Chapter 11  The Treasure

Dong Mae was on his way to the Glory Hotel to see for himself what manner of man the gentleman fiancè of Lady Ae Shin was. Yujo had informed him just a while ago that the man who had brought white flowers for Lady Ae Shin, the man who had wrecked havoc in Dong Mae's heart, and made it burn with jealous rage, was, at present, residing at Room 303 of the Glory Hotel, next door to Room 304, where the American was staying.

Exactly why he wanted to see the gentleman was unclear to Dong Mae; perhaps it was a mix of curiosity, and envy, and jealousy. This was the man who had been absent from Lady Ae Shin's life all this time, who had appeared out of nowhere to claim her, and Dong Mae was curious about what he looked like. Was he tall, or short, scrawny or heavy in built? Was he young, of middle age, or old?

He would be rich, undoubtedly, and titled, with land and houses; Lady Ae Shin came from one of the noblest families in Joseon, and an arranged betrothal would be to one of a standing worthy of her rank in Joseon. He was someone Dong Mae could never dream of becoming, except in his wildest of dreams, and so he was envious of the unknown gentleman.

But, most of all, Dong Mae was jealous, and it was a jealousy that gnawed at his insides, and ripped at his heart, leaving it raw, and bleeding, a jealousy that consumed his waking hours, and interfered with his sleep at night, so that he would wake up, and stare with unseeing eyes into the dark, and imagine her with him, the stranger, smiling at him, linking hands with him, marrying him, sharing the most intimate, the most private of moments with him, bearing his children, growing old with him. The images haunted him, and made him alternately, hot with rage, then cold with dread.

Hina was in her room, and, after hearing a series of raps on the door, opened it to find Dong Mae, his face wearing a peculiar expression that she had never seen before; he appeared to be preoccupied with some weighty issue on his mind.

"I have to ask you about something," he announced.

"Well, come in, and ask," she said, holding the door wide open.

He stalked in, and stood impatiently.

"Do sit down," she said, indicating a chair. "And stop glaring at me, you are making me nervous."

He sat down, and waited for her to do the same.

"Would you like some coffee?" she asked him. "I was about to pour myself a cup."

She did not wait for his reply, but took a coffee pot and poured steaming coffee carefully into two cups, and handed one to him.

"Have you tried it?" she asked.

He shook his head, sniffing at the dark concoction in suspicion.

"This is the beverage that everyone is talking about. It is strangely addictive, and sharpens the mind, and the senses," she settled herself comfortably on her chair at the opposite end of the table.

"Are you sure that it is not poison that I am drinking?" he said, lifting his cup to his lips and taking a sip, grimacing at the potent aroma.

She stilled at his words, and carefully set the coffee pot on top of the side table.

"Some say that I poisoned my deceased husband," she smiled enigmatically. "Perhaps you should worry that I have poisoned your cup."

"I suppose that I will find out soon enough," he shrugged, taking another sip. "The taste is strong, and bitter, but it grows on you."

"So, did you?" he asked, looking at her, his eyes curious, over the rim of his cup.

"Did I what?" she asked.

"Did you poison your husband?"

She shrugged. "What does it matter? He is dead."

"I gather that you are not overcome with grief at his untimely demise."

She lifted her cup to her lips, and took a sip.

"Let me just say that his passing was a merciful release," she said softly, raising her eyes so that they were looking directly into his. Her eyes were hard.

"Drink your coffee while it is hot," he said, and his eyes were gentle.

She did not know why, but his words made her eyes well up with tears.

She blinked them away, so that he would not see them.

"What is it that you wish to know?"

"I would like to meet someone, a gentleman who I believe is staying at your hotel, in Room 303, to be precise."

"In that case, I would suggest that we proceed to the lobby, because the gentleman that you are interested in meeting is in the gambling room, and has been in there since this morning, and should have finished his game by now, " she set her cup carefully on its saucer, and rose gracefully, "and, if we are lucky enough, we should be able to run into him, quite by accident, of course, on his way out."

Hina glided down the grand staircase, followed a few steps behind by Dong Mae.

The doors of the Glory Hotel swung open, and Eugene walked in, coming to a stop at the bottom of the grand staircase.

"Ah, we meet again, sir!" he smiled broadly. "I begin to believe that Destiny is playing a hand in making our paths cross again, and again."

Dong Mae grunted.

Hina glanced from one to the other curiously.

"I had not the slightest notion that you knew each other, nor that you are friends," she smiled.

"I am not his friend," Dong Mae scowled.

Eugene looked hurt.

Hee Sung breezed in from the gambling room, humming a tune under his breath. He stopped when he saw Hina, and beamed at her.

"Ah, how delightful to run into you, Madame Kudo. Your radiance and your beauty have brightened up my dismal morning."

He bowed with a flourish, and Hina tittered in delight, "Sir, you are a flatterer, but do not tell me that you lost at cards again?"

Hee Sung nodded, and smiled charmingly, "But, now that I have seen you, Madam Kudo, I know with certainty that my luck is about to change for the better."

He looked at the two men standing beside Hina.

"But who are these gentlemen? I believe I have yet to make their acquaintance."

Hina turned to Eugene and Dong Mae.

"Gentlemen, allow me to introduce Lord Kim Hee Sung, newly returned from Japan."

"Lord Kim is the fiancè of Lady Ae Shin, who I believe both of you are acquainted with," she added maliciously, and waited with interest to see the effect of her words on the two men.

Dong Mae glared at Hee Sung.

Eugene stared at Hee Sung in animosity.

Hina laughed.

Hee Sung stepped between the two men, and clapped a hand over each man's shoulder.

Looking from one to the other, he spoke earnestly, "Gentlemen, I am delighted to make your acquaintance. I feel that we are going to be the best of friends. I feel it, "he thumped his chest, "here."

"Shall we have a drink to celebrate our friendship, gentlemen?" he smiled sunnily.

"If I drink, I get drunk, and may punch someone," growled Eugene.

"If I drink, I get drunk, and may kill someone," snarled Dong Mae.

Hee Sung shivered.

Dong Mae thought of the fiancè as he walked. He was not what he had anticipated at all. He was rich and refined, and a nobleman, but in all other ways, he was lacking; he was a rich, spoilt young gentleman who gambled, and wasted away his life in frivolous pursuits.

He could not imagine Ae Shin liking, or loving such a man.

The thought cheered him considerably.

But, first, he had to make a final stop before he went home.

The calligraphy shop was serene, and peaceful, as always. The tall cups of brushes stood on the racks, upright and unruffled. Who could have imagined that a few days ago, the tall cups had tipped over, spilling their contents, spewing brushes all over the floor in a jumble of chaos and disorder? Had he really blurted out his feelings for her in a moment of uncontrolled yearning?

The shop owner came to him, and bowed, handing him a sheet of paper.

"Is this all?"

"Yes, sir, she has not been back since the day she - you came.

He snatched the sheet from him, and strode out.

In his room, he took out his treasure carefully, reverently.

It was a shopping list: Lady Ae Shin's list of things to purchase at the calligraphy shop, painted in black ink, in neat, bold, and firm characters.

Slowly, he smoothed it out, traced each character painted on the sheet of white paper, ran his fingers over the dried black ink, lingering at each , each curve, each slant, lovingly. He touched the edges of each character, where the ink had dried, and had puckered up the paper, so that it appeared crinkled, and pulled away a little, like a shirt that had been left to soak for too long, and had shrunk; he allowed the images of the painted characters to seep into his mind, and imprint on, and sear upon it, black ripples of ink against a sea of milky white.

He imagined her sitting upright in her high-backed chair, as straight as a ramrod, her left hand holding back the edges of her long sleeves, her right hand poised over the sheet of paper on her desk, her fingers grasping the brush firmly, yet lightly, dipping it quickly, yet deftly, into her pot of black ink, and pressing down forcefully, then easing, to create each boldly, firmly, steadily. He imagined her leaning forward a little at the completion of her list, blowing on it gently with her warm breath, willing it to dry a little faster. 

He closed his eyes, and held the list to his heart, the sheet of paper with the black painted characters, the sheet of paper that she had touched, that she had held, the same sheet of paper that he now touched, that he now held, to his heart.

He opened a drawer.

The drawer was almost full.

Very carefully, he laid it down on top of the precious collection of lists in there.

It eased the yearning in his lonely heart a little, knowing that he owned a tiny piece of her, knowing that he kept a tiny piece of her in there.