This Burns My Heart Page 0,15

of him suddenly rose, his back blocking Yul’s way. He wore a police officer’s uniform.

Soo-Ja gasped, then put her hand to her mouth, to hide her reaction. The seconds seemed to stretch into infinity, as the policeman stood in front of Yul, with his back to him, and Yul remained still. Yul did not hint at this as cause for panic, and did not make a sound, but Soo-Ja noticed that he’d discreetly placed his hand near his belt. She wondered if he had a gun; if he’d need to use it. It felt like a century, when only two, three seconds passed. Finally, the officer, who took a moment to gather his things from his seat, simply walked on, and left the bus, as if it were nothing more than just his own stop.

Soo-Ja let out a sigh of relief, and she could see Yul’s body release its tautness, too.

Yul started walking out. By the time he emerged, Soo-Ja had almost caught up with him, and the two of them found themselves out on the street at the same time. They did not speak, but when Soo-Ja glanced at the sign in front of the bus, she realized it had been heading not to Dalseo-gu but to Dalseong-gu; he’d made them take the long way to their destination, and made her talk the entire time while he studied her eyes and her voice. Why? It didn’t matter, thought Soo-Ja. By now he trusted her, but more than that, she trusted him, too.

Soo-Ja and Yul walked along a long row of shacks, all with the same thatched roofs and walls made out of stones of uneven sizes stacked together. They were perched precariously atop a hill, on a narrow, winding path inaccessible to cars, and only wide enough for oxcarts. Soo-Ja noticed that Yul let her set the pace, and he would slow when she did. Near the top of the hill, a man with a broken wheelbarrow attempted to pass them, and Yul subtly placed his body between Soo-Ja and the stranger. Soo-Ja glanced at him, trying to acknowledge the gesture, but he looked straight ahead as if he’d done nothing.

When they finally reached the address they had, Soo-Ja and Yul found a woman squatting by the straw door, pounding on clothes with rods, the way Soo-Ja had seen her servants do a thousand times. She wore a gray rolled-up long-sleeved shirt and a charcoal knee-length skirt; her hands were deep in dirty water, which ran in an uneven line from the tin washboard to the gutter.

“Mrs. Yang, hello. I’m Soo-Ja Choi,” said Soo-Ja, bowing to the woman.

Chu-Sook’s mother bowed back gravely. Hers was a moon-shaped face with no edges. Her skin was darkly tanned, her short black hair thick and wiry.

Soo-Ja tried to smile at her, then pointed at Yul. “And this is Mr. Kim.”

Yul bowed to her.

Chu-Sook’s mother began to bow back, placing both hands behind her, and remaining with her head down for a few seconds. In Soo-Ja’s eyes, the gesture seemed excessively submissive. She herself never chose to bow very long, making it almost a nod, a quick acknowledgment. When Chu-Sook’s mother finished her bow, Soo-Ja noticed a change on the woman’s face. She had finally gotten a good look at Yul and seemed to recognize him. Soo-Ja watched as the expression in her eyes changed from interest to fear.

“No, I cannot speak to him,” said Chu-Sook’s mother, shaking her head. “And for anyone who’s watching, you can see that I’m not speaking to him!”

“Mrs. Yang, it’s all right. He’s a friend,” said Soo-Ja, holding her arm.

But Chu-Sook’s mother could not stop waving her hands in front of her face, looking around for spies—real or imaginary.

Soo-Ja glanced at Yul, who seemed to stay calm. She wondered if he realized how much of a target he had become for the police. But Yul did not seem concerned about that. He came closer to Soo-Ja, and she drew her body in as well—theirs was an easy, unforced intimacy—closing the circle so they could confer quietly with each other.

“They must have shown her my picture,” Yul whispered. “Told her not to speak to me.” Soo-Ja nodded in agreement. She guessed that, if something had happened to the boy, the police and the government must have understood at once the importance of the situation. “If we can show they have the blood of a twelve-year-old on their hands, it’ll turn the tide of the demonstrations. It’ll prove the brutality