12
Cho Sisters
Even as an infant, Helen and John’s firstborn had a calm temperament and an accommodating disposition, as if he appreciated what it meant to be a jangnam with the attendant privileges and responsibilities of primogeniture.
Bo never seemed to let the burdens of being the eldest child overwhelm him.
He exerted himself in the classroom and on the sports field, he got along well with his peers.
A nice-looking and thoughtful young man, Bo was a blessing and a relief to his busy parents.
Often, Helen’s friends asked: How did she raise her son? Was there a method to rearing such a fine student and good boy? The credit, however, belonged neither to Helen nor to John. Bo came that way, she would say.
Bo’s mother could admit this truth not because she was modest, but rather, the experience of having more than one child in the same household amply demonstrated to any self-aware parent that each child was entirely unique.
Eventually every small human—even flesh of one’s flesh, which should have provided some illusion of predictability—asserted his individuality, no matter how much a parent tried to control, shape, or design his formation.
As educated and earnest middle-class parents, Helen and John had provided more than the basics, and certainly more than they had been given as children of poor parents.
Parenting was a haphazard experiment for even the best-intentioned humans, and Helen and John observed Bo, DH, and Mido with profound fascination, as only parents can.
Each child was immutably distinct from the others.
When Helen read a sad story in the news about a child who had gone astray, rarely did she assign blame to the parents.
Life had taught her that the debate between nature and nurture was almost moot: Excellent parents sometimes had badly behaved children, and careless parents could have admirably performing progeny.
The bond between a human and her child was binding, yet it had to be loosened.
A mother had to love, and a child had to grow up.
The results were often out of one’s hands.
In America, Bo was almost nineteen years old, but his Korean age was nearly twenty since the year in the mother’s womb was counted.
Girls admired his glossy chestnut-colored hair, olive complexion, and large brown eyes.
He spoke English like a native, making him an exotic curiosity at a public high school in Gangnam, and he studied from morning till night, almost not needing to sleep.
Most remarkably, Bo had maintained an impressive grade point average in the second stanine nationally, allowing him to apply to Yonsei University.
The school did not think he could test for Seoul National, his father’s alma mater, which was fine by him.
Bo preferred Yonsei’s old-fashioned campus and admired its alumni.
His cousin Jiman was admitted to Korea University, the school of his father and brother Seungman.
There was a precocious beauty named Ara Yang in his homeroom class whom he liked, and who adored him.
Once she showed up at his hagwon and invited him to her house to study, and right there in her bedroom, she proposed sex.
Stunned, grateful, and naturally tempted, Bo was still able to control himself and demurred.
He made a deal with her. After they were accepted into college, they would make love.
Whenever he masturbated, he fantasized about the twin possibility of the college of his dreams and the tantalizing promise of sex with Ara.
When Bo failed to be admitted to Yonsei University, he broke up with her.
Ara had been accepted to Sungkyunkwan University, but the only daughter of two preoccupied college professors told Bo that she would be happy to wait for him as he prepared to take the Yonsei exam again.
Almost everyone took these exams more than once, especially for schools as hard as Yonsei, she’d said, trying her best to encourage him.
Bo, guilt ridden at the heavy expense of his failure, told her firmly that he would not hold her back.
To make the situation even clearer, he told her that they should not even be friends.
Bo took the national college exam in November 1994, which was called the 1995 Suneung. In addition, Bo had to take the bongosa, a school-specific admissions exam, and although the bongosa devastated many students, Bo thought that, for him, the Yonsei-specific exam had gone well enough.
The bongosa essay question he could never forget was “Describe the difference between digital and analog.”
For his answer, Bo wrote that a digital clock stated a moment in time whereas an analog clock revealed the process of time.
As soon as they finished the Yonsei bongosa, Bo and his classmates rushed back to their Yonsei exam hagwon, which was different from Eagle Academy, his hagwon for his high school studies.
The bongosa hagwon tutor had been more or less flying blind because there were almost no prior tests from which to teach.
Each student, fresh from having taken the exam, was asked to recall the test questions, and three tutors recorded the questions and typed out their speculated answers.
Bo’s tutor said his digital versus analog answer was terrific. Not that it mattered.
Bo’s Suneung score was what kept him out.
With 200 being the perfect score for the 1995 Suneung, he received 153, a strong score but not invulnerable.
Predictably, with his focus on studying for the college exams, his high school grade point average had fallen to the lower end of the second stanine, so he was no longer in the top 4 percent nationally.
Bo wanted to take the exams again. Helen did not know what to do.
The Suneung was offered only once a year, in November.
She had to consider their housing, Bo’s hagwon fees for another year, and the family’s stretched expenses spread across Seoul, Sydney, and the United States with DH.
If he had done well and been admitted to Yonsei, she would have left for Sydney, where she would have earned far more at the Emporium.
Sonya’s apartment complex in Apgujeong was comprised of many separate towers.
Helen entered the elevator in Sonya’s building and pushed the button.
She finger-combed her hair, tucking the loose wisps behind her ears.
That morning, she’d noticed two more gray hairs sprouting from her side part.
No doubt her sister would comment on it.
There wasn’t enough time to get to the salon, and for each week Helen could hold off on getting her cut and color, she could put aside more for the children’s school and hagwon fees.
With John and Mido now settled in Sydney, Helen was still able to work full-time at the duty-free shop, and whenever the manager had extra shifts, Helen raised her hand.
When the elevator opened on Sonya’s floor, a uniformed maid stood waiting at the apartment’s front door.
Sonya’s home was larger than most houses in Seoul—comprised of both apartments on the tenth floor of Building 11.
Three generations lived in the two units separated by a small hallway.
Sonya spent her days taking care of the household, Chairman Mun, her husband, Yong-gil, and their two sons.
She managed a sizable staff: a formidable housekeeper, two maids, a cook, and a driver.
A maid guided Helen to Sonya’s home office, where her sister was busy reviewing the household accounts.
Chairman Mun was at the health club with his physical trainer and afterward was scheduled to have lunch with high school classmates, which made this the ideal time for Helen to drop by.
The Chairman did not like to have guests.
Sonya’s office was the size of Helen’s living room.
A large square of southern light flooded the elegant room.
Behind the modern oak desk was a sofa upholstered in green mohair wool where Sonya read in the evenings.
Stacks of art books covered a low hand-carved Korean pine table.
Tall branches of persimmons filled an enormous cobalt-blue fishbowl on a rosewood pedestal.
The maid remained at the door while Helen took a seat on the sofa, and Sonya frowned.
“I can’t believe you’re going to leave. Again. You’ve barely been in the country,” Sonya said, too exasperated to bother with pleasantries. She asked the maid for tea, and the young woman bowed before closing the door.
“Is she new?” Helen pointed toward the door.
“Just the niece of the cook,” Sonya said, then regretted sounding so dismissive. “She is part-time. I don’t really need her, but the cook asked me. She’s recently divorced. There are two little kids.”
Helen understood. Everyone asked her older sister for help, and Sonya had a hard time saying no.
“Did John find a house in Sydney?”
“They’re still at Kenny’s.”
“Still?” Sonya raised an eyebrow.
“Well, Kenny and Lily said it’s fine, and Mido is helping with the kids. John is always working and hasn’t had time to look.”
“Are you okay with money?” Sonya asked bluntly.
“It’s tough,” Helen admitted. “We returned the money to Shin. John couldn’t accept it,” Helen said.
“What?” Sonya raised her hands. “Why? Your husband got a demotion and that… that woman ruined his reputation in Seoul. If I didn’t believe in God, I would slap her.”
Helen didn’t want to talk about Danbi anymore. She drew a breath. “Bo didn’t get in.”
“Oh no!” Sonya exclaimed. “Was he close? I bet he was close. Bo is very smart. The hardest-working boy. I shouldn’t have favorites, but he is the best. Nicer than my sons,” Sonya said, then smiled. “Then are you going to stay another year so—”