Chapter 8: A Magical Night with the Emperor

He came to me in March 2015, when the worst of winter was over, and the rivers had begun to run again, and wildflowers were springing up everywhere. 

It was one of those crisp, peaceful nights, still and quiet, a magical night, where if you listened hard enough, you could hear the faint echoes of the world outside, muted; a hazy presence: the rattling of the wind against the shutters, the dull creaking of the ancient air conditioners, the slamming of a door in the distance, the tread of impatient feet hurrying past the dingy little theatre - distant, insignificant intrusions upon my own private little reality, the tiny little hall where I had remained, as dusk fell, and the dying rays of the sun, ashy, dusty-pink, crept melancholically into my secluded little world, stealing in between the blinds, peeking in beneath the heavy metal doors. The day had come to an end, and the long, long night, and my loneliness, beckoned.

The musical had ended sometime ago, and everyone had left, except the people in charge of the props, and me. I had taken off my costume backstage, and had hurried back on stage with a mop, because, as the most junior member of the cast, I was expected to help with the little extras, like fetching a coffee, or tidying up after a performance. 

So, armed with my mop, I diligently started my chore at the furthest left end of the stage, lifting up the heavy curtains at the same time. Moping is tiring work, especially after robust singing and prancing and twirling, and I was wiping my sweaty brow, and taking a breather when the doors at the end of the hall swung open, and three men walked in.

The tallest of the men walked in first, followed by the other two men; he was wearing a long dark coat and had a thick scarf coiled around his neck, so that it obscured his face from view.

A chill went down my spine.

Who were these strangers?

My heart started thudding, and I grasped the mop tightly in my hand.

I looked around desperately for help.

The props people had left the stage.

I was alone.

The tall man walked with firm, measured steps down the hall toward where I was standing, clutching the mop in my hand, frozen in fear.

Wait.

There was something familiar about that tall, lean figure, walking nearer and nearer to me.

He stepped into the light.

It illuminated the jet-black hair, those dark eyes, that high regal nose.

How many times had I seen that face in my dreams, those lips smiling at me, whispering in the dark, the eyes mocking, sardonic? 

Rooted to the spot, I stared at the man who had come to a stop directly below where I was frozen on the stage, looking up at me.

"Hello again," the Emperor said. "Will you come down, or shall I come up, or," he said, and his lips curved into a smile, "would you like me to carry you down?"

He opened up his arms to me with a flourish.

I leapt off the stage and down with a speed that I did not know I possessed.

"Y-Your M-Majesty," I bowed, stuttering. "I-Why-"

My voice trailed off.

Mutely, I stared at him.

"Ah, you are wondering why I am here," he said softly. "As a matter of fact, I am asking myself that question as well..."

I swallowed.

He tilted his head a little to one side, and studied me for an instant in silence.

"I wondered how you were," he said, musingly, thoughtfully. "I thought about you, and I wondered how you were, and so, I came tonight, to see for myself how you were..."

He looked down at me and smiled.

"Does that answer your question?" he asked, his dark gaze on me.

He had wondered about me.

He had thought about me.

I couldn't breathe.

"I waited for you outside," he said. "I waited, but you did not appear. All the others left, but still, you did not appear, so I came in, to see whether you were here, and here you are..."

"...still hard at work, it would appear," he said, smiling faintly.

I stared at him, speechless.

"You have a little patch there," he murmured, looking down at my blouse.

I followed his eyes down to my middle.

A round damp spot clung to my tummy.

"Oh," I mumbled, my face burning in an agony of embarrassment and self-consciousness. "It'll dry...it always does."

 "Do you...do this all the time?" he asked, and it seemed to me that his eyes hardened a little.

"This...you mean, mop?" I said, and he nodded, his eyes on my face, the sweat glistening on my forehead, the damp strands of hair lank, and plastered on my temples.

"Yes, I help out, cleaning up, that kind of stuff... ," my voice trailed off.

His lips tightened.

"Don't they have cleaners to do this?" he said, his face a little grim, looking at my hands, at the droplets of water glistening on them.

"I'm the most junior member of the cast," I said, shuffling my feet awkwardly, "I have to help out with - with chores and stuff..."

"Use this," he said shortly, taking out a snowy-white handkerchief, pressed and folded, from his pocket, and proffering it to me.

Mutely, I took the handkerchief and wiped the damp spot obediently.

After a few futile, half-hearted attempts, I gave it back to him with both my hands.

"Thank you, Your Majesty," I said miserably, bowing.

He stuffed it back into his pocket in a quick, almost angry gesture, a frown between his brows.

He looked down at me, and his expression softened a little.

"I could give you a ride home, if you like, and we could continue our conversation in the car," he said, and added, "unless you have other plans."

"No," I blurted, "I mean, yes - yes, I would like a ride home, and no, I don't have other plans."

He laughed a little at what I had said, and immediately, his brow cleared, and the little frown disappeared, and he appeared younger, and less distant at once. 

"In that case," he said, still smiling, "allow me to you to my car."

"Shall we, Miss Oh Sunny?" he smiled at me and my heart started to pound.

A huge, black, gleaming limousine drew up beside us, as if by magic, and a smartly-dressed uniformed chauffeur leapt out and opened the car door, bowing. Another black car drew up silently behind the limousine and the two men, who had been following us discreetly at a distance, got in.

The Emperor ushered me into the limousine, and then got in after me. He leaned forward and gave the chauffeur my address, I interjected to say shyly that it would save more time if I could be dropped off instead at a particular junction that had a short cut to my house, he leaned to the side and fastened his seat belt easily and smoothly, the long, elegant fingers flying over the task with practised ease, swiftly and smoothly, I followed suit, parrot-like, struggling with the clasp awkwardly, my fingers trembling a little, slipping it in thankfully, finally, after an eternity, and then we were off, the huge car gliding smoothly and silently into the night.

I sat upright, my cheeks flushed, my hands folded tightly in my lap.

He sat next to me, the plush armrest between us, his dark head mere inches from my face. Why, if I stretched out my arm, I could brush that recalcitrant lock of hair off his left brow, that kept flopping down and refused to stay up, that lent him that wicked, rakish air, and made his eyes appear darker than they were, eyes that rested on me, flitting over my face, lingering on it so that I shifted uncomfortably and shrank deeper into the soft, cream-coloured, luxurious leather seat, and dug my fingernails painfully into my closed palms.

"What shall we talk about?" he said, and tapped his chin thoughtfully.

"Huh?" I croaked.

"Perhaps you could tell me about your family?" he said.

"My father runs a small fried chicken outlet," I said, and added, desperately, "my younger sister is really smart, and she's in university...she got this scholarship because she's so smart, and she's a business major..."

My voice dwindled.

"That's it, I guess," I mumbled.

"Your mother...what about your mother?" he asked.

"She died a few years ago," I said, and my heart squeezed again with the pain, "in a car accident. She didn't die there, she died later, in hospital..."

"I'm so sorry," he said, and he looked like he meant it. "You must miss her a lot."

"Yes," I said, and looked down at my hands to hide the tears welling up in my eyes.

"And you live with them, your father and sister?" he asked.

"Yes," I said.

"I see," he said softly, and leaned back in his seat.

Looking back now, there was a curious air of unreality about the whole conversation, the entire moment: the Emperor and I, sitting side by side in the plush, luxurious, leather-clad interior of a black, gleaming monster of a car, with an armrest separating him from me, in our own private world, for a dark-tinted glass partition kept the driver out, and we were, to all extents and purposes, alone: the gauche, young girl and the urbane, wordly man. Yesterday, at this time, I had taken the bus home, my family history mine, and mine alone; for I had never spoken of my mother's sudden passing to anyone, and had kept it painfully to my own self, guarding it with my grieving heart, which bled anew every time I thought of it, which was most every night, before I slept. I loved her, you see, so much, that when she died, a part of me died with her, so that I lived with this huge gaping hole in my heart from then on, and sometimes, I would wake up, sobbing, my face wet, my pillow drenched with my tears, her name still trembling upon my lips, a cry still raw, hoarse, caught in my throat. But for some reason, I felt compelled to speak of her, my precious mother, to this man, whose eyes were soft and kind, and warm with sympathy, gentle with understanding. My tongue loosened, and the words tumbled from my lips, hesitatingly at first, then in a torrent. I told him about my mother, how lovely she was, how she had always wanted to visit Namsan Tower, how much I regretted not bringing her, how much I regretted not spending more time with her, how much I missed her, how I wished that I could see her again, just one more time. I told him about my job, how tiring it was at times, how it was better than nothing, I guessed, how I wished that I could be a real singer, or a good actress one day, how it was so hard sometimes, how lonely it got sometimes, how I wished that I could go to the sea, take a drive there, all the way along the narrow winding road, feel the wind in my hair, the sting of salt on my face, listen to the roar of the sea...

He listened to me, to our one-sided conversation, and I came finally to a pause, breathless, a little dazed. 

The car stopped at the junction leading up to my house, and I came back to reality with a start, and the hot colour rushed to my face, and I stammered my apologies, but he said quietly, "Thank you for sharing with me your memories, your thoughts and your dreams."

"The mind can be the devil at times," he said slowly. "If I had my way, memories would remain in the past, and stay there, and not come back to torment the present...."

He stared unseeingly into the distance, lost in his own thoughts, his face remote, detached.

I fumbled at my seat belt, and he stirred, and looked at me.

"Forgive me," he said, and looked himself again. 

"I have enjoyed this ride with you more, much more than anything I have enjoyed for a very long time," he said softly.

"Would you...would you, perhaps, like to go for another car ride with me?" he said slowly.

Another car ride with him? I wondered wildly, my heart beating so fast that I couldn't breathe. Was he asking me to go out with him again, like...like on a date?

Mutely, I nodded. Surely he could see how I felt, my heart laid bare, open, exposed; for at 23, naive and foolish that I was, subterfuge was the least of my skills. 

"We could go to the sea...it's beautiful at this time of year," he said, and added, half-smiling, "and, besides, you said that you have always wanted to take a ride to the sea..."

I nodded again like an idiot.

"We could go tomorrow - oh, wait, I can't; I have to meet some people from Japan," he said. "The day after tomorrow, then - Sunday? Would that be convenient for you? Are you working on Sunday? It's your day off, isn't that correct?"

"No - I mean, yes, it's my day off," I mumbled, "and, no, I'm not working on Sunday."

He laughed a little.

"That's all settled, then," he said. "The sea it is."

He leaned forward and rapped on the glass partition.

The chauffeur opened the door, and I stepped out. He followed a second later, and both of us stood at the bottom of the steps that led up to my house.

"That's where you live?" he looked up into the distance, the light from the street lamp casting elusive, filmy, cobwebby patterns upon his face. "Up there?"

"Yes," I said. 

"Thank you for the ride, and for listening to me," I said, my face aflame.

"...and t-thank you for the r-roses," I added in a rush, stumbling a little over my words because my heart was beating so fast.

"Ah, the roses," he said softly. "Did you like them?"

I nodded mutely, my heart in my eyes.

"Roses...," he said slowly, and smiled; such a singularly sweet smile that, for a moment, I quite forgot to breathe, "for a girl with roses in her cheeks..."

A sudden gust of wind lifted my hair and the wispy strands fluttered, and clung to the top buttons of his long coat.

"It's cold," he said, and the next thing I knew, he had unloosened the scarf around his neck and tucked it snugly around mine, his long, slender fingers brushing against my chin lightly and lingering there for a moment, warm, soft against my skin. "Wear this; I don't want you to catch a cold now."

"Oh," I said, and my mouth half-opened in surprise.

"It's getting late," he said, smiling faintly. "Your family will be waiting for you."

"Yes," I said, but I made no move to leave.

We stood and looked at each other, not saying anything.

A figure approached in the distance, and he turned his face away, so that it remained in the shadows.

"So I'll pick you up on Sunday, say, 10.00 am, here, at this spot?"

"Yes," I said.

"Go on now," he said softly. "Till Sunday then, and good night."

"Yes," I whispered, "...Your Majesty."

I turned and ran up the steps, the scarf warm around my neck, his scent like a cloud, drifting about my face, clinging upon my skin.

Was he standing there still, looking at me?

At the top of the steps, I stopped, and turned.

He was there, still standing, still waiting, tall and straight and beautiful, standing very still, the wind catching the tail ends of his coat, and lifting it, sending it flying, whipping it up in a sudden frenzy about his legs. 

He lifted his right hand and waved: a steady, firm wave, the way that I had seen him wave so many countless times on TV.

But this time, he was waving at me.

Only at me.

I waved back.

I my heels and ran all the way back to my house, weightless, floating; my heart singing, my body on fire, drunk with love, giddy with happiness.