The Calligrapher's Daughter by Eugenia Kim Read Free Book Online Page A

the prospect of taffy, or kelp chips dusted with sugar. We wove through the crowded market. Vendors shouted out the merits of their wares, or “Best price! Best price!” while customers haggled. Farmers and peddlers spread their goods on a swept parcel of ground: piles of straw sandals and rubber shoes in muted hues, open bags of rice and grains, stacked heads of cabbage, strings of pepper and ropes of garlic, green-flowering bunches of beets, radishes and carrots. One of my favorite chores was to accompany my mother to the fish market and produce sellers to help carry tofu, cucumbers, salted cod, and to other shops for cotton to spin, needles, medicinal herbs, dishes and pots.
    “Umma-nim, who will help make all that gimchi?” I was stricken with the realization that for the first time in my life I’d be apart from her nearly all day, and it was gimchi-making season.
    “Don’t worry. After your studies, you can help me as always, especially with your sewing. You’re doing well with embroidery and you mustn’t get behind. Perhaps you’ll learn new stitches at school.” She slowed to inspect a display of fresh-picked greens of many varieties, and I smelled apples before I saw the bent-over peddler trudge past, his A-frame basket loaded with the crisp fruit. When my mother sliced apples, they looked like lotuses in bloom, each piece cupped in a starburst of peel, and even though Cook said my skill in wielding the bamboo parer was impressive for my age, my apple petals were still uneven.
    “Like peeling apples into flowers,” I said. “I have lots to practice.”
    “That way of thinking will help you become a good wife and mother someday.”
    I warmed with this praise.
    “A turtle can’t move if he doesn’t stick his neck out,” quoted Mother. We walked through the west end of the market, past a shimmering curve of violet-hued silk in a dry-goods stall hung between bolts of golden brocades. A breeze from the public garden ballooned our skirts and swirleddirt around our ankles. I pressed my hands on the indigo silk of my skirt. “Be patient,” said Mother, continuing her lesson, “not prideful, and think of others first. Najin-ah, remember that your weaknesses are willfulness and self-centeredness.”
    I couldn’t avoid the petulant swell to my lips.
    “It’s simply a fact. Understanding your weaknesses will improve your character. It’s nothing to be ashamed of—merely something that needs improvement. You must always put others before yourself. Remember: think ahead about others first.” She led me to a bench beside an enormous bush of second-blooming yellow roses. “Let’s rest a moment.”
    Anxious that we’d stopped walking, I kicked my free-hanging legs rhythmically until she touched my knees. The rising sun deepened the morning’s long shadows and dew evaporated from the roses, emitting sweet perfume. My mother breathed in, her eyes closed, a faint smile spreading peace through her features. “Najin-ah, you’re going to be a nuna.”
    A boy would call his elder sister Nuna. I smiled wide at this unexpected news, exposing many teeth, then quickly covered my mouth and said through my fingers, “You’re having a baby? A boy!”
    “Yes, in the second month next year. Our prayers for a son have been answered. Born in the year of the sheep in the earth phase—a good match for you. Soon you’ll see my stomach growing and you’ll be able to feel him kick, like you kicked before you were born.”
    A perfectly curled rose petal, vivid yellow in the sun, floated onto the wooden bench within inches of my wrist. Although bursting with delight and questions—what would Father name him, and how did Mother know it was a boy?—I heeded my manners and kept quiet.
    “I’m healthy and strong—a good omen. I thank God for this baby, and that on this day, your birthday, you begin your education.” We all celebrated our birthdays on Sollal , the first of each year, so her acknowledgment of today, the