Victor knew of the gorgeously illuminated manuscripts that were once housed in a temple in Ganghwa Island, which Rear Admiral Pierre-Gustave Roze had brought back as plunder. There were three hundred volumes of various sizes. There was also an astronomical map, scrolls, maps of Korea, and armor that still had their helmets attached. Admiral Roze and his soldiers had discovered large oak boxes during their ransacking and had hauled them aboard thinking they would be filled with treasure. What they were filled with were books. Some of the soldiers had been so enraged that they’d tossed some of the books into the ocean.
“Why do Koreans put their books in treasure chests?” The question was asked again and again among them.
Silent rivers run deep.
Jin slipped her arm into Victor’s again and sat down with him by the waters of the Seine.
—Admiral Roze took his ships to Ganghwa Island because Christian missionaries were executed in Korea.
—I know, Victor. What happened to the Catholics in Korea was tragic. It breaks my heart to think of these people who went to a strange country to spread God’s word and were killed. But bringing a fleet into Ganghwa Island is an act of invasion.
—Jin!
—That’s what I think, Victor.
The statues carved into every pillar of the Pont Neuf, the oldest bridge on the Seine, were drenched in gold. The river seemed close enough to dip her hand in. Jin could almost see the face of the Queen on the surface of the water. That face, so filled with worry whenever China and Japan and the Western Powers played their power games over Korea.
Victor thought back to the nights he read the Anthology of Great Buddhist Priests’ Zen Teachings at the legation, savoring each page. He had lucked into obtaining a copy and found it filled with profound sayings that aided in the realization of the Buddhist way. What would Jin think if she heard that he had taken that beautiful book to the antique collector Henri Werber? He cleared his throat. On one of his photography walks in Seoul, Victor had come across a book reader reading aloud The Story of the Good Wife Sa. Most of these paid book readers at the market were young men, but the one he met then was an old woman wearing tattered straw sandals. Her reading voice was so evocative that many had gathered around her. He was taking photos of her when he noticed the books she was selling at her feet. He looked through each one of them and was struck by the last one in the stack. It was bound by red thread sewn through five holes punched along the spine and had an abbreviated title on the cover. The second volume of two, printed on mulberry paper . . . but there was something unusual about its form. He examined the intricate colophon stamped on it and saw characters indicating that it was printed using movable metal type. Surprised, he checked the printing date: 1377, Heungdeoksa Temple. 1377? That meant this tiny country had managed to predate Gutenberg’s movable metal type by decades, even if the size and shape of the type were inconsistent and wooden type was mixed into some of the characters. Victor bought the book with all the money he had in his pocket and quickly returned to the legation. He walked the quickest he had ever walked in his life, afraid someone would come shouting after him for the book.
The two now walked toward the plaza where the Sunday market was, where they could buy flowers and birds for low prices.
Sensing that Jin disapproved of his sending books overseas, Victor had not told Jin about his discovery that evening. He had only the second volume, and when he discovered the first page had been torn out, he sighed sadly. How could that old book reader be so careless? He let it be known that he was willing to pay a high price for old books, and booksellers showed up at the legation with huge bundles. With Paul Choi, he searched the neighborhood around Heungdeoksa Temple where the book had been printed, trying to find the first volume of the Anthology, but it came to naught. Did the old saying go that truly knowing someone’s heart was to know the heart of the Buddha? Victor found someone who could appreciate the value of this book of collections of questions and answers harvested from a vast number of Buddhist texts. That was Henri Werber. Victor still yearned to find the first volume of the Anthology. Did this woman know how deep his obsession was for Korean books? Victor felt disheartened by her reaction, and even a little angry.
Perhaps to sell birds by the Seine, a bird seller passed by carrying a long pole with a birdcage attached.
—Gillin!
As she stared at the birdcage, Jin called out Victor’s Korean name in a sad but loving voice. The grand buildings and the towers of the cathedrals seemed to stare down at the two.
—Who am I?
Victor, walking by her side, stopped and hugged her shoulders. Jin gently lifted his arm away. Who am I? She never had to think of it in Korea. Who were my parents, who brought me into this world? She felt she would stumble as if she were walking on nothing. Her eyes, still staring at the bird seller as he walked farther and farther away from them, were filled with melancholy.
4
The Ball
Your Majesty,
In Germany, a pair of brothers named Lilienthal observed the flight of birds and wished to fly themselves, so they fashioned an aircraft with wings that allowed them to soar. I am not sure how it works, but they say they flew using the pressure from the difference in the speed of the air above and below the wing.
Victor, who is difficult to impress, was very excited at this news. According to him, the day may soon come when we won’t need sixty days on the ocean to go to Korea, but only two or three by air.
May 3, 1893
Jin in Paris
The guests began to arrive at the garden of the Minister of Foreign Affairs’ residence.
The minister’s daughter was married at Notre Dame that day, and the minister was holding a ball for the occasion. The garden in spring was abloom with white lilies, new rosemary, red tulips, and pale daffodils. There was a neat path meandering through the trees and flowers, with honeysuckle running alongside it.
Beyond the flowers basking in the golden sunlight of the evening, round tables were set for meals, with plates and cutlery laid with precision. The servants bustled among the tables, setting down wine, cheese, and other food. A space before a grove of cherry trees was prepared for a chamber orchestra, and the musicians looked trim in their crisp white shirts and black vests.
Jin wore her light blue dress and a felt hat with lace and a narrow brim, and thin gloves that came up to her wrists. The dress was Victor’s favorite. Victor wore a bow tie with his white shirt and a morning coat over his striped vest, the formal attire that he wore at all diplomatic dinners. Jin checked whether Victor’s bow tie was crooked. It hadn’t been to his liking, and he had tied and retied it several times as Quasimodo watched. Jin had asked whether the frock coat wouldn’t be a better choice because it was cooler at night, but Victor insisted on the morning coat, saying that the striped vest and bow tie went better with it.
As the two were greeted by the minister and his wife, they saw the Planchards, who had arrived before them, waving hello. They hadn’t seen each other since seeing Bizet’s Carmen together at the opera. Ah, the opera. Reminded of it by the sight of the Planchards, Jin trembled at the memory. Planchard’s golden watch chain glittered against the vest underneath his frock coat. Clad in a pink dress, Madame Planchard lifted the veil on her hat before speaking to Jin.
—Madame, how opportune. I’ve wanted to speak to you about something.
—To me?
Madame Planchard smiled at her.
—It is a bit complicated. I hope we shall talk later.
Just after this friendly exchange, Régamey came up to them and greeted Victor. Jin instinctively looked around him.
Régamey grinned as he followed her line of vision.
—Are you looking for Hong Jong-u? There he is.
He pointed to the entrance. As ever, Hong Jong-u wore his Korean robes. He had just bumped into Henri Philippe from the Travelers’ Club; they gesticulated wildly as they greeted each other. Henri Philippe wore striped trousers, a white shirt
with a winged collar, a simple gray vest, a silvery tie to match, and a morning coat like Victor’s, which contrasted with Hong Jong-u’s white robes and black gat hat.
—The traveler Henri Philippe. How surprising he should come here.
Victor didn’t need to tell Jin who Henri Philippe was. She had met him the day she had gone to a café in the Latin Quarter to meet Hong Jong-u and return his manuscript. Without bothering to ask whether she was up for it, he had taken her to the Travelers’ Club, where Henri Philippe was introduced to her as an aristocrat and explorer. There were many such nobility and politicians at the club. Hong had been invited to talk about the Far East, where none of them had ever been. Henri Philippe was intrigued by Jin when Hong introduced her as a former Korean court dancer. This is that woman? He had heard of her but had never seen her before. Hong Jong-u was a passionate speaker. There were many Korean stories he wanted to tell but his French was lacking, so Jin ended up interpreting for him. Which had been his plan all along.
Music, however, is a language understood by all.
The party took on a lighter atmosphere when the orchestra began playing “The Swan” from Saint-Saëns’s The Carnival of Animals.
—And there is Monsieur Guimet.
Régamey’s words made Jin look toward Hong; she saw Henri Philippe and Guimet greet each other. Something Hong said made Henri Philippe and Guimet burst into laughter.
—Monsieur Hong’s French must be very good by now.
Régamey laughed at Victor’s observation.
—Monsieur Hong is sure to get along with anyone in any country, whether he speaks their language or not. He has a certain charm. I introduced him to Monsieur Guimet and got him a job at the Guimet Museum, but now he is closer to Guimet than I am.
—Does he still reside at the Serpente?
—No, he lives with me now.
—At your home, Monsieur Régamey?
—My studio. I am painting his portrait. His love for his country is considerable. He always keeps with him a photograph of the King and the King’s father, the former regent. The photographs have enabled me to draw their portraits as well.
Régamey, who was an archival painter and managed the Guimet Museum, was also famous for painting the portraits of Victor Hugo and the chemist Pasteur. His interest in the East was what sparked his friendship with Hong.
The tuxedoed minister walked to the middle of the garden. His wife, wearing a hat with a wide brim and veil, followed. The guests settled down at the tables or came out to the clearing from the trees.
—Thank you all for coming. The newlyweds, married under the many blessings of our guests, have reached Marseilles by now. Tomorrow, they set off for Italy. As the couple is not here, do think of it more as a party than a reception. Please partake in the wine and enjoy the music. Do remember this moment as a pleasant one.
The guests clapped. Jin raised her head to observe the Parisian women. Madame Planchard, sitting across from her, was saying hello to such a continuous stream of people that her smile never disappeared from her face. Jin had gotten into the habit of watching the women of Paris since her trip to the Louvre. They tended to be slender with skin flushed pink, their features clearly defined. Sometimes she found herself comparing herself to them, which dismayed her. She was so intent on her observations that she didn’t notice Hong Jong-u had walked up to her.
—Hello, Madame!
Had he already forgotten? Hong plopped down beside Régamey, his manner brusque as usual. Confessions sometimes break relationships. They had shared a carriage ride back from the Travelers’ Club event where Hong had suddenly said in a low voice, “You and I are the only Koreans here in Paris.” Jin had said nothing, waiting for him to explain what he meant. Then suddenly, Hong leaned forward and reached out his hand, pressing down on Jin’s shoulder. Jin’s body fell back against her seat, and she saw his face approach hers. His eyes were wide open and brimming with frenzy. He said he had loved her since their days in Korea and attempted to kiss her. Jin pushed him away. When he persisted, she slapped his face, hard. They hadn’t seen each other since.
The music changed to Johann Strauss’s “The Blue Danube.”
Hong’s pretending nothing had happened made Jin uncomfortable. To avoid looking at him, she fixed her gaze at the servant girls as they brought frottage made from mushrooms, chicken cooked with white sauce, glass bottles of cider, and roasted veal. The skillfully executed dishes were delicious to the eye, an impression aided by the scent of herbs. Some of the guests who had been conversing over wine began moving to the clearing to dance.
—Dance with me.
Victor held out a hand to Jin. Grateful to get away from Hong, Jin took Victor’s hand and allowed him to escort her to the clearing. The other dancers, keeping time with the rhythm of the waltz, stole glances at her, overcome with curiosity over their first sight of an Eastern woman.
—The people are looking at me again.
Victor leaned into the sandalwood scent under her ear.
—They aren’t looking at you so much as admiring you.
Jin lifted their joined hands and executed a smooth turn. There was a time when she learned the waltz twice a week from Laura, a dance teacher introduced to her by Madame Planchard. In the beginning, Jin had to familiarize herself with the basic steps of Western dance before she could attempt the waltz itself. Her body, trained in the art of Korean dance since a young age, was reluctant to learn the new movement. It was difficult adjusting to three-four time as the Korean dance in her bones resisted this foreign rhythm. Victor would never know how much she practiced, repeating Chopin’s waltzes on the record player. Quasimodo was her audience. One day, she saw the cat jumping higher and higher against the wall at a feather toy, so to tease him she would place it even higher. Quasimodo, tired of dealing with the wall, ran up the drapes. Jin chased after him, and amidst her playing with the cat, she realized she was stepping in three-four time. Laura marveled at how quickly Jin managed to learn her steps after that, as well as the newest variations of the waltz. In three months, Laura declared she had nothing more to teach Jin and asked her to teach her Korean dance instead. But Laura gave up soon enough. Her own body, used to the rhythms of the waltz, had trouble accepting the calm and contemplative movement of Korean dance.
—I wish to dance with Madame.
Jin gripped Victor’s hand, but Victor politely handed it to Hong. It was strange, still, to be dancing with any man other than Victor. And Hong, at that, with his robes. Jin resented Victor, who headed back to their table. Hong, reading her thoughts, whispered to her to stop grimacing, that everyone was watching.
—Wouldn’t you rather give them a good show?
Jin had never heard Hong speak so quietly in Paris. And when had he learned to waltz? He led her with unexpected ease. Jin’s efforts to keep a distance between their bodies made her seem like the novice of the two.
—I apologize for the other day. Those people at the club, including Henri Philippe over there, are highly regarded in Paris. They’re explorers, but they know nothing of Korea. I became sentimental as I talked to them of our country. You must forgive me.
He had never seemed so chastened.
She had often wondered why he was so rude to her. But Hong was also the only person she could speak in Korean to. Whether he sank into one of his silences or talked heatedly about the country they left behind, it gave Jin a chance to think of Korea.
His sudden change of manner was odd, but his words assuaged her a little.
—When did you learn the waltz?
—I didn’t learn it. I only observed it with my eyes. My robes are good cover. My steps are terrible.
As soon as he said this, he stepped on her foot. Jin laughed. The thirty-eight-year-old man suddenly seemed like a child.
—I’m glad you’re feeling better. Thanks to you, our book was published yesterday. It’s the first time a Korean translation has been published in France. Careful, I’ll probably step on your foot
again.
—Is that so? I can’t wait to see it.
Jin’s smile crumpled into a grimace. Hong’s powerful knee underneath his robes had forcefully knocked against hers.
—Monsieur Boex will bring it. They’ve chosen the title. Fragrant Spring. It wasn’t easy. I had to sing the “Love Song” that appears in the work to Monsieur Boex in my hotel room.
Jin had already heard from Boex that Hong had invited him to his hotel room and passionately sung “Love Song” to him during his presentation of the work.
—I’ll buy you a shot of absinthe at Les Deux Magots in celebration of its publication.
Whenever Hong visited her house or Jin didn’t meet him at the Guimet Museum, the two would go to a café in the Latin Quarter or the Boulevard Saint-Germain and talk about the manuscript over shots of absinthe. Boex would sometimes accompany them. Absinthe, a cheap drink made from wormwood, made her throat catch fire. But the burn was part of the pleasure of sipping absinthe at an outdoor café, watching the crowds go by.
—Your French is excellent, and there are many things you can do for Korea here, but why are you not interested?
Jin gave a bitter smile that was neither negation nor assent. And what could I do to serve Korea? Hong made it impossible for her to keep rhythm. His initial grace was gone. Holding on to each other, the two ended up taking the same three steps back and forth.
—Monsieur Boex asked me what I planned to work on after Fragrant Spring. What do you think? What about The Story of Shim Cheong? They like fortunetelling in these parts, what about a book of divination? It’s important to draw them in at first, I suppose. What about translations under your own name?