"My Lord,” my male servant, Mo, addressed me in the morning as I read the day’s newspapers morosely. I looked up with an undisguised flash of hope. The morning was appalling grey indoors, lit with only several candles, and upon every orange-lit surface could be observed a stubborn layer of shadow and dust. It had been three weeks since Jiyong had left, and inwardly, I longed to hear news of him everyday.

“Kwon Jiyong’s mother is here to visit you.”

I discarded my newspapers in a screech of rustling crispness, exclaiming, “How does she know that I live here?”

“I don’t know, my Lord. Scorned lovers have ways of reaching you -”

“Do not speak in this manner. Bring her in at once!”

Mo vanished haughtily. Mo had been with me since I was six, residing at the House of Choi, which was the name of my house for generations. This name denoted that I was part of the nobility. I was approximately one-hundred and sixty-three in line to the throne, a very grand and useless number, if I could say so.

Even though Mo’s parents had been mere labourers, they had instilled in him a deep, almost claustrophobic reverence for the Catholic faith, just as my own very religious parents had. Mo had regarded Jiyong with suspicion initially, unnaturally keen to find out the nature of my relationship with him. He had been shocked after my insistence that he keep his nose out of it entirely, and had from then on, sworn to make my life difficult with his newly established, adamantly surly demeanour.

When Madame Kwon hobbled through the archway to the dining hall, sweeping her gaze timidly around the gold-painted walls, I wondered what such a gentle-looking woman would say to me - the former lover her son had not mentioned for ten whole months. I wondered that if words were to fail her, her wooden cane might end up expressing what she could not verbally. And I would deserve the beating, for I had let down her son severely.

She sat down adjacent to me, slightly out of breath. She took a few moments to gather her bearings in the darkened dining room, and I suddenly realised that it smelled musty, and that it was time for the servants to do their weekly wipe-down. 

“Greetings, Monsieur. I am Kwon Jiyong’s mother, Kwon Giran. I am afraid I came here burdened with a singular purpose.”

My breath caught in my throat. The contents of her words felt far more threatening than her demure appearance.

"You must speak plainly, Madame,” I said softly, “for fear of not being able to answer all your questions." 

Madame Kwon drew in a rattling breath. I noticed her red, blotched eyes for the first time.  

"I found a letter in my son's possession, addressed to none other than yourself, and fortunately containing your address." My mouth opened slightly. She continued, "Correct me if I have judged wrongly, but it seems…that you were once both in an accord…a relational accord." She stopped short, gathering the white foam that had formed from saliva on her lower lip with a swift flick of her tongue. "Have I made a wrong judgement?" 

I detected authority in her voice, the menace hidden behind her jutting chin. My eyes could not help but nervously shift around, checking the ornate silverware displayed behind her and several large oil portraits of the Lord as well as my grandfather and great-grandfather, all non-smiling. 

"Frankly, it is not your business to intrude upon our matters," I said, meeting her gaze again with some mustered courage. 

Kwon Giran closed her eyes, as if refraining from immediately arguing, and her wrinkled fingers creased angrily upon her lap. When she opened them, she muttered, "I did not expect you to say that. After all, he is my son. If your relationship with him were not so suspicious, I might not have forced myself to come. I am curious." 

"‘Curious’?" I echoed. I stared blankly back, wanting to give her the illusion that a ghost was standing behind her, raising a pitchfork threateningly to chase her out into the streets. However, my imagination faded before my eyes as she gave her reply again, this time much more sharply.

“Did you like him? My son? He is a man.”

I wanted to say that it was not her place to know - that it was not my place to reveal that which he had kept secret. Instead, I blurted out, “He’s a good person, your son. Good man.”

I had emphasised “person”, although I knew she would get angry at me for it. I also wanted her to know that whatever story she had conceived of in her head, Jiyong was not the one who had erred. 

However, she seemed to have automatically reached the conclusion that I was the one at fault, for she intoned, “And I should know, because I am his mother. You see -  this is the reason for my visit. To put a face to his misery. Jiyong has been missing for two weeks. Monsieur, I want to know if it has anything to do with you.”

I frowned, a scorching feeling igniting in my chest. “First, I must ask you how you came by the letter. Letters between people other than the intended addressee are priv -”

“But he never did tell me anything about th-the both of you, Monsieur!” Kwon Giran bellowed, her chest heaving, the white lace on the edges of her square collar bristling. “What you have committed is a sin, a erse sin unpardonable by the Lord!”

“Watch your language, Madame Kwon!” I roared, my chair scraping back as I stood up. She flinched for a moment before her wits seemed to return to her. 

“From the moment you laid your eyes on my son, he was doomed,” Kwon Giran said venomously, “You took advantage of his free-spirited nature, got into his head, somehow, and -”

“I did no such thing, Madame!” I hissed.

“Help me find him, or I will expose you.” Kwon Giran pointed a trembling finger at me. “He had a bright future ahead! You’ve ruined everything!”

I found myself breathing heavily as visages of Jiyong’s smiling, happy face infiltrated my mind’s eye, gawking and taunting me. I slammed a hand on the table. Kwon Giran flinched again.

“I will help you find him!” I proclaimed, both terror and rage flaring through my veins, “But I never made him abandon you, nor your family. I only played a…a lover’s part in it. My grief is as great as yours!”

Kwon Giran’s flushed face coloured even further; her snarl turned even uglier, but her voice became less emotionally charged. “We will see about that, since you admitted what you were to my son. You frequented the parties and concerts he performed at. Spread the word. Ask around for him. Surely some of his friends may have heard from him.”

I found her statements to be odd. Had she not cared to make investigations on her own before coming here? 

“It is not my place to do that, Madame,” I said cautiously, disguising the suspicion in my voice with a tone of timidity, “Did the both of you part on strained terms?" 

Kwon Giran’s silence was an answer enough for me. 

I nodded solemnly. Then, without missing a beat, I further asked, “What damned thing did you say to him?”

Kwon Giran sniffed once, her direct stare now unfocused and darting about just as I imagined her thoughts to be. Evidently, it had been one hell of a quarrel. I could only guess what it had been about.

“Did you fight over this letter?” I pushed, raising my voice and pointing at the sliver of white on her lap. 

Once, my advice would have comforted Jiyong whenever he did not give the perfect performance, or had quite offended one of the nobility he had been talking to after a concert. People from elite circles were easy to offend. Jiyong did not have the patience to soothe bruised egos even if he remained mindful of their opinions. He moved fluidly through social circles, paying little attention to those who launched subtle jabs at his humble origins and bravely introducing me (even though I myself was part of the elite) to a wide array of eclectic personalities. He always grinned whenever he saw me struggle to talk to several people at once.

The Jiyong I knew was capable of taking both praise and criticism pragmatically. To have stormed off after being rebuked by his mother, he must have been confronted by something very hurtful indeed.

“I discovered it one day in his room. When he came back, I showed him this stupid letter and I said…" And then she gulped, looking incensed. "I said: ‘In the Lord’s eyes, you have sinned’.” 

I looked up sharply and saw tears drip down her cheeks. She gulped, coughing, and then clasped her chest with a grey, gloved hand. She gave me quite the glare, as if everything was somehow my fault. Hanging my head, I felt my chest compress like a rabbit clamped around by a boa constrictor. The official term for our kind - Jiyong and I - was still offensive. Sodomites. The term reduced us to our basest instincts, as if we were only beasts in a civilised world. 

"I do not fault you," I said curtly. 

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