The Interpreter (25 page)
Authors: Suki Kim
“What kind of gifts?”
“Oh, random stuff, like an antique jade ring or a pair of fancy sunglasses. Really nice, except they were all hers, clearly things she’d owned for a while. The letters weren’t much, though. Just brief updates of her life. I thought maybe she was lonely.”
A jade ring? Mom used to wear one on her middle finger. For good luck, she would say, twirling it seven times before whispering a prayer. Did Mom give it to Grace at some point? Why would Grace pass it on to a friend?
“Then, when I was down and out, right after Charlie left me, I was four months pregnant with no job, it was Grace who saved me. She took me in, and later even set me up in a house that used to belong to her parents.” Maria pauses, realizing that they were also Suzy’s parents. “I owe so much to Grace. I think she felt sorry for me, because … maybe she thought I was a bit like her, a misfit, a Korean girl with a name like Sutpen.”
“A misfit?”
“She could never stick to a job, temped for years, strange for a girl who graduated Phi Beta Kappa. It’s like she was allergic to a permanent situation—until the teaching job, that is.”
Like me, Suzy thinks. A waste of college education.
Who do you think interpreted for your parents all those times with the INS?
Grace had never let Suzy know. Grace never let Suzy in. If Grace did not speak to Suzy, then Suzy could remain innocent. But is Suzy innocent?
Even at Smith, Grace was completely alone. Even at Fort Lee High School. No one seems to have gotten through, not even Maria Sutpen, with whom her friendship still feels guarded. Perhaps
Grace was freer with the man who she claimed was alone, orphaned, just like her.
Grace was freer with the man who she claimed was alone, orphaned, just like her.
“What about her boyfriend?”
“What boyfriend?”
“It seems that she went off somewhere to get married, although—”
“Married? That’s ridiculous,” Maria cuts her short, looking dismayed. “Grace is appalled by anything remotely domestic. It’s a stretch for her to even be my baby’s godmother. I pretty much had to force it on her. She certainly wouldn’t be getting married overnight!”
How peculiar that the whole school seems to be aware of his existence when her only friend has no clue.
“She’s never mentioned a guy she was seeing?”
“Back in college, boys from U. Mass. and Amherst were always after her. She never went out with anyone, though. Boys used to say that she was a lesbian. But she had someone from home, some guy who used to come and see her every few weeks.”
“A guy from home?”
“I never met him, but I’ve heard people say he was bad news.
“Why?”
“He picked fights with strangers because he thought they were checking her out. Right on King Street. I remember hearing about it, because in downtown Northampton pretty much everyone belongs to one of the Five Colleges.” Maria pauses. “Why, you think she’s still with him?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s over.”
“How do you know?”
“She told me,” answers Maria, squinting her eyes as if reaching
back to a remote past. “She mentioned something about him finally giving up on her. She said that he was better off without her, because he knew too much about her. She looked so lonely when she said it, though. That’s when it occurred to me that she might’ve had some feelings for him after all. I thought he was just some freak stalking her, but maybe they had a real thing. She hasn’t been with anyone since. Especially after what happened to her … your parents.”
back to a remote past. “She mentioned something about him finally giving up on her. She said that he was better off without her, because he knew too much about her. She looked so lonely when she said it, though. That’s when it occurred to me that she might’ve had some feelings for him after all. I thought he was just some freak stalking her, but maybe they had a real thing. She hasn’t been with anyone since. Especially after what happened to her … your parents.”
“Why do you think she couldn’t?” Suzy mutters, as though posing the question to herself.
“Something in her died with them. She seemed permanently lost without them. Years ago, when she moved back home after college, she used to write to me about how great her parents were, how much she loved them. I remember being envious. My mother died when I was five, and I never even met my father. I know what it’s like to lose parents, but I can’t imagine the pain when you’ve been so close …” Maria stops abruptly, realizing that the pain also belongs to Suzy.
Did Grace really use those words?
That they were great?
Something begins collapsing inside her.
A quiet sinking.
Grace hadn’t even begun facing the truth, Suzy realizes. Moving back home might have been her attempt to bury the truth. Just as Suzy had invented the oceanfront house in her dreams, Grace might have told herself that none of it had happened, that her parents had never used her for their crimes, that they had never violated her conscience.
One day, if you find yourself alone, will you remember that I am too?
“What was his name?”
“I don’t know. She never talked about him except that one time.”
“When was the last time you saw her?”
“About a month ago, she dropped by suddenly. She said that she was in the neighborhood, which was unusual.”
“Why unusual?”
“Because she never comes to Queens. It’s almost like she avoids it. But that day, she said she was looking around to buy a store. When I asked her what kind of store, she said she’ll tell me later.”
A hundred grand, in one shot. A month ago.
Suddenly, pealing laughter halts the two.
“Mommy!” It is the tiny bundle of mess climbing up the stairs, smiling triumphantly, her mouth smudged in chocolate, and opening her palms to reveal a fistful of crushed cookie crumbs. “Look what I got for you!”
Bursting into laughter, Maria gushes, “Sweetie, thank you so much, that was so nice of you to think of Mommy and Miss Suzy.” She throws one of the bigger crumbs into her mouth and then exclaims, “Yumm, it’s really yummy, but now we’ve got to get you to the ladies’ room to clean up!”
Maria Sutpen seems oblivious, which must be why Grace was drawn to her. Too ordinary, made to be a girlfriend, a mother. She even looks natural in a blow-dried bob. She takes whatever’s given without much ado, even something as odd as a used ring or an entire house. The sort of woman you would find anywhere, whom you would never notice or remember, because, despite her mixed colors and name, she is your average all-American girl.
Finally, Maria looks up, her eyes glazed, as though her world has now ceased but for the little girl in her arms. “Please let me know if you hear from her. I’m worried about Grace. And about the letter, maybe we better wait.”
Suzy makes no response. She barely hears Maria saying, “Since Grace specifically told me not to open it. I mean, she
might have left me a message at home by now …” Without letting her finish, Suzy mutters finally, “Was it Grace who gave her the doll, the one named Suzie?”
might have left me a message at home by now …” Without letting her finish, Suzy mutters finally, “Was it Grace who gave her the doll, the one named Suzie?”
“My fairy godmother did!” It is little Grace who jumps at the question. “She made me promise to take good care of her, because Suzie’s all alone in the whole wide world!”
ALL SHE CAN SEE ARE LINES. Lines to the entrance, lines for applications, lines for registration, lines for interviews, lines for hearings, lines to public bathrooms which are locked with “Out of Service” signs on all forty-two floors except three. She is not sure what made her come here. Everyone under the sun is here. The fluorescent blue makes everyone look sick. Or perhaps it is the perpetual wait that turns golden skin ashen. Men in stiff black uniforms trot back and forth with patriotic salutes. The objects of surveillance are aliens. Because here, at 26 Federal Plaza, “aliens” is the preferred name for immigrants. Ten-thirty on Monday morning, anywhere in the world would be better than here.
She could have said no. The call came at the last minute. The court’s interpreter went home sick, and they needed a replacement. Immigrant hearings are rare. The court sticks to its own certified interpreters, and the agency mostly handles depositions that pay much higher fees. Even the voice sounded reluctant
when it left the assignment on her machine. But the minute Suzy heard “26 Federal Plaza,” she grabbed the phone. It seemed unthinkable not to take the job.
when it left the assignment on her machine. But the minute Suzy heard “26 Federal Plaza,” she grabbed the phone. It seemed unthinkable not to take the job.
26 Federal Plaza.
The largest civilian federal building in the country.
The home of the Immigration and Naturalization Service.
Returning to the scene of the crime.
Passing the metal detector, Suzy wonders if her parents were summoned here regularly, if they were led through some secret corridor, if they sold off their fellow Koreans in this very corner. Suzy imagines little Grace next to them, her face lowered, her eyes filled with tears. She surveys the crowd in the sprawling lobby, searching for the INS employee who might have lured her parents, who might have given the final order, who might have turned his face away when they got shot. But nothing. Not a trace. The INS is never clumsy in its tracks.
There are thirty-two courtrooms spread over three floors. Courtroom 30 is located on the twelfth floor. By the door is a young woman in a navy suit pacing the floor and whispering into a cell phone, “No, it’s not gonna take long. Just a formality, really. Williams never grants relief.” She takes no notice of Suzy, who is now entering the room marked “Judge Jack Williams.” There are three wooden pews on either side, with two booths and desks in front. Hanging behind the judge’s bench is a circular bronze plaque that reads “
Qui Pro Domina Justitia Sequitur
,” with an eagle perched in its center. It is a plain room, clean and deeply worn. Yet enough to set one’s nerves on edge.
Qui Pro Domina Justitia Sequitur
,” with an eagle perched in its center. It is a plain room, clean and deeply worn. Yet enough to set one’s nerves on edge.
Squatting in the right booth is a gray-suited man with his nose buried in a pile of papers on the desk. All Suzy can see is the wrinkled forehead and the drooping chin. But all too familiar. One thing she has noticed through the months of interpreting is how lawyers resemble their clients. They begin wearing
the same look. The same optimism, the same despondency. A quick glance, and she can usually surmise the situation. Whatever today’s case is, there’s not much hope.
the same look. The same optimism, the same despondency. A quick glance, and she can usually surmise the situation. Whatever today’s case is, there’s not much hope.
Next to him is the defendant. Either she’s been crying up until the point when she was summoned here, or her eyes are naturally swollen with dark circles. Her gauntness is alarming, the brown cardigan falling shapelessly over her bony shoulders. Her wizened face carries the yellowish hue of someone who hasn’t breathed fresh air for a long time. It is hard to guess her age. Somewhere in her late fifties, although with immigrant workers one can never tell. She looks vaguely familiar, though, and Suzy leans for a better look. But unlike most witnesses, whose faces light up at the entrance of the interpreter, the woman does not even stir when Suzy slides into the seat next to her.
“Hi, I’m the interpreter assigned to the case,” Suzy attempts. The woman seems not to hear her, muttering instead a few indistinguishable sounds under her breath. The lawyer barely acknowledges her. Occasionally Suzy has run into lawyers who don’t address interpreters or stenographers directly. Some even snicker when she stumbles on a word and turns to a dictionary. They might sigh noisily or make a point of shaking their heads. Oddly enough, Korean lawyers are the worst. It might come from the country’s long history of class hierarchy. Once, an attorney turned to her during a break and asked her to bring him a cup of coffee. Suzy collected her things instead and walked out. Sometimes bullying is a legal tactic to prevent a witness from being questioned: get the interpreter mad and bust the deposition. A cheap trick, but it works. Most depositions never get rescheduled. They cost too much. Before the second try, the case gets settled.
But no such play at an immigration court. No cocky lawyer, no tempestuous interpreter. There is a grimness here she cannot
shake off Silence infused with doom. Like the end of a civilization, she thinks, peering at the woman, who still won’t raise her face.
shake off Silence infused with doom. Like the end of a civilization, she thinks, peering at the woman, who still won’t raise her face.
Then, almost simultaneously, the young woman with a cell phone strides in, and a lanky man in a black robe with bifocals precariously perched on his nose emerges from the side entrance by the bench. The new presence does nothing to lift the ominous air. The defendant recoils slightly.
“Let the record reflect that we are now commencing the removal hearing of Jung Soon Choi,” the man with bifocals, who turns out to be Judge Jack Williams, says, turning on the tape recorder. At immigrant hearings, stenographers are rarely used. The court does not have the budget. Facing both lawyers, Judge Williams asks, “Do you, Counsels, wish to present your exhibits?”
Right away, the young woman and the morose lawyer strut to the bench. While the three are poring over the documents, Suzy studies the defendant more closely. A creeping sense of familiarity; what is it? Why does her heart give at every frail motion of this woman?
When both return to their seats, Suzy rises and takes the oath, as does the woman. As if on cue, Judge Williams pounds and says, “For the record, please state your name.” Suzy translates in a louder voice than usual, for fear that the woman might not hear.
In a surprisingly clear and coherent tone, the woman answers, “Choi Jung Soon.”
“Is that your lawyer sitting next to you?”
Mrs. Choi nods, at which Judge Williams orders her to answer verbally.
“Although I believe that the respondent is not even entitled to a hearing, upon the request of the respondent’s counsel, I am
willing to hear her side before making a decision. You may begin, Counsel.”
willing to hear her side before making a decision. You may begin, Counsel.”
Suzy translates, leaving out the part about her not being entitled to a hearing. Why drain the woman of her last hope?
“When were you born, madam?” Her lawyer wastes no time.
“Nineteen forty-two. January 7.”
Nineteen forty-two. The year her mother was born. The year of the horse. Mom once said that no one wanted a girl born in the year of the horse, because she was fated to die far from home. The stars never lie, she whispered, as though imparting an ancient wisdom. Suzy thought she was making it up.
“So you are fifty-eight years old.”
If her mother had lived, she would have been fifty-eight. Still a good age. Still young. The ripe age for a parent. It is not right for a parent to disappear before.
“Where were you born?”
“Korea.”
“When did you come to the United States?”
“Nineteen seventy-two.”
“Do you speak or read English?”
“Little.”
“What is the highest level of education you completed?”
“Objection!” the INS attorney lashes. “The counsel’s wasting everyone’s time, Your Honor. His attempt to establish her background at this point serves no purpose.”
“Sustained,” Judge Williams rules. Get to the point, he means. This is just a formality, the woman’s as good as gone.
Surprisingly, Mrs. Choi replies anyway. “Graduate school,” she says. “I received an M.A. in music from Ehwa Women’s University.”
Not unusual. Many Korean immigrants are college graduates. It is a country with a nearly 100 percent literacy rate. Koreans
pride themselves on education. A man who owns a dry cleaner’s might have once been an architect, or a pedicurist at a local nail salon might be a trained pharmacist. Their Confucian tradition dictates that learning is the basis of self-worth. But it also backfires. The difference between professionals and merchants is sharp. Most of them never get over the shame of being relegated to the working class. Thus a woman who’s been a cashier at a deli for over twenty years will still hold on to her former life as a music scholar.
pride themselves on education. A man who owns a dry cleaner’s might have once been an architect, or a pedicurist at a local nail salon might be a trained pharmacist. Their Confucian tradition dictates that learning is the basis of self-worth. But it also backfires. The difference between professionals and merchants is sharp. Most of them never get over the shame of being relegated to the working class. Thus a woman who’s been a cashier at a deli for over twenty years will still hold on to her former life as a music scholar.
A momentary silence washes over the courtroom. Nothing about the woman suggests a music degree. The mass of gray hair gathered into a bun at the back of her head. The sallow face in desperate need of Maybelline or Lancôme or whichever product adds color. Then her cracked fingers, caked with dead skin, the nails chipped, which she quietly hides under her sleeves as though she too is surprised at her own revelation.
“Mrs. Choi, what is your status in the United States?”
“I am a permanent resident.”
“Under what circumstances did you come to the United States from Korea?”
“I came on a student visa.”
“Affiliated with any school?”
“Juilliard.”
“And did you study there?”
“No.”
“What happened?”
“My parents went bankrupt and could no longer send me money.
“So what did you do?”
“I got a job as a cashier at a Korean deli. I was planning on saving up and going back to school.”
“And were you able to?”
“Objection! How is her education history relevant to any of
this?” The INS attorney looks exasperated. Suzy has seen this before, many times. Lawyers are always acting frantic. They are perpetually frustrated or running out of time. It must be the first lesson they teach at law schools: act like an asshole if the case is not going your way.
this?” The INS attorney looks exasperated. Suzy has seen this before, many times. Lawyers are always acting frantic. They are perpetually frustrated or running out of time. It must be the first lesson they teach at law schools: act like an asshole if the case is not going your way.
“Sustained,” Judge Williams drones. Come on, his murky eyes suggest, do we really have to go through all this?
“Mrs. Choi, are you currently married?”
“Yes.”
“Do you live with your husband?”
“I did.”
“What do you mean?”
“I did until I was arrested.”
“Any children?”
No answer. Suzy pauses as Mrs. Choi clams up. A silent response is the hardest for an interpreter. A pause signals difficulty. Sometimes the witness is confused or does not know the answer. Sometimes it is a ploy to avoid the question. But most times the witness is stuck because the answer is too painful.
“Mrs. Choi, do you have any children?
“Mrs. Choi, according to the record, you have one daughter, is that correct?
“Mrs. Choi, is your daughter’s name Sue Choi?”
Leave her alone, Suzy pleads silently. Can’t you see the sadness on her face?
“Okay, Mrs. Choi, let’s move on to another topic.” The lawyer relents, or puts the daughter on hold for now. “Where were you employed last?”
“Together Market.”
“Where was Together Market located?”
“Between 125th Street and Lenox Avenue.”
“What kind of business was Together Market?”
“A fruit-and-vegetable store.”
“Who owned it?”
“My husband.”
“What was your job or duty?”
“A cashier during daytime, and in the evenings I prepared food for the salad bar and made fruit cups.”
Mom did that too, Suzy recalls. Although Dad never let Suzy, she saw Mom making fruit cups once. Long before they bought the Tremont Avenue shop. It was Grace who took her there. The store was in Manhattan, very far from Queens. It took nearly an hour on the Number 7 train, and at Grand Central, they got out and walked a few blocks. The woman at the cash register had the deepest double folds on her eyelids. Plastic surgery is common among Korean women to make their eyes bigger, like Meg Ryan’s. Except the folds on this woman looked too fake, and her eyes seemed to pop out of their sockets, the skin around them pulled too tightly. The woman languidly pointed to the kitchen in the back, where Mom was squatting on a milk crate facing a cutting board and boxes of cantaloupes. She was carving melons into moon-shaped pieces before putting them into a plastic container, which she would tie with a rubber band. Then the process would begin again. And again. She was like Cinderella, with a mountain of chores, except the mountain was made up of cantaloupes and the midnight ball never took place. Suzy cannot remember what came next. Did Mom finally turn around and see them there? Or is it possible that before Mom could find them Grace pulled Suzy’s arm with a sudden burst of anger and stormed out? How often had Grace gone there? Did she go back to watch Mom from the doorway? Why had Grace brought her there anyway? Suzy couldn’t stand cantaloupes after that. Or Grand Central, for that matter.
For a while now, the questions have been circling around the store called Together Market—when did her husband purchase the store, how many hours per week did she work there, how
much was her annual income. Then he finally zeroes in: “Let’s go back to the night you got arrested, that would be December 2, 1997. Can you, in your own words, explain to the court what happened?”
much was her annual income. Then he finally zeroes in: “Let’s go back to the night you got arrested, that would be December 2, 1997. Can you, in your own words, explain to the court what happened?”
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