Authors: Suki Kim
The Interpreter (16 page)
“Me, I’m not sure if I ever had it in me. For a long time, for as far back as I can remember, something was amiss, something fundamental. It’s as if I’ve never had a home, as if I’ve never known what it is to have faith, as if I was never taught what’s
right from wrong, or if I was, then somehow the difference didn’t matter. Why is it that I never felt guilty toward Professor Tamiko? Or Michael’s wife? Why did I choose Michael? Why did I run with Damian? Why did I run from my parents?”
right from wrong, or if I was, then somehow the difference didn’t matter. Why is it that I never felt guilty toward Professor Tamiko? Or Michael’s wife? Why did I choose Michael? Why did I run with Damian? Why did I run from my parents?”
She did not mean to bring up her parents. Kim Yong Su. His dead wife out in Montauk. Her poor, sad parents. Missing Grace.
Jen stares at Suzy, meeting her eyes for the first time. She is about to say something, but she looks away instead at the empty green patch of grass where pigeons had flocked only minutes ago. The late-autumn breeze is sharper now. The bare branches have formed hard shadows. The lamps along the fenced path appear bright, giving off a warm glow when everything else is shutting down. Finally, without turning her face, Jen asks, “Do you still hate your parents, Suzy?”
It is useless to pretend with an old friend. Yet there are things one should never say aloud, never admit. So, instead, Suzy says with forced clarity, “But they’re both dead; it’s been five years.”
“Five years, but you’re still hiding,” Jen mutters slowly.
“Not any more than what you’re doing here with me,” says Suzy, changing the subject.
Jen is smiling now. The first real smile since she got here. “Decaf sucks, doesn’t it?”
“It was your idea.” Suzy puts down the cup, which has gotten tepid too quickly. “So you still have to go back to the office?”
“Yeah. The issue ships tomorrow, and Harrison still hasn’t faxed in his corrections.”
“The control-freak writer?”
“More like the pain-in-the-ass writer. If he didn’t have such a stunning mind, we would’ve severed our ties with his last piece, which came in three months late.”
“What’s this one about?”
“Nabokov. The pre
-Lolita
years, when he was teaching at Cornell. Harrison was one of his students then and makes a case about how Nabokov had hated America, and, even worse, how he despised writing in English. Harrison claims that Lolita was really a metaphor for how Nabokov felt toward the English language. The strange mix of desire, subjugation, remorse. It’s an interesting theory, although I’m not sure how much of it I really buy. Nabokov wrote in English almost exclusively, you know. Once he moved here in the forties, he dropped his native Russian, which was a peculiar decision. But he’d been raised trilingual—English, French, and of course Russian. As far as I can tell, he was at ease with all three languages. The man ended up retiring to Switzerland, of all places, talk about neutral ground! They only okayed this article because it’s controversial, and of course because it’s Harrison. He even claims that Nabokov’s decision to adopt American citizenship was little more than a pretext, that it gave him cover for his anti-Americanism. It happened in 1945, not exactly an innocent year. It offers a totally new reading of
Lolita
. I’m not convinced, though.” Jen turns to her, knitting her eyebrows. “Does it mean all that much? What does it mean to adopt a new citizenship?”
-Lolita
years, when he was teaching at Cornell. Harrison was one of his students then and makes a case about how Nabokov had hated America, and, even worse, how he despised writing in English. Harrison claims that Lolita was really a metaphor for how Nabokov felt toward the English language. The strange mix of desire, subjugation, remorse. It’s an interesting theory, although I’m not sure how much of it I really buy. Nabokov wrote in English almost exclusively, you know. Once he moved here in the forties, he dropped his native Russian, which was a peculiar decision. But he’d been raised trilingual—English, French, and of course Russian. As far as I can tell, he was at ease with all three languages. The man ended up retiring to Switzerland, of all places, talk about neutral ground! They only okayed this article because it’s controversial, and of course because it’s Harrison. He even claims that Nabokov’s decision to adopt American citizenship was little more than a pretext, that it gave him cover for his anti-Americanism. It happened in 1945, not exactly an innocent year. It offers a totally new reading of
Lolita
. I’m not convinced, though.” Jen turns to her, knitting her eyebrows. “Does it mean all that much? What does it mean to adopt a new citizenship?”
American citizenship. Of course, Suzy, having come to America at five, had to have become a naturalized citizen at some point. The question rarely came up. She has never even applied for a passport. The idea of flying seized her with vertigo, but in reality, the opportunity never arose. Damian talked about their taking a trip together, since his research often took him to Asia. But it soon became obvious that he did not want her along on his trips. Without a passport, nothing proves her citizenship. She has always checked off the “citizen” box on financial-aid forms, because she once asked Mom and was told that she was a citizen. Since she herself was a citizen, wouldn’t her parents and Grace be as well? When did they all become citizens? How did it
happen? She was told that they had left Korea in 1975. They had followed a family member who had been living in the United States, a cousin on Mom’s side, who must have applied for their visa. When Suzy asked the whereabouts of this cousin, Mom said that she died soon after their arrival. Suzy remembers feeling bad about it. Since they had no relatives in America and had not kept in touch with anyone from Korea, an aunt nearby would’ve been nice. But as it turned out, the family had no one. When other kids boasted about visiting a grandmother or a cousin or an aunt, Suzy just shrugged. She had never had any, so she felt no terrible loss.
happen? She was told that they had left Korea in 1975. They had followed a family member who had been living in the United States, a cousin on Mom’s side, who must have applied for their visa. When Suzy asked the whereabouts of this cousin, Mom said that she died soon after their arrival. Suzy remembers feeling bad about it. Since they had no relatives in America and had not kept in touch with anyone from Korea, an aunt nearby would’ve been nice. But as it turned out, the family had no one. When other kids boasted about visiting a grandmother or a cousin or an aunt, Suzy just shrugged. She had never had any, so she felt no terrible loss.
Contrary to their insistence on everything Korean, her parents rarely discussed their life back home. Dad had been an orphan. A war orphan, a leftover from the 38th Parallel, he used to say. He’d been all alone from birth, and yet he’d managed to get himself to the richest country in the world, so how about that!—Dad would grunt at little Suzy and Grace on nights when he downed a whole bottle of
soju
. On those nights, Dad seemed to forget that they were there at all. The rage they often witnessed was gone too. He seemed to be fighting the urge to remember and yet could not stop recalling the demons from his Korean past, which had nothing to do with his daughters or his wife or this faraway land, as far as the ocean, as far as the length of a decade or two decades or however long it took to call it a home, a place called Queens, a place called the Bronx, a place called America, none of which assuaged whatever stuck in his heart unturned. What Suzy saw was a kind of sorrow, so raw that it felt contagious. Had his recollections at such times signaled the seed of all his angers, she could not have known, because he would not have told, because he was a type of man who should never have had a family.
soju
. On those nights, Dad seemed to forget that they were there at all. The rage they often witnessed was gone too. He seemed to be fighting the urge to remember and yet could not stop recalling the demons from his Korean past, which had nothing to do with his daughters or his wife or this faraway land, as far as the ocean, as far as the length of a decade or two decades or however long it took to call it a home, a place called Queens, a place called the Bronx, a place called America, none of which assuaged whatever stuck in his heart unturned. What Suzy saw was a kind of sorrow, so raw that it felt contagious. Had his recollections at such times signaled the seed of all his angers, she could not have known, because he would not have told, because he was a type of man who should never have had a family.
Mom, though, had not been so alone. She still had family left in Korea. Two sisters. A couple of nieces and nephews.
Everyone comes from somewhere. But it seemed that something bad had happened, and she stopped talking to them years ago. When Suzy asked Mom why, she was told to stay out of the adults’ affairs. Family feud, Suzy later assumed. Probably about money—what else? Couldn’t be much money, though. Mom did not come from wealth. Suzy gathered that much.
Everyone comes from somewhere. But it seemed that something bad had happened, and she stopped talking to them years ago. When Suzy asked Mom why, she was told to stay out of the adults’ affairs. Family feud, Suzy later assumed. Probably about money—what else? Couldn’t be much money, though. Mom did not come from wealth. Suzy gathered that much.
The subculture of immigrants had nothing much to do with the rest of America. When the girls took sick, Mom would get a concoction from a local Korean pharmacy where they never asked for a prescription. When Dad lost his appetite, he would visit an herbalist in Astoria for a dose of bear’s galls. When her parents had some money they could put away, which was hardly ever, they would turn not to a bank but to a
gae
, which was a Korean communal-savings pool where a monthly lottery was drawn to grant the winner a lump sum. It was beyond Suzy’s understanding why her parents, like most Korean elders, preferred Maxwell House instant coffee to fresh coffee, or why they wouldn’t touch grapefruits or mangoes, though they kept boxes of dried persimmons at home. Had she stayed in just one neighborhood long enough, had she been allowed to build intimacy with one friend, one neighbor, one relative, then perhaps this perpetual Korea, which hovered somewhere in the Far East, might have seemed more relevant. She kept up with the language. She followed the custom. But knowing about a culture was different from feeling it. She would bow to the elders without the traditional respect such bows required. She would bite into the pungent spice of
kimchi
without tasting its sad, sour history. She would bob her head to the drumbeats of the Korean folk songs without commiserating with their melancholy. But how could she? She recalled nothing of the country.
gae
, which was a Korean communal-savings pool where a monthly lottery was drawn to grant the winner a lump sum. It was beyond Suzy’s understanding why her parents, like most Korean elders, preferred Maxwell House instant coffee to fresh coffee, or why they wouldn’t touch grapefruits or mangoes, though they kept boxes of dried persimmons at home. Had she stayed in just one neighborhood long enough, had she been allowed to build intimacy with one friend, one neighbor, one relative, then perhaps this perpetual Korea, which hovered somewhere in the Far East, might have seemed more relevant. She kept up with the language. She followed the custom. But knowing about a culture was different from feeling it. She would bow to the elders without the traditional respect such bows required. She would bite into the pungent spice of
kimchi
without tasting its sad, sour history. She would bob her head to the drumbeats of the Korean folk songs without commiserating with their melancholy. But how could she? She recalled nothing of the country.
Yet American culture, as Suzy was shocked to discover upon leaving home, was also foreign to her. Thanksgiving dinners. Eggnogs. The
Mary Tyler Moore Show
. Monopoly. Dr. Seuss.
JFK. Such loaded American symbols meant nothing to her. They brought back no dear memory, no pull of nostalgia. Damian hailed her as the ultimate virgin. He laughed when, at one Thanksgiving dinner, he saw Suzy’s face brighten as she tried turkey covered in cranberry sauce for the first time. A blessing, he said, to be raised in such a cultural vacuum. But the blessing came with its price. Being bilingual, being multicultural should have brought two worlds into one heart, and yet for Suzy, it meant a persistent hollowness. It seems that she needed to love one culture to be able to love the other. Piling up cultural references led to no further identification. What Damian had called a “blessing” pushed her out of context, always. She was stuck in a vacuum where neither culture moved nor owned her. Deep inside, she felt no connection, which Damian seemed to have understood.
Mary Tyler Moore Show
. Monopoly. Dr. Seuss.
JFK. Such loaded American symbols meant nothing to her. They brought back no dear memory, no pull of nostalgia. Damian hailed her as the ultimate virgin. He laughed when, at one Thanksgiving dinner, he saw Suzy’s face brighten as she tried turkey covered in cranberry sauce for the first time. A blessing, he said, to be raised in such a cultural vacuum. But the blessing came with its price. Being bilingual, being multicultural should have brought two worlds into one heart, and yet for Suzy, it meant a persistent hollowness. It seems that she needed to love one culture to be able to love the other. Piling up cultural references led to no further identification. What Damian had called a “blessing” pushed her out of context, always. She was stuck in a vacuum where neither culture moved nor owned her. Deep inside, she felt no connection, which Damian seemed to have understood.
“Nabokov … If he hated America so much, does that mean that he loved Russia?” Suzy is fingering the pack of cigarettes in her coat pocket, but this is not a cigarette moment. That would be too close to home. A late-afternoon park in November. A cup of coffee. Jen sitting by her side.
“I don’t believe he did. I don’t believe he was capable of that kind of love or hate for a country. He was too selfish. You can see that in his writing. He picked each word as though his entire life was at stake. He was notorious for jotting down every thought on three-by-five index cards. His life was a string of exile, from England to Germany to France to America to Switzerland. It was right after renouncing Russian that he threw this verbal masturbation of a novel called
Lolita
at the American public. Here’s this Russian guy who’s only been living in the U.S. for a decade or so, tripping on English prose like Faulkner on acid! What’s worse, just as the American readers can’t get enough of him, he skips out to Switzerland. The reason? His obsession with butterflies. Of course he was strange, no doubt
about it. But I think Harrison is wrong. Russia versus America would’ve been too simple for Nabokov. If he’d been tortured, which I believe he was, then it was about something less obvious. The Cold War might have contributed, but his oddness, that something which doesn’t quite add up about him, goes way deeper. No, I’m not talking about the sexual perversity of his book, which is hardly relevant, but something else, the neatness, the systematic design of his life, like those index cards. Did you know that he lived exactly twenty years on each continent? Twenty years in Russia, twenty in Western Europe, twenty in America, before his final attempt in the neutral Switzerland, where he ended up dying in his seventeenth year? If he had lived, would he have moved again once he filled his twenty-year quota? Where would he have gone?”
Lolita
at the American public. Here’s this Russian guy who’s only been living in the U.S. for a decade or so, tripping on English prose like Faulkner on acid! What’s worse, just as the American readers can’t get enough of him, he skips out to Switzerland. The reason? His obsession with butterflies. Of course he was strange, no doubt
about it. But I think Harrison is wrong. Russia versus America would’ve been too simple for Nabokov. If he’d been tortured, which I believe he was, then it was about something less obvious. The Cold War might have contributed, but his oddness, that something which doesn’t quite add up about him, goes way deeper. No, I’m not talking about the sexual perversity of his book, which is hardly relevant, but something else, the neatness, the systematic design of his life, like those index cards. Did you know that he lived exactly twenty years on each continent? Twenty years in Russia, twenty in Western Europe, twenty in America, before his final attempt in the neutral Switzerland, where he ended up dying in his seventeenth year? If he had lived, would he have moved again once he filled his twenty-year quota? Where would he have gone?”
Suzy is hardly listening anymore.
Too selfish for exile
. Was there a bigger reason behind her parents’ constant moving? Or had they always been fleeing from one situation to another? Were they skipping out on unpaid rent? Why did they leave Korea?
Too selfish for exile
. Was there a bigger reason behind her parents’ constant moving? Or had they always been fleeing from one situation to another? Were they skipping out on unpaid rent? Why did they leave Korea?
Once, when Suzy was either seven or eight, she was awoken in the middle of the night. “Get dressed,” Mom whispered, shoving the clothes and books into big black garbage bags. Both Suzy and Grace stumbled out of bed and threw on whatever they found, grabbing their favorite dolls before following Mom out. Dad was waiting outside in his dove-gray Oldsmobile. When they stole into the night, both Suzy and Grace fell asleep, only to wake up a few hours later at a roadside motel along Route 4, off the New Jersey Turnpike. The family stayed in a tiny linoleum-floored room for about a week before moving into the studio apartment in Jersey City. Her parents never talked about it afterward, but the silence of the night road stuck with Suzy. The hurried steps of Mom gathering things in their old apartment; the clammed-up face of Dad behind the wheel.
Before Suzy fell asleep in the back seat, she remembers, Mom turned around a few times to look through the rear window. Suzy wanted to look as well, but she felt too sleepy and afraid.
Before Suzy fell asleep in the back seat, she remembers, Mom turned around a few times to look through the rear window. Suzy wanted to look as well, but she felt too sleepy and afraid.
Strangely enough, the weeklong stay at the motel was not so bad. Neither Suzy nor Grace minded much. It didn’t happen every day that they could skip school with their parents’ permission. It was almost fun to be stranded in a strange room with all their belongings stuffed in bundles. It felt like playing house, to search through the bags for toothbrushes and a matching sock. They amused themselves with whatever they found curious in that motel room. There was an airbrushed painting of Jesus Christ hanging above one of the beds, which Suzy and Grace tried to copy onto a piece of paper. Neither could draw, and their finished sketch revealed a scary-looking, bearded old man. Suzy remembers the drawing vividly, because it belonged to one of the rare moments when Grace laughed with her, when they had no school, no house chores, no Korean-language lesson. Both Mom and Dad would set off each morning, presumably to look for housing and work, leaving them with a bag of food, mostly from the fast-food counters along the highway, a couple of burgers, a bag of potato chips, and a family-sized Coke. It was a treat. McDonald’s every day, like eating out for each meal. Grace still ate things like that then. Only later, when she started high school, did she become obsessed with dieting.
Fat was not what concerned Grace, not the way it did other girls. She simply cut out things that she considered extra. No chili-pepper paste, because it contained sugar, which ruled out practically all Korean food except white rice and a few odd dishes. No oil of any kind, which Mom used generously in cooking. No soy sauce, because its black color looked artificial. It did not matter whether the dish contained meat or fish or vegetables as long as it was steamed, poached, or broiled, seasoned only with salt. Grace would blame it on an allergic reaction
as she sat picking at a bowl of white rice and not much else. Dad called Grace crazy. Did she realize what he had to do to get that food on the table? Once, he tried to force-feed her a plate of fried dumplings. He sat before her and ordered her to eat. When Grace would not budge, he forced her mouth open and stuffed the dumplings in one by one. Mom sat at the end of the table and did not say a word; Suzy began to cry. Neither intervened, partly because they were afraid to disobey him, and partly because they were both secretly relieved. Grace’s food problem had become increasingly noticeable. It seemed to harbor a certain brooding anger, which then manifested into an overwhelming tension around the dinner table. Her silent rebellion broke the code of whatever had held the family together. By rejecting the food they all shared, Grace was declaring herself separate, apart. It was impossible to ignore the weight, the terrible mood of discord that would be cast over the family each time Grace pushed the food away with her chopsticks. As they watched, Grace vomited every mushy bit of meat and dough onto the floor. Finally, Dad slapped her once and stormed out. After that, he never commented on Grace’s eating habit. They all learned just to ignore it. That might have been the beginning of their silent dinners.
as she sat picking at a bowl of white rice and not much else. Dad called Grace crazy. Did she realize what he had to do to get that food on the table? Once, he tried to force-feed her a plate of fried dumplings. He sat before her and ordered her to eat. When Grace would not budge, he forced her mouth open and stuffed the dumplings in one by one. Mom sat at the end of the table and did not say a word; Suzy began to cry. Neither intervened, partly because they were afraid to disobey him, and partly because they were both secretly relieved. Grace’s food problem had become increasingly noticeable. It seemed to harbor a certain brooding anger, which then manifested into an overwhelming tension around the dinner table. Her silent rebellion broke the code of whatever had held the family together. By rejecting the food they all shared, Grace was declaring herself separate, apart. It was impossible to ignore the weight, the terrible mood of discord that would be cast over the family each time Grace pushed the food away with her chopsticks. As they watched, Grace vomited every mushy bit of meat and dough onto the floor. Finally, Dad slapped her once and stormed out. After that, he never commented on Grace’s eating habit. They all learned just to ignore it. That might have been the beginning of their silent dinners.
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