This Burns My Heart

by Samuel Park

  Soo-Ja hoped that upon seeing him again, she’d simply feel the expected warmth and surprise you feel when reunited with an old friend—for that’s what he was in the eyes of the world, a distant friend, the kind you run into at weddings and funerals, once every decade or so. But instead, she felt a piercing sensation in her heart, and her breathing became shallow. Soo-Ja could not run to him—if she couldn’t do that before, why did she think she could do that now?

  “This can’t be the place where we’re staying! Was there some kind of mix-up?” Eun-Mee asked Yul, ignoring Soo-Ja. “Whoever suggested this hotel must’ve been pulling a prank.”

  Yul bowed to Soo-Ja, and she bowed back to him. Then he asked after her health and the health of her daughter. His wife, watching this, suddenly made a big show of making a realization. She started pointing at Soo-Ja.

  “Ah! Your husband must be a friend of my husband’s,” Eun-Mee said, suddenly bowing warmly and smiling, full of affection. She then turned to Yul. “You want to help your friend’s business, that’s why we’re staying here! Why didn’t you tell me that’s why you picked this place?”

  Yul did not reply, and Soo-Ja realized it was because he did not want to lie.

  “Our husbands were in a youth group together, back in the sixties,” Soo-Ja cut in.

  Eun-Mee smiled at Soo-Ja, seemingly satisfied. “Oh, I see! I was wondering why we were here. I thought it was a prank. No offense, but we’re used to better accommodations. But now I understand! My husband is a friend, and you will give us a good rate. In fact, friends being friends, it wouldn’t be out of place to let us stay here for free!”

  Soo-Ja wasn’t entirely unused to this—the richer the guest, the more they expected, and for the least amount of money. Yul stepped forward. “Of course we’re paying full price. Just because we know each other, it doesn’t mean we can take advantage.”

  “Oh, honey, let’s leave it up to her, shall we?” cooed Eun-Mee.

  Soo-Ja pulled out her guest book and her calculator, seemingly to check them in, but more to hide her nervousness. “For how many nights?” she asked, not looking up.

  Soo-Ja had asked Yul this, but it was Eun-Mee who answered. “We don’t know. At least two weeks, but it may be more.”

  Soo-Ja looked at her, confused. Yul smiled at his wife weakly, then turned to Soo-Ja. “We’ll be here for two nights.” Soo-Ja realized at that moment that Yul did not really want to stay at the hotel. She couldn’t decide what had led to them showing up there, but it was clear that Yul was trying to figure out how to shorten the stay without making it seem like he was hiding something.

  “Two nights? It’ll be much longer than that, for sure! At least until the house is ready.” Eun-Mee turned to face Soo-Ja. “Do you know about this? We’ve just bought a big house here in Seoul. I’ve been asking Yul for years to get us out of that fish sinkhole of Pusan and he finally relented. Seoul is so much more my style, and the house is beautiful. As soon as we’re done building and painting the last bathroom, we can move in. It’s a modern bathroom. With a toilet. And tiles on the floor.”

  Soo-Ja tried to hide all of the emotions that hit her at once. Time had not dulled her feelings for Yul—she still loved him, and felt both petrified and elated that he was there to stay. And not just stay in the city, but in her own hotel! For a moment she didn’t care that he was there with his wife, or that her own husband waited for her inside. Of course they wouldn’t do anything senseless. There would be no action, no doing; but he’d be there. He’d be, and that could be the world. Sometimes it is nice just to see the face of the beloved—the excruciating pain comes later. And she could see him, maybe every day. Fine, she thought, as if she had made a pact with the devil and came out on the losing end—here’s love, but it’s attached to a string and a hook, and if you try to grab it, I will yank it back again and again.

  “Listen, since we’re all friends, do you mind if I look around and pick a room that I like?” Eun-Mee seemed to completely forget how unsuitable she had found the place. The fact that she might essentially be staying for free seemed to mitigate all worries.

  “Yes. Miss Hong will show you which rooms are empty, as well as the one I originally planned to give you,” said Soo-Ja.

  Miss Hong, the chambermaid, had been drawn to the front by the noise, and was standing just beyond the front area. She stepped forward, bowed to Eun-Mee, and signaled for her to follow her, which Eun-Mee did, smiling happily, as if she had just won the hotel in a contest and wanted to check its contents.

  When Eun-Mee was gone, Soo-Ja and Yul did not speak at first, though she could only pretend for so long to be engrossed by her calculations, and he clearly had something stuck in his throat.

  “She—Eun-Mee—she found a note on my desk with your name and the phone number of the hotel. She became very suspicious, seeing a woman’s name, and I didn’t have a lie ready, so I told her it was just the hotel where we’d be staying in Seoul. I don’t know if she called because she didn’t believe me—”

  “Why did you have my phone number on your desk?” Soo-Ja asked, cutting him off, aware that Eun-Mee could be back any second.

  Yul did not answer her question.

  “Soo-Ja, I promise I will check out of the hotel as soon as I can. I know that this is awkward.”

  Yul looked right into her eyes, and his hand suddenly came up. Soo-Ja thought he was going to touch her face, but his hand merely stopped in midair, as if lost. It finally came down, to rest on the counter.

  “No, stay,” said Soo-Ja. “I’d like for you two to stay here. But you still haven’t answered my question. Why did you have my phone number?”

  Yul was looking straight into her eyes when he finally spoke, and it was then that she knew. “Because I’m still in love with you.”

  “I don’t see why he thinks he can stay at the hotel for cheap. I hardly know the fella,” said Min, lying next to Soo-Ja on the laminated floor. They’d often talk before falling asleep, with Min bringing up some trivial event from earlier in the day: a fish seller who had mistakenly charged him twice for a pound of abalone; an acquaintance with a cold who sneezed into his hand and then offered it to shake.

  “He didn’t ask for it. His wife did,” said Soo-Ja, her hands resting on top of her stomach, eyes looking up at the ceiling.

  Min ignored her and continued. “When we were in the student group together, he hardly ever spoke to me. And now he thinks we’re friends? He’ll be lucky if I nod to him while he’s here.”

  “What was—what was he like when you met him?” asked Soo-Ja, trying to hide the interest in her voice. It was a luxury, to be able to talk about Yul. Nobody in her life knew him, or knew of his importance to her.

  “I never actually met him. We just spoke on the phone a couple of times,” said Min. “You probably spent more time with him than I did. You remember him from back then, don’t you?”

  “Barely. It was a long time ago.”

  “Didn’t you two go together to that woman’s house—the woman whose son got killed? That must’ve been difficult.”

  “Not really. We didn’t know at that point that the boy had died.”

  “Yes. So much tragedy out there in the world. But we’re the lucky ones, aren’t we?”

  “I suppose so. Good night, Min.”

  “Good night. And make sure Yul doesn’t check out without leaving a sizable tip.”

  Eun-Mee’s things arrived in the morning, and then continued to arrive throughout the day. Eun-Mee had so much luggage that some of it rested in the hallway outside her door. For much of the day, Eun-Mee sat there on the floor, wearing a shower cap and a robe, looking for items, smiling at the occasional guest. She unpacked what looked like dozens of coats and dresses, of all colors and for all seasons, arranging them in the room like the limbs of an adored child. But what Soo-Ja noticed most were her shoes, some of which looked imported from Italy.

  Ever since she had started saving money for the land, Soo-Ja had stopped buying
things for herself; she got used to wearing her shoes until they fell apart. Around Eun-Mee, she could not help trying to hide her feet under her dress. Shoes matter, she remembered her father telling her when she was little. What you stand on is what you are.

  Yul stayed in a separate room, and while Soo-Ja found this odd, she thought it best not to comment on it. Soon, Soo-Ja found herself drawn to his end of the hallway almost magnetically, and if she could have seen her thoughts through some kind of magical X-ray, she might have been alarmed by the buzzing lines and ricocheting sparks leading directly to his door.

  Yul’s character hadn’t changed much over the years; Soo-Ja had realized this during their check-in, the day before. In front of Eun-Mee, and much to her smiling approval, Yul had signed a guest bill featuring a substantial discount. But when she hadn’t been looking, Yul added 1,000 won to the sum, which was more than Soo-Ja normally charged for the rooms.

  Soo-Ja kept the extra money in an envelope and set it aside. She planned on returning it to Yul on the day he checked out. Of course, she couldn’t simply hand it back to him, or he’d refuse; she figured she might need to perform a delicate sleight of hand, using distraction and trickery to slip it into the pocket of his trenchcoat on his way out.

  Occasionally, guests called the front desk, and Soo-Ja sent Miss Hong to attend to them. But when she heard a buzz come from room 311, Soo-Ja decided to go herself. She took a deep breath and dried her damp hands by pressing them against the front of her dress. The door to the room had been left ajar, and Soo-Ja came in, her steps tentative. Yul stood with his back to her, and he did not meet her eyes right away. The room, like all the others, had no windows, only wallpaper featuring brown half squares meant to suggest traditional wood lattices. A small straw basket, weighed down by cotton blankets, sat against a corner; it was the only piece of furniture there.

  “Did you call for me? Everything all right with the room?” asked Soo-Ja.

  “Yes. I like the room very much. I wasn’t sure if I should ask you here or not. It seems a little demeaning to ring a buzzer, but I couldn’t think of another way to be alone with you.”

  “Don’t worry. You’re not only a guest, but a friend, too. I want you to enjoy your stay.”

  “I’ve been thinking about what I said to you yesterday. I didn’t mean for it to come out quite that way. It’s just that—the last ten years have been difficult, and I don’t want the next ten to be like that.”

  Soo-Ja heard the sound of voices vibrating through the walls from the room next door. For a moment, she worried that others might hear them, too, and she found herself walking farther into the room, standing closer to Yul. “Are you ill?”

  Yul let out a rueful laugh. “Soo-Ja, there’s nobody listening in. You’re with me now. And I know you.” Yul walked past her, to the door, and closed it, bringing silence into the room. He then returned and stood in front of Soo-Ja. “Do you remember the first time we met? The long ride in the bus? Do you remember when I came to your art class, and we drew those paintings together? Why don’t you talk to me the way you talked to me back then?”

  “That might as well have happened to somebody else. It’s not my life now.” Soo-Ja produced a stained dishrag from her pocket, the way a gentleman might produce a silk handkerchief. “Look at this. Can you imagine me scrubbing floors back then? My body seems to have a lower center of gravity now.”

  To her surprise, Yul took the rag from her hands and pressed it against the back of his own hand. The gesture felt warm, tender, and she imagined how gently he’d hold her, if only he could. “Why do you think Fate keeps putting us in the same room?”

  “It’s not Fate. I came to you in Pusan, and now you’ve come to me. It’s definitely not Fate. It’s will.”

  “I’ve never given up hope that I could be with you.”

  “I love my husband,” said Soo-Ja, reaching back for the rag. Yul did not return it to her immediately, and Soo-Ja had to pry it out of his hands using her own weight. In that second, their bodies felt connected, as the pressure from one pulled against the other.

  “You’re lying. You only stay with him because you’re afraid he’ll take Hana away from you. I know the divorce laws.”

  Soo-Ja avoided his eyes, pulling harder for the rag. “Things around here are not perfect, but I’m trying to make do with them,” said Soo-Ja. She had been getting better and better over the years at keeping up a stoic facade.

  “I’ll leave you alone, but only if you say to me that you no longer have feelings for me.”

  “I no longer have feelings for you,” said Soo-Ja, and she immediately felt the tears welling in her eyes. Right at that moment, Yul’s fingers finally let go of the rag, and Soo-Ja found herself wrapping the harsh cotton against her knuckles. Why had he let go of it, and of her? Why had he not held on to it in the palm of his hand?

  “Does this mean you forgot about me? I remember the last time we saw each other. I could swear, from the look on your face that night, you would have run away with me.”

  “And why didn’t we, then?” asked Soo-Ja, and she felt her yearning break through the surface and gasp for air. “All right, you want me to tell you if I still—love—you? Is that the word you think I’m so afraid of saying? Love? I could do that. I could tell you that. But what does it do? Nothing except make us feel bad. It doesn’t change anything.”

  “Is that how you feel?”

  “I’m a married woman. I’m not free to tell you how I feel.” It was true, but only because she feared that once she started, she would not be able to stop. “Your wife is just across the hall.”

  “I know. But I thought I’d forget you with time, and I haven’t. When I was younger, I thought there was only room for one person at a time in your heart. And each time you met someone new, you evicted the one who was there before. But now I realize that there are multiple rooms, and your old love doesn’t leave. It sits there, waiting.”

  It occurred to Soo-Ja that if she gave him permission, he’d kiss her right then and there. But she realized that all along, what she really wanted wasn’t to have him in the present—how could she, married woman that she was, married man that he was—but to rewrite the past, have him go back in time and create a version that allowed them to kiss. To be able to kiss him did not seem to take much—a step forward, the angling of her face. But, in fact, it required rearranging the molecules of every interaction they had ever had, from the very first day that they met.

  “Forget me, Yul. As long as you’re here, you’re just a guest.”

  How could I have chosen Min over you? Soo-Ja asked herself, facing the past in the cold light of the present. I made a terrible mistake.

  When Soo-Ja could no longer remain steady, she left the room. As she emerged, she was thankful that no one was out in the hallway. Otherwise, they would have seen her burst into tears, her breathing sharp and difficult, and they might have wondered what had just happened to her.

  chapter twelve

  Over the next few days, Soo-Ja began to pick up more and more details about Eun-Mee. She learned that in the course of her life, Eun-Mee had had several brushes with fame. The first time, when Eun-Mee was ten years old, she had participated in the ribbon-cutting ceremony for the reopening of the Namdaemun Market after the war. The dress she wore—a pink velvet one-piece with puffed-up shoulders and ruffled hemming—became something of a sensation once it appeared on a photo on the front page of the Chosun Ilbo, with little girls from as far away as Pyongyang copying that style.

  Happy with the publicity, the organizers of the market offered Eun-Mee a gift—a glass duck. Eun-Mee, however, turned it down and asked for something else instead. They bated their breaths, hoping it wouldn’t be cash. Instead, Eun-Mee asked that she be given free rein to come in and out of every single one of the shops and stalls in the market, and to let it be known that she was “Queen of Namdaemun Market.” For a year, after school, Eun-Mee wandered around the maze of open-air alleyways. She’d go into stor
es to chat with the owners and play board games, knowing they could not kick her out. However busy they were, they had to stop what they were doing and entertain her.

  In high school, Soo-Ja also learned, Eun-Mee had participated in several beauty-pageant contests and had tried out for Miss Seoul. At one of the early rounds, during a photo session—a rather modest one, Eun-Mee complained, taken with an old, antiquated Brownie box camera—one of the contestants had accidentally tripped and stepped forward in one of the shots. When the photo was later released, Eun-Mee had expected the woman to look disastrous and clumsy, but instead she had managed to look beautiful and to stand out, being a foot or so in front of the group.

  At the next photo shoot, for a promotion connected to the renaming of the Shinsegae Department Store, Eun-Mee decided to “accidentally” trip and step forward in every one of the shots. When Eun-Mee saw that the photographer’s flash was about to come on, she’d propel herself forward, as if she were so excited, she couldn’t just wait for the film to come capture her—she had to meet it halfway.

  In the final competition, Eun-Mee came in seventh. The disappointment over that ranking, however, did not last very long. After all, Eun-Mee was the kind of person who’d win even when she lost, and what she had won was something precious indeed—the interest of her future husband.

  Because Eun-Mee spent so much time in the hallway, it was probably no accident that she spotted Soo-Ja one evening as Soo-Ja came out of her room wearing a dress and makeup. Soo-Ja and Hana were going to a gye meeting. When Eun-Mee found out about this, she invited herself to come along.

  “I love gye! I was wondering how I could join one in Seoul, and I suppose I have the answer right in front of my face!” said Eun-Mee.