Chapter 10  The Calligraphy Shop

Dong Mae was sitting down to a late night meal comprising vegetables, and nothing but vegetables – he had a severe aversion to meats of all kinds - when his men ushered in a visitor, a servant who worked for the Go family, who had been in the employ of Dong Mae for several years, and whose task was to report on affairs concerning the Lady Ae Shin.

“I have news from the house of Go, sir,” the servant bowed low, “and it concerns the Lady Ae Shin.”

“What about the Lady Ae Shin?”

“A gentleman came to visit the Lady Ae Shin.”

Dong Mae stopped eating, his chopsticks frozen in mid-air.

“A gentleman?”

The servant nodded, his eyes cast down.

“They say it is her fiancè, just returned from Japan.”

Dong Mae felt a rushing in his ears, like a torrent of water overflowing, and spilling noisily, deafeningly, obliterating everything else, so that the only thing he was aware of was the roaring in his ears, and the coldness in his heart.

“Why have I not heard of this – this fiancè before?”

He looked at the servant, who recoiled before the blazing fury in Dong Mae’s eyes.

“Sir, forgive this humble servant,” he fell to his knees, words tumbling over one another in his fear, “but, but, I was not aware of his existence. None of us were, for the Lady Ae Shin never spoke of him.”

“Forgive me, sir,” he prostrated himself on the floor. “Please spare my life, sir.”

Dong Mae stood up, fighting to school his face into an impassive mask again.

“Continue to keep watch over the Lady Ae Shin, and collect your payment on your way out.”

He nodded at his man, who helped the shaking servant to his feet.

“Thank you, sir, thank you. I will continue to serve you well, sir.”

The servant was almost at the door, when he suddenly stopped, and turned.

“I had almost forgotten to mention this, but there is one more thing, sir.”

Dong Mae stared at him, hands clasped behind his back, in a desperate semblance at some control.

“Yes?”

“The gentleman brought flowers for Lady Ae Shin.”

“Flowers?”

“Yes, sir, flowers. White flowers, one big bunch of them.”

“What did she do with them?” 

“One of the maids said that she put them in a vase in her bedroom, on a table next to where she slept.”

Behind his back, unseen to the servant, Dong Mae’s clasped hands tightened into balled fists.

“That is all. You may leave.”

The servant and the men left the room, leaving Dong Mae alone, in a state of agitation.

The half-clad Japanese man stumbled along the street, drunk and dishevelled, shouting obscenities in between taking swigs from his almost-empty bottle of wine. He fought hard to stay upright, but gave up soon enough, falling heavily and landing at Dong Mae’s feet.

Dong Mae stared down at the slobbering drunk, covered in spit and vomit.

An expression of disgust filled his face.

He lashed out at the drunk, catching him full in the face.

He bent down, grabbed a handful of the man’s hair, and pulled it back so that the man’s face was raised. 

He smashed his fist into the drunk’s face, breaking his nose, and splitting his lips.

He let go of the man’s face, and watched him fall backward and loll, senseless, in the dirt.

He kicked at the man’s back, viciously, and with such force, so that he rolled over and over, before coming to a stop.

“You vermin, you revolting, disgusting piece of scum. You do not deserve to live, so crawl back to the dunghill you crawled out from.” 

The man attempted to crawl away, with his beaten face, bloodied nose, and bleeding lips.

Stop,” Yujo put a restraining hand on Dong Mae’s shoulder. “Stop, my brother.”

“Enough, my brother. Enough, you will kill him, if you do not stop.”

Dong Mae allowed Yujo to lead him away, but he was still shaking with a cold, murderous rage; it had gripped him ever since he heard of the gentleman, the fiancè of Lady Ae Shin, who had come with white flowers which she had placed in a vase on the table beside where she slept, so that she could wake up each morning and see them the moment she woke up.

The calligraphy shop was located in a quiet part of town, away from the bustling centre, where the traders were, and tucked away in a secluded stretch of street lined with shady trees. At the entrance to the shop, right atop, square pieces of white fabric were strung, like a line of tiny flags, that danced, and fluttered whenever a gentle breeze blew, each filled with a single character, painted in lush black . If one was tall, one would have to bend one’s head slightly, and, if one were taller than tall, one would have to duck quite strenuously, to avoid brushing one’s head against the white-and-black flags.

It was a friendly-looking shop, lit up and bright, from the shafts of sunshine that bounced off the windows that lined the shop on both sides. 

The first thing to greet the visitor upon walking in was the sight of wooden racks lined up in the centre of the shop, and more racks, as well as wooden shelves lined up neatly in rows along the walls. Each rack and each shelf was filled with wooden cups jostling for space; and in each cup stood tall, narrow, cylindrical brushes made of wood, ending with soft white threads of fibre that narrowed to sharp pointed tips, so that they appeared almost like teardrops welling up, and in danger of falling off the ends of the long wooden cylindrical sticks. 

The brushes, of varying lengths and thickness, were stacked up vertically in tall cups made of wood, or placed neatly in horizontal piles in wooden baskets; in other wooden baskets lay bottles of black ink, big bottles, and smaller ones, as well, from which emanated a faint, pungent smell of ink, which lingered in the air, and clung onto one’s clothes; and on the lowest shelf of each rack, lay stacks of booklets arranged in perfect, neat piles, with not an edge out of place, of varying sizes, and thickness, filled with page upon page of soft, white, crisp paper, that crackled when one scratched at, or turned over a page at random.

The carriage stopped next to the calligraphy shop. Ae Shin stepped down from it, and walked in, almost colliding with Dong Mae who was exiting the shop at the very same moment. 

They stopped, each blocking the other’s way, until Dong Mae bowed, and stepped aside.

“I will take my leave, my lady, since my presence displeases you.”

“No, please do not leave on my account, sir,” she answered coldly. “ You have as much right to be in this shop as I.”

Her maid entered, gasped when she saw Dong Mae, and collided with a rack of calligraphy brushes beside her, in her haste to step aside to avoid him.

The entire rack crashed to the floor. The tall cups tipped over, and brushes spilled out, falling onto the floor with a loud clatter.

The maid stared in horror at the chaotic sight on the floor.

“I think it would be best if you could summon the owner,” Ae Shin said to the maid calmly.

The maid scurried off to call the owner.

Alone, Dong Mae and Ae Shin stared at the brushes strewn all over the floor.

Dong Mae kicked sullenly at the brushes, so that they collected together in a vague semblance of order, as Ae Shin bent down to pick up the brushes.

He stared at her picking up the brushes so diligently, then got down on his knees, and started to pick up the brushes silently beside her.

They worked like this together for a while, side by side, not saying a word to each other.

She got up, and straightened.

A brush had rolled under the hem of her red skirt, and it peeped at him tantalisingly from under the fabric.

Slowly, he reached out, and slipped his hand under the fabric, closing his fingers over the brush. But he made no move to withdraw his hand, leaving it poised, stilled, under the soft, silky edge of fabric, gliding so silkily, so smoothly, so sensuously, over the knuckles of his hand, sliding up one knuckle, dipping down the other, then up again, and down again the next, over and over, over and over...

“What are you doing?” she demanded in a shocked tone.

He raised his eyes slowly to hers.

She was staring down at him from where she was standing.

Slowly, very slowly, he eased his hand from under the hem of her skirt.

She swished her skirt in a quick, lifting motion to be rid of the offending hand.

He grasped the edge of her skirt at the same time, so that he was gripping it in a clenched fist, right at the edge.

He had gripped it once like this, a long time ago, in the carriage, where they had sat knee to knee, and he had wiped his bloodied lips, so insultingly, with her skirt, and called her a fool, and made her cry.

He stared at her, and remembered.

He stared deep into her eyes, and saw the same memory echoed in her eyes.

She tugged her skirt, like she had tugged her skirt that day in the carriage, twenty years ago.

He did not let go, but instead, tugged it tighter, like he had that day.

“I keep trying to take a different path, but I cannot, because every path I take leads back to that moment, every path I take leads me back to you.”

It was a cry; raw, hoarse, torn from the heart.

In the silence of the room , his voice shook, filled with such grief, such yearning, that her eyes filled with tears,

His voice dipped low, to a painful whisper.

“That is why I came back, to that moment, to this moment, to you.”

He lifted his eyes, glittering with the shimmer of tears.

She looked back at him, and there were tears in her eyes.

He let go of her skirt, and stood up.

He was breathing hard.

She was crying.

He bowed, and walked out of the shop.

He walked out into the pouring rain.

He walked, the rain pelting his face, getting into his eyes, mingling with his tears.

He stumbled into the tarot card shop, and looked at the tarot card reader.

“I forgot to run your errand,” he spoke dully, as if in a daze, swaying on his feet.

She took a towel and dried his hair, his face, and finally his eyes, where the tears still flowed, like a child’s, broken and inconsolable.

She drew him to her, and held him close.

“I told her,” he whispered, “I told her, that I came back, that I came back...because of her.”

“That I could not leave, that I cannot leave, because of her.”

She drew back, looked into his face, it tenderly. 

She took his hand, the hand that the red skirt had skimmed over so lovingly, and traced a character on it, silently, with her forefinger.

“Fool,” he laughed derisively, “I know.”

His laugh caught on a sob.

Once, a long time ago, he had chanced upon a stray kitten at the roadside, abandoned by its mother, and mewing pitifully. Dong Mae had taken the kitten home, and fed it, and raised it, and it had been his playmate, and slept in the corner where he lay. But one morning, he had woken up to find the kitten still, and cold. It had died in the night, and Dong Mae had wept uncontrollably, and was inconsolable for days, and weeks after. His mother had wiped away his tears, and said: “To love, is to grieve, my son; there can be no loving without grieving, nor grieving without loving.”

He understood now, finally, what those words meant.

For the deepest sadness comes from he who loves with all his heart, for when he opens his heart to love, so, too, does he open his heart to sadness; there cannot be one without the other.

Dong Mae bowed his head and wept for his mother, that he had loved with all his heart, and had lost so cruelly, and for the woman in the red skirt that he loved with all his heart, that he had already lost the day he started loving her.

Late in the night, Ae Shin opened her bedroom door, and threw her red skirt at the maid.

"Throw this away, or burn it, it matters not to me. I do not wish to see it again."

"But, my lady, it is new, and you have worn it just once. Why - "

"I said I do not wish to see it," Ae Shin said in a tight voice. "It reminds me of a memory that I wish to forget."

She slammed the door on the maid's surprised face.