And now she was sitting in front of me， no longer a phantom， stirring slowly her cup of coffee into which she had carefully dropped two cubes of sugar the minute before， the movement of her hand deliberately and grossly delicate. Into the poorly lit corners of the plush hotel lounge seeped in music， a famous violin melody with a great deal of weeping on the E-string， as impeccably made-up waitresses in fluttering hanboks of magenta and blue floated down the aisles carrying trays of fruity cocktails. The coarseness of her age shocked me. I noticed the powder on her face， spread generously and glistening now in the damp wrinkles of her skin. I saw her no longer bud-like lips， and knew without having to look that they would leave a smear on the white porcelain of her coffee cap that she would try surreptitiously to wipe off when she thought that I was not looking. The new shirt under my favorite suit derided me as I searched her face hopelessly for some faint echo， for an almost
Undetectable shadow of the girl whose steps had followed me into my new life in America and lulled me to sleep every night of these twenty-five odd years， the girl whose smile I greeted in the morning on my wife’s pale and lovely face.
And remembering my wife， I felt a sudden pang of homesickness for the things I never thought I would get accustomed t the smell of Parmesan cheese sprinkled over freshly cooked pasta， the pleasure in hearing the double "r" of my adopted name pronounced effortlessly， the strength of full-flavored coffee taken black （"American-style" they called it here） in the morning， my wife’s long limbs downed softly with hair only slightly darker than
The color of forsythias. What was I doing here， this middle-aged， balding man with American citizenship and an American wife， a successful doctor with a passion for tennis and a fondness for fresh salads rather than pickled cabbages？ I asked myself why I was still chasing the ghost that should have dissipated away twenty-five years ago with the footsteps that failed to reach my door one early morning. The folly of this trip angered me and made me silent.
We must have sat like that across the varnished table in the coffeeshop of the fanciest hotel in Seoul， miserable strangers.
"Do you have any children？" she asked me after a very small sip from her coffee cup. She held her coffee cup with both of her hands as if it were a hot cup of tea， even though the coffee must have gone cold with all her stirring. I felt the unpleasantness of the lukewarm liquid down my throat.
"No， but you？" I asked， meeting her effort to break the embarrassed silence. Please don’t， I said to myself， please don’t tell me of your daughters and sons grown to adults even before you’ve had time to say good-bye to their baby clothes. Don’t tell me how fast saewol is， and touch the no longer firm skin of your throat with just that look in your eyes. The one you gave me when you came here into the lounge and saw me sitting here in a fancy， Western hotel that didn’t exist when I was a poor college student living in your mother’s boarding house， expecting， after a quarter of a century， for you to be what I thought you would always be—a fever in my brain.
"No，" she said. "I miscarried my first and couldn’t after."
She wore a two-piece summer suit of gaudy color that I had noticed was in vogue. On the streets of Seoul that afternoon， I had seen many wearing suits just like that： slightly fluted shoulders hiding the shoulder pads， beady buttons down the front， and a skirt just above the knees. She patted the front of her dress as if to iron out any wrinkles.
"I don’t have any children."
I felt that I ought to change the subject. "And your mother？" I asked.
"She passed away years ago. Stroke."
I motioned to a smiling waitress and ordered a gin and tonic. "What about the house？ Do you still keep boarders？"
"No， we had to sell it to pay the hospital bills. I live far away now. I haven’t been back to the house in ten years."
Then all of a sudden， the awkwardness of the years spent living separate lives broke between us， and we talked of the "house" as if it had been， was still， ours. We talked of the forsythias blooming by the gates in the spring and the clay jars of kimchi buried in the backyard. I remember turning at the curve of the road， and arriving at the large， old-fashioned house with its slated roof and a huge chestnut tree rising up from behind it to cover parts of the roof. Entering through the gate， my eyes had been blinded by the sudden burst of sunlight until a dreamy image of a girl by the water pump in the middle of the front yard emerged slowly out of the sun， rotating around my suddenly feverish head and trembling like a mirage. The sleeves of her white shirt rolled up， a slender neck， black hair braided down her back in a ****** plait， arms under the water falling from the mouth of the pump， glistening with the prismatic layering of light on wet skin. How could I let myself forget that image， even if I could？
"I felt sorry for you，" she said， smiling now. "Your room was the last one on the hallway and next to the kitchen； mother and I made so much noise in the early mornings， the water， soups simmering， pots and pans clanging even though we tried to be quiet."
"I didn’t mind，" I said， speaking the truth.
"Do you remember…"
"I remember，" I answered her and got up from the cushioned seat. "Let’s go，" I said， watching her still large eyes grow with surprise， "to the house."
