After he finished, MyungBo downed his soju without meeting the eyes of either of his companions.
“Please, tell me how I can be of any help,” Dani pleaded. “What is needed?”
MyungBo’s face crimsoned at once. Already wounded by the death of the emperor, he was shocked once more at finding SungSoo at Dani’s house, and somehow strangely hurt as well. Now he was humiliated by having to ask again for favors in plain view of the man who had already refused him so coldly. He focused on the candlelight dancing inside his cup of soju in order to avoid looking at either of the lovers in the eyes.
“We plan on making the demonstration peaceful. For that we would need to prepare only the manifestos, and as many Korean flags as we can manage. But without a doubt, we will need to be ready for whatever comes after the demonstration. That means guns, safe houses, transportation for countless activists and messengers . . . And then again, that’s not even including the preparation for the outbreak of direct military combat. Not just in Manchuria, where most of our remaining troops are, but in Korea itself. If we succeed in gathering enough force, there will be a definite war within our borders, for the first time in more than twenty years.”
“I understand.” Dani nodded. “I haven’t been idle since our meeting. I’ve personally met with each of the guild leaders. You’ll be heartened to know that they’ve all pledged a third of their earnings this month, to begin with.” She smiled, her cheeks flushing beautifully. The presence of the two men had put her in a feverish—yet not wholly unpleasant—state of mind. For one, MyungBo’s visible discomfort confirmed to her that he was jealous of SungSoo. Even with grave issues at stake, she couldn’t help but feel rather delighted.
“When the five courtesan guilds of Seoul pool their money together, you’ll see that it’s not an insignificant sum, even when we’re talking about war. You see, people look down on us for how we make our living, but we have our honor. Actually, I’ve never been so glad as I am now to be able to help in my own small way . . .” Dani’s voice trailed away and her eyes welled up. She was quite overcome with emotion, although it was unclear even to her whether that gladness was purely from contributing to the movement, or from other, less selfless causes.
She sipped on her soju, and explained when and how she may be able to transfer the money to him in the coming weeks. As MyungBo thanked her in the most effusive but dignified manner, Dani turned to SungSoo and innocently asked, “Well, isn’t there something you could do as well?”
SungSoo, blindsided by this question, blurted out, “Me?”
“You must surely be able to contribute something, you of all people,” Dani persisted.
“That’s all my family’s money, don’t you see . . . I myself don’t make very much,” SungSoo protested rapidly. “As it is, I’m spending endlessly on my publishing house and the bicycle shop, neither of which have ever been profitable.” Dani’s face lit up unexpectedly.
“Oh! But you can help! How could we have missed it!” She clasped her hands around SungSoo’s arm. “Didn’t you hear what Mr. MyungBo just said? We will need thousands of copies of manifestos and flags. You have your own printing press, don’t you?”
“I do, but . . .” SungSoo muttered with a sinking heart. He couldn’t protest that it was too dangerous, or try to get out of it in any other way. He addressed MyungBo directly, saying, “But is that what you need, my fellow?”
“If you’re offering, I will take it very gladly,” MyungBo replied, courteously and sincerely as ever. “But only if it’s not a burden to you. And speak freely if it is, and I will never bring up any of this in front of you, ever again.”
Seeing Dani’s eyes intensely fixed on his face, SungSoo had no choice but to say, “Of course it’s not a burden.” And as these words left his lips, he already felt a little less in love with her.
9
The March
1919
IT WAS THE SECOND TIME MYUNGBO FOUND HIMSELF AT SUNGSOO’S publishing house, where he’d thought he would never return. When he arrived, he was told by the secretary—the same brown-faced young man from the country—to wait outside SungSoo’s office; he wasn’t asked if he’d like coffee.
MyungBo was not offended, however. Years of similar experiences had left him well conscious of the coldness that enters into amicable relationships when money becomes involved. He himself had never cared that much for possessions; even as a child, he was sometimes scolded for giving away his clothes and books to poorer classmates and servants’ children. It had appeared to him then that no matter how much he gave, he would always have more than enough. As he grew older, he even relished the struggles brought on by his sacrifices. There was a soaring awareness that illuminated his soul whenever he did the right thing, which also cost him something.