreans at Chenché hacienda, where they had been sent. Of the twenty-two haciendas, this one had the most immigrants. For this reason, the hacendado had been able to choose the healthiest men, but this was a double-edged sword. The hacendado did not know that a significant number of them had been soldiers, and so could organize and take up arms at any time. Furthermore, he had spent a large sum of money in his desire to secure as many laborers as he could, and had no cash in hand. Knowing his master’s situation, the overseer solved the problem in the same way they always had. He raised the price of food at the hacienda store and cut the wages that had been promised. The Koreans had at first been unaware of this and were obedient, but after about ten days they began to grow enraged at the overseer’s unjust actions. “Does he want us to work on empty stomachs? At this rate, we’ll become ghosts of the Yucatán.”

  The soldiers followed their training and first scouted out the hacienda’s forces. There were five guards who carried guns and rode horses. Beneath the hacendado was an overseer who carried a gun, and there were a few other men at the store and the factory, but they were unarmed and would only look on or flee if there was a conflict. Ultimately, the problem was the hacendado and the six armed men. At these odds, it was a risk worth taking. As long as the police or army did not come. The men of Chenché hacienda resolved to strike.

  The next day the clamorous bell rang, but the men did not climb into the carriage going out to the fields. Instead, they met at Jo Jangyun’s house and raised their morale, banging on pot lids like gongs. At first the women stayed in their pajas, but one by one they joined the men and shouted with them. It was a sight that would have been unthinkable in Korea, but in the Yucatán it seemed only natural. Before they knew it, the Confucian distinction between men and women had disappeared. Someone shouted, “Let’s go to the hacendado’s place!” Their morale high, they all ran toward the landowner’s house. The clamor gradually grew louder. An armed guard with a rifle rode in and loitered nearby, and a fisherman got ready to throw a rock at him. The Korean soldiers restrained him. The armed guard turned his horse around and fled the area. When they arrived at the hacendado’s house, the immigrants dropped to the ground and started shouting. None of them knew Spanish, so they were unable to properly convey their demands. The hacendado, Don Carlos Menem, showed himself on the second-story balcony, wearing a dazzling white shirt. He looked down on the Koreans with indifference and called his paymaster. “Where is their interpreter?” “I think he is at Yazche hacienda.” The hacendado scrawled something on a piece of paper. “Send a telegram and have him sent here.”

  The sun had already risen halfway in the sky. May in the Yucatán was the hottest, driest, and cruelest month. Yet the strikers sat in their places and endured the waiting. When Gwon Yongjun arrived, their faces brightened. Finally someone who could speak for them. The interpreter got down from the carriage looking tired, and he listened to what Jo Jangyun and Kim Seokcheol had to say. Their demands were simple: Lower the cost of food. Don't whip us; we are not cows or horses. And supply us with corn. All sorts of demands came pouring out, but ultimately they were narrowed down to two: Treat us like human beings. And the hacendado should bear the burden for such staples as corn and tortillas. As they listed this demand and that, Gwon Yongjun's mind was elsewhere. Jo Jangyun and Kim Seokcheol, these men are the problem. They will without a doubt cause a problem again. Now he took the hacendado's side and asked a question that he then answered. "Do you know what the problem with Koreans is? They are lazy and unskilled, yet all they do is complain. Look." He looked around Chenché hacienda. "The surroundings here are much better than at the other haciendas, aren't they? The walls are brick and the roads are clean and orderly. So what is the problem?" The ignorant fools, trusting in their own strength and running riot. He was ashamed that he belonged to the same race as them. They were all dressed in filthy clothes and their heads swarmed with lice. There were even a few fellows who hadn't cut off their topknots.

  Gwon Yongjun went with their representatives to meet the hacendado. Don Carlos Menem came out to the entrance of his house to greet Gwon Yongjun, Jo Jangyun, and the others. Then he brought them into his home. As soon as they were inside the front door, they were greeted by a garden filled with all sorts of trees and flowers. A small rainbow glistened in the streams of water that gushed out of a fountain. Though they had merely passed through a single gate, the sunlight felt completely different. Outside, it seemed as if it would burn the flesh off of a man, but the light that fell on the fountain and trees was warm and gave a feeling of opulence. Although it had not been his original intention, inviting the representatives of the strikers into his home was a very successful move. Jo Jangyun and the others, who had never before set foot in a Spanish-style building, were overwhelmed by the grandeur of the place. Built in the Latin American architectural style, the building was surrounded by a high wall that prevented anyone on the outside from looking in. Within the wall, colonnades and rooms faced each other across a pleasant square garden. Continuing past the colonnades, one came to an arch, and through that was a separate building. Thus the houses of Latin America were far bigger on the inside than they appeared to be from the outside.

  Menem sat down in a mahogany chair in a colonnade and put a Cuban Monte Cristo cigar into his mouth. “Well, what are their demands
?” Gwon Yongjun conveyed their demands. Menem lit the cigar, took one puff, and spouted the smoke into the air. The smoke dispersed in an instant. “Is that all?” He began to scribble something on a piece of paper, as if he had forgotten about those before him. It was a scrawl that could not even be called letters. After some time he folded the piece of paper and stood up. “I spent a lot of money to bring you here,” he said, “but I do not want to be called a stingy master.” The overseer who stood next to Menem whispered something in his ear. Menem grimaced and shook his head. “There is no need for that. We will give you corn and tortillas for free. In return, those who refuse to work, and those who break their contract and flee, causing me loss, will be punished. What do you say?”

  Jo Jangyun and his comrades listened to Gwon Yongjun and could not believe their ears. Just getting the corn for free would make life a lot easier. If that was the case, there was no real need to lower the prices of other goods. Menem opened the door of a birdcage and poured water into a small Chinese porcelain dish. The parrot inside clucked in greeting to its owner. Jo Jangyun agreed. He promised that they would go immediately to the fields. When they had gone, Menem called the overseer and instructed him to distribute food once a week. The overseer quietly protested that he was being far too charitable. Menem relit his cigar, which had gone out. “We must increase output. And teaching them a lesson once will be enough. After all, we have to live together for the next four years.”

  Menem’s father had been a vagabond from the Basque country. He spent his youth wandering around, taking up with a number of women along the way, and he became an officer in the French army under the rule of Napoleon III.