From the cover
Shoko's
Smile
I dig my hands into the cold sand and gaze at the black, shimmering sea.
It feels like the edge of the universe.
Shoko once told me that standing on the shore made her feel like she was standing on the outskirts of the world. As if she'd been pushed away from the center, away from people, until she reached the edge of the sea that was itself pushed away from the great ocean. She said it wasn't especially pleasant for two loners to come together, only to dip their toes in the water.
"Someday I'm going to leave the shore, and live in a city surrounded by buildings."
Shoko always said "someday." She said it at seventeen, and again at twenty-three.
She said she would someday move out to the city, someday travel around Korea for a week, someday have a live-in boyfriend, someday quit her job at the hospital, someday get a pet cat, she would be up for anything.
Shoko's English was easy to understand. Although anyone could hear her distinct Japanese accent, her pronunciation was accurate and her consonants and vowels linked smoothly. Under a wisteria tree where a group of Korean and Japanese students sat huddled, Shoko said in fluent English:
"Someday I'm going to get a caterpillar tattoo around my nipple."
All the girls blushed except me-I laughed.
Shoko and three other girls were touring my school for a program called "Cultural Exchange between Korean and Japanese Students." That was the year the ban on Japanese cultural imports was lifted. Shoko was from a Japanese city I'll call A, and went to a small all-girls high school that was apparently a sister school to mine. She was among the four best English speakers in her sophomore class, which was why she was chosen to visit my school.
The principal, excited by this small event, took the four students around to every classroom, in all three grade levels. The girls seemed inexhaustible, introducing themselves in cheery voices when they came to my class, their final stop. Shoko had a shy demeanor, but I suspected she wasn't actually shy and only spoke shyly out of habit.
In the days leading up to Shoko's arrival, Mom, Grandpa, and I cleaned the house whenever we had time. Shoko was in the same year as me, and I was one of the few tenth-graders who could speak English, broken as it was. This was the excuse my homeroom teacher used to ask Mom if Shoko could stay at my house for her week in Korea. Shoko and I remained about a handspan apart while we awkwardly made our way home.
I still remember how Mom's and Grandpa's faces broke into smiles when they saw us come through the front door. How they knew nothing about Shoko yet still beamed at her in welcome, just because she was a guest who had traveled a great distance. Grandpa's and Mom's animated faces as they greeted Shoko looked strange and comical to me, given that my family normally had trouble showing affection to the point of being too embarrassed to smile at each other.
"You must be Shoko. It's great to have you here. Our place is a bit small, but I hope you won't find it too uncomfortable."
Mom chattered away in Korean as if Shoko understood her, while Grandpa translated for her into Japanese and kept on smiling.
Go get me my ashtray, bring me a glass of water, fetch hot water for my feet: giving orders while watching TV on the couch was all Grandpa did. He'd be sitting where he always sat when I came home from school and only spare a brief glance at me before turning back to the screen. But this very same Grandpa had switched off the TV and was asking...