kanwondo wonsan
Under the profound love and care of Lord Go, Mi-hui was growing into a brilliant and beautiful young woman. She was already fluent in four languages and had devoured not only the Japanese, German, and British books in Lord Go’s collection but also Chinese classics in Hanja and ancient Korean texts.
Mi-hui’s only pleasures were reading and, taking after her mother, carving the faces of women into firewood. Her attempts to etch the face of the mother she had never seen into the wood were a mirror image of the actions of her mother, Haruka. The servants working in the kitchen would whisper among themselves.
"How can she look so much like her mother? They say blood is thicker than water, but it's uncanny how identical they are."
"But she has a more noble air than her mother did. I suppose it’s because she has yangban (aristocratic) blood in her. Even when she asks us for a favor, I feel intimidated, as if I’m receiving an order from Lord Go himself. She definitely has that proud, noble blood. That’s completely different from Haruka. Haruka was gentle, always smiling, and did everything quietly."
"Is that really because of blood?"
Mr. Song, who had just arrived carrying a load of wood on his back, spoke as he set the timber down.
"What do you mean, blood? It’s because of the privileges she was born with. For Mi-hui, one word is all it takes for Lord Go's power to provide everything she needs. Last night, that White Russian merchant brought her some big, black candy-like things. They called it 'chocolate.' Mi-hui gave me a few pieces, and I tried them... Good lord, living the high life, eating such things and reading books—it’s no wonder commoners like us tremble at her every word."
Because Lord Go was a Joseon aristocrat who collaborated with Japanese imperialism, many Russian merchants frequently visited his home to sell their goods or offer them as gifts. Since the Russian Revolution of 1917, anti-communist Russian refugees fleeing the Bolsheviks had settled in Manchuria and China, engaging in commerce, trade, and technical professions. As Wonsan was an international port, some of them visited in the capacity of traders or merchants to conduct business. Mi-hui, who spoke Russian well, always received many gifts from these merchants.
"Watch your tongue, Mr. Song. 'Stuffing her face'... what if someone hears you?"
Bok-sil, the head cook who always picked out the prettiest pieces of wood for Mi-hui, spoke sharply to Mr. Song.
"No matter what she gives you, you're always so angry. If she gave you candy or chocolate, you should just eat it and be grateful. Why find fault with it? If you hadn't accepted it, I wouldn't say a word!"
Mr. Song spat out his words with disdain.
"Grateful for what? She sleeps in a warm room because I gather the wood; she stays dry because I fix the roof; she lives a comfortable, full life because I do all the rough work they can't do. On top of that, they sold out the country and turned us into a stateless people—what has a 'nobleman' done so great that I should be grateful? It’s only because the times have gone mad. From what I hear... once the Communist Revolution that makes everyone equal reaches Joseon soil, pro-Japanese aristocrats like them are finished. We’ll be the ones dividing up this palace!"
Bok-sil muttered again.
"Even so, I find it more rewarding to prepare side dishes for the Master. If a man like Mr. Song became the leader and told me to cook, I'd run away."
Mr. Song shook himself off and said, "It’s because they’re so ignorant that the country is in this state..."
"So if a person wants you to be the leader, they're smart, and if they don't, they're ignorant?"
As Bok-sil shouted back, the kitchen maids and other servants watching the scene giggled. At that moment, Mi-hui emerged from the study and approached Bok-sil, who was standing at the kitchen door. Her gait was elegant and light, as if she were walking on clouds. Her straight back and poised shoulders commanded the attention of everyone watching, drawing them into silence.
"Auntie Bok-sil, could you pick out a pretty piece of firewood for me? I’ve been reading all day, so I’d like to spend some time in the yard. If you find a nice piece, I will carve your face beautifully for you."
It was late April, a time when the yellow fade of forsythias, the dreamlike pink of azaleas, and the mysterious white petals of cherry blossoms began to drift in the air. A warm spring breeze began to gently heat the brow, and every living thing seemed to be preparing for summer.
Coming out to the yard after reading to carve for those who knew her mother was Mi-hui’s only way of connecting with her. Mi-hui could not even imagine that her mother, Haruka, was alive in a place called Cheongju in the south. Only Lord Go and the physician Choi knew that Haruka was still alive.
Bok-sil picked out a piece of oak that was firm and had a lovely color. Both Bok-sil and Mi-hui knew that while oak was good for burning, its fine, hard grain made it excellent for carving intricate details. With an angelic smile, Mi-hui took the oak and went behind the platform where the jars were kept—the same place her mother used to carve. She sat on a low jar and took out her carving tools.
Dmitri, a White Russian merchant, had seen Mi-hui’s exceptional carving skills and had specially obtained a set of Solingen carving tools from Germany for her. Mi-hui cherished these high-quality German tools, keeping them wrapped in a leather cloth like a treasure. When Mi-hui carved, people would linger nearby, waiting for the work to be finished as if waiting for a magician to complete a magic spell. After about two hours of diligent carving, Mi-hui stood up from the jar.
"Auntie Bok-sil, may I touch your jaw for a moment?"
Bok-sil stepped closer and leaned her face forward. Knowing that Mi-hui carved by feeling a person’s face this way, she offered her face readily. Mi-hui opened and closed her eyes as she began to feel the line of the jaw with her fingers.
"Ah... I understand now. Your strong impression, Auntie, comes from right here—the developed muscle where the jawbone connects to the ear. I will try to capture that well."
Bok-sil asked with a smile, "Do I have a strong impression?"
"Yes. It’s a very strong and wonderful impression. Auntie, please tell me again—what did my mother look like?"
Bok-sil looked at Mi-hui with pity and said, "Haruka was truly beautiful. Her features were delicate and fine. Her face was small, oval, and fragile. Her eyes were long and clear, and her eyebrows were perfectly aligned. She was so gifted with her hands—you wouldn't believe how well she cooked. Oh, you poor thing... to think she went to the afterworld at only sixteen..."
Bok-sil, who had been close friends with Haruka while working in the kitchen together, had tears welling in her eyes.
As if trying to force a memory of a face for which she had no actual recollection or emotion, Mi-hui quietly returned behind the jars and continued to carve Bok-sil’s face into the oak with her Solingen tools.
After another hour or so, Mi-hui came out with the finished wood carving.
"Auntie, here it is."
"Oh my, oh my! How did you carve it so well? It looks just like me, doesn't it?"
All the servants lingering around the kitchen gathered.
"My word, it’s like magic. How can a person’s face be etched into firewood like this? It looks just like Bok-sil, but even prettier."
"Aye, aye. This is what you call 'art'."
Everyone rejoiced as they looked at Mi-hui’s carving. True art moves humanity in one way or another. It gifts humans a moment of true life and offers a form of salvation.
While everyone was marvelling and laughing at the sculpture, Mr. Song watched from a distance and thought to himself:
Mi-hui, living in the best house with the best tools and the best food, is nothing but traitorous trash created by Japanese imperialism and capitalism.
When the Communist Revolution brings a new world, Mi-hui’s carvings will all return to firewood—rubbish to be burned away in the flames.