—Madame, would you like to come to the Moulin Rouge with us to see the cancan?
Régamey was inviting Jin to join them. Victor would probably not like the idea of Jin going to the Moulin Rouge. She knew this since the day Maupassant told her about the place. That evening, she had relayed to Victor what the writer had said, and Victor—normally so guarded with his emotions—replied sharply that he didn’t understand why Maupassant kept wanting to introduce her to such places out of all the things to see in Paris, ending further discussion. She could see Victor had one ear to their conversation in the midst of his talk with Henri Philippe.
Regardless of Victor’s opinion of it, the cancan, which originated in the Moulin Rouge, was all the rage in Paris. It was common to see young people on the streets imitating the Moulin Rouge dancers, who would lift their skirts to their knees and kick up their legs, switching the leg they were standing on in the blink of an eye. But even if Victor consented, she could not possibly go in this state. She began rubbing her belly, discreetly wiping away her cool sweat.
Henri Philippe stood and politely held out a hand.
—Would you give me the honor of a dance, Madame?
Hong was staring at her from across the table.
—I have already received the unanimous approval of our committee!
Jin could barely focus on the outstretched hand as her face collapsed into a grimace. Taking this as a refusal, Henri Philippe, embarrassed, withdrew his hand. Victor looked at Jin. Jin wanted to say something but a wave of pain hit her once more and she could not form the words. Jin grasped her stomach, determined to see through the pain.
—Victor!
Jin managed to call out for him as she bent over the table in agony. Only then did Victor utter the single syllable of her name as he jumped from his seat and hovered over her. Jin forced open her eyes, trying not to lose consciousness. Through her faltering vision, the silhouettes of the waltzing dancers and the musicians underneath the cherry tree were rippling as if underwater. The wineglasses and leftover food on the tables were also wavering before her. She tried to unbend herself, but her face found the hardness of the table again. She could smell the cheese and strawberry jelly. She fought against her eyelids, which threatened to close. She thought she saw Hong’s white robes flutter in the breeze and a bunch of yellow daffodils glowing in the gaslight.
—Jin!
Victor embraced Jin and tried to get her to sit up. Madame Planchard came over from her dancing and shook Jin’s arm, calling out, “Madame! Madame!”
—What are you all doing! You must take her to the hospital!
Jin could faintly hear the sound of Henri Philippe calling for a servant to ready his carriage. Victor lifted Jin into his arms and quickly made his way out of the garden. The ladies and gentlemen of the ball looked puzzled as they followed Victor out with their gazes.
—Jin! Please, wake up!
Victor, who had brought Jin into Henri Philippe’s carriage that awaited them before the minister’s house, called out her name over and over again, but Jin’s eyes slid shut.
5
The Oriental Room
Your Majesty,
There are many schools west of Paris. I have visited a few of them. The schools were created by the monasteries for the monks to teach novices how to read and understand prayers. Religion has great influence in these parts. Eventually, the schools began teaching more than just prayers to monks. They taught the catechism and the lives of the saints, which eventually led to the great success of the French language.
How can I describe the joy of reading in this country? Books from around the world are translated into French so that anyone can read them. New thoughts mix with the old. I envy how writers so freely express themselves in the language of their country. They say a writer named Balzac suffered from much debt throughout his life. He had to move several times because of this. He also wrote an unfathomable number of works. He would write from midnight to eight in the morning, eat breakfast for fifteen minutes, and write again until five in the afternoon. He then would take a thirty-minute dinner, sleep at six, and rise again at midnight to write. If I ever return to Korea, I want to work to ensure that all children know how to read and write Korean. This is only a dream, and I do not know if I can ever return, but if I do, I want to spend the morning, when the mind is clearest, teaching children to read. Balzac gave me this hope.
October 9, 1893
Yi Jin in Paris
Jeanne knocked on the door of the room behind the salon.
It was the room where Victor displayed his collection of objects from the East. When no reply came, Jeanne cautiously pushed open the door. Jin sat on a cushion thickly padded with cotton, embroidering a bit of white satin. Yesterday, the pattern had been a red rose. Today, it was a lizard.
—Madame!
Jin was oblivious to Jeanne’s knocking or her calling her name. She had learned on the day she fainted at the minister’s ball, after being rushed to the hospital, that she had miscarried. Jin had not uttered a word for three months after. That was six months ago. She had planted the flower seeds Soa had given her, but they did not sprout. Jin took the pot outside to the square and smashed it to pieces. The orchid they had grown together was long dead. How could she have miscarried if she hadn’t known she was pregnant? The miscarriage made her lose interest in Paris, and she rarely ventured out. The most she did was go to the nearby Paris Foreign Missions Society building to gaze at their large map of Asia, or to Les Invalides, where soldiers marched in threes and fours. She was unresponsive to Victor’s proposals that they take a walk along the Seine. Victor even visited Maupassant, for whom he had no great fondness, begging him to take her out somewhere, even if it were to a cemetery.
Jin found her voice again because of the Oriental Room. Throughout the three-month period when Jin didn’t speak, Victor changed the pieces exhibited in this room to Korean objects. The books and paintings from the other countries were donated to the Guimet Museum. Then, with Jeanne’s help, he decorated the room like a Korean noblewoman’s chamber. Excited to show her this new, secret world, Victor covered Jin’s eyes with one hand as he led her to the room. When he opened the door and flung away his hand, Jin only looked upon the room in silence. Her gaze lingered longest upon the hanging peony scroll the Queen had bequeathed her when she left Korea. Victor’s heart sank at Jin’s lack of reaction. He had been full of hope earlier as he placed the vase with the white chrysanthemum pattern upon a lacquered chest of drawers stamped with butterflies and birds. Jin didn’t even seem to notice the jewelry box with the pine tree engraving or the oak makeup box with the angled mirror placed on the floor next to the cushion. He had thought she’d rejoice at the sight of this padded Korean cushion, but she only gave it an expressionless look. Jin continued to be listless when he gestured toward the painted screens that stood before the long windows.
—It saddens me that this is all I can do for you.
Victor said this in a low, disappointed tone, his initial hopes dashed against her reaction. But then, Jin whispered, “Thank you, Victor,” and kissed him on the cheek. Victor broke into a smile. Those were the first words Jin had spoken since her miscarriage.
Jeanne called out again, “Madame, you have a visitor!” Jin raised her head. This wasn’t the Jin who had been rapt at Carmen at the opera, or the vibrant dancer at the minister’s ball. The healthy flush of her cheeks was replaced with melancholy paleness, and her delicate clavicles were more pronounced than before.
—Who?
—A nun I’ve never met. I think she said she’s from the Paris Foreign Missions Society.
The Paris Foreign Missions Society? A small bit of light seemed to break in Jin’s eyes.
—Show her to the salon and offer her tea. I’ll be out soon.
There was a new firmness to Jin’s voice in contrast to her languid appearance. Jin put down the fan she was embroidering and drew the makeup box toward her, examining her features in the tilted m
irror. The fingers that tucked in the more wayward strands of her chignon were more delicate than ever before. She stared into the mirror, at the deep shadows under her dark eyes. She rubbed the glass with a handkerchief. Her dark eyes trembled and were still again, large and whole. She lifted her shawl from her lap and wrapped it around her shoulders before entering the salon. The nun, who had been drinking the tea Jeanne had brought, gave a start at Jin’s appearance.
—I hardly recognized you!
It was Jin’s turn to be startled by the nun’s Korean words, which drew forth from her lips like a sigh. This was Sister Jacqueline, who taught French to the Korean orphans at the Gondangol orphanage. Jin beamed. It seemed like a lifetime ago when Jacqueline had taught the children French, and Jin had taught Jacqueline Korean. Among the three nuns Jin had taught, Jacqueline had been the fastest to take in Jin’s teachings.
—Have you returned to Paris?
—No, I’m only visiting. I have to go back soon.
—To Korea?
—Again, no. Penang this time. But are you unwell?
Jin smiled at Jacqueline. Jin’s face was so gaunt that the tiny wrinkles of her smile were pushed almost to her ears.
—Have you not been eating?
All Jin could stomach lately was a cup of coffee and a piece of bread. She couldn’t bear to eat cheese, which she had once loved. Jacqueline’s presence reminded Jin of the fluffy steamed rice the woman Suh used to make for them. She felt that if she could get a bowlful of that, she could mix it with some water and eat it whole. In the past few months, her desire for a steaming bowl of gleaming Korean rice had grown as great as her desire to sleep on a futon spread on the floor.
Jacqueline, her eyes filled with concern, took another sip of the tea before opening her bag and taking out a package wrapped in white linen. She held it out to Jin; it was small enough to carry in one’s sleeve.
Jin looked up at the nun.
—The musician Yeon gave this to me when I said I was coming here. He begged me to pass it on to you.
Jin sat up from her leaning position. Her shawl kept slipping from her shoulders. Her eyes were transfixed upon the white linen package.
—Open it.
Jacqueline leaned forward with the package, urging. But Jin only placed the package on her lap.
—How are things in Korea?
A shadow fell across Jacqueline’s face.
—Turmoil. There’s been a peasants’ uprising down in Gobu. It was a small movement to begin with, but now it’s becoming difficult to control. The palace felt threatened enough to request reinforcements from China. Which prompted Japan, sensitive to such things, to also send troops.
Jacqueline looked up again.
—But none of this is helpful to you now.
—What happened after?
—There is a Buddha carved into the face of a cliff somewhere down south. They say there’s a book hidden in its belly button, and the day this book is taken from its hiding place, the country will come to ruin. The peasants, desiring a new world, are said to have broken the Buddha with an ax and removed the book.
Jin’s face darkened. She spoke when Jacqueline paused again.
—What happened then?
—The royal family was taken into custody by the Japanese troops. There was a movement attempting to reinstate the Regent. In the end, Japan and China declared war, and a battle raged . . . and Japan won.
Jin lowered her head.
—I, too, hoped Korea would welcome new ways. But was this really the only way . . . ? I worry for the country.
Jacqueline started to say something else but stopped. She regarded Jin’s lowered head. A silence flowed between them. Jacqueline gently asked her a question.
—And how has it been for you here?
—. . .
—Are you happy?
Jin smiled at Jacqueline.
—I have always hoped you would be happy, Jin.
—My life here is not so bad.
—Which means it is not so good, either.
—There are days when I am happy. And days when I think it is too much.
—You are aware that Bishop Mutel took over from the late Bishop Blanc? The cathedral he was building stopped construction during the war between China and Japan, but it’s restarted now. The orphanage thrives, even without Bishop Blanc. All thanks to Madame Suh and young Yeon, of course. They devote most of their energies to educating the children. The children’s favorite thing to learn is the daegeum from Yeon. I so wish to talk more with you, but I could barely make the time. I arrived in Paris yesterday. I couldn’t wait to see you, and it happened to be close enough to walk. Would you like to come to the Paris Foreign Missions Society sometime?
—When do you leave?
—I believe I shall stay here for a month or two.
Jacqueline embraced Jin lightly and whispered, “May the blessings of the Virgin Mary be with you.” Jin did not release her from the embrace. The two stood in each other’s arms for a moment. After Jacqueline left, Jin brought the linen-wrapped package to the windowsill, swung open the windows, and leaned out. She followed Jacqueline’s brisk progress until the nun was completely hidden underneath the beech canopy. Jin stared at the package, afraid of what it might contain. Then her hands quickly unwrapped the contents. Inside was a letter written with the fountain pen Victor had given Yeon.
The letter began with no preamble.
Silverbell,
Two months ago, I bought the house in Banchon where we spent our childhood together. Mother had mentioned that it was being sold. She doesn’t know that I bought it. I’m thinking of having her live there when she becomes too old to take care of the orphans. I never dreamed I wouldn’t get to see you for so long. Mother asks after you through Lady Suh in the palace, but even she has no news. Sometimes I think maybe I’m the reason you don’t send us word. If that’s true, then please know that I have accepted things as they are, that what’s past is past. I know you are no longer the girl I met when I was led by the hand of Father Blanc to Banchon. And forgive the pettiness I showed you at the end. I thought if I said good-bye, I would never see you again, and I couldn’t bear that.
Your life, Silverbell, has always been a mystery to me. It’s full of things I can’t begin to understand. I watched your ship leave Jaemulpo Harbor. I thought, I should’ve followed you onto that boat. I should’ve followed you, to keep that promise I made long ago. I would’ve followed you if I’d known I would never hear from you again. But what use are these leftover feelings?
We are doing fine. Korea is the same as ever, and I sometimes meet Lady Soa at the banquets. Sometimes, she performs the Dance of the Spring Oriole that the Queen enjoys so much. We always ask each other about you.
Please send us word, somehow, to reassure us of your well-being.
Jin read the letter twice before putting it down on the white linen wrapping on the table. Please send us word . . . the words hovered before her. He must’ve written it after some hesitation, hearing that Jacqueline was to return to Paris. He still called her Silverbell but also used the formal form for “you,” wavering between the familiar and unfamiliar.
One must close one’s eyes to see the things one misses.
Jin brought the letter to her nose as if to detect the scent of Yeon’s hands. She stroked the letter and closed her eyes. She could sense through his concern for the woman Suh that she was not well. When Blanc had purchased two houses for the orphanage, the woman Suh had sold her Banchon house and given the money to Blanc. A dismayed Blanc had refused to accept her money at first, knowing that it was all she owned in the world, but Suh had even turned down his subsequent suggestion to give just half. Then, she had volunteered to cook for the orphanage.
Jeanne came in to collect Jacqueline’s cup and saucer. She was bending over the table when she glimpsed the letter sitting on the linen wrapping. Her eyes shone.
—Is this Korean writing, Madame?
Jin smiled and nodde
d. Jeanne looked closer at Yeon’s handwriting.
—They’re like pictures!
Jeanne examined the mysterious Korean letters as if she were looking at a painting. When Jin rewrapped the letter and stood up to return to the Oriental Room, Jeanne called out to her.
—Are you all right? You don’t look well. Would you like another cup of tea?
—Is Vincent coming today?
Jin tried to put on a cheerful voice to alleviate Jeanne’s concern. Jeanne grinned and even blushed at the mention of Vincent’s name.
A man’s walk becomes purposeful when he has realized his dream.
Vincent had become an attendant at Bon Marché thanks to Madame Planchard, and his duties included coming to the house to fetch Jin’s embroidery. Gloves and fans had become essential accessories at Parisian balls and gatherings, and the women would secretly observe and compare each other’s fans. Victor wasn’t too keen on Jin’s preoccupation, which made Jin hesitate at first, but she was now settled into making them as she spent her days in the Oriental Room. She used mostly satin or silk muslin, but sometimes tried microfibers for a warmer look. Vincent was in charge of providing the fan ribs and ferrying the material to and fro. Once Jin handed over the embroidered cloths, Vincent would take them to a fan store by the Seine and have them completed. Jin used to do everything from the cutting to the finish, but once her fans became popular, she did only the embroidery. The demand was too high for her to complete the fans herself; Jin’s fans always sold out first, without fail. Madame Planchard priced them several times higher than the other fans and made a separate display for them.
—I’ve put the finished fans in the other room, so please help Vincent find them when he comes.