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Chapter Text

Last night I had a strange dream.

A month or two ago, I saw a magazine article that featured a photograph of a wonderful couple in the header. The magazine had been discarded by my mistress, Glam Choi. She had only commanded for me to get the magazine out of her sight, but I decided to read it with nothing more left to do in the desolate hotel room late at night. I had only gotten halfway through the article that began to describe the marvelous couple before I slowly felt the weariness possess my body like a ghost.

The dream that I had went as follows.

I had stood at the gate of a beautiful mansion that overlooked the sea from the top of a cliff. It seemed to me that the gate was locked, with not a soul at the entrance that could greet me. The night was velvety and fragile and warm, and all of a sudden I was under the impression that I was the only person in the world. A great loneliness had overcome me then, amplified by the dreamy state that I could only experience in a limbo between consciousness and hallucination. The feeling hadn't left even after the warm lights of the lattice windows had caught my forged eye and the smoke that had lifted from the cobblestone chimney brushed up against my nose.

I passed through the solid gate before me like a spirit and continued my solitary path down the drive which twisted and turned all the way until it ended short of a few feet to the edge of the cliff.

Like strange bodies, the branches of the strikingly green trees sighed in the tender summer breeze. The daffodils that meticulously covered every inch of space raised their heads toward the cliff, as if their faces had been outstretched towards the sun. Even though the wind blew stubbornly in the opposing direction, clawing and chipping and choking the flowers with whatever had been discarded into its current, they steadfastly remained facing the cliff.

And that was when I first laid my eyes on her.

Rika.

The woman who had blended in with nature so seamlessly, but also simultaneously shined brighter than the entire night sky had stood at the edge of the cliff surrounded by daffodils and tender cresses from heaven. She was beautiful, almost frighteningly so. The large, glittering moon poured down its light onto her sweeping white dress and her porcelain skin, casting her under an ethereal white spotlight. Her golden hair flirted and tangoed in and out with the teasing breeze. She seemed like a delicate illusion at that moment and I wanted so much to reach out and touch her, but my hand phased through her form.

The look on the young woman’s face was complicated. She bit and nicked at her bottom lip until it produced a drop of scarlet red that ran down her chin. The sight before me was slightly gruesome, but for some reason it also felt holy and pure at the same time, like a suffering angel.

Before the next wind blew and the earth sighed again, a large gray storm cloud had come up and covered the moon completely, plunging the world into darkness. My eyes adjusted to the darkness just barely, only able to focus on the figure of the woman in front of me. Rain had started pouring out from the sky in thick sheets. I couldn’t feel the droplets' coolness against my own translucent skin, but the woman now stood completely soaked in the ocean’s love. Each of the pitter-patters against her arms and neck and rosy face felt significant, like a lover’s gentle kisses in the dead of night. However, her expression hadn’t yet let up.

Her delicate fingers pushed into the flesh of her palm, then relaxed, then pushed in again with a newfound force, as if imitating the chaotic crashing of the sea waves below. Her thumb ran over the other fingers on her hand when they pressed together as if in a comforting motion, but I could see the way her shoulders frantically rose and fell with each breath she struggled to take.

Nature seemed to rise to a disheveled crescendo, and in the middle of it all stood the woman. But just as suddenly as everything had started, the world had also been thrown into a certain stillness.

The golden-haired woman still stood. Her hand had finally balled up into a confident fist for she wasn’t uncertain anymore. She had made up her mind.

She didn’t glance backward at the life she built, a life she led, and a life she abandoned. And in turn, nothing had looked back at her either. Only the daffodils bore witness to this secret.

The woman stepped forward, plunging down the cliff.

Chapter Text

I was training to become a lady’s companion. 

It was not a particularly distinguished career, nor one that required any special skills. Still, in my youthfulness and unconcern for the future, I wasn’t unhappy. And I suppose it came with its benefits. When the winters in Korea had been deemed unbearable by my mistresses, it was not uncommon for me to find myself at the Hotel Côte d’Azur in Monte Carlo, spending time usually running errands and serving as bait for high-profile figures that my mistresses wanted to get close to. But sometimes there would be a moment of peace where I could sit by the open window, basking in the golden rays of the Monaco sun, sketchbook in hand, and watch the men as they played tennis out on the court.

On this particular day, much like every other day before this, one of my mistresses, Glam Choi, had gone down to the restaurant for lunch. With my hair tied up, face unpowdered, and an ill-fitting coat hanging loosely over me, I trailed behind her like a misplaced doe. At the same time, she, with her trotting high heels and oversized hat, confidently made her way over to her usual table in the corner of the restaurant, where she was able to get a view of all the other patrons there. Her small eyes peered from under the hat with intent, surveying the area from left to right, top to bottom, then all over again before her sharp staccato voice broke out: “Not a single notable figure on property! Do they think I have come to look at page boys all day?”

She summoned a waiter to her side and ordered a meal for herself. Soon, her bejeweled fingers clanked against the silverware as she worked on her mountain of ravioli, eyeing my plate suspiciously from time to time. However, there was nothing to be jealous of. The waiter had caught on to the fact that I was subservient to her almost immediately, and my lunch had consisted of cold ham and tongue that had been sent back to the kitchen that morning. It was unappetizing and bland, but I had no right or courage to refuse it in my youthful, inexperienced, and cowardly state. 

As we dined in silence, I glanced over to the next table, which had been left vacant for the past three days, but was now being occupied once more. The head waiter, with this particular table reserved for the most special and prestigious guests, was ushering the new arrival into its place.

Mrs. Glam put down her fork, and I blushed as her eyes intently followed the man being escorted to the table, who, thankfully, seemed none the wiser about her potent stare. She then moved her plate of ravioli to the side and leaned over the table towards me, her eyes big with excitement and voice a tad too loud to be a mere whisper.

“That is Kim Jihyun, the man who owns that house at the edge of the cliff. You’re familiar, of course?” She asked, “he looks rather pale, doesn’t he? Rumor says, he can’t get over his late wife’s passing…”

My mistresses had an aptitude for meeting and befriending people of high status. Even though Mrs. Glam had produced this trait first, Miss Sarah, her younger sister, had soon picked up on this quality as well. Although people of titles and status were preferred by them, if an up-and-coming actor or a mediocre author didn’t necessarily fit into high society, just seeing their name in the paper was already enough to put them on my mistress’ watch. Their curiosity was like a disease, and I, like a whipping boy who had to bear his master’s punishments, watched on in horror as people laughed behind their backs, some even taking their premature leave once they strode into a room. 

For many years, Mrs. Glam had come to Hotel Cote d’Azue , and apart from the parties and tea times she hosted, one of her favorite pastimes, which had become notorious here, was to stake a friendship on the noteworthy patrons as if they had been long-time companions, while in reality she had only seen them but once before from a distance. Mrs. Glam had placed a claim on a particular sofa in the lounge, midway between the reception and the restaurant, where Miss Sarah and her would often have their coffee after lunch and dinner, so that everyone who had entered the hotel had to make their way past them first.

It was no surprise then that Mrs. Glam had rushed through her lunch that day and skipped dessert before sending me away to fetch Miss Sarah so they could install themselves on their sofa before the new arrival must pass. They had both huddled on the cushion together, conspiratorially devising and plotting their method of attack. I sat beside them, staring out at the reception desk somewhat absent-mindedly while my mistresses worked to perfect their scheme. Suddenly, Mrs. Glam glanced at me, her eyes alight.

“Go upstairs quickly and find the snapshots from my wedding. And bring them down right away.”

I blinked a few times, processing her words. It was then that I realized that their plans were formed and that the snapshots from Mrs. Glam’s wedding were to be their means of introduction. Even though I wasn’t aware of what connection this newcomer possessed to Mr. Han, it was obvious that there was some form of association because Miss Sarah’s face broke out into a wide grin as well, and she eyed her sister in triumph. 

It was not the first time I served as an assistant in their schemes, but this was the first time it weighed heavily and uncomfortably on my consciousness. He would not want to be disturbed. Even in my immature inexperience, what I had learned during lunch from Mrs. Glam’s stream of gossip led me to be certain of that. Why he had come to Monte Carlo was no one’s business but his own. It seemed obvious to everyone, even me, but not my mistresses. For prudence was a quality unknown to them, and they craved gossip like it was oxygen. 

I found the snapshots in Mrs. Glam’s desk rather quickly, but I hesitated for a moment. It felt like I was offering this stranger a few minutes of peace before the sudden tidal wave that were my mistresses would be released upon him. I wish I had enough courage to sneak into the restaurant and warn him about the ambush. I imagined the scene playing out in my head. It would be exceptionally awkward, and he would not fully understand what I was talking about, but I would just explain everything outright and encourage him to leave the restaurant through the service staircase, or, at the very least, help him make up some excuse about being awfully busy. But with my lack of boldness, I could do nothing but sit compliantly next to my mistresses while they, like spiders, weaved their net of words around their next prey.

I must have taken more time than I intended, because when I had returned downstairs, he had already left the dining room and was now sitting beside them on the sofa. I walked up to Mrs. Glam and handed her the snapshots without a word. At once, he rose to his feet, while Miss Sarah, face red and flushed, waved a hand in my direction while quickly and disingenuously mumbling my name.

“Mr. Kim is having coffee with us. Go fetch the waiter for another cup,” Miss Sarah spoke, her tone just casual enough to let him know of my stance, already disregarded as someone youthful and unimportant who needed not to be included in the conversation. They both often spoke to me in that manner when they wished to appear more impressive. It would allow their women guests to acknowledge me with a straightforward and polite, dismissive nod, while the men would sink back in their chairs without fear of offending courtesy.

It came as a surprise, therefore, when the man remained standing and called upon the waiter himself.

“I’m afraid I must disagree with you,” he said to her, “you are all having coffee with me.” 

And before I knew what was happening, he was sitting in my usual hard chair while I was on the sofa next to Mrs. Glam and Miss Sarah.

For a moment, they looked surprised, then annoyed. This was not what they had anticipated. But then, Mrs. Glam thrust herself into a loud and eager conversation, leaning forward in her seat, fluttering the snapshots in her hand.

“You know, I recognized you as soon as you walked into that restaurant,” she began, “and I thought, ‘Why, isn’t that Kim Jihyun, my step-son’s best friend? I simply must show him the snapshots of us at my wedding!’ It’s a shame you couldn’t make it. So here’s me and Mr. Han at the ceremony. And there’s Jumin and Sarah. Aren’t they just so cute together? I was hoping that they would get along, but they never did…”

“You’re embarrassing me,” Miss Sarah whined, elbowing Mrs. Glam, her face turning a deeper shade of red.

Mrs. Glam chucked before continuing, “You know, we had actually met once before at an RFA charity party. That was before I met Mr. Han, of course. But dare I say, you don’t remember an old woman like me?”

“On the contrary,” he said, before Mrs. Glam could trap him in a long-winded recollection of their first meeting. He handed her his cigarette case, and it stalled her while she fumbled with lighting it up. “I remember you very well,” he continued, blowing the match.

I glanced at the man for a moment, making sure that my eyes didn’t linger on him for a second too long, but peeked at him curiously nevertheless, just long enough to commit his features to memory. His eyes were somber, and his face was exquisite and sensitive. He seemed to possess a quality not of this world, and I was suddenly reminded of a portrait I had seen in a gallery once, long forgotten where. It was of some unknown gentleman. I wish I could remember the name of the old master who had painted it.

They were still talking, and I had long lost the thread of the conversation, “No, not even twenty years ago,” he was saying, “that sort of thing never amused me.”

Mrs. Glam and Miss Sarah had given their rickety, arrogant laugh in response. 

“If I had a home like yours, Mr. Kim, I would not want to play around in Monte Carlo,” Mrs. Glam said, “I hear it is like a fairytale there.”

She was expecting him to smile, but when he went on smoking his cigarette, she paused, and I noticed the very subtle shift in his expression.

“We’ve seen pictures of it, of course,” Miss Sarah continued, “and it looks perfectly enchanting. I wonder how you can ever bear to leave it.”

His silence was unbearable now. It would’ve been plain and obvious to anyone else, but Mrs. Glam continued, trotting and trespassing over preserved land like a clumsy goat. I felt color flood to my face as I was dragged with them into humiliation.

“Of course, you men are all the same about your homes, always so humble,” She went on, her voice becoming louder and louder as she turned to Miss Sarah, “Mr. Kim would never admit it, for he is too modest, but I believe that lovely house of his has been in the family for generations. I suppose your ancestors often entertained royalty there, Mr. Kim?”

The overly-friendly inclination of her voice was too much, even for her, but the swift lash of his reply came unexpectedly, “Not since Ethelred of England. The one called Unready. In fact, the title was given to him when he stayed with my family, as he was invariably late for dinner.”

They had deserved it, of course. I studied their faces for a reaction that, amazingly, never came. Instead, the two women looked at each other and blinked, the meaning of his words lost on them. I was the only one left writhing in the aftermath of the embarrassment, squeezing into the seat like a child who had just gotten smacked.

“Is that so?” She blundered, “History was always lost on me. Especially the kings of England. They had always muddled me. How interesting, though…”

There was another pause. Had I been older, I would have caught his eye and smiled an apologetic smile, their unbelievable behavior marking a bond between us. But I was still young, and so, stricken with shame as I endured one of the frequent agonies of youth.

Realizing my distress, the man moved to me, and, in a gentle voice, asked me if I would have more coffee. I felt his curious gaze still on me even after I had refused. Puzzled, he pondered what my relation was to the two women and whether he should bracket us together.

“What do you think of Monte Carlo?” He asked me. 

Finding me at my worst, the raw ex-schoolgirl, I said something idiotic and obvious about how it felt artificial before Mrs. Glam loudly interrupted me.

“She’s spoiled rotten, Mr. Kim. Girls her age would give their eyes for a chance to see Monte.”

“Wouldn’t that defeat the purpose, though?” He asked, smiling.

“I suppose,” she shrugged, “But I’m faithful to Monte. The Korean winters get me down.”

“But what brings you here?” Miss Sarah questioned, “You’re not one of the regulars. Are you here on a business trip, or have you come to play ‘Chemy’, or brought your golf clubs?”

“I have not made up my mind,” he said, “I came in rather a hurry.”

His own words seemed to jolt some unpleasant memory because his expression clouded over again. But Miss Sarah babbled on, unaware, “Of course, you must miss the fogs at the Kim Residence. It must be delightful in the spring.”

“Yes,” he said simply, “it was looking its best.”

He reached for the ashtray, squashing his cigarette, and I noticed a subtle change in his eyes. An undefined emotion lingered there, and suddenly, I felt as if I had looked upon something personal, something in which I had no right to intrude upon. A momentary silence fell upon us then, and, stealing another glance at him, I was reminded more than ever of that portrait I had seen in that gallery. But then, Mrs. Glam’s voice broke my thoughts like an electric bell.

“I suppose you know a crowd of people here. Though I must say, Monte is very dull this winter. So little well-known faces…” And then she began to rattle off the names of men and women she had come across these past few days: the Duke of Middlesex, his wife, their son, the Caxtons, and the Hyslops. Through the thick weave of gossip, she never realized his expression didn’t bear the glimmer of familiarity. Those names were unknown to him. They meant nothing. As Mrs. Glam and Miss Sarah pattered on, the man’s face instead became colder, and he retreated into silence once again. Never did he interrupt them or glance at his watch, as if he had set a standard of behaviour for himself after embarrassing them publicly once before me. 

In the end, it was a page boy who released him, with news that the dressmaker was awaiting Mrs. Glam and Miss Sarah in the suite.

Quickly, the man rose from his seat. “Don’t let me keep you,” he spoke, “fashion changes so rapidly these days they may even have altered by the time you get upstairs.”

Again, Mrs. Glam and Miss Sarah exchanged looks, batting their eyelashes at each other. His sting did not touch them once more, and they instead decided to regard it as a pleasantry.

“It was so nice to have run into you again, Mr. Kim,” Mrs. Glam said as we made our way toward the lift. “Now that we have taken the initiative to break the ice, I hope you won’t be a stranger, and we shall see more of you. You must come in and have a drink sometime in the suite.”

“My sister is hosting a small get-together of one or two people tomorrow evening,” Miss Sarah chimed in, “why not join us?”

I turned away so that I would not have to see him search for an excuse.

“I’m sorry, tomorrow I am probably driving to Sospel. I’m not sure when I’ll get back,” he replied.

Miss Sarah reluctantly nodded, but both of them still loitered next to the entrance of the lift.

“I hope they’ve given you a good room,” Mrs. Glam persisted, “This place is half-empty, so if you feel uncomfortable, make a fuss. Your valet has unpacked for you, I suppose?” 

This excessive familiarity made me blush again, and I caught a peek at her expression.

“I don’t possess one,” he replied quietly, “perhaps you would like to do it for me?”

This time, his words seemed to have left a mark as she reddened and laughed a little awkwardly. “Why, I hardly think…” she began before suddenly turning to me, “Perhaps you can make yourself useful to Mr. Kim. You are a capable child in many ways.”

There was a momentary pause where I stood horrified and bewildered, awaiting his answer. He looked down at us, mocking, a ghost of a smile on his lips.

“A charming suggestion,” he replied, “but I prefer to cling to the family motto. He travels fastest who travels alone. Perhaps you have not heard of it.”

And without waiting for her answer, he promptly turned and left us.

“What a funny thing,” Miss Sarah spoke as we rode upstairs in the lift, “do you think that sudden departure was some form of humor?”

“Men do such extraordinary things,” Mrs. Glam sighed.

The lift had arrived on our floor and halted with a jerk.

“By the way, dear,” Mrs. Glam spoke again, turning to me as we walked along the corridor, “don’t take this the wrong way, but you put yourself a tiny bit forward this afternoon. Your efforts to monopolize the conversation made me quite embarrassed, and I’m sure they embarrassed him as well.”

“Men loath that sort of thing,” Miss Sarah nodded in agreement.

I said nothing. There didn’t seem to be a possible reply to her statement.

“Oh, come on now, don’t sulk, dearie,” Mrs. Glam continued, “after all, I am responsible for your behavior here. Surely you can take some advice from a woman old enough to be your mother?”

Mrs. Glam and Miss Sarah both giggled as they continued into the bedroom where the dressmaker was waiting for them.

I knelt at the window seat and looked out towards the afternoon. The sun still shone, and there was a flirty high wind. In half an hour, my mistresses’ guests would come over, and all of the windows would be tightly shut, the central heating turned up to full. I thought of the ashtrays I would have to clean, and the discarded chocolate creams. 

I felt that my youthfulness put a curb on the visitors’ conversations. It bored them to entertain me, for I did not know any rumors or gossip, and they could not easily fling themselves into conversation with me. They would assume a sort of forced heartiness and ask me questions about history or painting, assuming that I had just recently left school and that this would be my only form of discussion.

Sighing, I turn away from the window. The sun was bright and full of promise, and the sea was whipped white by a merry wind. I reached into my desk for a pencil and paper, and sketched, with satisfaction and an absent mind, a profile: somber eyes, high-bridged nose, a sensitive face.

Someone abruptly knocked at the door, distracting me from my task. It was the lift boy. He held a note in his hand. 

“Madams are in the bedroom,” I told him, but he shook his head, saying that the letter was for me instead.

I opened it and found a single sheet inside with a few words scribbled in unfamiliar handwriting.

“Forgive me. I was very rude this afternoon,” was all it said. No signature. No beginning. But my name was on the envelope.

“Is there an answer?” asked the boy.

I looked up from the letter, “No,” I replied, “No, there isn’t.”

When he had left, I put the note away into my pocket and turned to my sketch once more. But for some reason, it did not please me any longer. The face was still and lifeless and far too detached.

Chapter Text

The morning after the party, both of my mistresses had woken up with a sore throat and a temperature of 38.8 degrees. I rang up the doctor, who came around quickly and diagnosed them with the usual influenza. “You are to stay in bed until I allow you to get up,” he said, before turning to Mrs. Glam specifically, “and I do not like the sound of that heart of yours. It won’t get better unless you stay perfectly still. I would prefer,” he continued, looking at me, “that they had a trained nurse on hand. You couldn’t possibly take care of them both. It’ll only be for two weeks or so.”

I thought that this sounded quite ridiculous, but before I could cause a stir, to my surprise, both of my mistresses had agreed with the doctor. I think they enjoyed the fuss it would create, the visits, messages from friends, and the gifts of flowers. I could tell that Monte Carlo had begun to bore them, and this little illness would serve as a much-needed distraction.

The nurse would administer injections, provide a gentle massage, and ensure they remained well-fed and relaxed. I left them quite happy once the nurse arrived; seated on a heap of pillows, with a falling temperature and fashioned in ribboned hats upon their heads. Somewhat ashamed about my lightheartedness, I telephoned their friends and postponed the small party they had organized for this evening, and then went down to the restaurant for lunch, a good half-hour before the usual time. I expected the restaurant to be barren, as typically no one lunched before one o’clock. And it was, indeed, quite empty—save for the single table next to ours.

I had been unprepared for such an appearance. I thought he had gone to Sospel. But on second thought, it was no doubt he was lunching earlier to avoid me and my mistresses at one o’clock.

I was already halfway across the room and could not turn back now. I had not seen him since we disappeared in the lift yesterday—he wisely avoided dinner that day, perhaps for the same reason he was avoiding the one o’clock lunch now.

This was a situation for which I was ill-equipped. I wished I were older and different. Surely then, I would know what to say.

I marched over to our table, looking straight ahead, and immediately paid the price for my impropriety by knocking over a vase of stiff flowers while unfolding my napkin. The water soaked the cloth and ran down my lap; however, the waiter did not see, as he was on the other side of the room. Yet immediately, my neighbor was by my side, dry napkin in hand.

“You can’t sit at a wet tablecloth,” he said, “it will put you off your food.”

He began to clean the tablecloth, and, in seeing the ruckus, the waiter instantly rushed over.

“I don’t mind,” I replied, “it doesn’t matter to me. I am all alone today.”

He said nothing, and then the waiter arrived and took care of the vase and the flowers sprawled all about.

“No, leave that,” he announced suddenly, “and set up the utensils at my table. Mademoiselle will have lunch with me.”

I looked up in bewilderment, “Oh no. I couldn’t possibly.”

“Why not?”

I didn’t know how to explain myself. I knew that he was doing this out of courtesy, and I would ruin his lunch by joining him. I decided to be brave and speak up.

“Please,” I begged, “Don’t be polite. It’s very nice of you, but I do not want to intrude. I would be quite alright if the waiter just wipes the cloth.”

“But I’m not being polite,” he insisted, “I wish to have lunch with you. Even if you hadn’t knocked over that vase, I would have still asked you.” My face must have revealed my doubt because he smiled and continued, “You don’t believe me. Never mind. Come and sit down. We don’t need to talk to each other unless we feel like it.”

We sat down. He handed me the menu, leaving me to choose, while he continued reading his newspaper as if nothing had happened.

His quality of detachment was unique to him, but not uncomfortable. I very well knew that our meal might continue in silence, but that did not matter. There would be no sense of strain, and he wouldn’t question me about art or history.

“What’s happened to your friends?” He asked.

“They came down with influenza this morning.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said, and after a pause, added, “You got my note, I suppose? I felt very much ashamed of myself. My manners were atrocious the other day. The only excuse I can think of is that I’ve been living alone for so long, I’ve forgotten how to act. That’s why it's so kind of you to join me for lunch today.”

“There’s no need to apologize. You weren’t rude,” I stated, “well, at least, you weren’t the kind of rude that my mistresses could understand. They don’t mean to be offensive. They do it to everyone… well, everyone of importance.”

“Well then, I should be flattered, I suppose?” He smiled again, “Why do they consider me of any importance?”

I hesitated a moment before replying, “It is because of your house, I believe.”

He did not answer, and that dominating silence took hold of us again. I felt as if I had trespassed on forbidden ground. I wondered, what was it about that house of his—known to many, even to me, only by hearsay—that imposed such a looming barrier between him and others.

We continued to eat in silence, and suddenly, I thought of a picture postcard I bought once at a shop when on holiday as a child. It was a painting of a house. Highly colored and crudely done, of course, but even those imperfections could not hide the perfect symmetry of the walls, and the perfectly lined stone steps of the terrace, and the view of the ocean that stretched out below the green lawns that ended at the cliff. I paid half of my weekly salary for the postcard before turning to the wrinkled old woman at the counter and asking her what it was meant to be. She seemed astonished at my ignorance.

“That’s the Kim Residence, of course,” she explained.

I remembered coming out of the shop feeling enlightened, yet no less confused than I had been before.

Maybe it was this memory of the postcard, now long forgotten in some old book, that made me sympathize with his defensive attitude. He resented Mrs. Glam and Miss Sarah and the likes of them with their intrusive questions. Perhaps the Kim Residence was a sacred place, one that could bear no discussion. I could almost imagine Miss Sarah as the next Mrs. Kim, Mrs. Glam at her side, as they trampled through the rooms, breaking the silent tranquility with their sharp, staccato laugh.

Our brains seemed to operate on the same wavelength as he began talking about them.

“Ah, your friend,” he began, “one of them is much older than you. Are they both your relatives? Have you known them long?”

It seemed that this topic still bothered him.

“They aren’t really my friends,” I told him, “they’re employers. They’re training me to be something called a ‘lady’s companion’.”

“That sounds like a rather primitive idea. I didn’t know one could buy a companion,” he laughed, somehow looking younger than before. “You don’t have much in common with them. Why do you do it?”

“They pay me well. It’s a lot of money for me.”

“You know, you have a very lovely and unusual name.”

“I am an unusual person.”

“Tell me about yourself then.”

I looked over at the drink in front of me, not knowing where to begin. It was not easy to explain my entirety. There were certain parts that were my secret property, preserved for me alone, much like the Kim Residence was preserved for my neighbor. I had no intention of introducing everything about myself over lunch at a restaurant in Monte Carlo.

But there was an air of unreality about our lunch. Only a day before, I had sat beside my mistresses, so much of a schoolgirl still: prim, subdued, quiet, and not even twenty-four hours later, my family history was not mine any longer. I shared it with a man I did not know. For some reason, I felt inclined to speak, as his eyes followed me in sympathy. My shyness fell away from me, and so my tongue loosened up, and everything came flowing out. The little secrets of childhood, the stories and the pleasures, and the pains. I shared it all with him. And he seemed to understand and paint, from my rather poor descriptions, a somewhat vibrant picture of my personality that lay beneath all the uncertainty and timidity. I paused, a little breathless and a little dazed. The once barren restaurant was filled with people who chatted to the partially melodious clatter of plates. I glanced up at the clock above the door and realized it was already two o’clock. We had been sitting there for an hour and a half, and the conversation had been mine alone.

When I tumbled down into reality again, I lowered my gaze self-consciously, and my face felt hot as if someone had slapped me. I began to stammer profuse apologies, but he would not listen.

“I’ve enjoyed this hour with you more than I have enjoyed anything for a long time,” he said, “you had taken me out of introspection and despondency, both of which had been my devil for a year.”

I looked at him and chose to believe his words. He looked less pale than before, more modern, and the shadow that had been looming over his face disappeared.

“You know,” he spoke, “I’ve been alone for a very long time. Oh, I’ve got some friends, though we don’t see much of each other. And an ancient grandma whom I pay duty visits three times a year. But she doesn’t really make for a companion. I shall congratulate your mistresses. You’re cheap at the price they pay you.”

“You forget,” I said without thinking, “you have a home and I have none.”

The moment I spoke, I regretted it, for the shadow came over his face again, and a secret, hard-to-describe look came over his eyes. I once again suffered the silence that comes over one after a lack of tact. He bent his head and lit his cigarette, not replying immediately.

“An empty house can be as lonely as a full hotel,” he said slowly, “the only difference is that one is less impersonal.” He hesitated, and I thought he was going to talk about his house at last, but something held him back. The unspoken phobia had struggled out and reigned supreme over his mind. He blew out his match and with it his spark of confidence. “So, your mistresses are ill? I suppose that means you are free for the time being?” He spoke lightly, with an easy air settling around us again, “What do you plan on doing?”

I thought of a cobblestone square and a house with a narrow window, which I had seen a while back in Monaco. It had piqued my interest, and I had wanted to sketch it ever since I stumbled upon it. I could head out at three o’clock, my sketchbook and pencil in hand, and I told him as much. A bit shyly, perhaps, like all untalented persons with a pet hobby. But when I mentioned my sketchbook, his eyes seemed to take on a brighter appearance.

“I’ll drive you there in my car,” he said, and would not listen to protests.

I remembered Mrs. Glam’s talk about putting myself forward the night before, and was suddenly embarrassed to think that my talk of Monaco might be seen as a subterfuge to win a lift there. It was so obviously a thing that my mistresses would do, and I did not want him to bracket us together.

It seemed I had already risen in status after my lunch with him, for as we went to get up from the table, the head waiter rushed forward to pull away my chair. He bowed and smiled—a complete shift from his usual attitude of indifference—and picked up my handkerchief that had fallen to the floor. Even the page boy by the swing doors glanced at me with respect. My companion accepted it as natural, of course, for he knew nothing of the ill-carved ham and cold tongue of yesterday. I found the change depressing, and it made me despise myself. I then remembered my scorn for superficial snobbery.

“What are you thinking about?” We were walking down the corridor, and I lifted my head to find his eyes fixed on me in curiosity. “Has something annoyed you?” I shrugged off his question with a little shake of my head and a small smile. We sat down on the sofa, and as we drank coffee, he began to speak, “I think you’ve made a big mistake in coming here, in joining forces with Mrs. Glam and Miss Sarah. You are not made for that kind of job. You’re too young, for one thing, and—forgive me for my forwardness—too soft. I’m sorry if I sound like I’m lecturing you, but who suggested you take on this thing in the first place?”

It seemed natural for him to question me, so I did not mind. It felt as if we were old friends who had known each other for a long time and had only reunited after a long while.

“Have you ever thought about the future?” He questioned, “And what sort of thing will this lead to? Suppose Miss Sarah gets married off and Mrs. Glam gets tired of her ‘lady’s companion’? What will you do then?”

I smiled and told him I didn’t mind very much. There would be other Miss Sarahs and Mrs. Glams, and that I was still young, and confident, and strong. But even as I spoke, I saw a vision of myself in the future, in the type of boardinghouse that answers advertisements and gives temporary shelter. I only had a useless sketchbook in hand, without qualification of any kind, and stammering replies to stern employment agencies.

“How old are you?” He asked, and when I told him my age, he laughed and got up from his chair, “I know that age. A thousand setbacks won’t make you fear the future. It’s a pity we can’t change over. Go upstairs and find your hat, and I’ll have the car brought over.”

As he watched me into the lift, I thought of yesterday. Of Mrs. Glam’s clumsy tongue, and his cold courtesy. I had judged him too soon. He was neither hard nor cold, but already my friend of many years.

I was in a happy mood that afternoon. We saw the rippled sky, scattered with clouds, and the white whipped sea. I could feel the wind against my face, and hear my laughter, and his that echoed it. It was not the Monte Carlo that I had grown to know, and in reality, I liked it much better. There was a certain glamor about it that had not been there before. Or, perhaps, I had just not noticed it earlier, seeing it only with dull eyes. The harbor seemed to be alive and dancing, fluttering with paper boats. The sailors were jovial, smiling, merry as the wind. My flannel suit was ill-fitted, but comfortable; the skirt was lighter than my coat, and my hat, too broad at the brim, almost flying off my head. A pair of gloves was clutched in my hand. I have never looked more youthful. I had never felt so old. Mrs. Glam and Miss Sarah and their influenza were all but forgotten by me, and the cocktail parties and my humble status disappeared along with them. I was a person of importance. I had grown up at last. The girl who, tortured by shyness, would stand outside the sitting room door, twisting a handkerchief in her hands, while from within came the bubbling of chatter so unnerving to her—she had gone with the wind that afternoon. She was a poor creature, and I had thought of her in scorn already, if I even thought of her at all.

The wind was too strong for sketching today. It tore in cheerful gusts around the corner of the cobbled square. And so back to the car we went, and drove, I don't know where. The long road climbed up a hill, and the car climbed with it, and we circled like a bird in the air. I thought of how different his car had been from Mrs. Glam’s, which she had rented for the season. The little old-fashioned Daimler, where I, sitting in the little seat with my back toward the driver, would crane my neck to see the view. But this car had wings, I thought, for the higher we climbed, and dangerously fast, the danger only seemed to please me because I was young.

I laughed, and my laugh was carried away by the wind. Then I looked at him and realized that he laughed no longer. He was once again silent and detached, the man of yesterday wrapped in his secret self. I realized, too, that the car didn’t rise any longer, and we had arrived at the summit, and below us stretched and tangled the way we had come from. He stopped the car, and I could see a cliff that crumbled into vacancy below. It was a fall of perhaps about two thousand feet.

We got out of the car and looked beneath us. This sobered me up at last, and I became aware that not even half the car’s length stood between us and the fall. The sea, like a wrinkled sheet of paper, spread to the sharp horizon and lapped at the outline of the coast, while the houses, like rounded shells, perked up here and there by the great orange sun. But the silence had turned the once lovely place into something sharp and hard. A change had come upon our afternoon, and it wasn’t a thing of pleasure any longer. The wind dropped, and it suddenly grew colder.

When I spoke, my voice was far too casual, the silly, nervous tone of someone ill at ease. “Do you know this place? Have you been here before?”

He looked down at me without any recognition, and with a stab of anxiety, I realized that he had forgotten all about me, perhaps for some considerable length of time. He was so lost in his own thoughts that I did not exist. And for a moment, he looked like one of those people who walk in their sleep, his complexion completely blank without acknowledgment. My palms felt clammy suddenly.

“It’s getting late. Shall we go home?” I asked, and my careless tone and little ineffectual smile would have scarcely deceived a child.

But as soon as I spoke this second time, he came clear of his dream and began to profusely apologize. I had gone white, I suppose, and he had noticed it.

“This was an unforgivable thing for me to do,” he said, and taking my arm, he led me back toward the car, and we climbed in again, and he closed the door.

As he maneuvered the car back around toward the road very gently, I, feeling unexpectedly sick upon seeing the cliff, clung to the seat with both of my hands.

“Don’t be frightened, the turn is far easier than it looks,” he said.

“Then… have you been here before?” I asked him, my sense of strain departing as the car crept down the twisting, narrow road again.

“Yes,” he said, and after pausing for a moment, added, “But not for many years. I wanted to see if it had changed.”

“And… has it?”

“No,” he said, “No, it has not changed.”

I wondered what had led him to retreat into his past, with me an unconscious witness to his mood. What gulf of years stretched on between him and that other time, what deed of thought and action, what difference in temperament? I did not want to know. I wished I had not come.

Down the twisting road we went, without a word. A great ridge of clouds stretched above the setting sun, and the air was cold and clean. Suddenly, he began to talk about the Kim Residence. He said nothing of his life there, no word about himself. But he told me how the sun set there, on a spring afternoon. The sea would look like a slate, cold still from the long winter, and from the terrace you could hear the ripple of the coming tide washing in the little bay. The daffodils were in bloom, stirring in the evening breeze, golden heads cupped upon lean stalks, and however many you might pick, there would be no thinning in the ranks because they were massed like an army, shoulder to shoulder. He painted me a picture like a skilled artist of the flowers that grew around his house. The crocuses on the bank below the lawns, the primrose, the humble violet of the bluebells, and the bowl of roses in the drawing room. He asked me if I liked syringa. There was a tree planted on the edge of the lawn that he could smell from his bedroom window. His best friend, Han Jumin, who was a hard, rather practical person, used to complain that there were too many scents at the Kim Residence, which made him feel drunk. Perhaps he was right. But he didn’t care. It was the only form of intoxication that appealed to him.

Then he talked of the great branches of lilac, the clumps of azalea down the little pathway of the valley to the bay, and the rhododendron planted to the left of it. And then finally, when you walked out of the valley a little heady and a little dazed, you would be met with the hard white shingle of the beach and the still water. It was a curious and very sudden contrast, he told me.

As he spoke, the car became one of many again, and dusk had fallen without my noticing. We were in the midst of light and sounds in the streets of Monte Carlo again. The clatter jagged my nerves, and the lights were far too brilliant and far too yellow. It was a swift and unwelcome anticlimax to our afternoon.

Too soon after, we arrived at the hotel, and I felt for my gloves in the pocket of the car. I found them, but my fingers closed around a book as well, whose slim cover revealed it was a book of poetry. I read the cover as the car slowed down before the entrance of the hotel.

“You can take it and read it if you’d like,” he said. His voice was casual and light now that the ride was over, and we were back at Monte Carlo again, and the Kim Residence was many hundreds of miles distant.

I nodded eagerly and held it tightly along with my gloves. I felt I had wanted some possession of his as a souvenir now that the day was finished.

“Hop out. I must go and put the car away. I won’t see you in the restaurant this evening as I am dining out… But thank you for today.”

I went up the steps of the hotel alone, feeling like a child whose treat is over. My afternoon had ruined the hours that remained in the day, and I thought of how long it would seem until my bedtime. How empty, too, would my dinner be all alone.

I felt I could not face the bright inquiries of the nurse upstairs, or the possibilities of Mrs. Glam’s interrogations, or Miss Sarah’s questioning, so I sat down in the corner of the lounge behind a pillar and ordered tea. It was that sluggish time of day, a few minutes after half past five, when normal tea time was finished and the hour for drinks was remote.

More than a little dissatisfied, I leaned back in my chair and picked up the book of poems. It seemed to be well-worn. The book opened automatically to a creased page. One which, judging by the binding, was much-frequented. The poem printed on the page went as follows:

I fled Him, down the nights and down the days;
I fled Him, down the arches of the years;
I fled Him, down the labyrinthine ways
Of my own mind; and in the midst of tears
I hid from Him, and under running laughter.
Up vistaed hopes I sped;
And shot, precipitated,
Adown Titanic glooms of chasmed fears,
From those strong feet that followed, followed afar.

I felt like someone peering through the keyhole of a locked door, and a little superstitiously, I laid the book aside. What had driven him to that hill this afternoon? I thought of his car, and the half a length between it and the fall, and the blank expression on his face. What footsteps echoed in his mind, what whispers, what memories? And why, of all poems, must he keep this one in the pocket of his car? I wished he had kept me at less of a distance from himself, and I wished I were anything but the creature that I was in my ill-fitted coat and skirt and my broad-brimmed schoolgirl hat.

The sulky waiter brought over my tea, and I unhappily ate my bread and butter as dull as sawdust as I thought of the pathway he described to me this afternoon. If he loved it all so much, why seek the comfort of the artificial Monte Carlo? He had told Miss Sarah he had made no plans when coming here, and that he came in a rather hurried manner, and I pictured him running down that pathway in the valley with his own hound of heaven at his heels.

I picked up the book of poems again, and this time turned it over to the title page and read out the dedication.

My darling—from Rika. September 9.

It was written in a curious slanted hand. A little blob of ink had marred the white page, as though the writer, in impatience, had shaken her pen to make the ink flow freely. And then it bubbled through the nib; it came a little thick, so that the name Rika stood out black and strong, the tall and sloping R dwarfing the other letters.

I shut the book with a loud snap and put it away under my gloves on the nearby chair. I took up an old copy of L’Illustration and turned the pages. There were some fine photographs, and an article as well to go along with them. I read it carefully, referring to the photos, but when I had finished, I understood that I had not retained a word of what I read. It was not actor Zen on stage with massive applause who stared up at me from the printed page, but the face of Mrs. Glam in the restaurant the day before, her small eyes darting to the neighboring table, fork in her hand, heaped high with ravioli, pausing in mid-air.

“An appalling tragedy,” she said, “the papers were full of it, of course. They say he never talks about it, never mentions her name. She killed herself, you know. At the cliff next to their house…”

Chapter Text

“What have you been doing this morning?” Mrs. Glam asked, propped against her pillows. Her voice betrayed a hint of irritability of a patient who is not really ill, of someone who had laid in bed for too long, and I, reaching to the bedside drawer for the pack of playing cards, could feel the guilty hot flush against my neck. Miss Sarah glanced curiously at me from Mrs. Glam’s side.

“I’ve been playing tennis with the trainer,” I told her, my false words already bringing a sense of panic. Because what if the trainer himself would come up to the suite that very afternoon, and burst in complaining that I had missed my lesson for many days now?

“The trouble with us being ill is that you haven’t got enough to do around here,” Mrs. Glam said, mashing her cigarette in a jar of cleansing cream, and taking the cards in her hand, she mixed them. “I don’t know what you find to do with yourself all day. You never have any sketches to show me anymore, and when I ask you to do the shopping, you forget to buy my Taxol.”

“But I hope your tennis will improve,” Miss Sarah frowned, “It’s quite boring to play with you.”

Mrs. Glam nodded in agreement, “It will be useful to you later on. A poor player is a great bore. Do you still serve underhand?”

Miss Sarah flipped the Queen of Spades into the pool, and the dark face stared up at me like the devil.

“Yes,” I said, stung by her question, thinking just how appropriate her words described me. I was underhand. I had not played tennis with the trainer at all. I had not played since they both came down with the influenza, and that was a little over two weeks ago. 

I wondered why I had clung to this reserve, and why I had not told them that every morning I drove with Mr. Kim in his car and lunched with him, too, at his table in the restaurant. 

“You must come up to the net more; you will never play a good game until you do,” Miss Sarah continued, and I agreed.

In the future, I might forget much of Monte Carlo. Of those long morning drives, of where we went, and even our conversation. But I will never forget how my fingers trembled, gripping my hat, and how I ran down the corridor and toward the stairs, too impatient to wait for the lift, and so outside, opening the swing doors before the commissioner could help me. 

He would be there, in the driver’s seat, waiting for me, newspaper in hand. And when he saw me, he would smile and discard the paper into the back seat, and open the door for me, saying, “Well, how’s the lady’s companion doing this morning, and where does she want to go today?”

Even if he had driven around in circles, it would not have mattered to me, for I was in that first flushed stage when climbing into the seat beside him, and leaning forward to the windscreen, hugging my knees, was almost too much to bear.

“The weather’s cold this morning, you had better put on my coat,” he spoke.

I was young enough to win happiness in the wearing of his clothes, playing a schoolboy who carries his hero’s sweater and ties it around his throat, choking with pride. And this borrowing of his coat, and wearing it around my shoulders for even a few minutes, was a triumph in itself, and brought a glow upon my morning.

The subtlety and passivity that I had read about in books were not for me. The challenge and the chase. The quiet flirtation, seduction, the swift glance, and the stimulating smile. The art of provocation was unknown to me, and I would sit with my map upon my lap, the wind blowing through my hair, happy in his silence yet eager for his words. Whether he talked or not would leave little difference in my mood. My only enemy was the clock on the dashboard, whose hands would move relentlessly toward one o’clock. We drove east, we drove west. The myriad of villages that clung to the Mediterranean shore was stunning, but I would remember none of it. All I would remember was the feel of the leather seats, the texture of the map upon my knee, its frayed edges, its worn seams, and how, looking at the clock, I thought, “This moment now, at twenty past eleven, must never be lost.” And I shut my eyes to make the experience last longer. When I opened my eyes, we were at a crossroad, and a peasant girl in a black shawl and a dusty skirt, gleaming with a friendly smile, waved to us. In a second, we had passed the crossroad and could see her no more. Already, she belonged to the past. Already, only a memory.

I wanted to go back again and recapture the moment that had gone. And then it came to me that even if we did, it would not be the same. The sun would be changed in the sky, casting another shadow, and the peasant girl would trudge past us along the road in a different way, not waving this time, perhaps not even seeing us. Something was chilling about that thought, something melancholy. And when I looked back towards the clock, I realized another five minutes had passed. Soon, we would reach our time limit and must return to the hotel.

“If only there could be an invention,” I said, throwing caution to the wind, “that bottled up memories, like a scent. And it would never fade, and never get stale. And then, when I wanted it, I could open the bottle up, and it would be like living the moment all over again.”

I looked up at him to see what he would say, but he did not turn to me and kept his eyes on the road.

“What particular moments in your young life do you wish to bottle up?” He asked. I could not tell from his voice whether he was teasing me or not.

“I’m not sure…” I began, then blundered on, rather foolishly, not thinking of my words, “I think I’d like to keep this moment and never forget it.”

“Is that meant to be a compliment to our day or my driving?” He asked, laughing like a mocking brother, and I became silent, overwhelmed all at once by the great gulf between us, and how his very kindness to me widened it. 

That’s all he was to me. Kind.

I knew then that I would never speak of these moments to Mrs. Glam or Miss Sarah, for I could picture Mrs. Glam’s smile would hurt me as his laugh did, and Miss Sarah would purse her lips in irritation. Neither of them would be angry or shocked, perhaps a little jealous; they would look at each other and blink as though they did not altogether believe my story, and with a tolerant shrug of the shoulder, Miss Sarah would say, “It’s extremely sweet and kind of him to take you around driving. The only thing is—are you sure it does not bore him dreadfully?” And then Mrs. Glam would send me out to buy Taxol, patting me on the shoulder. What a degradation lies in being young, I thought, and fell to biting my nails. 

“I wish,” I said finally, still mindful of his laugh and deciding to ignore etiquette, “I wish I were a woman of about thirty-six, dressed in black satin with a string of pearls.”

“Forgive me for being forward, but I probably wouldn’t have minded you if you were,” he said, “and please don’t bite your nails. It's a bad habit.”

“You’ll think of me as improper and rude, I dare say,” I continued, “but I would like to know why you ask me to accompany you on your drives every day. You are being kind, that’s obvious, but why do you choose me for your charity?”

I sat up stiff and straight in my seat, and with all the poor pomposity of youth.

“I ask you because you are not dressed in black satin, with a string of pearls, nor are you thirty-six.” 

His face was blank, and I could not tell if he was joking still or not.

“You know everything there is to know about me,” I spoke again, “There’s not much, I admit, because I have not been alive for very long, and nothing has happened to me yet. But you—I know nothing more about you than I did when we first met.”

“What do you know about me?”

“That you live at the Kim Residence, and—and that you had lost your wife.”

There. I had said it at last, the words that had hovered on my tongue for days. Your wife. It came out with ease, without reluctance, as though the mention of her was the most casual thing in the world. Your wife. The word lingered long after I had spoken it, dancing before me, and because he said nothing in response, made no comment, the word magnified itself into something hideous and appalling. A forbidden word, unnatural on the tongue. I could not call it back; it could not be unsaid. Once again, I saw the inscription on the title page of that book of poems, and the curious slanting R. I felt sick at heart and cold, as if a sack of bricks weighed heavily in my stomach. He would never forgive me, and this would be the end of our friendship.

I stared straight before me at the windscreen, seeing nothing of the flying road, my ears ringing, still tingling with that spoken word. The silence became minutes, and minutes became miles, and everything is over now. I shall never drive with him again. Tomorrow he will go away, and my mistresses will be up again. We will walk along the terrace as we did before. The porter will bring down his luggage, and I shall catch a glimpse of it in the luggage lift with newly-plastered labels. The bustle and finality of departure. The sound of the car changing gears as it turned the corner, and then even that sound would be lost in the merge of common traffic, and so, absorbed forever.

I was so lost in my thoughts, seeing the porter pocketing his tip and going back to the swing doors of the hotel, saying something over his shoulder to the commissionaire, that I did not notice the slowing down of the car, and it was only when we had stopped, drawing up by the side of the road, that I brought myself to the present again. He sat motionless, looking more like a portrait now than ever. He did not belong to the bright landscape of Monte Carlo, I thought, but at the steps of a gaunt cathedral.

My friend was gone, with his kindness and the easy camaraderie, and the brother, too, who had scolded me for biting my nails. This man was a stranger, and I wondered why I was sitting beside him in the car.

Then he turned and spoke to me, “You talked about an invention to capture memories just now. You told me you would like to live the past again at any chosen moment. I’m afraid I think rather differently from you. A lot of my memories are bitter, and I wish to forget every phase of them because those days are finished. They are bottled up. I realized, not that long ago, that I must begin living all over again. The first day we met, your Miss Sarah had asked me why I had come to Monte Carlo. It put a stopper on those memories you would like to resurrect. It does not always work, of course; sometimes the scent is too strong for the bottle, and too strong for me. And then, the devil in one tries to open it. I did that in the first drive we took together. When we drove up that hill and looked over the ledge. I was there some years ago with my wife. You asked me if it was still the same, if it had changed at all. It had not changed, but I was thankful to realize that it felt oddly impersonal to me now. There was no suggestion of that other time. She and I had left no trace of ourselves there. It may have been because you were there with me. You bottled up the past for me more effectively than all of the bright lights of Monte Carlo. If it weren’t for you, I would have left long ago, probably gone on to Italy, or perhaps somewhere in Greece, and further still. You have spared me all of that wandering. I don’t know why you feel like I’m giving out charity when we’re together. I’m sorry if I have offended you with my nagging or my cold and impersonal attitude. I am still dealing with a lot, and I understand if you don’t want someone like me in your circle. But… I really did ask you to come with me because I want you and your company.” He was silent for a moment before speaking again, “If you wish not to see me again, I understand. You don’t have to join me for a ride tomorrow.”

I sat still, my hands in my lap, not knowing whether he meant it or not. Had I been a year or two younger, I would have cried. Children’s tears are always near the surface for me and come at the first crisis. And it was them that I felt pricking behind my eyes. I felt the color flood to my face, and, catching a sudden glimpse of myself in the glass above the windscreen, saw in full the sorry spectacle that I made, with troubled eyes and scarlet cheeks, hair flopping under a broad felt hat.

“I want to go home,” I said, my voice almost trembling, and without a word, he started up the engine and turned the car around the way we had come.

Swiftly, we drove back. Far too swiftly, I thought, far too easily, and the callous countryside watched us in indifference. We came to the crossroad that I had wished to imprint as a memory, and the peasant girl was gone, and the color was flat, and it was no different than any crossroad passed by a hundred motorists. The glamor of it had gone with my happy mood, and at the thought of it, my frozen face quivered into feeling, my adult pride lost, and those despicable tears welled into my eyes and strayed upon my cheeks.

I could not check them, for they came uninvited, and if I reached in my pocket for a handkerchief, he would have seen. I must let them fall untouched and suffer the bitter salt on my lips, plummeting into the depths of humiliation. If he turned his head to look at me, I did not notice, for I watched the road ahead with a blurry and steady stare, but suddenly, he stretched out his hand and took hold of mine, and kissed it, still saying nothing, and then he placed his handkerchief in my lap, which I was too ashamed to touch.

I thought of all those heroines in books who looked pretty when they cried, and what a contrast I must seem like with a blotched and swollen face, and red rims around my eyes. It was a catastrophic end to my morning, and the day that stretched ahead of me was long and tiring. I had to lunch with my mistresses in their room because the nurse was going out, afterward they would make me play bezique with all the tireless energy of the convalescent. I knew I would be suffocated in that room. There was something unpleasant about the tumbled sheets, the sprawling blankets, and the crumpled pillows. That bedside table dusty, covered in powder. Their beds would be littered with sheets of the daily paper, discarded haphazardly, while French novels with folded edges and the covers torn kept company with American magazines. The mashed stubs of cigarettes lay everywhere, in the cleansing cream, the dish of grapes, and on the floor beneath the bed. Visitors were lavish with flowers, and the vases would be placed in any fashion. Later, their friends would come in for a drink, which I must mix for them, hating my task, shy and ill at ease in my corner, pinned by their parrot chatter. And I would be a whipping boy again, blushing for them when, excited by her little crowd, Mrs Glam would sit up in bed and talk too loudly, laugh too long, and Miss Sarah would reach for the portable gramophone and start a record. I preferred Miss Sarah irritable and snappy, her hair done up in pins, and Mrs. Glam scolding me for forgetting her Taxol. All of this awaited me in the suite, while he, once he dropped me off at the hotel, would go away somewhere alone, towards the sea perhaps, feel the wind on his face, following the sun. It might happen that he would lose himself in the memories that I knew nothing of, that I could not share.

The gulf that stood before us was wider than it ever was before, and he stood away from me, back turned, on the furthest shore. I felt young and small, and very much alone, and now, despite my pride, I found his handkerchief and blew my nose, throwing my disheveled appearance into the wind. It could never matter.

“To hell with this,” he said suddenly, as though angry at himself, and pulled me beside him his arm around my shoulder, still looking ahead of him, right hand on the wheel. “I suppose you are very young. And I do not know how to deal with you,” he said. The road narrowed to a corner, and he had to make a sharp turn. I thought he would release me then, but he continued to hold me beside him, and when the corner passed, and the road became straight again, he did not let me go. “You can forget all I said to you this morning. That’s all finished and done with. Don’t think of it ever again. My family always calls me Jihyun, and I’d like you to do the same. You’ve been formal with me long enough.”

He felt for the brim of my hat and took it off, throwing it over his shoulder to the backseat. And then he bent down and kissed the top of my head.

“Promise me you will never wear black satin,” he said, and I smiled then.

He laughed back at me, and the morning was suddenly happy again, a shining thing. My mistresses and the afternoon did not matter a single bit. It would pass so quickly, and there would be tonight, and then another day tomorrow. I was excited, jubilant. At that moment, I almost dared to claim equality with my mistresses. I saw myself strolling into their room rather late for my duties, and when questioned by them, yawning carelessly, I would say, “I forgot the time. I have been lunching with Jihyun.”

I was still child enough to consider calling someone by their first name something unspeakable. The morning, despite all its shadowed moments, had promoted me to a new level of friendship. I did not lag so far behind as I thought. He had kissed the top of my head too, as if it were natural, comforting, and quiet. Not as dramatic in books. Not embarrassing. It seemed to bring about an ease in our relationship; it made everything simpler. The gulf between us has been bridged after all. I was to call him Jihyun. 

And that afternoon, playing bezique with my mistresses was not so tedious as it was first seen, though my courage failed and I had said nothing of my morning. For when gathering her cards at the end of our game, and reaching for the box, Miss Sarah asked casually, “Tell me, is Kim Jihyun still in the hotel?”

I hesitated for a moment, then lost my tutored self-possession, saying, “Yes, I believe so. He comes into the restaurant for his meals.”

Someone told her, I thought, someone had seen us together. The tennis trainer had complained, the manager had sent a note, and I waited for her attack. But she went on putting the cards back into the box, yawning a little, while I straightened out the tumbled bed. I gave her her bowl of powder, the rouge compact, and the lipstick, and she put away the cards and took up the small mirror from the table by her side. 

“Attractive man,” she continued, “but queer-tempered, I think. Difficult to know. I thought he might have made some gesture of asking me to the Kim Residence that day in the lounge, but he was very close.”

I said nothing. I watched as she outlined the bow of her lips with lipstick. 

“Neither my sister nor I had ever seen her,” she said, holding the mirror to admire her handiwork, “but I believe she was very beautiful. Brilliant in every way. They used to give tremendous charity parties at the Kim Residence. She had this organization—the RFA. It was all very sudden and very tragic, and I believe he adored her. I need a brighter shade of powder for this brilliant red. Fetch it, will you? And put this box back in the drawer.”

And we were busy then with the powder, scent, and rouge. And then the same process all over again for Mrs. Glam. We had finished only when the bell rang and their visitors had come in. I handed them their drinks dully, saying little. I changed the records on the gramophone, and I threw away the stubs of cigarettes. 

“Been doing any sketching lately, little lady?” Asked the old banker in forced heartiness, monocle dangling on a string.

I shot him my bright smile of insincerity, “No. Not very lately. Will you have another cigarette?”

Even though I had answered, I felt like I wasn’t here in the suite at all, but following a phantom in my mind, whose shadowy form had taken shape at last. Her features were blurred, her coloring indistinct, the settling of her eyes and the texture of her hair were still uncertain, still yet to be revealed.

She had a beauty that endured, her smile not forgotten. Somewhere, her voice still lingered, and the memory of her words. There were places where she had visited, and things she had touched. Perhaps in the cupboards were clothes she had worn, her scent still about them. In my bedroom, under my pillow, was a book she had taken in her hands, and I could see her turning to that first white page, smiling as she wrote, and shaking her pen. My darling from Rika. It must have been his birthday, and she had put it among her other presents at the breakfast table. And they laughed together as he tore off the wrapping paper and bow. She leaned, perhaps, over his shoulder as he read. My darling. She called him my darling. It was familiar, pleasant, and easy on the tongue. The family could call him Jihyun if they liked. Grandmothers and aunts. And people like myself, dull and youthful, who did not matter. My darling was her choice, the word was her possession. She had written it so with great confidence on that first page of the book. The bold, slanted hand, stabbing the white paper, the symbol of herself. So certain. So assured.

How many times had she written to him? In how many varied moods? Little notes, scrawled on half-sheets of paper, and letters when he was away. Page after page. Intimate. Their news. Her voice, echoing through the house and down the garden, careless and familiar like the writing in the book. 

And I had to call him Jihyun.

Chapter Text

Packing up. The nagging worry of departure. Lost keys, unwritten labels, tissue paper lying on the floor. I hate it all, even now, despite having done so much of it. When shutting drawers and flinging wide a hotel wardrobe, or the impersonal shelves of a furnished villa, it is a methodical matter of a routine; I am aware of the sadness, of a sense of loss. Here, I say, we have lived. We were happy. This has been ours, however brief the moment. Even if we had spent a short time beneath this roof, we left something of ourselves behind. Nothing material, not a hairpin on a dressing table, not a bottle of aspirin tablets, not a handkerchief beneath a pillow, but something undefinable. A moment of our lives. A thought. A mood. This house sheltered us. We spoke. We loved within these walls. That was yesterday. Today, we pass on. We see it no more. We are different, changed in some unidentifiable way. We can never be quite the same again. Even stopping for lunch in some wayside inn, and going to a dark, unfamiliar room to wash my hands, the handle of the door unknown to me, the wallpaper peeling in spots, a funny little cracked mirror above the basin; for this moment, it is mine, it belongs to me. We know one another. This is the present. There is no past and no future. Here I am, washing my hands, the cracked mirror reflects my figure, suspended as it was, in time. This is me. This moment will not pass. 

That day, I knelt on the floor and fumbled with the awkward lock on Mrs. Glam’s trunk. This episode was finished with the snapping of the lock. I glanced out the window, and it was like turning the page of a photo album. Those rooftops and the sea weren’t mine any longer. They belonged to yesterday, to the past. The rooms already wore an empty air, stripped of our possessions, and there was something hungry about the suite, as though it wished us gone, and the new arrivals who would come tomorrow in our place. The heavy luggage stood ready, strapped and locked in the corridor outside. The smaller stuff would be packed later. Wastepaper baskets groaned under litter, all my mistresses’ half-empty medicine bottles and discarded face cream jars, with torn-up bills and letters. Drawers in tables gaped, stripped bare.

Mrs. Glam had flung a letter at me the morning before, as I poured out her coffee at breakfast.

“Jumin is sailing for New York on Saturday. Mr. Han has a threatened appendix, and they’ve cabled him to go. That’s decided me. We’re going too. I’m tired to death of Europe, and we can come back in the early fall. How do you like the idea of seeing New York?”

The thought was worse than prison. Something of my misery must have shown on my face, for at first she looked astonished, then annoyed.

“What an odd, unsatisfactory child you are. I can’t figure you out. Don’t you realize that in New York, girls in your position without any money can have the grandest fun?”

“Plenty of boys and excitement,” Miss Sarah added, “All in your own class. You can have your own little set of friends. Isn’t that so cute? And you wouldn’t be needed at our beck and call as much as you are here.”

Mrs. Glam raised an eyebrow at me, “I thought you didn’t care for Monte?”

“I’ve gotten used to it,” I said lamely, my mind a conflict.

“Well then,” Miss Sarah continued, “You’ll just have to get used to New York, that’s all.”

“We’re going to catch that boat of Jumin’s, and it means we’ll be leaving at once. Go down to the reception office right away, and make that young clerk show some sign of efficiency. Your day will be so full that you won’t have time to have any woes about leaving Monte!” Mrs. Glam laughed disagreeably, squashing her cigarette in the butter, and went to the telephone to ring up all her friends. 

I could not face the office right away. I went into the bathroom and locked the door, and sat down on the mat, my back toward the basin, my head in my hands. 

It had happened at last, the business of going away. It was all over. Tomorrow evening, I should be on the train, holding Miss Sarah’s jewel case and Mrs. Glam’s rug, like a maid, and them, in their monstrous new hats with a single quill, dwarfed in their fur coats, sitting opposite me in the wagon-lit. We would wash and brush our teeth in that stuffy little compartment with rattling doors, the splashed basin, the damp towel, the soap with a single hair on it, while every rattle, every throb and jerk of the screaming train would tell me that miles carried me away from him, sitting alone in the restaurant of the hotel, at the table I had known, reading a book, not minding, not thinking. 

I would say goodbye to him in the lounge before we left. A furtive, scrambled farewell, because of my mistresses. And there would be a moment's hesitation, a smile, and words like “Yes, of course, do write,” and “I’ve never thanked you properly for being so kind,” and “You must forward those snapshots,” “What about your address?” “Well, I’ll let you know.” And he would light a cigarette casually, asking the passing waiter for a lighter, while I thought, “Four and a half minutes to go and I will never see him again.” Because I was going, because it was over, because there was nothing left to say. We would be strangers, meeting for the last time, while my mind screamed out painfully, crying, “I love you so much. I’m terribly unhappy. This kind of love has never come to me before, and never will again.” But my face would be set in a prim, conventional smile, my voice would be saying, “Look at that funny old man over there; I wonder who he is. He must be new here.” And we would waste our last moments laughing at a stranger, because we were already strangers to one another. “I hope the snapshots come out well,” I would repeat myself in desperation, “Yes, that one of the square has got to be good. The light was just right.” We would both agree, and anyway, I would not care if the results were blurry and black, because this was the last moment. The final goodbye had been attained.

“Well,” I would say, a dreadful smile stretching across my face, “thanks most awfully once again, it's been so… ripping…” using words I had never used before. Ripping: what did it mean?—God knows. I did not care. It was a sort of word that schoolgirls had for hockey, wildly inappropriate to those past weeks of misery and exultation. Then the doors of the lift would open to reveal Mrs. Glam and Miss Sarah, and I would cross the lounge to meet them, and he would stroll back again to his corner and pick up a newspaper. 

Sitting there, ridiculously, on the mat of the bathroom floor, I had lived it all. And our journey too, and our arrival in New York. The shrill voice of Miss Sarah, a narrower version of her sister, and Nancy, a horrid little child of a friend. The college boys that Mrs. Glam would introduce me to, the young bank clerks, suitable to my status. “Let’s make Wednesday night a date,” “D’you like Hot music?” Snub-nosed boys with shiny faces. Having to be polite. And wanting to be alone with my own thoughts as I was now, locked behind the bathroom door…

Mrs. Glam came and rattled on the door suddenly, “What are you doing?”

“All right—I’m sorry. I’m coming out now,” I yelled back, and I made a show of running the tap, of bustling about and folding a towel on the rail. 

She glanced at me curiously as I opened the door. “How long have you been in there? You can’t afford to dream this morning, you know. There’s too much to be done.”

He would go back to the Kim Residence, of course, in a few weeks. I was certain of that. There would be a great pile of letters waiting for him in the hall, and mine amongst them, scribbled on the boat. A forced letter, trying to amuse, describing my fellow passengers. It would lie about in a pile of other letters, and he would answer it weeks later, one Sunday morning in a hurry, before lunch, having come across it when he paid some bills. And then no more. Nothing until the final degradation of a Christmas card. The Kim Residence itself, perhaps, against a frosted background. The printed message, saying, “A happy Christmas and a prosperous New Year from Jihyun Kim.” Gold lettering. But to be kind, he would run his pen through the name and write in ink underneath “from Jihyun,” as if sort of pity, and if there was space for a message, he would write, “I hope you are enjoying New York.” A lick of the envelope, a stamp, and tossed into a pile of a hundred others. 

“It's too bad you are leaving tomorrow,” said the reception clerk, phone in hand, “the Ballet starts next week, you know. Does your Mrs. Glam know?”

I dragged myself from the Christmas at the Kim Residence and back to the wagon-lit.

My mistresses lunched in the restaurant for the first time since their influenza, and I felt a pit in my stomach as I followed them into the dining hall. He had gone to Cannes for the day, that much I knew because he had told me so the day before, but I kept thinking the waiter might let something slip and say: “Will Mademoiselle be dining with Monsieur tonight as usual?” I felt a little sick when he came near the table, but he said nothing. 

The day was spent packing, and in the evening, people came by to say farewell. We dined in the sitting room, and my mistresses went to bed directly after. Still, I had not seen him. I went down to the lounge at about half past nine with the excuse of getting luggage labels, but he wasn’t there. The ever-vigilant reception clerk smiled when he saw me.

“If you are looking for Mr. Kim, we had a message from Cannes to say he would not be back before midnight.”

“I want a packet of luggage labels,” I said, but I saw in his eyes that he was not deceived. 

So there would be no last evening after all. The hour I had looked forward to all day would be spent by myself, all alone, in my own bedroom, gazing at my Revelation suitcase. Perhaps it was for the best; I had made for a poor companion, and he must have read my face.

I know I cried that night, bitter youthful tears streaking my face. That kind of crying, deep into a pillow. The throbbing head, the swollen eyes, the tight, contracted throat, and the wild anxiety in the morning to hide all traces of tears from the world, the splashing of cold water, the furtive dash of powder. The panic, too, that I might cry again, the tears swelling without control, and the fatal trembling of the mouth that might send it all over the edge again. I opened the window wide and leaned out, hoping the fresh morning air would hide the tell-tale pink under the powder. The sun had never seemed so bright, nor the day so full of promise. Monte Carlo was suddenly full of kindness and charm, the last sincere place on earth. I loved it. Affection overwhelmed me. I wanted to live here all my life. And I was leaving today. This is the last time I would brush my hair in this mirror, the last time I would brush my teeth in this basin. Never again would I sleep in this bed. Never again would I flip the switch to this light. There I was, padding about in a dressing gown, making out sentiment inside a commonplace hotel room. 

“You’re not coming down with a cold, are you?” Mrs. Glam asked at breakfast. 

“I don’t think so,” I told her, clutching at this straw, since it might serve as an excuse if I was overly pink around the eyes later.

“I hate hanging around once everything is packed,” Miss Sarah whined, “We should have taken the earlier train. We could get it if we made the effort. Then we’d have more time in Paris. We can wire Jumin not to meet us.”

Mrs. Glam looked at her watch, “I suppose they could change the reservations. Anyways, it’s worth trying,” she turned to look at me, “Go down to the office and see.”

“Yes,” I said, a dummy to their moods.

But instead, I went into my bedroom, flinging off my dressing gown, fastening my flannel skirt, and stretching my homemade jumper over my head.

My indifference toward my mistresses turned to hatred. This was the end, but even my morning must be taken from me. No last half hour on the terrace, perhaps not even ten minutes to say goodbye. Because they had finished breakfast earlier than they had expected, because they were bored. In that case, I would fling away restraint and modesty; I would not be proud anymore. I slammed the door of the sitting room and ran along the hallway. I did not wait for the lift; instead, climbing the stairs, three at a time, up to the third floor. I knew the number of his room, 148, and hammered at the door, very flushed in the face and breathless. 

“Come in,” he said, and I opened the door, already apologetic, my nerves failing me. What if he had just woken up, having been up late last night, and was still in bed, hair tousled and irritable?

He was shaving by the mirror, jacket thrown over his pajamas, and I, in my flannel suit and heavy shoes, felt clumsy and overdressed. I was merely foolish when I felt dramatic.

“Is something wrong?” he asked, meeting my eyes.

“I’ve come to say goodbye,” I said breathlessly, “we are leaving this morning.”

He stared at me, then put the razor down on the washstand.

“Shut the door.”

I closed the door behind me and stood there, rather self-conscious, my hands hanging by my side awkwardly. 

“What on earth are you talking about?” He questioned.

“It’s true. We are leaving today. We were going to get on a later train, but now my mistresses want to catch the earlier one, and I was afraid I wouldn’t see you again. I felt I must see you before I left… to thank you.”

My words tumbled out. My idiotic words. Just as I had imagined them. I was stiff and awkward; in a moment, I should say he had been ripping. 

“Why didn’t you tell me about this before?”

“They only decided yesterday. It was all done in a hurry. Mr. Jumin is sailing for New York on Saturday, and we are going with him. We’re joining him in Paris and going through Cherbourg.”

“They’re taking you with them to New York?”

“Yes, and I don’t want to go. I will hate it there. I will be miserable.”

“Why in heaven’s name go with them then?”

“I have to. You know. I work for a salary. I can’t afford to leave.”

He picked up the razor again and took the soap off his face.

“Sit down,” he said, “I won’t be long. I’ll dress in the bathroom and be ready in five minutes.”

He took his clothes off the chair and threw them on the bathroom floor, and went inside, closing the door. I sat down on the bed and began biting my nails. This situation was unreal, and I felt like a mannequin. I wondered what he was thinking and what he was going to do. 

I glanced around the room. It was a room of any man, far too tidy and impersonal. Lots of shoes, more than were ever needed, and strings of ties. The dressing table was bare except for a large bottle of hair wash and a pair of ivory hairbrushes. No photographs. No snapshots. Nothing like that. I instinctively looked for them, thinking there must be at least one photograph beside his bed, or in the middle of the mantelpiece. A large one, in a leather frame. There were only books, however, and a box of cigarettes. 

He was ready, as he had promised, in five minutes.

“Come down to the terrace while I eat my breakfast,” he said.

I looked at my watch, “I don’t have enough time. I have to be in the office right now, changing the reservations.”

“Never mind that,” he waved his hand at me, “I’ve got to talk to you.”

We walked down the corridor, and he rang for the lift. He can’t realize, I thought to myself, that the early train leaves in an hour and a half. Mrs. Glam will ring up the office at any minute and ask if I am there. 

We went down in the lift, not talking, and into the terrace where the tables were laid out for breakfast.

“What are you going to have today?” He asked. 

“I already had breakfast,” I told him, “and anyway, I can only stay for four minutes.”

Jihyun placed his order, the waiter rushing away obediently, and then he turned back to me, “So, Mrs. Glam and Miss Sarah have had enough of Monte Carlo, and now they want to go home. So do I. She to New York, and I to the Kim Residence. Which would you prefer? You can take your choice.”

“Don’t joke about it, it’s unfair,” I replied, “and I think I'd better go see to those tickets and say goodbye now.”

I started getting up from my chair, but he grabbed my wrist and urged me to sit again.

“If you think I’m one of those people who try to be funny at breakfast, you’re wrong,” he spoke, “The choice is yours. Either you go to America with your mistresses, or you can come home to the Kim Residence with me.”

“Do you mean… You want a secretary or something?”

“No, I’m asking you to marry me, you little fool.”

The waiter arrived with the breakfast, and I sat with my hands on my lap, watching while he put down the pot of coffee and the jug of milk.

“You don’t understand,” I said when the waiter had gone, “I’m not the sort of person men marry.”

“What on earth do you mean?” he asked, staring at me, placing his spoon down. 

“I’m not sure,” I said slowly, “I don’t think I know how to explain. I don’t belong to your type of world, for starters.”

“What is my world?”

“Well… the Kim Residence,” I shook my head, “You know what I mean.”

He picked up the spoon again and helped himself to the marmalade. 

“I’m sorry if it feels like I’m lecturing you now, but… shouldn’t I be the judge of that? Whether you belong in my world or not? You probably think I ask you this in the spur of the moment. Because you say you don’t want to go to New York. You think I ask you to marry me for the same reason I asked you to drive in my car with me and gave you that dinner the first evening?”

“Yes,” I answered truthfully.

“One day,” he continued, spreading his toast thick, but I could see the way he tried to hide the way his hands shook, “you may realize that subtlety is not my strongest quality. But you haven’t answered my question. Are you going to marry me?”

I don’t believe, even in my wildest imaginations, that I had considered this a possibility. I had once, while driving in the car with him, and we had fallen silent for many miles, started a rambling story in my head about him being very ill, delirious, I think, and sending for me, and I having to nurse him. I had reached the point in my story where I was placing a wet towel on his forehead when we had arrived at the hotel, and so it finished there. And another time, I had imagined living in a lodge in the grounds of the Kim Residence, and how he would visit me sometimes, and sit in front of the fire. This sudden talk of marriage bewildered me, even shocked me, I think. It did not ring true. In books, men knelt before women, and it would be moonlight. Not at breakfast. Not like this.

“My suggestion doesn’t seem to have gone too well,” he sighed, “I’m sorry. I rather thought you loved me. Perhaps I was mistaken.”

“I do love you,” I blurt, “I love you dreadfully. You’ve made me very unhappy, and I’ve been crying all night because I thought I would never see you again.”

When I said this, he laughed and stretched his hand out to me across the breakfast table, “Bless you for that. One day, when you reach that exalted age of thirty-six, which you told me was your ambition, I’ll remind you of this moment. And you won’t believe me. It’s a pity you have to grow up.”

I was ashamed already, and angry at him for laughing. So women did not make these types of confessions to men. I had a lot to learn. 

“So it’s settled then, isn’t it?” he said, smile still evident in his eyes, “instead of being a companion to Mrs. Glam and Miss Sarah, you’ll be mine, and your duties will almost be exactly the same. I also like new library books, and flowers in the drawing room, and bezique after dinner. And someone to pour out my tea. The only difference is that I don’t take Taxol. I prefer Eno’s. And you must never let me run out of my particular brand of toothpaste.”

I drummed with my fingers on the table, uncertain of myself and him. Was he still laughing at me? Was it all a joke? He looked up and must have seen the anxiety on my face.

“I’m being rather brute to you, aren’t I? This isn’t your idea of a proposal. We should be in a conservatory, with you in a white frock with a rose in your hand, and a violin waltz playing in the distance. Never mind, I’ll take you to Venice for our honeymoon, and we’ll hold hands in the gondola. But we won’t stay too long because I want to show you the Kim Residence.”

He wanted to show me the Kim Residence… And suddenly I realized that it would all happen. I would be his wife, and we would walk in the garden together. We would stroll down that path in the valley to the beach. I knew how I would stand on the steps after breakfast, looking at the day, throwing crumbs to the birds, and later wander out in a shady hat with long scissors in my hand, and cut flowers for the house. I knew now why I bought that picture postcard as a child. It was a premonition, a blank step into the future.

He wanted to show me the Kim Residence… My mind went riot, figures came before me and picture after picture flashed—all while he ate his tangerine, giving me a piece now and then, watching me. We would be in a crowd of people, and he would say, “I don’t think you’ve met my wife yet.” Mrs. Kim. I would be Mrs. Kim. I considered my name, and the signature on checks, to tradesmen, and in letters asking people to dinner. I heard myself talking on the telephone, “Why not come down to the Kim Residence next weekend?” People, always a throng of people. “Oh, she’s simply charming, you must meet her—” This is about me. A whisper on the fringe of the crowd. And I would turn away, pretending not to hear. 

Going down to the lodge with a basket in my arms, grapes and peaches for the old lady who was sick. Her hand stretched out to me, “Lord bless you, Madam, for being so good,” and me saying, “Just send up to the house for anything you want.” Mrs. Kim. I would be Mrs. Kim. I saw the polished dining room table, the tall candles standing in between. Jihyun sitting at the end. A party of twenty-four. I would have a flower in my hair. Everyone looks towards me, holding up their glass. “We must drink for the health of the bride,” and Jihyun saying afterwards as he presses a kiss to my temple, “I had never seen you look so lovely.” Great, cool rooms filled with flowers. My bedroom, a fire in the winter, someone knocking on the door. And a man comes in, smiling. He is Jihyun’s best friend, Han Jumin, and he is saying, “It’s really wonderful how happy you have made him. Everyone is so pleased. You are a success.” Mrs. Kim. I would be Mrs. Kim. 

“The rest of the tangerine is sour, I wouldn’t eat it,” he said, and I stared at him, words slowly processing in my head, then looked down at the fruit on my plate. The quarter was pale and hard. He was right. The tangerine was very sour. I had a sharp, bitter taste in my mouth that I had only now noticed. 

“Am I going to break the news to Mrs. Glam, or are you?” He asked. 

“You tell her,” I said, “she will be so angry.”

We got up from the table. I was excited and flushed, trembling already in anticipation. I wondered if he would tell the waiter, taking my hand in his, and say, “You must congratulate us. Mademoiselle and I are going to be married.” And all the other waiters would hear, and bow to us, and smile, and we would pass into the lounge, a wave of excitement following us, a flutter of anticipation. But he said nothing. He left the terrace without a word, and I followed him to the lift. We passed the reception desk, and no one even looked at us. The clerk was busy at the desk with a heap of papers, talking over his shoulder to his junior. He does not know, I thought, that I will be Mrs. Kim. I am going to live at the Kim Residence. The Kim Residence will belong to me. 

We went up in the lift to the first floor and down along the hallway. He took my hand and swung it as we went along. 

“Does thirty-six seem old to you?” he asked. 

“Oh, no,” I told him, too eagerly, perhaps, “I don’t like young men.”

“You’ve never known any,” he laughed.

We came to the door of the suite.

“I think I'd better deal with this alone,” he said, “tell me something—do you mind how soon we marry? You don’t want a trousseau, or any of that other nonsense? Because the whole thing can be so easily arranged within a few days. Over a desk, with a license, then off in the car to Venice or anywhere you fancy.”

“Not in a church?” I asked, “Not in white, with bridesmaids, and church bells, and choir boys? What about your relations and all your friends?”

“You forget. I’ve had this sort of wedding before.”

I flushed. We continued standing in front of the suite's door, and I noticed the daily paper still thrust through the letterbox. We had been too busy to read it during breakfast. 

“Well?” He said, “What about it?”

“Of course,” I answered, “I was thinking for the moment we could be married at home. Naturally, I don’t expect a church or people or anything like that.” And I smiled at him and made a cheerful face, “Won’t it be fun?”

He had turned to the door, though, and opened it, and we were inside the suite in the doorway.

“Is that you?” Called Mrs. Glam from the sitting room, “What in the name of Mike have you been doing? I’ve rung the office three times and they said they haven’t seen you.”

I was seized with a sudden desire to laugh, or cry, or do both, and I felt a pit form in my stomach. I wished, for one wild moment, that none of this was happening. That I was alone somewhere, going for a walk, and whistling. 

“I’m afraid it’s all my fault,” he said, going into the sitting room, shutting the door behind him, and I heard Miss Sarah’s exclamation of surprise. 

I went into my bedroom and sat by the open window. It was like sitting in the waiting room at the doctor’s office. I would be turning the pages of a magazine, looking at photos that did not matter, and reading articles that I would not remember, until the nurse came, bright and efficient, all humanity washed away by years of disinfectant. She would say, “It’s all right. The surgery was successful. There’s no need to worry at all. You should go home and get some sleep.”

The walls of the suite were thick, and I could hear no murmur of voices. I wondered what he would tell them and how he would phrase his words. Perhaps, he would say, “I fell in love with her, you know, the very first time we met. We’ve been seeing one another every day.” And Miss Sarah would clap her hands together and say, “Why, Mr. Kim, that is the most romantic thing I have ever heard.”

Romantic. That is the word I had been trying to remember when riding up the lift. Yes, of course, romantic. That is what the people would say. It was all sudden and romantic. They suddenly decided to get married then and there—such an adventure. I smiled to myself as I hugged my knees on the window seat, thinking how wonderful all this was, how happy I was going to be. I was to marry the man I loved. I was to be Mrs. Kim. It was foolish to go on having that pit in my stomach when I was so happy. Nerves, of course. Waiting like this: doctor’s waiting room. It would have been better, after all, more natural, if we strolled into the sitting room together, hand in hand, smiling at each other, and he saying, “We’re going to be married. We’re very much in love.”

Love. He had not said anything about being in love yet. No time perhaps. It was so hurried at the breakfast table. Marmalade, coffee, and that tangerine. No time. The tangerine was very bitter. No, he had not said anything about being in love. Just that we were going to get married. Short and definite, very original. Original proposals were much better. More genuine. Not like other people. Not like younger men who talked nonsense more often than not, perhaps not even meaning half of what they were saying. Not like younger men being incoherent, passionate, swearing impossibilities. Not like him the first time, asking Rika… No. I must not think like that. Put it away. A thought forbidden, prompted by demons. Get thee behind me, Satan. I must never think about that, never, ever, ever. He loves me. He wants to show me the Kim Residence. Would they ever finish their talking? Would they ever call me into the room?

There was the book of poems lying beside my bed. He had forgotten he ever lent it to me. It could not have meant much to him then. 

“Go on,” whispered the demon, “open the title page. That’s what you wanted to do, isn’t it? Open the title page.”

Nonsense, I said, I am only going to put it on the bed with the rest of the things.

I yawned. I wandered to the table beside the bed and picked up the book. Suddenly, my foot caught in the flex of the bedside lamp, and I stumbled, the book falling from my hands onto the floor. It fell open at the title page. “My darling from Rika.” 

She was dead. I shouldn’t have thoughts about the dead. They slept in peace, in the dirt below their gravestone. But how alive was her writing. How full of force. Those curious, sloping letters. The blob of ink. Done yesterday. As if it had been written yesterday.

I took my nail scissors from the dressing case and cut out the page, glancing over my shoulder like a criminal. I cut the page right out of the book. It left no jagged edge, and the book looked white and clean without it. A new book that had not been touched. I tore the page into many little fragments and threw them into the wastebasket. Then I went and sat at the window seat again. But the torn scraps in the basket kept whispering to me, and after a moment, I stood up and looked in the basket once more. Even now, the ink on the scraps stood out bold and black. The writing had not been destroyed. I took a box of matches and set fire to the fragments. The flame had a lovely light, staining the paper, curling the edges, making the slanted writing impossible to distinguish. The fragments fluttered to grey ashes. The letter R was the last to go; it twisted in the flame, curling outwards for a moment, then expanded bigger than before. Finally, it crumpled too. The flame had destroyed it. It was not ashes even, but feathery dust.

I went and washed my hands in the basin, feeling much, much better. I had the clean, new feeling that one has after hanging a new calendar on the wall at the beginning of the year. January 1st. I was aware of the same freshness, the same excited confidence. The door then opened, and he came into the room.

“All is well,” he said, “shock made them speechless at first, but I think they’re recovering, so I’m going down to the office to make sure they don’t miss the first train. For a moment, they wavered. I think they wanted to serve as witnesses for the wedding, but I was insistent. Go and talk to them.”

He said nothing about being happy or glad. He did not take my arm and go into the sitting room with me. He simply smiled, waved his hand, and went into the corridor alone. 

I went over to my mistresses, feeling uncertain and rather self-conscious, like a maid who handed in her letter of resignation through a friend. 

Mrs. Glam was standing by the window, smoking a cigarette. She seemed like an odd, dumpy figure I would never see again. Her coat was stretched tight over her large breasts, her ridiculous hat perched sideways on her head. Miss Sarah sat by herself on the sofa, hands in her lap, a blank expression on her face.

“Well,” Mrs. Glam said, her voice dry and hard, a voice she would not use with him. “I suppose I’ve got to hand it to you as a double-time worker. Still waters certainly run deep in your case.”

“How did you manage it?” Miss Sarah blurted.

I did not know how to answer. I did not like Mrs. Glam’s smile. Miss Sarah got up from her spot on the sofa and walked over until she was standing almost toe-to-toe with me. Her once-barren expression turned into anger.

“It was a lucky thing for you that we had the influenza. I realize now how you spent your days and why you were so forgetful. Tennis lessons my eye. You should have told us, you know.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. 

She looked at me curiously, running her eyes over my figure. “And he tells us he wants to marry you in a few days. Well, it's nothing to do with us anymore. I rather wonder what his friends are going to think, but I suppose that’s up to him. You do realize he’s years older than you?”

“He’s only thirty-six,” I spoke, “and I’m old for my age.”

Mrs. Glam laughed, her cigarette ash dropping to the floor. “You certainly are.”

Mrs. Glam also studied me in a way she had never done before. Appraising me, running her eyes over my points like a judge at a cattle show. There was something inquisitive about her eyes, something unpleasant. 

“Tell me,” she said, intimate, like a friend to a friend, “have you been doing something you shouldn’t?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

They both laughed before Mrs. Glam spoke again, “Oh, well… never mind. But I always said you young girls are like dark horses, for all your hockey-playing attitude. So we’re supposed to travel to Paris and leave you here while your beau gets a marriage licence? I notice he didn’t ask us to the wedding.”

“I don’t think he wants anyone. And anyway, you would have sailed.”

“Hm, hm,” Mrs. Glam took out her vanity case and began powdering her nose.

“But… We can’t seriously let her marry him!” Miss Sarah exclaimed. 

Mrs. Glam ignored her and continued, “I suppose you really do know your own mind. After all, the whole thing was rather hurried, was it not? A matter of a few weeks. I don’t suppose he’s too easy, and you’ll have to adapt to his ways. You’ve lived an extremely sheltered life until now, you know, and I can’t say we have run you off your feet. You will have your work cut out as mistress of the Kim Residence. To be perfectly frank, my dear, I simply can’t see you doing it.”

Her words sounded like an echo of mine, only an hour before.

Miss Sarah glared fire at me. “You don’t have the experience,” she said, “You don’t know that social setting. You can scarcely string two sentences together at my tea parties. What are you going to say to all his friends? The RFA parties were famous when she was alive. Of course, he’s told you about them?”

I hesitated, but Mrs. Glam went on, thankfully, not waiting for my answer.

“Naturally, I want for you to be happy. And, I grant you, he’s a very attractive man, but—well, I’m sorry, I personally think you are making a big mistake. You’ll gravely regret it later.”

She put down her box of powder, looking at me over her shoulder. Perhaps she was being sincere at last, but I did not wish to hear that type of honesty. I did not say anything. I looked sullen, perhaps, for she shrugged, and went over to the mirror to straighten her mushroom hat, and Miss Sarah had returned to the sofa at last. I was glad they turned away, glad I did not have to see them again. I grudged the months I had spent with them, employed by them, taken their money, trotting in their wake like a shadow, drab and dumb. Of course I was inexperienced. Of course I was idiotic, shy, and young. I knew all that. They did not have to tell me. 

I suppose their attitude was deliberate, and by some odd, feminine reason, they resented the marriage. Their scale of values received a shock. Well, I did not care. I would forget them and their barbed words. A new confidence was born within me when I tore out the page and burned the fragments. The past would not exist for us. We were starting fresh, he and I. The past had been blown away like the scraps in the wastebasket. I was going to be Mrs. Kim. I was going to live at the Kim Residence. Soon, my mistresses would be gone, rattling alone in the wagon-lit without me, and he and I would be together in the dining room, planning our future. The brink of a big adventure. Perhaps, once they had gone, he would talk to me at last, about loving me, about being happy. Up until now, there had been no time, and anyway, these things are not easily said; they have to wait for their moment. 

I looked up and caught the eyes of Miss Sarah. She was looking at me, a little tolerant smile on her lips. I thought she was going to be generous after all, hold out her hand and wish me luck, encourage me, and tell me everything will be alright. But she went on smiling, twisting a stray lock of hair into place. 

“Of course, you know why he’s marrying you, don’t you?” She asked, “You haven’t flattered yourself into thinking that he’s in love with you? The fact is, that the empty house got on his nerves to such an extent, he nearly went off his head. He admitted as much before you came into the room. He just can’t go on living there alone…”

Chapter Text

We came to the Kim Residence in early May. Arriving, so Jihyun said, with the first swallows and the bluebells. It was the best moment, before the full flush of summer, and in the valley the azaleas would be prodigal of scent, and the blood red rhododendrons in bloom. We drove, leaving Seoul in the morning in a heavy shower of rain, coming to the Kim Residence at about five o’clock, just in time for tea. I was unsuitably dressed as usual, although a bride of seven weeks, in a tan-colored stockinette frock, a small fur around my neck, all over a shapeless mackintosh, far too big for me and dragging to my ankles. It was, I thought, a gesture to the weather, and the length added inches to my height. I clutched a pair of gloves in my hand and carried a large leather handbag in the other.

“This is Seoul rain,” Jihyun said, “just wait. The sun will come out for you when we arrive at the Kim Residence.”

And he was right, for the clouds left us, rolling behind us, leaving a great blue sky above our heads and a white road in front of us. I was glad to see the sun, because, in my silly superstition, I viewed rain as a sign of ill-will, and the leaden skies of Seoul had made me silent.

“Feeling better?” Jihyun asked, and I smiled at him, taking his hand, thinking how easy all of this was for him, going to his own home, wandering the halls, picking up letters, ringing the bell for tea. I wondered how much he knew of my nervousness, and whether his question, “Feeling better?” meant that he understood. 

“Never mind, we’ll soon be there. I assume you want your tea,” he said, and he let go of my hand as we reached a bend in the road, and must slow down.

I knew then that he had mistaken my nervousness for fatigue, and it had not occurred to him that I dreaded this arrival at the Kim Residence as much as I longed for it in theory. Now that the moment was upon me, I wish it had been delayed. I wanted to draw up at some wayside inn and stay there, in a coffee room, by an impersonal fire. I wanted to be a traveler on the road, a bride in love with her husband. Not myself coming to the Kim Residence, the wife of Jihyun Kim. 

We passed many friendly villages where the cottage windows held a kindly air. A woman holding a baby in her arms smiled at me from a doorway, while a man clanked across the road to a well, carrying a pail. 

I wished we could be part of their community, perhaps their neighbors, and that Jihyun could lean over the cottage gate in the evenings, smoking a pipe, proud of the very tall holyhock he grew himself, while I bustled in my kitchen, clean as a pin, preparing the table for supper. There would be an alarm clock on the table ticking loudly, and a row of shining plates, while after supper, Jihyun would read his paper, boots on the fender, and I would reach for a great pile of mending in the dresses drawer. Surely it would be peaceful and steady, that way of living, and easier too, demanding no set standard. 

“Only two miles further,” said Jihyun, “see that great belt of trees on the brow of the hill over there? Sloping to the valley with a scrap of the sea beyond? That’s the Kim Residence in there. Those are the woods.”

I forced a smile and did not answer him, aware now of a stab of panic, an uneasy sickness that could not be controlled. Gone was my glad excitement, vanished was my gleaming pride. I was like a child brought to her first day of school, or a little untrained maid who had never left home before. Any measure of self-possession I had gained before during the brief seven weeks of marriage was like a rag now, fluttering before the wind. It seemed to me that even the most elementary knowledge of behavior was unknown to me now: I did not know my right hand from my left, whether to sit or stand, what spoons or forks to use at dinner.

“I would take off that mackintosh,” he said, glancing down at me, “it has not rained down here at all.” He gently pulled my little fur straight before sighing. “I’ve bustled you down here like this, and you probably ought to have bought a lot of clothes in Seoul.”

“It doesn’t matter to me as long as you don’t mind,” I said. 

He turned a corner, and we came to a crossroad and the beginning of a high wall. “Here we are,” he said, a new note of excitement in his voice, and I gripped the leather seat of the car with my two hands.

The road curved before us. On the left were two high iron gates beside a lodge, open to the long drive beyond. As we drove through, I thought I saw faces peering through the dark windows of the lodge, and a child ran around from the back, staring curiously. I shrank back against the seat, my heart hammering in my chest, knowing why the faces were in the window, and why the child stared. They wanted to see what I was like. I could picture it now, them talking excitedly, laughing in the little kitchen. “Only caught sight of the top of her hat,” they would say, “she wouldn’t show her face. Oh, well, we’ll know by tomorrow. Word will come from the house.”

Perhaps Jihyun guessed something about my shyness at last, because he took my hand, kissed it, and laughed a little, even as he spoke. “You shouldn’t mind even if there is a certain amount of curiosity. Everyone will want to know what you are like. They have probably talked of nothing else for weeks. You only have to be yourself, and they’ll all adore you. And don’t worry about the house, Miss Mika does everything. Just leave it all to her. She’ll be stiff with you at first, I dare say, but she’s an extraordinary character. You should not let it worry you. It’s just her manner. See those shrubs? It’s like a blue wall along here when the hydrangeas are in bloom.”

I did not answer him because I was thinking of myself from long ago, when I bought that picture postcard in the village shop, and came out into the bright sunlight, twisting it in my hands, pleased with my purchase, thinking, “This will do for my album. The Kim Residence. What a lovely name.” And now I belong here. This was my home. I would write letters to people, saying, “We shall be down at the Kim Residence all summer. You must come and see us,” and I would walk along this drive, strange and unfamiliar to me now, with perfect knowledge, conscious of every twist and turn, marking and approving where the gardeners had worked. Here, a cutting back of a shrub, there a lopping of a branch, calling at the lodge by the iron gates on some friendly errand, saying, “Well, how’s the leg today?” while the old woman, curious no longer, bade me welcome to her kitchen. 

I envied Jihyun, careless and at ease, and the little smile on his lips meant he was happy to be coming home. It seemed remote to me, far too distant, the time when I, too, should smile and be at ease, and I wished it could come quickly. That I could be old, even, with gray hair and slow of step, having lived here many years—anything but the timid, foolish creature I felt myself to be now. 

The gates had shut with a crash behind us, and the dusty highroad was out of sight, and I became aware that this was not the drive I imagined to be the Kim Residence’s. This was not a broad, spacious thing of gravel, flanked with neat turf on either side, kept smooth with rake and brush. This drive twisted and turned like a serpent, not wider in some parts than a simple path, and above our heads was a great column of trees, whose branches nodded and intertwined with each other, making an archway for us, like a roof of a church. Even the midday sun could not penetrate the interlacing of those green leaves; they were too thickly intertwined with one another, and only little flickering patches of warm light would drop in intermittent waves to drape the drive with gold. 

It was very silent, very still. On the high road, there had been a playful west wind blowing in my face, making the grass dance in unison, but here, there was no wind. Even the engine of the car had taken a new note, throbbing low, quieter than before. As the drive descended into the valley, the trees came up close to us, great beeches with lovely smooth white stems, lifting their myriad of branches to one another, and other trees, trees I could not name, coming close, so close I could touch them with my hand. On we went, over a little bridge that crossed a stream, and still the drive twisted and turned like an enchanted ribbon through the dark and silent woods. It penetrated even deeper, surely, to the very heart of the forest itself. And still, there was no clearing, no space to hold a house. 

The length of it began to nag at my nerves. It must be this turn, I thought, or round that further bend. But as I leaned forward in my seat, I was forever rendered disappointed. There was no house, no field, no broad and friendly garden, nothing but the silent, deep woods. The lodge gates were a memory, and the high road something belonging to another time, another world. 

Suddenly, I saw a clearing in the dark drive up ahead, and a patch of the sky. In a moment, the dark trees had tinned, the nameless shrubs disappeared, and on either side of us was a wall of color, brilliant yellows and oranges, reaching toward the sky. We were among the daffodils. There was something bewildering, even shocking, about the suddenness of their discovery. The woods had not prepared me for them. They startled me with their yellow faces, massed one upon the other in incredible profusion, showing no leaf, no twig, nothing but the slaughterous yellow, luscious and fantastic, unlike any daffodil plant I had seen before. 

I glanced at Jihyun. He smiled at me. “Like them?”

“Yes,” I said, a little breathlessly, uncertain whether I was speaking the truth or not, for to me, daffodils were a homely, domestic thing, strictly conventional, standing one beside the other in a neat, round bed. And these were monsters, reaching for the sun, massed like a battalion, too beautiful, I thought, too powerful. They were not plants at all. 

We were not far from the house now, and I could see the drive broaden to something I had expected, and with the golden wall still flanking us on either side, we turned the last corner, and so came to the Kim Residence. Yes, there it was, the Kim Residence I had expected. The Kim Residence of my picture postcard from many years ago. A thing of grace and beauty, exquisite and flawless, more lovely than I had ever dreamed, built in its hollow of smooth grasslands and mossy lawns. The terraces sloping to the gardens, and the gardens to the sea. 

As we drove up to the wide, stone steps and stopped before the open door, I saw through one of the windows that the hall was full of people, and I heard Jihyun sigh under his breath.

“That woman,” he murmured, “she knows perfectly well I did not want this sort of thing.”

He put on the brakes. 

“What’s the matter?” I asked, “Who are all those people?”

“I’m afraid you will have to face it now,” he said, “Miss Mika has collected the whole staff in the house and on the estate to welcome us. It’s all right, you won’t have to say anything. I’ll do it all.”

I fumbled with the handle of the car door, feeling slightly sick and cold now, too, from the long drive, and as I fumbled with the catch, the butler came down the steps, followed by a footman, and he opened the door for me. 

He was old, but had a kind face, and I smiled up at him, holding out my hand, but I don’t think he could have seen, for he took the rug instead, and my small dressing-case, and turned to Jihyun, helping me from the car at the same time. 

“Well, here we are, Frith,” Jihyun said, taking off his gloves. “It was raining when we left Seoul. You don’t seem to have it here. Everyone well?”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. No, we have had a dry month as a whole. Glad to see you home, and hope you have been keeping well. And Madam too.”

“Yes, we are both well, thank you, Frith. Rather tired from the drive, and wanting our tea. I didn’t expect this business.” He jerked his head toward the hall. 

“Miss Mika’s orders, sir,” said the man, his face expressionless. 

“I might have guessed it,” said Jihyun abruptly. “Come on,” he turned to me, “it won’t take long, and then you shall have your tea.”

We went up the flight of steps together, the man named Frith and the footman following close behind with the rug and my mackintosh. I was aware of the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach and a nervous contraction in my throat. 

I stood on the threshold of the house, a slim, awkward figure in my stockinette dress, clutching in my sticky hands a pair of gauntlet gloves. I could see the great stone hall, the wide doors open to the library, the exquisite staircase leading to the minstrels’ gallery, and there, arranged one behind the other in the hall, overflowing to the stone passage beyond, and to the dining room, a sea of faces, open-mouthed and curious, gazing at me as though they were the watching crowd about the block, and I the victim with my hands behind my back. 

Someone advanced from the sea of faces, someone tall and gaunt, dressed in deep black, whose prominent cheekbones and great, hollow eyes gave her a skull’s face, parchment-white, set on a skeleton’s frame. She came towards me, and I held out my hand, envying her for her dignity and her composure. But when she took my hand, hers was limp and heavy, deathly cold. It lay in mine like a lifeless thing. 

“This is Miss Mika,” Jihyun said.

She began to speak, still leaving that dead hand in mine, her hollow eyes never leaving mine, so that my own wavered and would not meet her. And as they did so, her hand moved in mine, life returned to it, and I was aware of the sensation of discomfort and shame. 

I could not remember her words, but I knew that she bade me welcome to the Kim Residence, in the name of herself and the staff. A stiff, conventional speech rehearsed for the occasion, spoken in a voice as cold and as lifeless as her hand had been. When she finished, she waited, as though for a reply, and I blushed scarlet, stammering some sort of thanks in return, and dropping both my gloves in fear. She stooped to pick them up, and as she handed them to me, I saw a little smile of scorn playing upon her lips. I guessed at once that she considered me ill-bred. Something in the expression on her face left me with a feeling of unrest. Even when she had stepped back and taken her place among the rest, I could see that black figure standing out alone, individual and apart, and for all her silence, I knew her eyes to be upon me. 

Jihyun took my arm and gave a little speech of thanks, perfectly easy and free from embarrassment, as though making of it was no effort to him at all, and then he bore me off to the library for tea, closing the doors behind us, and we were alone again. 

Two cocker spaniel dogs came from the fireside to greet us. They pawed at Jihyun, their long, silken ears straightened back with affection, their noses questing his hands, and then they left him to come to me, sniffing at my heels, rather uncertain, rather suspicious. One was the mother, Sally, blind in both eyes, and soon she had had enough of me and took herself with a grunt back to the fire again. But Jasper, the younger, put his nose into my hand and lay a chin on my knee, his eyes deep with meaning, tail wagging as I stroked his silken ears. 

I felt better when I had taken my hat off, and my wretched little fur, and thrown them both beside my gloves and my bag onto the window seat. It was a deep, comfortable room, with books lining the walls to the ceiling. The sort of room a man would never move from if he lived alone, solid chairs beside a great open fireplace, baskets for two dogs in which I felt they never sat, for the hollows in the chairs had telltale marks. The long windows looked out upon the yard, and beyond the lawns to the great shimmer of the sea.

There was an old, quiet smell about the room, as though the air in it was a little different, for all the sweet lilac scent and the roses brought to it throughout the early summer. Whatever air came into this room, whether from the garden or from the sea, would lose its first freshness, becoming part of the unchanging room itself. One with the books, musty and never read. One with the scrolled ceilings, the dark paneling, the heavy curtains. It was an ancient, mossy smell, the smell of a silent church where services are infrequently held, where rusty lichen grows upon the stones and ivy tendrils creep to the very windows. A room for peace. A room for meditation. 

Soon, the tea was brought to us, a stately little performance enacted by Frith and the young footman, in which I played no part in until they had gone, and while Jihyun glanced through his great pile of letters, I played with two dripping crumpets, crumbled cake with my hands, and swallowed my scalding tea.

Now and again, Jihyun would look up at me and smile, and then return to his letters. The accumulation of last month, I suppose. And then I thought of how little I knew of his life here at the Kim Residence, of how it went day by day, of the people he knew, of his friends, men and women, the bills he paid, what orders he gave about his household. The last few weeks had gone by so swiftly, and I, driving by his side through France and Italy, thought only of how much I loved him, seeing Venice with his eyes, echoing his words, asking no questions of the past or of the future, content with the little glory of the living present.

He was happier than I had expected, more tender than I had dreamed, youthful and present in a hundred happy ways, not the Jihyun I had first met, not the stranger who had sat alone at the table in the restaurant, staring before him, wrapped in his secret self. My Jihyun laughed and sang, threw stones into the water, and took my hand. There was no frown on his face, no burden on his shoulders. I knew him as a lover, a friend, and had completely forgotten that he had a life of his own, which he must return to and continue as before, orderly, methodical, marking the vanished weeks a brief, discarded holiday. 

I watched him read the letters. He frowned at one, smiled at another, and tossed another one away with no expression on his face. And, by the grace of God, I thought, my letter would have ended up on the pile as well, had I left for New York, and he would pick it up and read it in some indifferent fashion, puzzled at first by the signature, but then, with a yawn, he would toss it to the pile of others in the basket, reaching for his cup of tea. The knowledge of that chilled me. How narrow a chance stood between me and what might have been? He would sit here as he did now, sipping his tea, returning to his home life in which he would in any case, and perhaps he would not have thought about me at all, not with any regard anyway. All while I was to be somewhere in New York, playing bridge with Mrs. Glam, and would wait day after day for a letter that would never come. 

I leaned against the chair, glancing around the room, trying to instill into myself some confidence that I was here, here at the Kim Residence, the Kim Residence that was famous, the Kim Residence from the picture postcard from many years ago. I had to teach myself that all of this was mine now, just as it was his, the deep chair I was sitting in, the masses of books stretching to the ceiling, the pictures in the hall, the gardens, the woods, the Kim Residence that I had read about, now all mine because I was married to Jihyun.

We would grow old in here together, having tea as we are now, Jihyun and I, with other dogs, successors of these, and the library would wear the same ancient, musty smell that it did now. It would know a period of glorious shabbiness and wear when the boys were young—our boys—for I saw them sprawling on the sofa in muddy boots, bringing with them always a litter of rods, cricket bats, great clasp knives, bows and arrows…

On the table there, polished now and plain, would stand an ugly case of pinned moths and butterflies, and another of birds’ eggs, wrapped in cotton wool. “Not all this is junk in here,” I would say, “take it to the schoolroom, darlings,” and they would run off, shouting, calling behind one another, while the little one stayed behind, pottering on his own, quieter than the others. 

My vision was disturbed by the opening of doors, and Frith came in with the footman to clear the tea. 

“Miss Mika wondered, Madam, if you would like to see your room?” he said to me when the tea had been taken away.

Jihyun glanced up from his letters, “What sort of job had they made of the east wing?”

“Very nice indeed, sir, as it seems to me. The men made a mess when they were working, and Miss Mika was rather worried, for a time, that they would not finish before your return. But they cleared out last Monday. I should imagine you would be quite comfortable there, sir. It’s a lot lighter, of course, on that side of the house.”

“Have you been doing renovations?” I asked. 

“Oh, nothing much,” Jihyun said briefly, “only redecorating and recoloring the suite in the east wing, which I thought we would use for us. As Frith says, it is much more cheerful on that side of the house, and it has a lovely view of the rose gardens. It was the visitor’s wing when my mother was alive. I’ll just finish with these letters and come up to join you. Run along and make friends with Miss Mika. It’s a good opportunity.”

I got up slowly, my old nervousness returning, and left into the hall. I wished I could have waited for him, and then, my arm in his, had seen the room together. I did not want to go alone with Miss Mika. How vast the hall looked now that it was empty. My feet made a noise against the flagged stones, echoing to the ceiling, and I was aware of the same self-conscious, guilty feeling that one has when making noise in a church. My feet made a stupid pitter-patter as I walked, and I thought that Frith, with his felt soles, viewed me as foolish. 

“It’s very big, isn’t it?” I asked, too brightly, too forced, a schoolgirl still, but he still answered me seriously. 

“Yes, Madam, the Kim Residence is a big place. Not as big as some, of course, but big enough. This was the banquet hall in the old days. It is still used on grand occasions, such as a big dinner or a ball. And the public are admitted here, you know, once a week.”

“Yes,” I said, still aware of my footsteps. 

As I followed him, I felt that he considered me one of those visitors too, glancing politely left and right, taking in the weapons on the wall, and the pictures, touching the carved staircase with my hand. 

A black figure stood at the head of the stairs, solemn eyes watching me intently from the white skull’s face. I looked around for the solid Firth, but he had already gone, disappearing into the hall and further still to the corridor. 

I was alone now with Miss Mika. I went up the great staircase towards her, and she looked at me motionless, her hands folded before her, eyes never leaving my figure. I summoned a smile which was not returned, and I didn’t blame her as there was no reason to smile. It was a silly thing, bright and artificial. 

“I hope I haven’t kept you waiting,” I said. 

“It’s for you to make your own time, Madam,” she replied, “I’m here to carry out your orders.”

And then she turned, through the archway of the gallery, to the corridor beyond. We went along a broad, carpeted passage and then turned left, through an oak door, and down a narrow flight of stairs and up a corresponding flight, and so to another door. This she flung open, standing aside to let me pass, and I came into a little anteroom, or boudoir, furnished with a sofa, chairs, and a writing desk, which opened to a large double bedroom with wide windows and a bedroom beyond. I went at once to the windows and looked out. The rose garden lay below, and the east wing of the terrace, while beyond the rose garden was a smooth grass bank, stretching to the near woods. 

“You can’t see the sea from here, then,” I said, turning to Miss Mika. 

“No, not from this wing,” she answered, “you can’t even hear it, either. You would not know the sea is anywhere near from this wing.”

She spoke in a peculiar way, as though there was a deeper meaning to her words, and she laid emphasis on the phrase “this wing,” as if to insinuate that it held some inferiority. 

“I’m sorry to hear about that. I like the sea,” I said.

She did not answer. She just went on staring at me, her hands folded before her. 

“However, it’s a very charming room,” I continued somewhat awkwardly, “and I’m sure I shall be comfortable. I understand that it’s been renovated before our return.”

“Yes.”

“What was it like before?”

“It had a manuve wallpaper and different hangings. Mr. Kim did not think it was very cheerful. It was rarely used, except for the occasional visitor. But Mr. Kim gave special orders in his letter that this was to be your room.”

“Then this was not his bedroom originally?” I questioned.

“No, Madam, he’s never used the room in this wing before.”

“Oh, he didn’t tell me that.”

I wandered to the vanity and began combing my hair. My things were already unpacked, my brush and comb lying on a tray. I was glad Jihyun gave me a set of brushes, and that they were all laid out here for Miss Mika to see. They were new, they cost money, and I was not ashamed of them. 

“Alice has unpacked for you and will look after you until your maid arrives,” said Miss Mika.

I smiled at her again. I put the brush down upon the dressing table. 

“I don’t have a maid,” I said clumsily, “I’m sure Alice, if she is the housemaid, will look after me alright.”

She wore the same expression on her face that was present at our first meeting, when I had dropped my gloves so gracelessly. 

“I’m afraid that would not do for very long. It’s usual, you know, for ladies in your position to have a personal maid.”

I flushed and reached for my brush again, keeping myself occupied while she stared at me. There was a sting in her words I understood too well. 

“If you think it is necessary, perhaps you would be able to see it for me,” I said, avoiding her eyes, “some young girl, perhaps, wanting to train.”

“If you wish. That’s for you to say.”

A silence had fallen upon us again. I wished she would go away. I wondered why she must continue to stand there, watching me, her hands folded over her black dress. 

“I suppose you’ve been at the Kim Residence for many years,” I said, making a fresh effort, “longer than anyone else?”

“Not so long as Frith,” she replied, and I thought how lifeless her voice was, and cold, like her hand when it had lain in mine, “Frith was here when the old gentleman was living, when Mr. Kim had been a boy.”

“I see. So you did not come until after that?”

“No,” she said, “not till after that.”

Once more, I gazed up at her, and once more, I met her eyes, dark and somber, in that white face of hers. I didn’t know why, but her gaze had left me with a feeling of chill and foreboding. I tried to smile, but could not. I found myself trapped by her eyes, which held no light, no flicker of sympathy towards me. 

“I came here when the first Mrs. Kim was a bride,” she said, and her voice, which had been flat and toneless before, sprang to life with unexpected animation, with life and meaning, and there was a spot of color on her gaunt cheekbones. 

The change was so sudden that I was shocked, and perhaps a little scared. I did not know what to do or what to say. It was as though she spoke words that were forbidden, ones that she had buried deep inside her, and now they would be repressed no longer. Still, her eyes never left my face. They looked upon me with pity and scorn, until I felt myself to be even younger and more untutored in the ways of life than I had ever felt before. I could see that she despised me, marking with all the snobbery of her class that I was no great lady; I was humble, shy, and different. Yet, there was something in her eyes besides scorn. Something surely of positive dislike, or actual malice?

I had to say something. I could not go on sitting here, playing with my hairbrush, letting her see how much I feared and distrusted her.

“Miss Mika,” I heard myself say, “I hope we shall be friends and come to understand each other. You must have patience with me, for this way of life is rather new; I’ve lived very differently. And I do want to make a success of it, and above all, I want to make Mr. Kim happy. I know I can leave all the household arrangements to you, Mr. Kim said so, and you won’t have to run everything any differently from how it usually was. I shall not make any changes.”

I stopped, a little breathlessly, still uncertain of myself and whether I was saying the right thing, and when I looked up again, I saw that she had moved and was standing at the door with her hand on the handle. 

“Very good. I hope I shall do everything to your satisfaction. The house had been in my charge for over a year now, and Mr. Kim had never complained. It was very different, of course, when the late Mrs. Kim was alive. There was a lot of entertaining, a lot of charity parties, and although I supervised for her, she liked to manage things herself.”

Once again, I felt the impression that she was choosing her words carefully, that she was feeling her way into my mind and watching for the effects of it upon my face. 

“I would rather leave it to you,” I repeated, “much rather.”

And into her face came the same expression I noticed before, when I had first shaken hands with her in the hall. A look of derision, of definite contempt. She knew that I could never withstand her and that I feared her too. 

“Can I do anything more for you?” She pretended to glance around the room.

“No,” I said, “No, I think I have everything. I shall be very comfortable here. You have made the room so charming,”—this was a final crawling sop to win her approval. 

She shrugged her shoulders and still did not smile. “I only followed out Mr. Kim’s instructions.”

She hesitated by the doorway, her hand on the handle of the open door. It was as though she had something she wanted to say to me, and could not decide upon her words, yet waited there for me to give her the opportunity. 

I wished she would go. She was like a shadow standing there, watching me, appraising me with her hollow eyes, set in that dead skull’s face. 

“If you find anything not to your liking, you will tell me at once?” She asked.

“Yes,” I said, “Yes, of course, Miss Mika.”

But I knew this was not what she had meant to say, and silence fell between us again. 

“If Mr. Kim asks for his big wardrobe,” she suddenly spoke again, “you must tell him it was impossible to move. We tried, but we could not get it through these narrow doorways. These are smaller rooms than those in the west wing. If he doesn’t like the arrangements in the suite, he must tell me. It was difficult to know how to furnish these rooms.”

“Please don’t worry, Miss Mika. I’m sure he will be pleased with everything. But I’m sorry it’s given you so much trouble. I had no idea he was having rooms redecorated and refurnished. He shouldn’t have bothered. I’m sure I would’ve been just as happy and comfortable in the west wing.”

She looked at me curiously and began twisting the handle to the door.

“Mr. Kim said you would prefer it on this side. The rooms in the west wing are very old. The bedroom in the big suite is twice as large as this. A beautiful room too, with a scrolled ceiling. The tapestry chairs are very valuable, and so is the carved mantelpiece. It's the most beautiful room in the house. And the windows look down across the lawns to the sea.”

I felt uncomfortable and a little shy. I did not know why she had to speak with that undercurrent of resentment, implying that this room, the one in which I found myself to be installed, was something inferior, not up to the Kim Residence’s standard, and that it was a second-rate room for a second-rate person.

“I suppose Mr. Kim saves the most beautiful room to show to the public.”

She went on, twisting the handle to the door, and then looked up at me again, watching my eyes before replying, and when she spoke, her voice was quieter and even more toneless than it had been before. 

“The bedrooms are never shown to the public. Only the hall and the gallery, and the room below.” She paused for an instant, feeling me with her eyes. “They used to live in the west wing and use those rooms when Mrs. Kim was alive. The big room, the one I was telling you about, the one looking out to the sea, was Mrs. Kim’s bedroom.”

Then I saw a shadow flit across her face, and she drew back against the wall, effacing herself, as a step sounded outside and Jihyun came into the room.

“How is it?” He said to me, “Is it all right? Do you think you will like it?” He looked around with enthusiasm, a boyish charm radiating off him. “I always thought this was the most attractive room. It wasted all those years as a guest room, but I knew it had potential. You’ve made a great success of it, Miss Mika, I give you full marks.”

“Thank you, sir,” she said, her face expressionless, and then she turned and went out of the room, closing the door softly behind her. 

Jihyun went and leaned out of the window. “I love the rose garden,” he said, “one of the first things I remember is walking behind my mother on very small, unsteady legs, while she picked off the dead heads of the roses. There’s something peaceful and happy about this room, and it’s quiet too. You could never tell that you were five minutes away from the sea.”

“That’s what Miss Mika said.”

He stepped away from the window, prowling about the room, touching things, looking at pictures, opening wardrobes, inspecting my clothes, already unpacked.

“How did you get along with Miss Mika?” He asked abruptly. 

I turned away and began combing my hair again in the mirror. “She seems just a little bit stiff,” and after a moment or two, I added, “perhaps she thought I was going to interfere with running the house.”

“I don’t think she would mind you doing that.”

I looked up and saw him watching my reflection in the mirror, and then he turned away and went back to the window, whistling quietly under his breath, rocking back and forth on his heels. 

“Don’t mind her,” he finally said, “she’s an extraordinary character in many ways, and possibly not very easy for another woman to get along with. You mustn’t worry about it. If she really makes herself a nuisance, we’ll get rid of her. I dare say she’s a bit of a bully to the other staff. But she’s efficient, you know, and will take all the housekeeping duties off your hands.”

“I expect we shall get along very well when she comes to know me better,” I replied quickly, “after all, it’s natural enough that she should resent me a bit at first.”

“Resent you? Why resent you? What in the world do you mean?”

He turned from the window, frowning, an odd, half-angry expression on his face. I wished I had said something else. 

“I mean, it must be much easier for a housekeeper to look after a man herself. I dare say she had a routine of doing things, and perhaps she was afraid I would be overbearing,” I explained.

“Overbreading, my God…” he began, “if you think…” and then he stopped and came across to me, and kissed me on the top of my head. “Let’s forget Miss Mika. She doesn’t interest me very much, I’m afraid. Come along, and let me show you something of the Kim Residence.”

I did not see Miss Mika again that evening, and we had not spoken about her anymore. I felt happier when I had dismissed her from my thoughts, less of an intruder, and as we wandered about downstairs and looked at pictures, Jihyun’s arm around my shoulder, I began to feel more like the self I had wanted to become, the self I had pictured in my dreams, who made the Kim Residence her home. 

My footsteps no longer sounded foolish on the stone flags of the hall, for Jihyun’s shoes made a louder sound than mine, and the pattering of feet of the two dogs was a comfortable, pleasing note. I was glad as well because it had only been the first evening, and we had been back for only a little while, and Jihyun’s showing of pictures had taken longer than expected. Looking at the clock, he said it was too late to change for dinner, so I was spared the embarrassment of Alice, the maid, asking what I should wear, and of her helping me to dress, and myself walking down the long flight of stairs to the hall, cold, with bare shoulders, in the dress that Mrs. Glam had given me because it did not suit her sister. I had dreaded the formality of the dinner in that wide dining room, and now, because of the little fact that we had not changed, it was all right. Quite easy, just the same as when we had lunch together in the restaurants. I was comfortable in my stockinette dress. I laughed and talked about the things we had seen in Italy and in France; we even had the snapshots on the table, and Frith and the footman were impersonal people, as the waiters had been. They did not stare at me like Miss Mika had done. 

We sat in the library after dinner, and the curtains were drawn, and more logs were thrown onto the fire. It was cool for May, and I was thankful for the warmth that came with the steady burning of logs. 

It was new for us to sit quietly like this after dinner, for in Italy we had wandered about, walked or driven, gone into little cafes, or leaned over bridges. Jihyun instinctively made for the chair on the left of the open fireplace and stretched out his hand for the newspaper. He settled one of the broad cushions behind his head and lit a cigarette.

“This is his routine,” I thought, “this is what he always does. It has been his custom now for years.”

He did not look at me and went on reading his paper, content, comfortable, having assumed his way of living, the master of his house. And as I sat there, brooding, my chin in my hands, fondling the soft ears of one of the spaniels, it occurred to me that I was not the first one to lounge there in possession of the chair. Someone had been here before me, and surely left an imprint of her person on the cushions, and on the arm where her hand had rested. Another one had poured coffee from the same silver coffee pot, placed this cup to her lips, had bent down to the dog, even as I was doing. 

Unconsciously, I shivered as though someone had opened the door behind me and let a draft into the room. I was sitting in Rika’s chair, I was leaning against Rika’s cushion, and the dog had come to me and rested its head against my knee because it was its custom, and he remembered, in the past, she had given him sugar there.

Chapter Text

I had never realized, of course, that life at the Kim Residence was so orderly and planned. 

That first morning, Jihyun was up and dressed and writing letters, even before breakfast, and when I got downstairs, rather after nine o’clock, a little flurried by the booming summons of the gong, I found he was nearly finished; he was already peeling his fruit. 

He looked up and smiled, “You shouldn’t mind. You’ll get used to it. I have no time at all to hang about at this hour of the day. Running a place like the Kim Residence, you know, is nearly a full-time job. The coffee and the hot dishes are on the sideboard. We always help ourselves at breakfast.”

I said something about my clock being slow, of having been too long in the bath, but he didn’t seem to hear me; instead, he looked down at another letter, frowning at something.

How impressed I was. How impressed and a little overawed by the magnificence of the breakfast offered to us. There was tea in a great silver urn, and coffee too, and on the heater, piping hot, dishes of scrambled eggs, of bacon, and another of fish. There was also a small clutch of boiled eggs, kept in their own special heater, and porridge, served in a silver porringer. On another sideboard was ham and a great piece of cold bacon. There were scorns too, on the table, and toast, and various pots of jams, marmalade, and honey, while dessert dishes, piled high with fruit, stood at either end.

“Thank the lord I don’t have a great crowd of relations to inflict upon you,” said Jihyun, “a friend whom I rarely see, and a grandmother who is nearly blind. Jumin, by the way, asks himself over to lunch. I half expected he would. I suppose he wants to have a look at you.”

“Today?” I asked, my spirits sinking to zero, “I rather thought he was still in New York.”

“According to the letter I got this morning, he didn’t linger around once his father started to feel better. He won’t stay long. You’ll like him, I think. He’s very direct and believes in speaking his mind. No humbug at all. If he doesn’t like you, he’ll tell you so to your face.”

I found this hardly comforting, and found myself wondering whether there was some virtue in insincerity. Jihyun got up from his chair and lit a cigarette. 

“I’ve got a mass of things to see to this morning, do you think you can amuse yourself?” he asked. “I’d like to have taken you around the garden, but I must see Luciel. He’s the one who keeps things busy around here. I’ve been away from things for too long. He’ll be in for lunch, too, by the way. You don’t mind, do you? You will be all right?”

“Of course,” I said, “It’s fine.”

Then he picked up his stack of letters and went out of the room, and I thought about how this was not at all how I imagined my first morning to go. I had seen us walking together, arms linked, to the sea, coming back rather late and tired and happy to a cold lunch, alone, and sitting afterwards under that chestnut tree I could see from the library window. 

I lingered over my breakfast for a long while, spinning out the time, and it was not until I saw Frith come in and look at me from behind the service screen that I realized it was after ten o’clock. I sprang to my feet at once, feeling guilty, and apologized for sitting there so late, and he bowed, saying nothing, very polite, very correct, and I caught a flicker of surprise in his eyes. I wondered if I had said the wrong thing. Perhaps it did not do to apologize. Perhaps it lowered me in his estimation. I wished I knew what to say, what to do. I wondered if he suspected, like Miss Mika had done, that poise and grace and assurance were not qualities inbred in me, but were things to be acquired, painfully perhaps, and slowly, costing me many bitter moments. 

Naturally, as I was leaving the room, I stumbled, not looking where I was going, catching my foot on the step by the door, and Frith came forward to help me, picking up my handkerchief off the floor, while Robert, the young footman who was standing behind the screen, turned to hide his smile. 

I heard their murmur of voices as I left, and someone laughed—Robert, I supposed. Perhaps they were laughing at me. I went upstairs again, to the privacy of my bedroom, but when I opened the door, I found the housemaids in there cleaning the room. One was sweeping the floor, the other was dusting the dressing table. They looked at me in surprise. I quickly went out again. It was not right, then, for me to go into my bedroom at this hour in the morning. It was not expected of me. It broke the household routine. 

I crept down the stairs again, silently, thankful to my slippers that they made no sound on the stone flags, and made my way towards the library, which was chilly, the windows opened wide, the fireplace prepared but not lit. I shut the windows and looked around for a box of matches, but I could not find any. I wondered what I should do. I did not like to ring for help. But the library, so snug and warm last night with the burning logs, was like an icehouse now in the early morning. There were matches upstairs in the bedroom, but I did not want to go up there for fear of disturbing the housemaids from their work. I could not bear to see their surprised faces staring at me again. I decided that when Frith and Robert left the dining room, I would fetch the matches from the sideboard. 

I tiptoed out into the hall and listened. They were still cleaning, and I could hear the sound of voices and the movement of trays. Soon, all was silent, so I thought they must have gone through the service doors into the kitchen quarters. 

I went across the hall and into the dining room once more. Yes, there was a box of matches on the sideboard, just as I had expected. I crossed the room quickly and picked them up, and as I did so, Frith had returned to the room. I tried to cram the box furtively into my pocket, but I saw him glance at my hand in surprise. 

“Do you require anything, Madam?” He asked. 

“Oh, Frith,” I said awkwardly, “I could not find any matches.”

He at once produced another box, handing me the cigarettes too, at the same time. This was another embarrassment, for I did not smoke. 

“No, the fact is, I felt rather cool in the library,” I explained, “I suppose the weather seems chilly to me after being abroad, and I thought perhaps I would just put a match to the fire.”

“The fire in the library is not usually lit until the afternoon, Madam. Mrs. Kim always used the morning room. There is a good fire in there. Of course, if you should wish for the fire in the library as well, I will give orders for it to be lit.”

“Oh, no. I would not dream of it. I will go into the morning room. Thank you, Frith.”

“You will also find pens and paper, and ink in there, Madam. Mrs. Kim always did her correspondence and telephoning in the morning room after breakfast. The house telephone is there as well, should you wish to speak to Miss Mika.”

“Thank you, Frith,” I said.

I turned into the hall again, humming a little tune to give myself an air of confidence. I could not tell him that I had never seen the morning room, that Jihyun had not shown it to me the night before. I knew Frith was standing in the entrance to the dining room, watching me as I went across the hall, and that I must make a show of knowing my way. There was a door to the left of the great staircase, and recklessly, I went towards it, praying in my heart that it would take me to where I wanted to go, but when I came to it and opened it, I saw that it was a garden room, a place for odds and ends. There was a table where flowers were done, basket chairs stacked against the wall, and a couple of mackintoshes, too, hanging on a peg. I inspected them all thoroughly before walking out, a little defiantly, glancing across the hall, and saw Frith still standing there. I had not deceived him, though, not for a moment. 

“You go through the drawing room to the morning room, Madam. Through the door there, on your right, this side of the staircase. You go straight through the double drawing room and turn to your left.”

“Thank you, Frith,” I said humbly, not pretending any longer.

I went through the long drawing room, just as he had directed. It was a lovely room, beautifully proportioned, looking out upon the lawns down to the sea. The public would see this room, I supposed, and Frith, if he showed them around, would know the history behind the pictures on the walls and the period of this furniture. It was beautiful, of course, I knew that, and those tables and chairs were probably priceless, but for all that, I had not wished to linger here. I could not see myself ever sitting in those chairs, standing before that carved mantelpiece, throwing books down onto the tables. It had all the formality of a room in a museum, where alcoves were roped off, and a guardian, in a cloak and a hat like the guides in the French chateaux, sat in a chair beside the door. I went through then, and turned left, and so into the little drawing room I had not seen before. 

I was glad to see the dogs there, sitting before the fire, and Jasper, the younger, came over to me at once, his tail wagging, and thrust his nose into my hand. Sally lifted her muzzle at my approach, and gazed in my direction with her blind eyes, but when she had sniffed the air for a moment and found I was not the one she sought, she turned away with a grunt and looked steadily into the fire again. Then Jasper left me too, and settled himself by the side of his companion, licking his paws. This was their routine. They knew, even as Frith had known, that the library fire was not lit until the afternoon. They came to the morning room from long custom.

Somehow I guessed, before even going to the window, that the room looked out upon the daffodils. Yes, there they were, sandy and lush, as I had seen the evening before, great bushes of them, massed beneath the open window, intruding onto the sweep of the drive itself. There was a little clearing too, between the bushes, like a miniature lawn, the grass a smooth carpet of moss, and in the center of this, the tiny statue of a naked faun, his pipes at his lips. The golden daffodils made up his background, and the clearing itself was like a little stage where he would dance and play his part. There was no musty smell about this room as there had been in the library. There were no well-worn chairs, no tables littered with magazines or newspapers, rarely, if ever, read, but left there from old custom, because Jihyun’s father, or even his grandfather, perhaps, had wished it so. 

This was a woman’s room: graceful, fragile, the room of someone who had chosen every particle of furniture with great care, so that each chair, each vase, each small, insignificant thing should be in harmony with one another, and with its own personality. It was like I could hear her voice as she arranged this room: “This I will have, and this, and this,” taking piece by piece from the treasures of the Kim Residence, each object that had pleased her best, ignoring the second-rate, the mediocre, laying her hand with sure, certain instinct only upon the best. There was no intermingling of style, no confusing of the period, and the result was perfection in a strange and startling way, not coldly formal like the drawing room shown to the public, but vividly alive, having something of the same glow and brilliance that the daffodils had, massed there, beneath the window. And then I noticed that the daffodils had not been content with forming their theater in the garden lawn outside the window, but were permitted to enter the room itself. Their great, warm faces looked down upon me from the mantelpiece; they floated in a bowl upon the table by the sofa, they stood, lean and graceful, on the writing desk beside the golden candlesticks. 

The room was filled with them, even the walls took color from them, becoming rich and glowing in the morning sun. They were the only flowers in the room, and I wondered if there was some purpose in it, whether the room had been arranged originally with this one end in view, for nowhere else in the house did the daffodils impose. There were flowers in the dining room, flowers in the library, but orderly and trim, rather in the background. Not like this. Not in profusion. 

I went and sat down at the writing desk, and I thought how strange it was that this room, so lovely and so rich in color, should be, at the same time, so businesslike and purposeful. Somehow, I expected that a room furnished in such exquisite taste, for all the exaggeration of the flowers, would be a place of decoration only, languorous and intimate. But this writing table, beautiful as it was, was no pretty toy where a woman would scribble little notes, nibbling at the end of a pen, leaving it, day after day, in carelessness, the blotter askew. The pigeonholes were labeled, “letters unanswered,” “letters-to-keep,” “household,” “estate,” “menus,” “miscellaneous,” “addresses”. Each ticket was written in that same scrawling, pointed hand that I already knew. And it startled me, even shocked me, to recognize it again, for I had not seen it since I had destroyed the page from the book of poems, and I had not thought to see it again. 

I opened a drawer in hazard, and there was the writing once more, this time in an open leather book, whose heading “Guests at RFA” showed at once, divided into weeks and months, what visitors had come and gone, the rooms they had used, the food they had eaten. I turned over the pages and saw that the book was a complete record of a year, so that the hostess, glancing back, would know the day, almost to the hour, what guests had passed what night under her roof, and where they had slept, and what she had given them to eat. There was notepaper also in the drawer, thick white sheets for rough writing, and the notepaper of the house, with the address, and visiting cards, ivory white, in little boxes. 

I took one out and looked at it, unwrapped it from its thin tissue of paper. “Mrs. R. Kim,” it said, and in the corner, “Kim Residence.” I put it back in the box again, and shut the drawer, feeling guilty suddenly, and deceitful, as though I was staying in somebody else’s house, and my hostess said to me, “Yes, of course, write letters at my desk,” and I had unforgivably, in a stealthy manner, peeped at her correspondence. At any moment, she might come back into the room, and she would see me there, sitting before her open drawer, which I had no right to touch. And when the telephone rang, suddenly, alarmingly, on the desk in front of me, my heart leapt and I stared up in terror, thinking I had been discovered. I took the receiver off with trembling hands.

“Who is it?” I asked, “Who do you want?”

There was a strange buzzing at the end of the line, and then a voice came, low and rather harsh, whether that of a woman or a man, I could not tell. 

“Mrs. Kim?” It said, “Mrs. Kim?”

“I’m afraid you have made a mistake. Mrs. Kim has been dead for over a year.”

I sat there, waiting, staring stupidly into the mouthpiece, and it was not until the name was repeated again, the voice incredulous, slightly raised, that I became aware, with a rush of color to my face, that I had blundered irretrievably, and could not take back my words.

“It’s Miss Mika, Madam. I’m speaking to you on the house telephone.”

My mistake was so painfully obvious, so idiotic and unpardonable, that to ignore it would show me to be an even greater fool, if possible, than I already was. 

“I’m sorry, Miss Mika,” I stammered, my words tumbling over one another, “the telephone startled me, I didn’t know what I was saying, I didn’t realize the call was for me, and I never noticed I was speaking on the house telephone.”

“I’m sorry to have disturbed you, Madam,” she said. And she knows, I thought, she guessed that I had been looking through the desk. “I only wondered whether you wished to see me, and whether you approved of the menus for today.”

“Oh… Oh, I’m sure I do. That is, I’m sure I approve of the menus. Just order what you like, Miss Mika. You don’t have to bother to ask me.”

“It would be better, I think, if you read the list,” she continued, “you will find the menu of the day on the blotter beside you.”

I searched feverishly about me on the desk, and found at last a sheet of paper I had not noticed before. I glanced hurriedly through it: curried prawns, roast veal, asparagus, cold chocolate mousse—was this lunch or dinner? I could not see. Lunch, I suppose. 

“Yes, Miss Mika,” I said, “Very nice, very suitable indeed.”

“If you wish for anything to be changed, please say so,” she answered, “and I will give orders at once. You will notice I have left a blank space beside the sauce for you to mark your preference. I was not sure what sauce you are used to having with the roast veal. Mrs. Kim was very particular about her sauces, and I always had to refer to her.”

“Oh, well, let me see, Miss Mika, I hardly know. I think we'd better have what you usually have, whatever you think Mrs. Kim would have ordered.”

“You have no preferences, Madam?”

“No. Not really, Miss Mika.”

“I rather think Mrs. Kim would have ordered a wine sauce, Madam.”

“I will have the same then,” I said.

“I am very sorry I disturbed you while you were writing, Madam.”

“You haven’t disturbed me at all. Please, do not apologize.”

“The post leaves at midday, and Robert will come for your letters and stamp them himself,” she explained, “all you have to do is ring for him through the telephone. If you have anything urgent to be sent, he will give orders for them to be taken to the post office immediately.”

“Thank you, Miss Mika.”

I listened for a moment, but she said no more, and then I heard a little click on the other end of the telephone, which meant she had placed down the receiver. I did the same. Then I looked down again at the desk and the notepaper, ready for use, upon the blotter. In front of me stared the labeled pigeonholes, and the words upon them, “letters unanswered,” “estate,” “miscellaneous,” were like a reproach to me for my idleness. She, who sat here before me, had not wasted her time, as I was doing. She had reached for the telephone and given her orders for the day, swiftly, efficiently, and ran her pencil, perhaps, through an item on the menu that did not please her. She had not said “Yes, Miss Mika,” and “Of course, Miss Mika,” as I had done. And then, when she had finished, she began her letters. Five, six, or maybe even seven, to be all answered, all written in that same curious, slanted hand I knew so well. She would tear off sheet after sheet of that smooth white paper, using it extravagantly, because of the long strokes she made when she wrote. And at the end of each of her personal letters, she put her signature, “Rika.” That tall, sloping R, dwarfing its fellows. 

I drummed with my fingers on the desk. The pigeonholes were empty now. There were no “letters unanswered,” waiting to be dealt with, no bills to pay that I knew anything about. If I had anything urgent, Miss Mika said, I must telephone through to Robert and he would give orders for it to be taken to the post. I wondered how many urgent letters Rika had to write, and to whom they were written to. Dressmakers, perhaps—“I must have the white satin on Tuesday, without fail,” or to her hairdresser—“I shall be coming up next Friday, and want an appointment at three o’clock with Mr. Antoine himself. Shampoo, massage, set, and manicure.” No, letters of that type were a waste of time. She would have a call put through to Seoul. Frith would do it. Frith would say, “I am speaking on behalf of Mrs. Kim.” 

I went on drumming with my fingers on the desk. I could think of nobody to write to. Only Mrs. Glam. And there was something foolish, rather ironical in the realization that here I was, sitting at my own desk in my own home, with nothing better to do than to write a letter to Mrs. Glam, a woman I disliked. A woman I should never see again. 

I pulled a sheet of notepaper towards me. I took up the narrow, slender pen with the bright, pointed nib. “Dear Mrs. Glam,” I began. And as I wrote, in a halting, labored fashion, saying I hoped the voyage had been good, that she had found her husband better, that the weather in New York was fine and warm, I noticed for the very first time how cramped and unformed was my own handwriting. Without individuality, without style. Uneducated, even. The writing of an indifferent pupil taught in a second-rate school.