When we were done and I was dabbing at the bloody mucus that ran down my thighs, my husband said softly, “We will get better at this. I promise you.”
To be honest, I wasn’t sure what he meant.
The next morning, I woke long before dawn and went to the latrine to do my business. I climbed the stairs, entered the stone enclosure, dropped my pants, and squatted, wary of what centipedes, spiders, or even snakes might live in this unfamiliar place. The stench coming up from the pit stung my eyes, and the family’s pigs snuffled below me. I would get used to this new latrine, as all brides must. Once I was done, I came back down the ladder and checked over the stone wall. A small area had been cordoned off to protect my piglet. He was wide awake and eager for food. In time, his day-to-day purpose would be to eat what came out of the family’s behinds. I would then gather what came out of my pig and carry it to the fields to be used as fertilizer. Many years from now, my pig would be slaughtered for a wedding, funeral, or ancestor worship. It was a constant circle, with the pigs relying on us and us relying on them. I gave my piglet some of the food I hadn’t eaten or given away last night, said a few cooing words, and then went to search for dung for the fire and to haul water. I hoped that in the coming days I’d be allowed to split my time, helping my natal family and Do-saeng’s family finish their sweet potato harvests. I’d prove myself to be a good wife and daughter-in-law, starting now.
Later, after everyone had dressed and eaten breakfast, Jun-bu, his mother, sister, and I made one last procession back to my family home. My sister made a meal, which we all shared. Afterward, Do-saeng and Yu-ri returned to their home, but Jun-bu and I spent the night with my family. This last tradition—unique to Jeju—told the world that a haenyeo would always be tied to her birth family. I went to sleep early, but my husband, father, and brother stayed up late, playing cards and talking.
“You will be diving with our collective again,” Do-saeng said on my seventh morning of married life. “Even though we still have some dry-field work, we need to eat, and the tides are right.”
“This makes me happy,” I said. “It’s wonderful to be back in Hado, where I can be close to my family—”
“And help pay your father’s drinking debts.”
I sighed. Yes, this was so, but I went on with my original thought. “And I can help my sister now that she’s a baby-diver.”
Do-saeng frowned. “I’m sure your mother would have preferred that I be responsible for her. After all, not everyone has good fortune when they dive with you.”
Her words hit me like a slap to my face. Was this how it would always be, with Do-saeng reminding me of my family’s shortcomings and blaming me for what had happened to Yu-ri?
“Of course you’re responsible for Little Sister, as you are for all the haenyeo in your collective,” I said. “She’s lucky to have you to guide her. I just meant—”
“Will you be wearing your black water clothes this month?”
The further from the latrine and the house of the mother-in-law, the better. I found it especially hard to live within Do-saeng’s fence. Grandmother had told me I would get used to my situation, but if I was humiliated all the time, I wasn’t so sure. On the current matter, Jun-bu was doing his best to plant a baby, and I was working hard to make sure it found a warm home in my body. Jun-bu had been right that we would get better at our night activities. Sometimes he even had to put a hand over my mouth to keep the sounds of my pleasure from drifting over to the big house. Still, it had only been a week.
“You will know when I know,” I answered at last.
So, I worked even harder to help Jun-bu plant his seed before he returned to Japan. I liked how he made me feel between my legs, but the practicalities of marriage were, to my mind, not so great. My husband heated water for me to warm myself when I came home from the sea, but mostly he read books, wrote in notebooks, or joined other men by the village tree to discuss philosophy and politics. The only real ways his life had changed were that he prepared dinner for me to eat in our little house and had me next to him at night. As for me, I dove with Do-saeng’s collective, worked in the fields, and cared for Yu-ri—brushing her hair, cleaning her behind when she had accidents, washing those dirty clothes, making sure she didn’t harm herself by getting too close to the fire in the kitchen, looking for her in the olles if she got loose from her tether when her mother and I were in the sea. For the most part, Yu-ri was good humored, but she could be querulous at times. It wasn’t like dealing with an angry or unhappy child, because she was a full-grown woman—strong, obstinate, a typical haenyeo, even though she would never dive again. My heart went out to her, and I would happily take care of her for the rest of her life, but sometimes it all felt overwhelming. That’s when I longed for Mi-ja the most. I missed running out in the morning to meet her. I missed talking, laughing, and diving with her.
Twelve days after the wedding, Do-saeng and I were sitting in the courtyard, repairing nets, when Jun-bu came out of the little house. Like all mothers, Do-saeng regarded him with eyes of love. “If you don’t need your daughter-in-law,” he said, addressing her, “I’d like to borrow my wife.” What can a loving mother do with a request like that? In minutes, Jun-bu and I were walking through the olles, side by side, but not touching in public.
“Where are we going today?” I asked.
“Where would you like to go?”
Sometimes we went to the water’s edge. Sometimes we strolled through the olles. Other times we’d climb an oreum, stare out at the view, talk, and sometimes do nighttime activities in the broad daylight. I liked that a lot, and so did he.
I suggested that we visit the shadow side of an oreum not too far off. “It’s a hot day, and you might find it cooling to sit on the grass.”
He grinned, and I started to run. He followed close on my heels. He was a man, but I was faster. We snaked through the twists in the olles, broke into a field, and began to climb the steep cone. We lifted ourselves over the top and dropped down to the shady side. Soon we were rolling together in the grass and flowers. I still marveled at his pale skin next to my sun-browned flesh. He ran his hands over the muscles in my arms and the firmness of my bottom. The softness of his arms and torso seemed a physical manifestation of how gentle and nurturing he was. Later, after we’d pulled our trousers back on, we lay on our backs, staring up at the clouds as the wind pushed them across the sky.
I liked my husband. He was as warm and kind as he’d been when he was a skinny boy playing with us at the shore. He was also willing to share his knowledge with me. And it turned out I wasn’t as ignorant as I thought. I’d gone out for leaving-home water-work and had seen many places, while he’d only been to Hado and Osaka. He’d read lots of books, but I’d learned by listening and observing. I understood the seafloor, and he never stopped asking me questions about it; he had a better sense of the war and the world, which fascinated me. So, while at first I thought we’d have nothing to talk about, we had plenty of things to share and explore, each of us with our different perspectives on Jeju and the world beyond. He liked to talk about the long-ago time when Jeju was its own independent kingdom. I always felt confident with this subject, because Grandmother had taught me a lot about the Tamna. He also revealed to me things he’d learned about the Moscow Conference and the Cairo Conference, where Allied leaders had spoken about the future independence of Korea. I hadn’t imagined that world leaders would be talking about my country or that independence was possible.