When Mi-ja reached the end of her explanation, he leaned in close and whispered to us in the Jeju language. “I am Lee Sang-mun.” His breath was warm and sweet, as though he’d been eating oranges. This was another indication that he was from a good family and not just a farmer’s son, who lived on common foods like garlic, onions, and kimchee. He straightened and announced rather loudly in Japanese, “I will help you.”
The reaction around us surprised me. Many of the Japanese soldiers lowered their eyes or shifted them away from us, which gave me another piece of information. Sang-mun was important in some way.
He snapped his fingers, and three dockworkers trotted to us. “You will carry these things for…”
“I’m Kim Young-sook,” I blurted. “And this is Han Mi-ja.”
“Boys, please follow Miss Kim to the place where the haenyeo get picked up. You know where it is.” His fluency in Japanese and his accent were nearly as perfect as Mi-ja’s. “One of you stay with her there. The other two, return to me so you can carry the rest and escort Miss Han to her friend.”
When I tried to pick up a bag to sling onto my shoulder, he said, “No, no, no. My boys will handle everything.”
I felt like a goddess to have such help. As I set out with the dockworkers jogging behind me, I held my head high and my back straight, sure that Sang-mun’s eyes would follow me until I was out of sight.
When we reached the assigned corner, two of the dockworkers went back to the wharf as Sang-mun had ordered, while the other sat on his haunches to wait with me. Did that ever get a rise out of the haenyeo!
“Look! A haenyeo has her own servant!” a woman teased me.
“Are you looking for a bride?” one of them asked the dockworker.
“You’d better watch her. She might run away!”
The man wrapped his arms around his knees, hung his head, and tried to ignore their comments.
Thirty minutes later—an eternity—a new procession came into view. This time, the two helpers pushed wheelbarrows heaped with goods. Mi-ja and Lee Sang-mun walked side by side. I could hear him laughing even from a distance. That’s when I realized he’d sent me away so he could be alone with Mi-ja. I was sure of it. Now, as they approached, I saw that Mi-ja was as pale as a jellyfish. No wonder he was attracted to her. Not in many years had I felt jealous of Mi-ja, but I did now, and it was unsettling. I smoothed my hair and tried to freeze the same type of reserved mask that Mi-ja wore on my own face. I could do nothing to make myself into her perfection, but I could be clever in my own way.
Trucks with different destinations came and went, but none was going in the direction we needed. While we waited, I asked Sang-mun questions, which he easily answered. He’d been born in Jeju City and educated in Japan. “You know,” he said, “so many of us have gone to Japan to study that Jeju now has more educated people than anywhere else in Korea!”
Maybe this was so, but it didn’t reflect my experience.
“My father manages a cannery here in the port,” Sang-mun went on. This had to mean his father was a collaborator, since all canneries were owned by the Japanese. I should have immediately lost interest. Or not. My closest friend was the daughter of a collaborator. Maybe my husband could be the son of a collaborator too. Besides, his expression was so charming and his smile so infectious that all I could think about was how handsome he was.
I asked more questions. Every answer showed him to be unlike anyone I’d ever met. Through it all, Mi-ja stared down the road, ignoring the conversation. Her disinterest gave me even more confidence.
“I grew up following the comings and goings in and out of the harbor,” he explained. “I anticipate I’ll take over for my father one day, but for now I work for the Jeju City government. I oversee their food warehouses and other stockpiles.” This was another confirmation of his status: he was not just a collaborator but a high-ranking one. Working for “the Jeju City government” meant that he was employed by the Japanese military. “I’ll admit it,” he said. “I have big dreams. My job may not seem very important, but you have to start somewhere.”
A flatbed truck pulled up. The driver leaned out the window and shouted that he’d be heading east on the coastal road, passing through many seaside villages, including Hado, before reaching his final destination of Seongsan, where the remaining haenyeo could take a last ferry home to the small island of Udo just offshore. About a dozen women peeled away from the crowd and began throwing their bags on the truck.
“Come on,” Mi-ja mumbled. “This is us.” She promptly got to work, wordlessly tossing our belongings up onto the flatbed. Sang-mun and I helped too, but we were still trying to exchange as much information as possible.
“In which part of Hado do you live?” he asked.
“I live in Gul-dong,” I answered. I tried to look modest, but it was hard. He wouldn’t make an inquiry about where I lived if he wasn’t interested in me. Then, because Mi-ja was standing there and I didn’t want to appear overeager, I added, “My friend lives close by in Sut-dong.” She responded by closing her eyes and bringing a closed fist to her heart. If she thought that made her look dainty, she was right. I fought another wave of jealousy.
I thanked Sang-mun for helping us. Mi-ja climbed onto the truck, reached down a hand, and helped pull me up. The driver ground the gears, the truck lurched, and we started rolling. I waved goodbye to Sang-mun, but Mi-ja had already turned her back and joined the circle of haenyeo seated on the flatbed. She unfolded a kerchief in which she’d packed some fruit. I opened a basket and pulled out rice balls. The other women added dried cuttlefish, jars filled with homemade pickled turnip and kimchee, and a bunch of green onions. One woman passed around an earthenware jug filled with drinking water. Another opened a jug of fermented rice wine. Mi-ja took a swig and squinted in response to the taste. When the liquor poured down my throat, my chest burned with the taste of my birthplace.
Ordinarily, Mi-ja and I would have picked apart every detail of the encounter with Sang-mun, just as we had with Vlad, Alexi, or any of the other boys we’d met in this or that port. Not this time. When I commented that it was lucky that Sang-mun had come along when he did, she replied defensively, “I never would have let you stay alone on the dock.”
“Did he ask about me?”
“He said nothing about you,” she answered tersely. “Now let’s not talk about it anymore.”
After that, she wouldn’t answer a single question I asked, so we gossiped with the other women. The food, wine, and knowledge that we were home buoyed everyone’s spirits.
Each kilometer of the bumpy ride revealed another familiar or beloved vista. We passed through Samyang, Jocheon, Hamdeok, Bukchon, and Sehwa, stopping at each to let off a woman or two. The low stone walls of the olles snaked along the hillsides. They also surrounded fields, creating a patchwork of colors and patterns. Flocks of crows lumbered across the sky. In the sea, we spotted pods of haenyeo, their tewaks bobbing. And always in sight at the center of the island loomed Grandmother Seolmundae. As beautiful and welcoming as it all was, I couldn’t stop creating images in my head: Maybe Shaman Kim could conduct the rituals for my marriage celebration. Maybe I could wear my mother’s wedding clothes. Or maybe Sang-mun would give me fine cloth to make my own. Or maybe he’d prefer for me to wear a Japanese kimono and have a Japanese ritual, as was required by the colonists. Yes, that was probably it. No shaman, but yes to a Japanese kimono. Maybe Father would pay for banquets in Hado and Jeju City, although I didn’t see how.