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“Fun? No. Not fun, but not fun for you, either.”
“No. Definitely not.”
“Drink. It will make you feel better.” Boyoung pours herself a glass.
“What is this place?” I ask.
“Our funerals are all held in these places except if you’re very, very wealthy, and then you don’t go to this jang-rae-shik-jang, but somewhere private. For everyone else”—she shrugs—“this is it. Your father’s landlady and his friend have already cared for the body. Tomorrow, they have prepared for your father to go to the crematorium, unless you want to make other arrangements.”
“No. That’s fine.” With the glass halfway to my mouth, I pause. “Who is paying for all of this?” I don’t know how much funerals cost, but it doesn’t seem right that a landlady and my father’s current girlfriend pay. On the other hand, is it right for me to do so? Pay for the funeral of the man who abandoned me? Mom wouldn’t approve of that.
“It’s been taken care of. Don’t worry.” Boyoung holds up the soju bottle. “Drink and I’ll refill your glass.”
And that’s how it goes for the next hour. Boyoung gives me a lesson in funeral etiquette in between shots of soju. After a bit, my butt and head both feel numb. Perhaps copious amounts of soju are the only way to get through these things.
“Did he look like me?” I blurt out after the two of us empty three bottles.
“Your father?”
I nod vigorously, almost too hard. I have to catch myself on the edge of the table so I don’t tip over. “I didn’t see it. Are you sure we’re at the right place? That you have the right guy? Didn’t you say that there are only a few last names in Korea? That it’s common for people to have the same name?”
“It’s not uncommon, but”—Boyoung bites her lip—“this is the right man.”
“No. We don’t know that for a fact. He doesn’t look like me at all,” I insist. I’m warming to the idea that this is all a mistake. In a city this big, with this many people, Boyoung could’ve gotten this man mixed up with my father. Relief pours through me, warming me in a way that none of the soju has been able to. “Yes. It’s not him.”
Boyoung gives me a pitying look. “He is the man from the email, Hara. I verified it. I would not lie to you about this.”
“Oh.” I deflate like a popped balloon.
“You do look like him. You have his eyes. They’re shaped like dragon eyes, long and dark, sloped like a fishhook. Very pretty. You have very pretty eyes. Mine are too small.” Boyoung covers one of her own pretty and, in my opinion, large eyes shyly. “Plus, because your eyes are long, you have a nice eye smile.”
“An-n eye smile?” I don’t know what that is. When I was little, kids would make fun of my eyes, calling them “rice eyes” because they were the shape of a grain of rice, or sometimes “almond eyes.” I’d once held both a grain of rice and an almond to my eye. Neither had the same shape.
Boyoung closes both her eyes and smiles. Her black lashes form two small curves on her face. “Eye smile,” she repeats and then her lids pop up. She gives me a moment for this to sink in, as if she can sense that I’m having an epiphany.
Holy shit. An eye smile. There’s a name for it and it’s considered attractive. I feel like my worldview is shifting on its axis. I test out the eye smile. Behind my closed lids, in the darkness, I envision myself and it feels . . . nice.
“Should we go?” Boyoung asks.
My eyes fly open. How long has Boyoung been sitting there while I squeezed my eyes shut? I nod. “Yes, let’s go,” I say, before I start making random faces and asking if there are names for those, too.
Boyoung starts to lead me away, but as we pass by the funeral room, I spot the old lady and my dad’s friend still kneeling in the room—alone.
“How long will they stay there?”
“Until tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” I’m shocked. “Are there places to sleep here?” I look around but see only floral wreaths, black-clad visitors, and darkened doorways.
“They will take turns, but, yes, we observe a funeral for three days. On the third day, the body is prepared for, um, its final rest.”
Cremation, Boyoung had said earlier.
I glance down the hall toward the exit and then back at the two small figures, the bare altar, and the incense that’s almost burned away. Maybe it’s the soju. Maybe it’s something else, but I don’t want to leave now. “I’m going to stay.”
“But you don’t speak Korean,” Boyoung protests.
“I know.” I don’t care. There’s something wrong about walking out on my blood when two strangers are sitting there observing the rituals. “I’m staying anyway.”
