The saddest things are always the most beautiful. Han Ming hums the song her mother used to sing about two lovers that could never be together in life, and died never knowing what might have been. She thinks it’s a tragic story, a beautiful one.
***
“No,” she says. “We can’t. I can’t.”
There are a thousand unspoken words behind her eyes, dark and desperate, like lines of poetry Jinho never learned, incomprehensible and so very Chinese. Jinho doesn’t understand.
“Don’t you want to be with me?”
Han Ming tears her gaze away, fists clenching at her sides. “I can’t abandon my family like that, Jinho,” she says, and the words are choked, underlined with unhappiness. “I have responsibilities. You can’t ask that of me.”
What she means is that Jinho is not as important. What she means is that here, even in war-torn China, Ming will not leave with Jinho for safer, peaceful Korea. She doesn’t love Jinho more than her haggard, starving family, or her ravaged country. She will not trade the dusty and blood-stained roads or the gray-brown forests or the muddy rivers of China for greener, fresher hopes.
Jinho doesn’t understand and Ming knows it.
“But don’t you love me?” he asks, and that’s when Ming walks away, eyes stinging.
That is not the question to ask – that is not a question at all. But there are duties that must come before selfish desires.
***
They met on the day Han Ming watched the neighboring village disappear in flames, dirty black smoke curling into the gray sky like a cruel smear of charcoal. She was on the road halfway between home and a village that no longer existed except in charred timber and hastily-buried dead. There was no time for proper funerals when the army was so close, heralded by the terrifying fires that burned as warning.
A river of people carrying everything they could on their backs stumbled down this road, seeking safety, shelter. Ming watched them, anger and grief high in her throat, choking her and leaving her feeling restless, helpless.
Someone stumbled into her, clawed at her arm, fell to the ground—
He was hoarse with thirst, and his words were accented.
My name is Jing He, he said, because the army hunted down foreigners and murdered them in cold blood.
***
“Don’t leave,” Jinho says desperately, grabbing at Han Ming’s hand, when he really means Leave. Leave with me.
Ming stills but she doesn’t turn around. Her fingers curl around Jinho’s briefly, perhaps for the last time. “It’s not a choice,” she murmurs, voice soft but steady, so carefully steady. She’s not to be shaken. She simply cannot leave. It’s not a choice.
***
The army didn’t attack Han Ming’s village as expected. She nursed a slightly wounded Jinho in her house for a week, between attending to her ailing father and attempting tired smiles for her younger sister. (Li Yin should’ve grown up in a different era, Ming thinks. She should’ve known only luxury and happiness, not the fear that leaves circles around her eyes, or the backbreaking toil that leaves her exhausted, too thin.)
“Why haven’t they attacked?” Jinho wondered, sipping at the broth Li Yin had made.
“No matter,” Ming replied, spooning her own dinner. “We should be grateful.” It had been a week since the neighboring village had been torched – everyone expected their village to be next. Dozens of families had abandoned their homes already, hoping to flee before they lost everything.
Ming didn’t have a choice in leaving. Her father would not survive a long trek on the road. There was no place to go. It was better here, where at least they still had a bed and nearby medicinal herbs and two fiercely guarded chickens. They stood a poor chance against a rampaging army, but at least here they stood the best they could.
“I don’t understand,” Jinho said, but he let the subject pass. He talked instead of his travels around China – how he had come to the country to visit a year ago, before the emperor had been killed, before the political battle Ming didn’t understand, and the war.
“It was a beautiful country.” Jinho smiled, his eyes bright. He touched Ming’s hand lightly. “I truly had a great experience.”
Ming couldn’t help smiling in return.
China was still a beautiful country, somewhere under the ashes and the blood and the haunting cries of mourners.
***
Han Ming doesn’t see Jinho for three days and she surmises that the foreigner has left at last, making his way back to Korea hidden on the boat he told Ming about. Ming’s heart hurts, but she tells herself there was no other way. Of course Jinho would choose safety and home over China (over Han Ming), just like Ming had to choose war and home over safety.
“Jie jie,” Li Yin says hesitantly, fingers twining through her hair. “You seem so sad.”
“I’m just tired,” she says, and smiles. She won’t let Li Yin worry, if she can help it. “Working the land is tiring.”
“Do you miss Jing He?” Li Yin asks, tying off her plait.
The pain starts in her chest and spreads until it’s almost too difficult to breathe. Does she miss Jing He? Does she miss the brief happiness of Jinho’s dimples and kisses, of Jinho’s strong hands holding her steady, of the quiet truths they’d exchanged in the dark? There will never be words, in Chinese or in any language of the world, Han Ming is positive, that can fully express how much she misses Jinho.
“Yes,” she says, because she’s made it a habit to never lie to Li Yin. “Yes, but I had to stay.”
“For us.”
Li Yin’s voice is sad and she sighs softly as she scoots along the front step of their house to press her side against Ming’s. She leans into her and Ming closes her eyes. They are silent for a long time.
“It’s hard living like this,” Li Yin says at last, softly. “Never knowing when they might attack. Never knowing when we might die.”
Ming reaches out and squeezes her hand in lieu of a reply. They watch the wind stir the dust in the street, blowing dead leaves across empty thresholds.
***
Jinho had kissed her first, because Han Ming had never learned to take what she wanted. She only ever took out of necessity, only ever acted as dutifully and as responsibly as she could. The weight of her decisions often weighed down her shoulders, now cupped by Jinho’s hands, his fingers stroking, as Ming found herself pressed up against the wall of the kitchen. Jinho’s mouth moved gently, tentatively, over hers.
“Is – is this okay?” he asked, words stumbling over his lips as he pulled back to stare into Ming’s eyes.
“I don’t know,” Ming said truthfully, because her heart was flying and her father was sleeping in the next room. She couldn’t look away from Jinho, and she swallowed hard, because she had never wanted something so desperately before. Wanted to be held and touched and loved, and maybe it was all possible despite the world falling to pieces around them.
“I don’t know,” she repeated, and moved until her lips brushed Jinho’s again, “but I want it.”
***
Li Yin has taken to singing the same sad, sweet song their mother used to sing about the two lovers that could never be together in life, and died never knowing what might have been. Han Ming still thinks it’s a tragic story, but she no longer finds it as beautiful.
She gazes out at the horizon often, eyes faraway. She’s not sure what she’s looking for – signs of an approaching army, or an omen to signal the end of the war, or a maybe the figure she sees endlessly in her dreams.
***
“There’s a boat,” Jinho said excitedly, grabbing Han Ming’s hand and pulling her around to the back of the house. He was flushed, eyes bright, and he looked so alive that Ming couldn’t help smiling, laughing too. “There’s a boat, Ming,” Jinho repeated, pulling Ming into a hug.
Ming didn’t understand, but Jinho was so happy that she could only be swept along in it.
“Wait, wait, what are you talking about?” she asked with a chuckle on her lips when Jinho finally let her go. “What about a boat?”
Jinho kissed her instead, swift, joyous. “A boat,” he repeated against Ming’s mouth. “Zai Zhong told me about it. It’s a secret, but it’s leaving in two nights. It can take us to Korea!”
For a moment, the world shifted on its axis, blurring out of focus, then rushing together to come sharply, painfully, into reality. Ming’s smile disappeared. She stepped out of Jinho’s arms but kept a hand linked to his, ever hopeful. She wasn’t sure what to expect when she looked up into Jinho’s smiling face, hesitant.
“What do you mean?”
“We can leave China,” he replied, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. “We can go back to Korea, where it’s safe.”
“Jinho—”
Perhaps he saw the stricken expression on her face. He tugged her closer, pulled her back into his arms. “Ming,” he said tenderly, “this is great! Don’t you understand? We can finally be together, in peace. Safe!”
“Jinho,” Ming tried to say, but her voice caught again; she was terrified by the possibilities Jinho was offering.
“Of course we can bring Li Yin and your father too.” Jinho smoothed a hand over Ming’s back, comforting. “You know I’d never ask you to leave them.”
The world seemed cold for a moment, bone-chilling despite the stillness of the air. It was only early fall, not yet winter; there was no wind, no reason for the shudder that shook Han Ming. She held tightly to Jinho, not sure what to say or how to say it. Jinho was like comfort, earthy smells and protection from the world, Ming’s crutch and one of her few weaknesses. He made her laugh when the army could attack any day; he made her hope despite the hopelessness of their situation; he made her feel and want like she was a different person in a different time, like she could have this without regrets.
Jinho understood her so well, but—
“He’ll die.”
Ming’s words fell like bricks between them, heavy and unforgiving. She wrenched herself away from Jinho. “He’ll die if we try to make it to the boat, Jinho. He won’t make it. Not to Korea.”
Jinho’s expression was startled, unbelieving. He blinked, reached out for her again, and his words were earnest and well-meaning. “Ming, we have to try. I know it’s far but—but we have to try. Your father, I know he’s ill, but we can take care of him. We can do it. Start over in Korea, where he’ll have a real chance, without the war—”
Ming said sharply, “No, Jinho, he’ll die.” She knew it with full certainty. Her father’s health was past weak; he was barely alive as it was.
“Ming, Ming.” Jinho looked desolate and Ming could feel her resolve waver. But her filial duty was in her bones, more innate in the person she was than any selfish desire she might harbor. She choked down a dry sob as Jinho pleaded, “Ming, come with me. Leave with me.”
“No,” she said. “We can’t. I can’t.”
***
It rains the day the army enters the village. They don’t burn the houses. They don’t even bother to terrorize the scattered, remaining villagers. Instead, they unroll a long length of paper and nail it the faded red doors of the house where the village head used to live. The scroll is damp from rain, the ink slightly smudged, but it is readable under the awning that protects it from the worst of the downpour. Han Ming stands under her umbrella and feels sick, dizzy.
The war is over.
It’s been five weeks since Jinho left, and the war is over. Something happened at the capital and there is a new emperor now, with armies under his rule that do not attack the countryside.
Somehow, Ming’s village has survived these past months of terror and death.
She returns home bearing the good news, too numb to be elated or relieved. Li Yin breaks into tears at the news, overcome. From the other room, their father’s voice rasps, weakly, asking after the cause of Li Yin’s tears.
“The war’s over, Father,” Ming says. She shakes the water from her umbrella and leaves it in the corner by the door. She goes to her father’s bedside, takes his hand, and looks at his face, yellowed with sickness and lined with age. Her heart beats heavily in her chest, uncertain.
Han Ming’s father closes his eyes and, with much effort, the corners of his lips ease up in a smile.
“Good,” he says.
A minute later, he opens his eyes. Ming has been standing there, unmoving, waiting. “You should’ve gone,” his father whispers.
Ming opens her mouth to protest. “Father—”
“I’m going to die anyway. I just want you and Li Yin to be happy.” Her father’s hands feel papery and frail, but his fingers twitch over Ming’s palm. “I just want you to live a happy life, Ming. That will give me comfort.”
Ming’s throat is tight. “It doesn’t matter,” she says at last. “I want to take care of you. I want to be here for you and Li Yin. I must.”
Her father’s hand falls from hers, back onto the bed by his side. He closes his eyes again and sighs, catching in a hollow cough that makes Ming lean forward, worried. Her father waves her away and leans back into his flat, rough pillow. He’s tired. “You’re a good daughter, Ming.”
From behind, Li Yin slips her arms around Ming’s waist and rests her head against her back. “Jie jie,” she says softly, and Ming hears remorse in her voice. She’s sorry. For their world, for their lives, for the way things had to be, Han Ming here and Jinho not.
Ming thinks of Jinho, remembers him. Remembers his golden laughter and his bright eyes, remembers the heat of his body and the sweetness of his voice, low in Ming’s ear, earnest, honest. She remembers feeling like she’s finally found someone who understands her, who will support her and hold her when she should need it.
The rain patters down, washing away dirt and mud, clearing the dusty marks of hopelessness. The leaves have turned color now, flaming gold and red and orange, shivering under the force of the rain, dancing on the trees outside the house.
Han Ming stares at them through the window, and thinks about her family and about China, her home – free at last from the war.
The most beautiful things are always the saddest.
***
In another country, barren and gray and cold with pending winter, Jinho sits by the fire, warm in heavy layers and a cup of hot tea. Here, he is home, he is safe – he lives in peace. Here, he only remembers the days and nights with Han Ming, every smile and every touch. He dreams endlessly about two lovers that could never be together in life, and died never knowing what might have been. He reads poems and memorizes their lines, learns the words he didn’t know how to say before. I’m only now realizing how much I love you. He finally understands what he didn’t then, about choices and lack of choices. He regrets leaving.
One day, he will go back.
[2008.12.29]
Those of you who have seen this before, you know why I changed what I did. How does it work?
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