A Distant and Beautiful Place

A Distant and Beautiful Place

6 A Distant and Beautiful Place As they squeezed the wardrobe out the narrow door, a fragment the size of a coin chipped off the side. The same thing had happened when they moved in. Gasping under the weight of his end, Ûnhye’s father had no time to examine this new blemish. He could only imagine the inner layers of wood gleaming like ivory and the angry scab that would eclipse the older scars on the rough surface. The ten-foot-long wardrobe was already scratched in several places. It couldn’t be helped. After the initial annoyance passed, the scratch would establish itself as yet another mark of time. Because of the weight shifting forward and his own plodding gait, he soon forgot the scratch. The wardrobe resembled a huge coffin as it slowly emerged lengthwise through the cramped doorway . “Shift it to the left now, to the left!” the mover directed, the words straining to escape his clenched lips. Ûnhye’s father summoned all his strength and leaned slightly to the left. Only then did he see the mover’s red face, veins bulging, on the other side of the door. A feeling came into his right wrist, like a spasm from bearing the weight in one position for so long. The fear that he might lose his precarious grip at any moment made him tense. How much more energy do I have to put in before we get the rest of this thing out the door without another scratch? He squeezed his eyes shut, despairing that the effort would require his last bit of strength. A pained cry, more agonizing than any groan, was about to burst from his throat. “Slowly now, pull it back slowly. No, no, back!” A Distant and Beautiful Place 7 The mover sounded as though he was gritting his teeth. Ûnhye’s father was gritting his teeth. “Back now, to the left.” It was only a matter of time before his right hand gave out. Cold sweat dripped down his back as he felt himself losing his grip. I can’t . . . I can’t hold it any longer, he was about to cry to the dirty cotton gloves on the other end of the wardrobe when at last the mover set his end down on the hallway floor, and the weight suddenly lessened. They had made it into the hall. The mover leaned out the door and shouted. “Hey, Chang! Get in here! I need some help with the wardrobe. The owner’s not up to it.” After carrying the wardrobe down the steep flight of thirty stone steps that led from the house, the mover and the driver leaned against the truck, smoking. Carrying the wardrobe down those steps was enough to exhaust anyone. At the bottom was an empty lot, just large enough for a truck to turn around. The sight of his family’s shabby belongings piled in the open saddened Ûnhye’s father. Not that they hadn’t always been shabby. He tried to ignore the props of their poor existence poking from the small bundles and fumbled in his pocket for a cigarette. The wind was fierce and the cigarette was difficult to light. It was a smarting cold, harder and sharper than a knife blade. The cold wave that accompanied the winter kimchi season each year had started blowing a few days earlier. Temperatures will drop to ten below zero, the coldest of the year. Last night’s weather report had been right: It was going to be the coldest day of the year. His mother must have noticed the new chip on the wardrobe as she passed with several light bundles. Tsk, tsk. He could hear her cluck in disapproval from where he stood in the yard. The sound was so penetrating that he tossed his cigarette to the ground and crushed it with his foot before he had smoked even half of it. For some reason, the sound of the clucking old woman, weighed down by her layers of clothing and with a muffler wrapped around her head, sent a chill down his spine. Maybe it’s the cold, he thought. Maybe that’s why he felt that chill as the wind blew up over their little bundles in the vacant lot. There was no one to help them move, no one except his immediate family—his wife, his mother, and his young daughter—the mover, and the driver. It was the suddenness...