my prayers. Its door briefly opened and shut and it slid away. A scurry of rain beat on the rear window. He stood rooted on the spot. I desperately waved at the rain-splashed back window but whether he saw me or not, he did not return it. The car turned a corner. ‘Poor man. He will be wet through standing there fixed on the spot.’ I felt heartless. ‘He will never appear before my eyes again.’ At this thought I burst into tears.
13 April. When I woke up I knew this was the day on which I had to make a final decision. As if I were faced with a difficult maths question my mind was clear and my mood just rightly tense. By the time breakfast was over my mind was made up. ‘He is not a common fraud of no conscience. He must have some reasons. There is no doubt about his love for me. As long as I can trust that he is not a villain I will forgive him and help him out of his trouble.’ I wondered whether he would turn up now that he knows I suspect him.
‘You’d be wise to take my advice. You shouldn’t go. There is no need even to reconsider it. He’s a liar and that’s that.’ My sister had been coaxing me all morning but when I said to her ‘I won’t be long,’ and set off she exploded in anger.
‘If you are not back by midday, mark my words, I will kill you and myself.’
He was waiting for me. I was thankful but not in the mood for a cheerful greeting.
‘How’s your sister?’ he asked with a rueful face.
‘She’s not too bad. It has been too big a shock for her delicate nature. From our childhood, I have always been a cause of worry to her.’
‘She must hate me. Can I go and see her today?’
‘Well, she’s virtually my guardian, so you should but...’ I could not say that she hated him. Besides I wanted to get on with the business to hear his explanations, consider them carefully, draw my conclusions and go home to look after my sister.
‘Do you know any quiet place where we can go to and talk things over?’
I felt like ridiculing him by saying, ‘What fantastic secret do you harbour to need such a place?’ But I refrained.
‘You are quiet today. Where would you like to go?’
‘We’d better go to the Secret Garden, then,’ I said. It was only partially open to the public but I had a special pass.
Once the residence of the kings, the Royal Palace Gardens were now as quiet as a tomb shrouded in a mystic atmosphere. Ancient trees, their trunks as thick as several arms’ span, stood with solemn dignity like sentries. I thought of them as witnesses to the lives of the generations of kings and queens and their attendants who had strolled here weaving multifaceted human dramas. As we passed beneath them I fell into a fantasy that for every word I uttered and every footstep I took now was like planting seeds that I would reap some day in future. The azaleas and the forsythia now at their peak were in delighted coquetry with the fresh, glossy leaves of the shrubs.
There was no human sound around. Only the chatter of birds as they darted in and out of the trees and bushes. We walked in silence through the woods looking for an even more secluded spot. Being in the middle of a wood with not a soul around inevitably made us feel closer. At last we stopped beneath a huge beech tree. I had noticed that he always carried under his arm a large brown envelope filled thick with papers. You could see from the open top that for the most part it was manuscript paper. After rustling through them he produced a folded white paper and handed it to me. It was a long poem. I sat down as he directed on a seat he made for me with layers of newspaper and his handkerchief on top. I read.
Star-counting Night
The sky through which the seasons pass
is full of spring.
With no fears or worries, I think
I can count all the stars, the stars of spring.
One by one, they are impressed
in my heart. And,
If I fail to count them all
It is because the morning is drawing nigh;
it is because there will be another night tomorrow;
and because my youth is not yet finished.
To one star, memories
To another star, love
To another, forlornness
To yet another, yearning
To another, poetry
And to another, mother, mother,
Mother, I give a sweet word
to each star. Names of the girls
Who shared the desk with me at junior school,
Names of foreign girls like Pai, Kyong, Ok;
Names of the girls who have already become mums;
Names of the poor neighbours; a dove, a puppy, a song, a deer,
and names of poets like Francis James, or
Rainer Maria Rilke.
They are far away
Like the remote stars,
And you, mother, are in North Chianto.
With a yearning heart for a certain thing
I inscribed my name on the ground
of a slope on which descended
The starlight from the many stars.
And then, buried it over with the earth.
Do you know why
The insects chirp all through the night?
They are sorrowing for the shame of that name.
But when the winter is over and
spring comes to my star,
Like the grass on a grave revives green,
On the slope where my name is buried
Grass will thrive with pride.
1958. 4. 12. K.
When I finished reading it he calmly gathered me in his arms. The sad and beautiful spirit of the poem had moved me deeply. A man who can write a poem like this can’t be a bad man, I thought. I was overcome
