The Court Dancer Read online

  He did not have the prominent cheekbones of Korean men, nor did he have the wild look of men from the north, and his eyes were not so narrow, his complexion not so heated, his manner not so energetic. More than anything else, he spoke of love more frequently than any Korean man. These differences were as distinct as the Western suit he wore.

  Jin and Victor seemed different from the other passengers despite their having boarded with everyone else. Though they faced the same long voyage as the many other people on the ship, they gave off an air of being on their own private journey. Her Eastern eyes, with their sparkle and discretion, and his Western eyes, underneath their creased eyelids and thick eyebrows, met each other’s gaze in the air between them. Her gaze was deep with melancholy, while his was filled with bright joy.

  —Jin.

  The ship began moving in earnest toward the ocean.

  —You cannot imagine what a shining soul you possess. As beautiful as you are in Korea, once we cross the sea and you are in my country, you will have the beauty of freedom. The people of my country will fall deeply in love with you.

  —. . .

  —When we reach my country, we shall hold a proper wedding ceremony. We shall invite many people and show them just how lovely my bride is.

  Jin’s heart sank. To a court lady, the Ceremony of Initiation was no different from a wedding ceremony. And she had gone through her initiation a long time ago at the palace. She had worn a glittering light green wedding tunic, given to her by Lady Suh, resplendent with the two phoenixes embroidered on the chest and back, on which her roommate Soa hung a scented ornamental pouch made of green satin, adorned with lotus-bud knots and strawberry tassels. She placed a ceremonial crown of embroidered flowers upon the carefully plaited braid wrapped around her head and paid her tributes. She made flower-shaped rice cakes as if for a banquet and sent them up to the court lady in charge and procured a mountain pheasant from the poultry store to serve to her roommates. Because she had undertaken such a ceremony, she was, in the strictest terms, one of the King’s women. But the King had sent her away to this man.

  —This I promise you.

  She felt uncertain of her feelings. An emotion, whether of sadness or happiness she couldn’t tell, came upon her in waves. She tried to imagine this country that he called his and failed. Whenever she could find the time, she had memorized the names of the famous streets of his country and tried to understand its people through books, but the only thing she remembered in that moment was that their president was named Sadi Carnot. Where at the end of this ocean could this country be, a land with a president instead of a king? It could only be reached after a two-month ocean voyage. What sights were its streets, what mountains and rivers appeared in its scenery, what shoes did its people wear as they walked its land? Her pupils trembled with the unexpected onslaught of hopes and fears for the future.

  When Victor, who served as the resident French legate in her country, gave notice of his orders to return to France, the King had given him his blessing. His Majesty entreated, “Do not forget Korea when you have returned to France.” The King had turned to Jin, who stood before him next to Victor, and closed his eyes. The King was pale and fatigued. He looked lonely and sorrowful, and more drained by the day in the various conflicts between China and Japan, the people and his advisors, and his father and his wife. Presently, the King half-opened his eyes and asked Jin to raise her head. She did, facing the imperial robe where the golden dragon writhed in a sky of red velvet. A silence passed between them before the King spoke to issue an unexpected decree.

  —We hereby grant you a name. Henceforth, your surname shall be Yi. Your given name, Jin.

  Jin, standing by the man who was going to take her over the ocean, felt a tremor pass through her body. Countless emotions intermingled and surged, but the only words that barely managed to seep through her parched lips were, “I am greatly honored by Your Majesty.”

  The King spoke to Victor, the French legate appointed as the first envoy from France during this time when Korea was besieged by foreign powers.

  —That young woman and I now share the same surname. This decision is done in the hope that she is properly received as your wife when you return to France.

  Through one’s name, we see into one’s being. Victor unhesitatingly accepted this name that the King had given her, and immediately called her by it. She, once known as Suh Yuhryung when she danced, Lady Attendant Suh when she embroidered, Jinjin to Soa, and Silverbell to Yeon, was now Yi Jin.

  On that same night, Jin was summoned to the Queen’s quarters. Three years had passed since taking leave of the Queen to live with the French legate. Coffee and cake were placed between them. The Queen said, “Come closer.” Upon the Queen’s tunic hung a glittering green pendant tied in chrysanthemum knots. It had been a long time since she had sat close enough to the Queen to observe the waving of the soft tassels of the ornament.

  The Queen said that the King’s granting Jin his own surname meant he considered her a daughter. Because it was not allowed to look directly upon the pale face of the Queen, whose hair was neatly wound in a bun and fastened with a jade pin, Jin could only keep her head bowed.

  —Indeed, if this were an ordinary family, my own heart would be that of a mother sending away her daughter in marriage.

  Jin bowed her head yet lower.

  —The sense of a person’s name is created by the way the name’s bearer conducts her life. Take care to live beautifully, so your name inspires a feeling of grace in the people who speak it.

  Jin could clearly sense the thoughtfulness in the Queen’s own name.

  —Is there nothing you would like to say to me?

  Jin’s heart was fit to burst with all the words she had wanted to say to the Queen since her life in the palace had abruptly ended three years ago. Words of resentment and love and concern and sadness . . .

  She pressed down on them and raised her head.

  —I wish to dance for you the Dance of the Spring Oriole.

  The Queen’s exquisite face took on a thoughtful expression. She was likely the person in the palace who had enjoyed Jin’s dancing the most. The Queen once praised her by declaring that, out of all the dancers in court, Suh Yuhryung was the best performer of the Dance of the Spring Oriole.

  —Do so.

  Jin carefully backed out of the Queen’s presence and stepped lightly onto the flower-patterned mat. The Dance of the Spring Oriole was invariably the most popular solo dance during spring banquets. The flying step, the stone tower, the falling flower and flowing water, the before-the-bloom . . . every step of the palace dances featured in it. There was no music and she wore no crown of flowers on her head, but Jin’s movements were graceful in their restraint and care. After all, it might be the last dance she would get to perform for the Queen.

  —As one who dreams of the new enlightened world but could not step one foot outside of this palace, I envy you.

  The Queen’s voice hovered like a cloud by Jin’s ear where perspiration began to gather.

  —And you are going forth into this world because of love. So do not feel regret.

  As she danced, Jin became a tree, and became fire.

  —Go to this new world and release yourself from your bonds, learn as many new things as possible, and live a new life.

  Jin danced to transform herself into the earth, into steel.

  —You are likely the first Korean woman to voyage this far.

  At last, she became water.

  —Do not forget this fragile country that you leave behind.

  She would not. She could never, moreover, forget the Queen, who was once treated as if she were deceased, and given a national burial. Like an oriole singing on a tree branch in spring, Jin prayed with every light step of her feet for the Queen’s days to be full of peace.

  Drenched in sweat, Jin lowered her head once more before the Queen.

  —Would you write down what you see and hear and feel in that strange land, an
d send it to me?

  The dragon engraving of the white jade hairpin pierced through the Queen’s hair seemed to float before Jin’s eyes. The Queen was always curious as to how people in foreign countries lived, what laws they followed, what treatment they sought when sick, and what they ate, wore, and learned.

  —Would you do this for me?

  Jin answered yes.

  —It will take two months for the letters to reach here, but I already look forward to them.

  The Queen bestowed a peony painting to Jin, whose perspiration had still not cooled on her apricot-colored face. This was in keeping with her practice of rewarding the best dancer at every banquet.

  —When you reach that country, hang this on your wall and look at it from time to time.

  The Queen rolled the scroll herself and placed it in Jin’s hands.

  —Farewell.

  The Queen removed her cupronickel ring and slipped it onto Jin’s finger.

  Where could they be?

  Her eyelids fluttered open, her body rocking in space. Crushed underneath a strange and confusing dream, her forehead and her loose black hair were damp with sweat. Jin wiped her face with her palm. She felt the Queen’s ring on her finger graze her face. She spread open her hand and gazed up at the ring with an expression of deep melancholy.

  She sat up. Moonlight seeped through the portal of the cabin as the vessel sailed out toward the great ocean from the rough waters of Korea’s long-secluded ocean territory. On the wall before her hung Victor’s dress uniform with its round golden buttons and Roman collar. Gold braids were sewn on the chest, sleeves, and epaulets. Victor took care to hang up his uniform despite his never having an occasion to wear it on board the ship. At the legation, he had also hung his uniform on days when he did not wear it. Jin stared at it and at her light blue Art Nouveau–style dress hanging by its side, the same dress that had attracted so much attention at the harbor. A black woolen suit jacket, a striped vest with a small feather on the lapel, a pair of slightly narrow trousers, and a traveler’s coat that came down to the knees were hung in layers on a single coat hanger next to the other two garments. Next to that were his black cap with the thin visor and her hat with the rose embroidery.

  Jin’s hand moved in the dim moonlight.

  Her fingers slid over Victor’s forehead, the man who was so eager to promise things to her. He seemed preoccupied or businesslike during the day, but at night when he was asleep, he was like a vulnerable, innocent animal.

  On the night in Shanghai where they transferred on board the steamship Villa, he tried, once again, to promise her something before he fell asleep.

  —Yi Jin.

  When darkness fell, the ocean turned from blue to black. Jin bit down on her lip to suppress the laughter that threatened to explode from her mouth. Whenever he called her by her name, his throat constricted because of the unfamiliar syllables. She had to keep her laughter from pushing its way out. Because if she laughed, he might never look into her eyes and call her Yi Jin again.

  —Victor . . .

  She was the first Korean woman to be on a ship sailing to France, and in trying to banish her fear that came from the thought that she was floating atop the ocean, she quietly uttered the name of the sleeping man next to her.

  Victor Collin de Plancy.

  The exotic name belonging to the man whose forehead she stroked. In each name lives the character of the person who owns that name. In the land they left behind, Victor repeated his long name to her many times, wishing her to say it. But she did not. The more Victor wanted it, the more she was unable to because she felt saying his name would make an unforeseen side of him materialize before her and irrevocably change what was between them. Since leaving Korea, Jin sometimes murmured her own name to herself, so quietly that even Victor, who stood next to her, could not hear. “Yi Jin . . .” This name, Yi Jin, was still far from real to its owner.

  Jin turned her head to look at the peony painting that hung over the headboard of the bed. These traces of the people she had left behind always calmed her anxious heart. The peony was unquestionably spectacular, even in the dim light. Below it was Soa’s white porcelain jar, and next to it, the pot with the planted orchid. The box, with the earth and flower seeds, was securely wrapped in a black linen square, and beside it, inside an even more tightly knotted white linen wrap, was the French-Korean dictionary transcribed by the late Bishop Blanc. As she wrapped this well-worn volume in linen for safekeeping, Jin had the feeling that she would be looking in this dictionary far more than anything else she had ever looked at in her life.

  She raised herself out of bed, careful not to wake Victor. She threw on the thin, cylindrical coat she had worn over the blue dress, opened the cabin door, and walked out onto the oval deck of the Villa. The ship sailed forth into the wide ocean. The ocean never overflowed, even when all the waters of the world flowed into it. The Villa weighed seven hundred tons and sailed on rough waters. It had a wide hull and a deep draft, enabling it to carry large cargo. When she expressed her fascination with the steamship, Victor told her that not even the president could sit in the captain’s chair. But what about a king? The crew never whistled once they were on board the ship. They believed that whistling brought bad winds.

  The dull clanging from the engine room was audible over the sound of the waves crashing against the ship. The sea wind whirled about the bow and the large sails of the ship, whipping her clothing about her. Jin gripped her coat, determined not to be dictated by the wind. Her knees felt weak. The rough waves were relentless. They smashed against the ship before flowing outward again.

  Keep coming to me, O black and blue ocean.

  Jin stood on deck and leaned her body out toward the water. A round, full moon rose above the black eaves of the endless ocean. All the world was the sea and the moon. She looked down at the foam of the waves that shattered like shards of white ice. It looked as if hundreds of white horses were being whipped into a run before sinking into the water. A strong wind managed to blow the coat off her, and she instinctively reached out her arms before it flapped away over the black and indigo ocean. The gesture was futile. The coat left her behind to soar freely, swooping upward with the wind almost dipping into the ocean, then flying out again until it was too far away for her to see its silhouette.

  Jin pushed against the wind and stood herself upright. She raised her arms to above shoulder level and slightly lifted one foot. The movements of her body became lighter, as if she wore a dancer’s robe embroidered with butterfly pairings. The waves crashed. The winds crashed. The moonlight, shining down upon the ocean from above, crashed into the water. Her body became supple. Pushing against the things that crashed against her, she let her body fall into a rhythm. A smile spread on her face.

  Victor, who had woken at dawn and come out on the deck in search of her, found Jin dancing as if she were possessed by the spirit of the ocean. The longer one wants to stay together with someone, the less they should try to change them. Even if he hadn’t been Victor, or precisely because he was, he did not call out to the dancer lost in movement beside the moonlit waves. Dewy beads of sweat covered her despite the cold and violent ocean winds. An intense heat enveloped her face, neck, chest, hips, and legs. A weight lifted from her heart and she was no longer afraid of the ocean. She became as light as the waves, the wind, and the moonlight. She became a butterfly.

  The steamship Villa was about to carry this court dancer of Joseon past Saigon, Singapore, Colombo, and the Suez Canal, and onward to France, Victor’s home. She ended in a pose that stretched her body toward the ocean. She exhaled. Victor, who had watched her with bated breath, came up to her and placed his hand once more upon the nape of her neck. Breathing slow, Jin leaned against the railing and gazed out at the boundless ocean.

  The year was 1891.

  Yi Jin was twenty-two.

  2

  The Pear Blossom Child

  A horse born in the north will run against the northern winds.
A bird that has flown from the south will perch on a southern branch.

  Yi Jin was born in Banchon, its name meaning “half-village.”

  Banchon lay at the northern end of Eunglan Bridge, which spanned a ditch near Gyeongmogung Palace to the right of Changgyeonggung Palace. The Sungkyunkwan School of Confucian Thought at Banchon was nicknamed Bangung, or “half-palace,” after a famed school called Biyong from China’s Zhou Dynasty. The original Biyong was built in the middle of a pond, surrounded by flowing water all year round, with a bridge built in each of the four directions. But unlike Biyong, the waters of Bangung flowed only to the east and west, in the shape of a half-moon. This was half the water of Biyong, which was why Sungkyunkwan came to be called the half-palace. Its waters were called Bansu, or “half-water,” and its surrounding village became the half-village of Banchon. And the people who lived in Banchon were called Banin, the “half-people.”

  No one knew how Yi Jin’s family had found themselves living among the Banin.

  What Jin remembered were the pear trees that bore blinding-white pear blossoms every spring, a white as pure as her memory of biting into her first pear.

  Spring found its way into Korea every year despite the peninsula’s tight seclusion on the edge of the world. The soft winds blew into the thatched-roof hovels on the eastern banks of Banchon’s waters. Sunlight entered the house from the early hours in the spring. Across the banks stretched the pear orchards. Perhaps the stomachs that had been empty all winter craved a bit of fat, for in the spring there would be several cow heads on display before the butcher shop. Five hundred cows were slaughtered in the spring, amidst the blooming of dogwood, apricot, azaleas, and camellias. White pear blossoms followed, floating into the air at the slightest breeze and piling up on the ground like snow, only to be washed away with the rain.

  Had Yi Jin’s mother been waiting for the pear blossoms?

  As if wanting to see the flowers before she died, her mother, who coughed up phlegm mixed with blood all winter, breathed her last only when the winds changed, the sunlight brightened, and the pear blossoms crowded their branches. To the last, she held her precious little Jin tightly by the hand.