The Interpreter (8 page)
Authors: Suki Kim
What happens when a bullet pierces a heart? What happens in that eternal second? What happens to a body falling so instantly, as a perfect answer to a perfect finger that pulled the trigger as if counting one, two, first the man, then the wife, or the woman, then the husband, whichever order, for it is all the same who goes first, they will fall together, the bullet never misses, a clean shot, two clean shots, no messy stuff, no pool of blood, no heart-wrenching cries, no crying daughter whose body lies five years later still hoping for the third bullet, which was surely fired, which will reach her heart with dead certainty, as it did once, twice, so easily, so conclusively, two shots only,
exactly twice, and how Detective Lester turned to Suzy afterward with a sorry face and informed her, “Miss, your parents died instantly,” as if to say,
Miss, your bullet is on the way; miss, be patient, your time will come; miss, we’re sure of it, whoever never misses, whoever is a professional, the shot is a sure thing.
exactly twice, and how Detective Lester turned to Suzy afterward with a sorry face and informed her, “Miss, your parents died instantly,” as if to say,
Miss, your bullet is on the way; miss, be patient, your time will come; miss, we’re sure of it, whoever never misses, whoever is a professional, the shot is a sure thing.
The silence is deceiving. The hissing of the radiator has stopped. The night is a perfect calm. Soon the dawn will break. Already there is a faint light smudging the black sky. Already the next day is a possibility. She thinks she hears the shrill of the phone, the rings, the four desperate rings, though she cannot be sure, though she must be dreaming, this must be the hour when no one calls, no one listens, except for her who follows the sea in piercing rain, who craves a warm body despite love, who lies in the dark pretending to live.
“THIS IS THE INTERPRETER HOTLINE SERVICES for the Korean interpreter Suzy Park. Client, Bronx DA’s Office at the Criminal Court on 215 East 161st Street. Time, twelve-thirty p.m. tomorrow. Take Number 4 to 161st Street. Call back in one hour if there’s a scheduling conflict.”
The message on the machine sounds as if it belongs to one of those computerized answering services. The details vary, but the voice is always the same. Suzy has never met the one giving orders. She was hired over the phone after a forty-minute mock trial in Korean. She sent them the signed freelancer’s contract and began working immediately. The procedure is always the same. They tell her where to go, and she shows up at the designated location. After each job, she faxes them the details of the case, including the file number and the contact information of the attorneys and witnesses present at the deposition, and they send her a check every two weeks. Unlike a fact-checking job, which can last through nights, depositions are over in just a few
hours—longer if the case involves a serious medical-malpractice suit, for which both the doctor and the hospital dispatch their individual lawyers, whose redundant questionings can make the whole thing tedious. Then there are the occasional cases where an interpreter is hired as part of a legal strategy even though the witness speaks English. When such a witness is caught lying, he can always point a finger at the interpreter and claim that it is she who translated incorrectly. Or the witness might double-talk and confuse the interpreter, thus making the testimony impossible to translate. These types of depositions can drag on for days, at which point it is no longer the truth the interpreter delivers but a game of greed, in which she has become a pawn. Luckily, such cases are rare, and almost always she walks out of a job within an hour or two.
hours—longer if the case involves a serious medical-malpractice suit, for which both the doctor and the hospital dispatch their individual lawyers, whose redundant questionings can make the whole thing tedious. Then there are the occasional cases where an interpreter is hired as part of a legal strategy even though the witness speaks English. When such a witness is caught lying, he can always point a finger at the interpreter and claim that it is she who translated incorrectly. Or the witness might double-talk and confuse the interpreter, thus making the testimony impossible to translate. These types of depositions can drag on for days, at which point it is no longer the truth the interpreter delivers but a game of greed, in which she has become a pawn. Luckily, such cases are rare, and almost always she walks out of a job within an hour or two.
At first, the agency recommended that Suzy get a beeper or a cellular phone, but she told them that it would be unnecessary. She was always home, she admitted to a mere voice, a stranger with a tab on her life. The message was left yesterday. While Suzy walked along the shore in Montauk, the subpoena was drawn, the witness summoned, the investigation scheduled. A little after midday, an odd time to start a job.
The machine is still blinking. The second message is from Michael. He groans about his dump of a hotel in Frankfurt, the food is glorified grub, and there’re too many Germans everywhere. It is Michael’s way of filling up the silence. When he cannot think of anything else to say, he complains. It is easy to find a man endearing when one’s heart is not at stake. “I’ll call you tomorrow, around four p.m. your time, after my meeting. Be home.” Michael always volunteers his exact whereabouts to Suzy, as though he is afraid of disappearing between the airport runways somewhere in the world. He might do that with his wife also, and she might never suspect him. Suzy has no idea what he tells his wife on those nights he stays at the Waldorf.
Suzy never asks. It is an unspoken rule. She imagines Michael to be a good husband and father. He probably arrives at the front door of his Westport home with an armful of presents each time. On his wife’s dressing table is surely an array of duty-free perfume bottles in every color and shape. She probably laughs and tells him to stop, a cute joke between the two, she refusing to wear the airline-sponsored scent and he promising never to buy another, and then, upon reaching home after a whirlwind of flights, with a cheeky smile, he takes out another crystal bottle from his coat pocket. The baby, now almost a year old, is on the lap of their nanny while the handsome couple in their late thirties kiss.
Suzy never asks. It is an unspoken rule. She imagines Michael to be a good husband and father. He probably arrives at the front door of his Westport home with an armful of presents each time. On his wife’s dressing table is surely an array of duty-free perfume bottles in every color and shape. She probably laughs and tells him to stop, a cute joke between the two, she refusing to wear the airline-sponsored scent and he promising never to buy another, and then, upon reaching home after a whirlwind of flights, with a cheeky smile, he takes out another crystal bottle from his coat pocket. The baby, now almost a year old, is on the lap of their nanny while the handsome couple in their late thirties kiss.
But his white-picket-fenced Westport house, his blonde wife in her primary-color outfits, and his baby boy who so resembles Michael have nothing to do with Suzy. Connecticut is a long train ride away, and her cell-phoning lover remains her secret through the cool winds of November. Oddly, no guilt, no sleep lost over his family, who really have nothing to worry about. Suzy is only happy to send Michael home. She has no intention of keeping him, as she had with Damian.
They didn’t see each other until seven months after meeting on the steps of St. John the Divine. It happened in the third week of November of that same year. There were only a few weeks left in the first semester, and Suzy was anxious, still unsure about her senior thesis, which focused, of all things, on Shakespeare. The comparative aspect had to do with the Eastern treatment of
King Lear,
as adapted by Akira Kurosawa in his minimalist film
Ran
. Suzy had been intrigued by the fundamentally opposite viewpoints expressed in the two interpretations of the same plot, which supported her central argument of the impossibility of harmony between the East and the West. It seemed a militant way of analyzing the problematic relationship, and Suzy was not sure how much of it was really her idea, or if it had
been Professor Tamiko who encouraged such a position. Suzy had met her only once privately, for half an hour. The scheduled twice-a-semester meetings never worked out. Back in September, soon after the senior year began, Suzy sat before Professor Tamiko, feeling awkward, if not slightly terrified. It was the first time she saw her up close. Of course Professor Tamiko showed up late and offered no apology.
King Lear,
as adapted by Akira Kurosawa in his minimalist film
Ran
. Suzy had been intrigued by the fundamentally opposite viewpoints expressed in the two interpretations of the same plot, which supported her central argument of the impossibility of harmony between the East and the West. It seemed a militant way of analyzing the problematic relationship, and Suzy was not sure how much of it was really her idea, or if it had
been Professor Tamiko who encouraged such a position. Suzy had met her only once privately, for half an hour. The scheduled twice-a-semester meetings never worked out. Back in September, soon after the senior year began, Suzy sat before Professor Tamiko, feeling awkward, if not slightly terrified. It was the first time she saw her up close. Of course Professor Tamiko showed up late and offered no apology.
“So you believe that Shakespeare was exhibiting a secret Zen desire through Cordelia’s insistence on ‘nothing,’ or by declaring so boldly, which is really to negate the premise of ‘nothing,’ he was illustrating the very Western ideal of negative space?”
No warm-up chitchat, no polite hellos; Professor Tamiko liked to get straight to the point. Suzy was not sure if she expected her to say anything in reply. Besides, she really did not know what she thought about the whole thing, if she had any concrete position. Certainly, it was her thesis. She was still brewing with thoughts, some interesting, some absurdly minor, and yet, sitting before this woman who was now spewing infinite possibilities, Suzy felt dumb, as if she became Cordelia herself, who could declare nothing over and over as if it were the only conceivable cry against all that had brought her there, to this ground-floor office whose window revealed the sunny autumn outside, which seemed suddenly impossible to believe. Professor Tamiko was now saying something about Kurosawa’s use of the scene depicting a tree as the Eastern answer to Cordelia’s verbal filial piety. The tree, yes, Suzy liked that scene in the movie, how the younger son stands holding up the bony branch that casts a soft shadow over the old king’s sleeping face. It was a heartbreaking scene, the son’s last gesture of love for his aging father, the old immutable tyrant on whose face death has begun its menacing grip.
It felt unbearably hot suddenly, and Suzy took out a tissue from her bag to wipe the sweat off her face.
“Yours is quite an interesting thesis, but anything can be interesting if you just put your mind to it, even Shakespeare. Let’s take it one step further … How effective is Cordelia’s ‘nothing’? How pure is Shakespeare’s intent? Or perhaps have we all been fooled by Shakespeare, could he be the biggest con man of the world’s literature? Why is it always the white man?”
The sudden tightness in Professor Tamiko’s tone surprised her. No one uttered the words “white man” with such contempt, except perhaps her father. Suzy thought she had seen the fleeting anger across the older woman’s pale face, whose violet lipstick shone so brightly against the cream silk blouse and the matching cardigan, and the afternoon sun almost too faint against her piercing black eyes.
“Don’t look so timid, now; it won’t get you very far, not with me, and definitely not with them.”
Suzy realized that she was being dismissed. What did she mean by “them”? Her father often said things like that. He would say “us” and “them” as though there were always a line between the family and the rest of the world. The implication was clear. The guilt lay with “white men,” as he never forgot to tell her: “Don’t ever trust them, don’t you ever let them touch you.
Suzy got up to leave. The meeting seemed to have nothing to do with her thesis. Shakespeare and Kurosawa seemed to have so little bearing on what had just been confessed in the office; she would be glad never to return. And it was then that Suzy saw the black-and-white photo of Damian on the corner of the bookshelf. He appeared very young, his chestnut hair down to his shoulders, the flared collar of his flannel shirt so unmistakably seventies. Next to him was Professor Tamiko, girlish with clean bangs and no lipstick. She looked happy, her head leaning against his shoulder, shockingly youthful, and clearly in love.
“It’s from a long time ago. I should’ve put it away.”
Professor Tamiko muttered as though she were excusing herself, as though she thought Suzy had already left the room.
The next meeting was not scheduled until November, which was when Suzy saw him. She had been waiting in front of Professor Tamiko’s office. The thesis was going nowhere, and she was seriously considering dropping the whole topic. Their meeting was supposed to be at two o’clock, but upon arriving she found the door locked. Suzy crouched on the floor with her bag at her feet, hoping that someone would show up eventually, perhaps one of the TAs who usually answered the door during her office hours. But half an hour passed, and no one came, and Suzy began to feel hungry and sleepy. She had not slept for days, sitting up all night before the blank computer screen, glancing at the familiar tree scene from
Ran
, which was now on her VCR permanently with its sound muted. She was beginning to get sick of it. Filial piety or not, what did it matter to her, who really cared if Shakespeare was a con man or not, why lose sleep over something so abstract and ancient? Suzy was never a rebel, never imagined herself as one, and now was certainly not the time for her to behave as such, when her college degree was down to just one more semester.
Ran
, which was now on her VCR permanently with its sound muted. She was beginning to get sick of it. Filial piety or not, what did it matter to her, who really cared if Shakespeare was a con man or not, why lose sleep over something so abstract and ancient? Suzy was never a rebel, never imagined herself as one, and now was certainly not the time for her to behave as such, when her college degree was down to just one more semester.
Suzy must have dozed off, for she suddenly opened her eyes to furious knockings nearby. He did not seem to notice her crouching on the floor against the right wall. He was banging on the door repeatedly, stamping his feet, muttering something under his breath resembling a curse, though Suzy could barely make it out. A few minutes went by before he stopped.
“She’s not there,” Suzy volunteered hesitantly. He looked down at her as if he could not understand where she might have come from. His face lacked any discernible expression. But there again—she could not help noticing it—the hollowness in his eyes, the sort of loneliness collected for years, why should it seem so familiar to her? Even back in April, when she first saw
him on the steps of St. John the Divine, even as they both burst out laughing, she found, in his shockingly blue eyes, the mark of something absent, akin to resignation, irrevocably past innocence. And now, sitting here, gazing up at him with her arms hugging her bent knees, she wanted to get up and take his hand and lead him away from this dark hallway, this locked office to which she had hoped she would never return. So, instead, Suzy fired a shot, with a boldness that surprised her: “I hope you didn’t follow me again.”
him on the steps of St. John the Divine, even as they both burst out laughing, she found, in his shockingly blue eyes, the mark of something absent, akin to resignation, irrevocably past innocence. And now, sitting here, gazing up at him with her arms hugging her bent knees, she wanted to get up and take his hand and lead him away from this dark hallway, this locked office to which she had hoped she would never return. So, instead, Suzy fired a shot, with a boldness that surprised her: “I hope you didn’t follow me again.”
He stared at her intently, as though he had not recognized her until then. Of course, it had only been a chance encounter. He had once followed her out of his wife’s lecture on a whim, on a silly, crazy, shiny April whim. Call it spring fever, call it the aging scholar’s midlife confusion. The girl had caught him then, red-handed and guilty, and the two had laughed with an understanding that neither could really explain, and continued on their separate ways, innocent and strangely rejuvenated. And here was the girl again, sitting in front of his wife’s office, watching him lose his temper with such sweet tenderness on a face frighteningly young. He was embarrassed, but not terribly.
Suzy watched his face soften, and took a chance: “I’m starving.”
When they sat across from each other at Tom’s Diner at 112th Street and Broadway, they were both silent. Gone were her smooth Lolita talk and his seething discomfort. There was nothing more to say. Whatever should be was happening. Damian sat before his tea, watching Suzy biting into a cheeseburger with the sated face of a child.
“I’ll be twenty in one week,” she told him when she cleaned off the plate, now toying with the last fry that remained free of the pool of ketchup surrounding it.
Will you make love to me then, I have never done it before
.
.
Surely she could not have said it. She had never been so reckless.
She did not even want him in that way. He did not fill her with lust, as she later learned to feel after learning his body as if it were her own. But that afternoon, leaning on the orange Formica table at Tom’s Diner, she invited him to imagine her. It seemed necessary, almost understood between the two, that it should take place, that a part of him should pour inside her, a significant part of him, not that fresh-faced, long-haired guy he might have once been to Professor Tamiko, but instead this much older, visibly distraught man nearing fifty, bad-mannered enough to kick his wife’s door open, who now sat opposite, undressing her silently, wishing he were not doing so.
She did not even want him in that way. He did not fill her with lust, as she later learned to feel after learning his body as if it were her own. But that afternoon, leaning on the orange Formica table at Tom’s Diner, she invited him to imagine her. It seemed necessary, almost understood between the two, that it should take place, that a part of him should pour inside her, a significant part of him, not that fresh-faced, long-haired guy he might have once been to Professor Tamiko, but instead this much older, visibly distraught man nearing fifty, bad-mannered enough to kick his wife’s door open, who now sat opposite, undressing her silently, wishing he were not doing so.
Certainly she seduced him, but he encouraged her with silence. He gazed at her, not laughing, not making light of her suggestion, not saying anything to distract her maneuver. He simply watched her eat and waited patiently until she stumbled on her words. Once the waiter took the empty plate away, Suzy felt a slight panic, not knowing what to do with her hands or where to rest her eyes. She thought of taking out a cigarette from her pocket, but she could not decide if that would make her seem even younger. She was afraid that he might get up and leave, although she knew, on some basic level, that he wouldn’t.
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