in his prime,” says Mrs. Youngja. “I saw him helping the herbal medicine doctor move in enormous medicine cabinets the other day. Moon was just carrying them on his bare shoulders as if they were small sacks of rice!”
“I wonder if he would be able to match her Gangnam salary though,” Miho says gravely, not looking at me.
“Salary?” sputters Mrs. Sukhyang. “It’s not about the money.” She stops, posed. “It’s about what kind of man would appreciate pink hair!” she says triumphantly.
“You have to be practical, Ara,” says my mother, staring at me. “He would like to meet you while you are here.”
“I bet he would,” says Sujin darkly. “She’s ten years younger than his already young wife!”
“Why did she leave?” asks Miho.
“I never liked her,” says Mrs. Sukhyang emphatically. “When they first opened, she gave me a horrendous haircut that Moon had to fix afterward. And I think she was drunk.” No one else speaks.
“Just meet him once,” says my mother, pleading. “Just once. Is it too much for a mother to ask for? A chance at a normal life for her daughter? In Gangnam, people are not normal—they do not lead normal lives. Here, you would be cared for. It would be comfortable. But just one conversation—that is all I am asking.”
I close my eyes and take a breath. I can feel Sujin’s distressed, near-hysterical energy—as distractions go, this is proving extremely successful. For Sujin’s sake I close my eyes as if I am in pain, when actually, I think this is all hysterically funny. Mr. Moon! And the Moon baby!
“We will work on her, don’t worry,” says Miho in a reassuring voice. “You can be sure we’ll talk about it all night.”
* * *
—
I AM IN DESPAIR as we walk out of the kitchen, my mother having sent us to the basement to bring up some urns of white kimchi.
“Wow,” murmurs Miho behind me as we noiselessly pass the main hallway to the stairs. I do not know what she is so oohing about—it is just a very old house with very old Western furniture that doesn’t match the traditional Korean architecture at all. It’s not like one of those beautifully curated hanok guesthouses with mother-of-pearl inlaid furniture and embroidered silk screens.
In the basement there are rows and rows of urns. I head to the white kimchi corner and pick the smallest jar. To my left, Miho is opening one of the biggest jars, and the spicy, pungent aroma wafts up through the dim hall. “Smells amazing,” she says, while Sujin slaps her hand and slides the lid back on.
Why did you tell my mother you will try to persuade me? I write and show her.
“Why wouldn’t you see him?” says Miho.
“What are you saying, you crazy girl?” says Sujin.
“Look, not even counting the fact that it would make your elderly mom happy and shut her up by taking up ten minutes of your time, but why wouldn’t you go see what an alternate life is like?” Miho lifts the lid of another urn, and this time, she dips a finger in and licks it. She turns to look at me and shrugs.
“If I were you I would look at every single option and then see what is the best, and that way you will have more conviction about whatever you choose,” she says.
I shake my head. Perhaps that works for her, but I don’t need to go see Mr. Moon to know what my life would be like here. It does not even matter how nice he is, or whether he would make a good husband. To me it is about what is written in people’s eyes when they look at me here. It would just be another entry on the long list of the lowly life of the Big House servants’ daughter, mute and second wife. I would rather die alone in the middle of the city listening to Taein’s voice every day on my phone.
What makes me sad is that my mother thinks this is the best my life can be.