The Court Dancer

by Kyung-Sook Shin

  —A feeling of joy passed through Jeanne. She had taken her first step in a new direction.

  Her voice was shaky at first, but she soon found her normal tone. The murmuring crowd settled down into an underwater silence. They seemed taken aback at how a dark-eyed woman from the unknown land of Korea was reading aloud, fluently, from a novel written in French.

  —Jeanne was liberated. She found stability and felt happy. It was the kind of happiness she had never experienced before. She felt a new stirring in both her mind and body. She realized she had become a mother.

  Jin slid into total concentration upon the text.

  —She wanted to see how the baby was doing. The baby was early, so early there was no hair or fingernails. Whenever the baby squirmed like a larva, opened his mouth to cry, wrinkled his face into a frown, and when she touched his tiny, premature body, Jeanne was swept up in an irresistible joy. She was coming back to life after having been destroyed by Julien’s betrayal. She had fought through despair, and now accepted this love that was more precious than anything else in the world.

  Jin’s calm voice began to waver. As it did, Maupassant slowly opened his eyes and turned to look at Jin.

  The slight tremor in Jin’s voice made the audience listen all the more attentively to her.

  The voice, clear as dew, seemed to reprimand the men in the story, the men who had treated the woman like a possession, repeatedly betraying her trust as if it meant nothing to them. The voice also seemed to console Jeanne as she grasped at her love for the baby and tried to overcome the wounds given to her by her husband and other children.

  Jin finished, and someone began to clap. The applause spread within the room like concentric circles upon a watery surface. Maupassant applauded the longest. He came up to Jin, who had stood up by the desk, to embrace her.

  —It was as if you had written it yourself, Madame!

  Jin gave her seat to him and was making as if to return to Victor when she decided to slip out of the reading room instead. She could hear Maupassant resume the reading. She walked over to the store with the display of lace across from the reading room, trying to hold back the tears that threatened to spill. She could just about make out a case of colorful perfume bottles next to the lace display. Jin looked back at the gallery next to the reading room. There were fewer people there, as almost everyone was attending the reading. Jin walked to it quickly. Its golden dome ceiling was supported by pillars with oil paintings hung on the walls between them. There was a large bronze statue of Aristide Boucicaut, the founder of Bon Marché. As if it were a statue of the savior Himself, Jin quickly walked toward it and sought sanctuary behind it. When she was sure no one was watching her, she sank to the floor. The tears she had been suppressing sprang forth. “Calm down.” Jin put a hand to her heart. “Calm down, please.” She whispered to herself in Korean, but it was no use.

  What had happened to her? Her heart had begun to swell when she read the part where Jeanne gazed upon the newborn. Jin could feel Jeanne’s hope and excitement, and even the wriggling fingers of the baby that had been born despite all the despair and sadness. The letters had wavered through her tears, and her voice could hardly keep still. When she had looked up from her reading, her wet eyes had met with Maupassant’s. A tear had fallen from her eye then. And so, Maupassant had seen the tear that Victor hadn’t.

  —Why do you sit here, crying?

  Jin was so surprised she forgot she was crying and looked up. Hong Jong-u’s wide eyes were looking into her tearful ones.

  —Did you come all this distance just to hide away and cry?

  Jin’s lips trembled.

  —I see you are human after all. I was beginning to think that Lady Attendant Suh was devoid of emotion.

  Jin narrowed her eyes at him.

  —What is it? Does the title offend you, my lady? Should I call you Madame instead?

  Call me whatever you please, Jin seemed to say as she turned away from him. At least, she thought, his mocking had helped her calm her tears.

  —Wipe your tears with this. Surely Madame must never be seen losing her composure.

  Hong took out a handkerchief and held it out to her. It was a French handkerchief, incongruous with his Korean robes.

  —That won’t be necessary. I shall not use it.

  —You wish to show your weakened, teary self?

  He was reprimanding her. Jin took the handkerchief from his hand. Doing as he said seemed the fastest way to get rid of him. She gently patted away the tears on her face as Hong watched.

  —What made you so emotional?

  —I know how the novel ends.

  She couldn’t say to him that Jeanne’s fiery love for her baby had made her think of her own mother whom she could not remember. She could not, moreover, tell him of the baby she had lost a year before they had left Korea. She could hardly tell him that her tears were not for anyone but herself.

  —You have read it?

  —Yes.

  —How does it end?

  —Find out for yourself.

  Jin handed him his handkerchief and said no more. The novel ended with Rosalie, who had had a baby with Jeanne’s husband Julien, gazing at the face of the newborn Jeanne’s wayward son Paul had abandoned, and saying, “Life is not better or worse than one expects.” Jin briefly wondered if Hong Jong-u, who spoke and acted as if the world were as clear as black and white, would understand such an ending. The thought made her smile bitterly, for she realized she had been harsh in judging him.

  —I have a favor to ask.

  Hong’s tone had turned from mocking to polite. There is a sense of release after burst tears. Jin’s eyes, clearer for having cried, took in Hong’s sincere expression.

  —I am translating a Korean book into French.

  —Which book?

  —The Story of Chunhyang.

  —You plan to publish it in French?

  —That is so.

  Jin saw Hong in a favorable light for the first time. When she was with her books, she sometimes thought of the Queen, who thought nothing of staying up all night reading. In Korea, she had once translated a part of Les Misérables with the thought of giving the Queen a taste of French literature. Despite this, she had never thought of translating a Korean book into French.

  —The quickest way to make Korea known is to translate Korean stories into foreign languages. These people know of the Chinese and Japanese, but they do not know of us. They don’t even know that we have our own language. Is that not frustrating? I’m being helped by Boex and Régamey, to whom you’ve been introduced, but there is only so much they can do.

  Jin thought of Victor. What would he say if she told him that she wanted to help Hong Jong-u? She had the impression that Victor did not have a good opinion of him.

  —What can I do to help?

  —Many things. Writing is so different from speaking, but I can hardly even speak it. Every one of my sentences needs polishing . . . Will you help?

  —. . .

  —For Korea.

  Was the reading over? Jin stepped away from the Boucicaut statue and looked toward the reading room. People were crowding out of it.

  She felt tense, as if burdened with a secret.

  —They must be looking for us. We shall speak later.

  Hong began to stride away, his distinct Korean robes fluttering about him. Victor spotted Jin following Hong as the two approached him together.

  —What happened?

  —I had a request for Madame.

  Hong said this with a polite bow of his head. Victor gave Jin a quizzical look. Before she could speak, Madame Planchard and Maupassant walked up toward them.

  —Madame, today’s reading was a great success. Do take in the sculptures and paintings in the gallery. A reception is being held on the first floor outside.

  Jin saw Boex and Régamey coming up to Hong. They must have looked for him when he had disappeared. Publishing a Korean book in France? She hadn’t had time to appreciat
e Hong’s plan at first, but now she thought of how wonderful it would be if it came to fruition. Jin, standing next to Victor, examined Hong’s companions. The three acted as if they were old acquaintances. How had they even befriended each other? Jin was impressed by the daring of Hong to wear his Korean clothes in Paris, and his natural ability to make friends. He was now engaged in conversation with Planchard. Jin slipped her arm around Victor’s. He was still looking at her questioningly as if wondering why she had been with Hong a moment ago. Jin whispered in his ear.

  —I’ll tell you when we get home.

  Planchard was explaining how it had been Boucicaut’s idea to have an art gallery inside Bon Marché. His wife caught Jin’s eye and smiled. The look she had given Jin when they’d first met, regarding her as if she were some spectacle, was replaced with a friendly glint. Jin smiled back at Madame Planchard. People milled about the paintings and sculptures. The artwork was apparently for sale, as an old woman and a gallery attendant were conversing over the price of a sculpture in front of them. Victor slipped away from Jin and approached Madame Planchard. Jin turned to look at the statue of Boucicaut behind which she’d been hiding moments ago. Hong stood before it, gesticulating as he argued about something with Régamey and Boex.

  —Madame!

  Jin turned to see Maupassant standing before her. Jin smiled, happy to see him. Then she remembered that he had seen her shed a tear after her reading. She blushed.

  —Your reading was extraordinary. They say you are from Korea. It makes me wonder what this country is like. I never would’ve expected someone so beautiful from such a foreign land to be reading aloud from my work.

  —It shall be an unforgettable experience for me as well. You write so knowingly of a woman’s soul that I was surprised to discover you were a man.

  —Ah, tonight was not the first time you read my work?

  —The women of Paris cannot get enough of your books. And I happen to be a woman of Paris myself.

  Maupassant was listening to the flow of French issuing forth like music from the Eastern woman’s lips. The mention of her having read his work delighted him.

  —Must you stay here with the hypocrites? Or would you step out with me?

  Maupassant’s spectacled eyes lingered on Jin’s dark ones. His eyes were shadowed from lack of sleep. Hypocrites. Victor, who had finished speaking with Madame Planchard, entered into the awkward silence that ensued. Maupassant, who was reclusive by nature, spoke to Victor in a low voice.

  —I wish to hear the stories of the East from your wife. Will you allow me to see her again?

  —That would be an honor, but it is entirely up to her.

  Victor seemed to be urging her to answer, whatever that answer may be. He looked at her expectantly.

  —I hear you live on the Rue de Babylone, Madame. That is close to where I live. I take a walk around five every afternoon. Perhaps we can walk together . . .

  From a distance, Hong Jong-u’s laughter burst through the sound of Maupassant’s voice. Jin involuntarily glanced in his direction. He seemed to have been introduced to Madame Planchard and was animatedly telling her about Korea as Régamey supplied additional explanations.

  —Is there a place you wish to explore?

  —Perhaps the morgue.

  Victor, more surprised than Maupassant, gently gripped Jin’s arm. Jin had been astounded by the Notre Dame on the Île de la Cité when Victor had taken her there. She could not believe that human hands had wrought such beautifully detailed and sublime construction. To Jin, whose very arms trembled from awe, Victor had calmly explained that the construction of the western towers had taken a century after the foundation stones were laid and that the very tower before them had watched over the history of France. A century. It made her feel so awed as to be bereft. That tower will stand there long after I am gone. She could not take her eyes off of the spires that pierced the sky, or the countless faces of kings looking down at the people below. Then she saw the statue of the Holy Mother standing at the main entrance of the cathedral, surrounded by the twelve apostles. A sudden memory of Bishop Blanc brought tears to her eyes. She wondered if she should seek confirmation into the faith. Inside the cathedral, she stood for a long time underneath the stained-glass rose window, awash in its lights of blue and red and indigo. She felt her soul being absorbed by its beauty.

  —There are several morgues in Paris. Which one would you like to visit?

  —The one behind the Notre Dame . . .

  They had left the cathedral, Jin still overwhelmed by what she had just experienced, when she saw a long line of people on the street. They were visitors to the morgue who were waiting to gawk at the bodies on display. Morgues had become popular entertainment in Paris. So many people would gather there on Sundays that newspapers occasionally wrote about it. Victor kept turning down Jin’s suggestions about visiting the morgue. He couldn’t understand why anyone would want to see the dead bodies of strangers.

  —But what about them?

  Jin pointed to the line of people, but Victor avoided her question. It only made the morgue as intriguing to her as the interior of the Notre Dame. She wanted to know why Parisians enjoyed looking at dead bodies so much.

  —The morgue it is.

  Victor frowned at the prospect. Jin didn’t know whether she should accept such an invitation from another man. She glanced at Victor, who didn’t seem happy with the idea, but could find no reason to refuse.

  —All right.

  Jin assented while looking at Victor’s face, not Maupassant’s.

  —Then I shall take your leave. Madame should also free herself from these disgusting people. I shall contact you through Monsieur Planchard.

  This wasn’t the kindly Maupassant who had watched over Jin’s reading. He seemed angry, as if he’d been insulted. He bowed politely, but only to Jin, and stalked out of the gallery.

  2

  Feather Pen and Blue Ink

  Your Majesty,

  What surprised me the most upon arriving in this country were the modes of transport. Of these, the train is the most astonishing. All of France is connected by rail. Parisians eat fresh vegetables and meat from all over the country and can go anywhere as swiftly as they please. Rail is what enables the wondrous lives of the people of this city.

  They say that steamships with screw propellers leaving Le Havre can arrive in New York City in ninety days. I could not help but marvel at the variety of modes of transport featured in a novel by Jules Verne titled Around the World in Eighty Days. There are twenty-three tramlines in Paris and each run on steam. In addition to the electric tram that runs in front of the Louvre, there are fifty-three coaches on these lines. The rich have more conveniences thanks to these new methods, but the poor suffer because of them. A few days ago, I saw a woman in rags scraping cheese by a wall on the street. They say that many poor laborers survive by scraping the cheese off packaging from places like Switzerland. One sees fewer chimney sweeps since the establishment of a new company that installs furnaces, but I saw one yesterday. He wore a black fur hat pressed down on his head and had covered his eyes with something like glass. I still remember their strange, otherworldly look.

  March 12, 1892

  Yi Jin

  There are nights when one wants to be awake alone.

  Jin gently moved Victor’s arm from her chest to the bed sheet. His thin snore had made her think he was asleep, but he slowly opened his eyes. Her movement also made Quasimodo, their white cat asleep on their nightstand, open his eyes. The cat had been a gift from the Minister of Foreign Affairs when his own Turkish Angora had kittens. When Vincent had gone to the minister’s residence to collect it, the kitten had been small enough to fit in Vincent’s palm like a ball of yarn. Vincent named it after the character in Victor Hugo’s The Hunchback of Notre Dame. Saying Hugo wouldn’t mind, as the author had died three years ago, Vincent would call for the cat in his boyish voice, “Quasimodo!”

  Victor drowsily moved his arm u
nderneath her head and kissed her cheek.

  —What is it? Do you want to sleep on the floor again?

  Jin still had trouble falling asleep in a bed despite becoming acquainted with them since her days at the French legation. In Korea, she would silently leave Victor behind in their bedroom and sleep on a futon in the study. But in this house, all that awaited her across the hall was another unheated floor, some chairs, and a sofa. She ended up lying down on the floor next to the bed once Victor fell asleep. Usually, she would return to the bed at dawn before Victor woke, but sometimes he would wake before her.

  It dismayed Victor to see her like this.

  —French floors are not heated like in Korea. You will become ill.

  —I shall try to adjust.

  Jin placed Victor’s other hand on her chest. She hadn’t been trying to sleep on the floor tonight. She had wanted to go to their salon downstairs and take one more look at Hong Jong-u’s manuscript. She was beginning to enjoy translating Korean into French. Victor’s hand stroked her cheek, neck, and breasts, then moved down to the small of her back and pulled her toward him. Jin stretched out a hand and gave Quasimodo’s silky back a stroke.

  —Jin!

  Victor’s pronunciation of her name had improved greatly since their days of traveling out of Korea.

  —We shall have much time to ourselves over the next four days.

  —It’s been a while since you’ve had some rest.

  Victor had just returned after two days in Marseilles on a work trip. He was supposed to stay there for four days, but he had finished early.

  Victor loosened his hold on her waist.

  —Do you remember?

  —. . .

  —What you said to me on our first night in Korea.

  Our first night in Korea. Jin could feel heat gathering underneath her ears. Their first night had turned into four nights. Victor had not shown up at the legation offices during that time. To Guérin and Paul Choi’s consternation, Victor had simply said he was ill and had spent that time in Jin’s room.

  —You asked me to take you to the Louvre.