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Authors: Suki Kim

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BOOK: The Interpreter
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THE BUILDING NUMBERED 98-44 is a red brick co-op. Built in the 1950s, probably. Solid and grim, although here, among the residential complexes called Lefrak City, it is just one of many identical blocks. Two o’clock in the afternoon. Kids running here and there who should really be watched by parents. Old women’s faces at windows who spend their days looking out. Distant howls of stray cats, although in this chill they’ve all gone hiding. From across the street, Suzy counts up to sixteen, roughly. A sixteen-story building. His is situated right in the middle, on the eighth floor. Better there, she thinks. Not too close to the ground floor, where bored hands loiter with not enough cash. But not too high up, for one can never trust the elevator.
She is used to buildings like this. Two-room holes for the entire family. Her parents in the bedroom, and the bunk bed in the living room for Suzy and Grace. Who needs a living room? her parents claimed. They might have had a point. How much
living could one do when working seven days a week? Suzy had just started sixth grade when they moved to a real two-bedroom for the first time. From then on, their two-room days were over. Her parents must have been doing better.
It was also around then that Grace began to change. Grace had always been quiet. She had been one of those shy kids, at her happiest when left alone in a corner with a book. But it was in that year, when Suzy and Grace finally got a real bedroom, that Grace began to show signs of withdrawal. The change did not occur overnight, but she became increasingly dark and sullen. Suzy did not understand why, nor did she question. She just got used to her sister’s prickly moods. Later, Suzy thought that it must have been teenage angst, the heightened adolescent sensitivity, which must have hit upon Grace much more severely than it had Suzy.
Once, Suzy tried to draw her out. It was when Grace was getting ready to choose a college. Smith was an odd choice for Grace, who could have gotten into any college she wanted. Although they had moved through countless schools, both girls had always maintained top grades. In fact, it did not take much effort to be the best in class when most students either spoke no English or lacked proper teachers. Smith was certainly good enough, but why not look into other schools before making the early decision? Grace was not interested. She said that she’d had enough of men, which might have been true. But she also mentioned that Smith offered her a full private scholarship. Grace would not accept any other aid. No federal grant. No financial aid. No support from parents. Suzy failed to understand the reason. They were more than eligible for financial aid. Who really cared whether the scholarship came from a government agency or a private donor? What difference did it make, Suzy thought, as she herself went off to Columbia a year later with a good enough aid package to cover her entire tuition and dorm fee.
But Grace was adamant. When Suzy tried to point out the absurdity of her insistence, Grace lashed out, “You’re so fucking stupid, Suzy, you wouldn’t care what kind of money it is as long as it puts food before you, would you!”
During her first year away, Grace phoned only once, to say that she wouldn’t be coming home during the breaks. Oddly, her parents did not seem too upset. If they were worried about her, they did not show it. In fact, they avoided mentioning her name altogether. Once, Suzy remarked casually at dinner, “I wonder how Grace is settling in.” They just ignored the comment. They seemed almost relieved that she was gone. For the final few months, Grace had barely spoken to the rest of the family. She seemed ready to leave home forever. Suzy did not think that her sister would ever come back, certainly not move back home, the way she did a few years later.
Without Grace, the house became unbearable. Although Grace had never been a source of warmth for Suzy, her absence made Suzy feel strangely alone. Her parents had just bought the shop on Tremont Avenue. Both had been working at different fruit-and-vegetable stores for a few years, Mom as a cashier and Dad doing delivery. None of the other jobs had panned out. Dry cleaning didn’t bring in enough cash; fish markets smelled nasty; clothing repair was taxing to the eye; nail salons were toxic; liquor stores got robbed too often; car services were too prone to accidents. Miraculously, they seemed to have saved enough to buy a store, which also meant that they came home even later.
Running their own business made them perpetually anxious. There were nights when they did not come home at all, because the store was open twenty-four hours. Suzy never got to see it. The less she knew, the better, Dad said. A fruit-and-vegetable market, nothing to see, nothing to learn. When Mom mentioned how other kids helped out, Dad balked: “I’m not slaving
away in this goddamn country to have my kids cut up melons!” And that put an end to that. Suzy was secretly relieved. She’d seen Korean markets. They were familiar sights around the city. While the rest of the country had 7-Elevens and Pathmarks, New York City had Korean markets, where one could find almost anything at any hour, fresh and cheap. They all had the basic setup of fruits and vegetables, bunches of flowers in buckets, stacks of groceries on shelves, and salad bars and fruit cups. But the key was that almost all the food items were fresh; nothing was ready-made. They even sold freshly squeezed carrot juice.
The thought of seeing her parents at work made her uneasy. The twenty-four-hour market. The sleep-deprived wife behind the cash register. The bossy husband in a baseball cap hauling boxes in the back. The confused customers gesturing to workers, none of whom speak English. Such an absolute immigrant portrait terrified her. And she knew that the only one who would understand such fear was Grace. Grace had been her American ally. Grace had always been there as a shield. Without Grace, her home became a refuge for two overworked immigrants and Suzy, the interpreter of their forsaken lives.
And then there were those bills to sort out. Grace had always taken care of them. Suzy was suddenly lost without her. She had never had to calculate deductibles from the balance due or fill out loan applications. Luckily, by then her parents had learned to operate within the Korean community. There were people whom they could consult in Korean, an accountant or an insurance agent. When they absolutely needed to communicate in English, they got by in their broken English. Her parents never relied on Suzy the way they had with Grace. Because Grace was older, Suzy assumed. Grace knew how to get things done. But sometimes it almost felt as if it was Grace who wouldn’t let her. All those times when Grace was stuck having to translate for Mom and Dad, she never once asked Suzy for help. When Mom
suggested Suzy take a turn, Grace snapped, “Leave her alone,” and then said loudly, so Suzy could hear, “She’s too slow, she’ll never figure it out.” That did it. Suzy never offered to help. Let
her
deal with the mess, she thought sulkingly. But now that Grace was gone, Suzy thought perhaps Grace had been right after all. On the rare occasions when Suzy had to read over a confounding notice from creditors, she wondered how Grace had managed, gone all day as Mom and Dad’s personal interpreter.
 
 
The elevator reeks of urine and sweat. The floor appears not to have been swept in years. The loud bass line from a boom box vibrates through each floor, accompanied by the occasional shrill of a woman, either joyous or dying. Suzy pauses before the door marked 8F
Kim Yong Su is a truck deliveryman, which means that he should be home now. A deliveryman’s day begins around 10 p.m., when he drives his truck to the wholesalers in the Bronx Terminal Market or the Hunts Point Market and purchases the goods that have been ordered by his client stores. He then loads the boxes of fruits and vegetables onto a truck and starts making deliveries through the early-morning hours. On average, one driver has five or six stores on his roster. A regular truck won’t hold more than six stores’ worth of goods. He is the middleman. All deliveries must be made by at least 9 or 10 a.m., when the stores finish stocking inventories. By noon, he must rush home, eat quickly, and go straight to bed, so that he can rise again at sunset.
Suzy rings the bell once. Nothing happens. No sound comes from the inside. Maybe he is not home yet. Maybe he is already asleep. She rings again. Somewhere from the end of the corridor comes a hissing noise. A kid up to mischief. A curious neighbor looking on. Finally, a shuffling sound against the door and an
eye through the peephole. “Who is it?” the voice asks in Korean. “Suzy Park.” She brings her face close to the door. “I met you the other day at the deposition, I was your interpreter.” Then a clatter of bolts, and a face emerges, the same face that beckoned her at McDonald’s only five days ago.
He looks surprised, if not wary. He does not invite her in. Not yet anyway. His face seems to be asking, What are you doing here? Do interpreters make house calls now? Did my lawyer send you? Did the court? Am I in trouble for something I am unaware of? Whose side are you on?
“I would’ve called, but I had no phone number for you,” she says finally. It is hard to know where to begin. She hopes that she is not imposing too much on his sleep time.
He appears even more puzzled. He is not sure if he should let her in. Why is she here?
“I think you knew my parents,” she comes straight out. “They had a store on Tremont Avenue in the Bronx. They were killed five years ago.”
A flicker of something in his eyes. A flash of recognition. He looks her over once, lingering on her face, and says, “I’ve got nothing to say.” He is about to shut the door when Suzy blurts out, “Mr. Lee from Grand Concourse sent me. He told me that you know things, that you were wronged by my parents.” It is not true, of course. No one sent her here, only her own suspicion, and poor Mr. Lee, he will never know what exactly ensued from his testimony. The man behind the door pauses mid-step, his eyes boring into her once more. Then he moves aside, reluctantly.
Inside is a small studio with a bed against one wall, along with a table and a tattered brown sofa. On the other wall is a kitchenette barely wide enough for one person. It is a shabby place, but not without a semblance of order. Obviously he lives alone. But of course that must have been in his testimony; she
never recalls details afterward, one witness’s life often blurring with another.
He motions for her to sit on the sofa before bringing a chair from the foot of the bed. He then sits opposite her with a table between them.
“I would offer you something, but all I’ve got is water.”
“I’m fine,” she tells him. “I’m not thirsty.”
From the lack of expression on his face, it is impossible to tell what he is thinking. If he is still wary of her, he no longer lets it show.
“I didn’t know when I met you at the deposition. I didn’t know that you’d known them. I guess I don’t know many people who knew my parents,” she says, choosing her words carefully.
He takes out a pack of Marlboros from his shirt pocket and grabs the blue plastic lighter from the table. When he inhales, there is a hint of a gurgling sound from his throat. He has a weak heart, Suzy thinks. Weak lungs. This man should not be smoking.
“The police claim it was a random shooting. But the murder was professional. It was precisely executed. It was obvious. It made no sense that no one was getting to the bottom of it.” Suzy raises her eyes, fixing him with a clear, steady gaze. “I’m not sure what I’m asking you to tell me. But I know you might’ve had reasons to hate my parents.”
He is looking down at the black plastic ashtray on the table, the kind that belongs in a bar, not in the solitary home of a man well past sixty. When he exhales, the smoke casts a fog between them.
“So you think I had something to do with your parents’ murder?”
The question comes so abruptly that Suzy does not know how to respond, except to continue staring at him. He does not return her gaze. He looks tired. Of course, he must have just
come home from work. A man of his age should not be hauling boxes all night.
“Your father …” He pauses, as if just a mention, the uttering of the name, brings up memories he’d rather do without. “He’d worked with me many years ago. About eight years before he was killed, so I guess thirteen years now. A fruit-and-vegetable store, the only kind of work I know how to do.”
He takes a deep breath, as though it is not easy for him to talk at length. Suzy wishes now she had asked him for that water. Her throat feels dry suddenly. She swallows hard, looking across at the red glow of his cigarette.
“Whatever you’ve heard is your business. It’s been thirteen years, a long time. Nothing left now, nothing left to say.” When he says “nothing” in Korean, the word leaves an echo, the peal of hollowness. Looking around, Suzy is again struck by the austerity she observed upon entering. It is obvious that he is not attached to his living quarters. Nothing gives a clue, nothing personal here. Except for a photograph framed by his bedside. A snapshot of a middle-aged woman with a short permed hair and pursed lips. Koreans rarely smile before a camera. It makes them uneasy, such a mechanical documentation of history.
“Is that your wife?” she asks, hoping to engage him, who seems determined to end this talk.
“
Was
… She’s been dead for thirteen years,” he mutters. Suzy cannot tell if he is annoyed by her interest.
“I’m sorry,” says Suzy, vaguely recalling something about it from his testimony. A suicide, it was. The plaintiff’s lawyer, the older one with a brand-new Honda Accord, brought it up a few times, only to back away when pummeled by objections from Mr. Kim’s attorney. Nasty ones do that. Any tragedy in your past can be used to bring down your case. The more tragic, the easier it is to paint a bad character. A man who cannot be trusted, a man who’s driven his wife to death.
BOOK: The Interpreter
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