Black Flower Page 10

  Before long, a man who looked like an overseer appeared on horseback carrying a torch, and he took command of the people. The Mayans went first and the Koreans followed behind them. The sky was still dark. After they had walked for about ten minutes, a vast field spread out before them, filled with the henequen they had seen on the train, looking like demons’ toenails. Torches burned here and there, and the Mayans began to work. The Koreans stood by and watched. The Mayans cut the henequen leaves at their base with their machetes; when they had gathered fifty leaves, they tied them into a bundle and placed it to the side. That was all; it was very similar to harvesting rice. The machetes were like scythes, and the henequen plants were rice stalks. A few of the newcomers wanted to start working so badly they were licking their lips. When the Mayans’ short demonstration was over, the Koreans entered the henequen field. Ijeong rushed in vigorously and grabbed a henequen trunk in order to cut the leaves. “Agh!” Sharp thorns stuck in his hand. Blood trickled down and wet the dry earth. It was not only Ijeong. Nearly all of the barehanded Koreans had injured their hands and were in pain. Henequen was no plant to be trifled with. Unlike rice, which had been carefully bred over thousands of years, henequen was practically a wild plant. Now Ijeong gingerly took hold of the trunk with his left hand and brandished the machete with his right. He failed to cut the leaf in one stroke, and so his left hand ended up scraping the thorns. With the next stroke of the machete he cut the leaf, but this time the leaf scraped his leg and left a scratch. It was still early morning and he was already sweating. A man on horseback approached, grinned, and kicked Ijeong in the back. “Hey, chales!” It was Spanish for sluggard, but Ijeong didn’t understand him. He knew, though, that the man was telling him that he had to work faster. This was why the Mayans they had seen on the train from Progreso to Mérida had been working so slowly. The sharp and pointy thorns of the henequen made it utterly impossible to work faster.

  Their bodies covered with wounds and sweating profusely, the Koreans cut the henequen leaves like the Mayans, and time did not pass quickly. They all spoke much less. At midday, the sunshine was more unbearable than the henequen. Sweat poured down and soaked their filthy clothes and seeped into their wounds, doubling their pain. There was no shade in the field. In that regard, it was far crueler than the sugar cane plantations of Hawaii or the orange orchards of California. At four in the afternoon, the Mayans pushed their carts filled with henequen bundles back to the hacienda. Only then did the Koreans realize how much work they were expected to do: thirty bundles of henequen, at fifty leaves per bundle, which made at least 1,500 leaves they had to cut each day. Yet by four o’clock they had each cut no more than five hundred leaves. The overseers picked up their whips, and cries of “Chales! Chales!” could be heard here and there. The whips flew toward their sweat-drenched backs. Ijeong turned his head. A man on horseback was leering and laughing. The whip flew again. Most of the workers were baptized by the whip that day. To the Koreans, who had no culture of whipping, this was a surprise before it was a disgrace. That is, it took a while for them to realize the shame of it. If the Mexicans had spit in their faces, they might have brandished their machetes on the spot. But none of them knew how to cope with this; whips used on horses and cows were being used on people.

  The Koreans continued working until the sun set. That day, they barely managed to cut an average of seven hundred henequen leaves. They could not tie the bundles properly, and there were those who did not know that there should be fifty leaves to a bundle and so tied them up however they wished, so it took even longer to finish. As the Mayans had done, they loaded the bundles into carts and walked back along the rail tracks to the henequen storehouse. They were so hungry that their legs buckled. They had finished working so late that they had missed dinner.

  In front of the storehouse sat a man who appeared to be a paymaster. He inspected the bundles, and when he finished, he gave the workers wooden chits according to the number of leaves they had cut. The men took the chits to the hacienda store, where they exchanged them for food. One thing soon became obvious: if they continued to work like this, not only would they not be able to earn money and return to Korea, they would end up starving here. Men without families were a little better off. The family men bought food that wouldn’t have been enough to feed just themselves, and returned to their waiting families. Children were on the verge of tears when they saw their fathers with cuts and scrapes all over their bodies. The women boiled kernels of corn and made gruel. The men ate the thin gruel and lay down in their hamacas without a word. They were so very tired, but their wounds ached and they could not sleep. The wounds that the henequen juice had dripped into hurt even more. The men had no choice but to talk to their families. “At this rate, we’ll all die. Tomorrow, everyone will have to go out to the fields.”

  Ijeong filled his stomach with the food he had bought from the store and lay down to sleep. In the beginning, Meyers had said that adults would be given 35 centavos a day, bigger children 25 centavos a day, and smaller children 12 centavos a day. Yet it cost 25 centavos alone to buy food for one person for one day at the store. That meant that most of what they earned went toward food. If someone grew ill and bought on credit at the store, he would be bound to repay the hacienda no matter how long it took. Any fool would soon realize that this was unjust. The uprising of Emiliano Zapata, a hero of the Mexican Revolution, would be sparked by this exploitation in the haciendas. The hacendados were working the peasants as bond slaves and would exploit them forever. If two peasants got married, the hacendado presided over the ceremony and demanded a large sum of money for his services. If a family member grew ill and required treatment, if someone died and a funeral was held, or if a peasant was caught up in a criminal case and needed money, he borrowed it from the hacendado and became further indebted.

  There were differences from place to place, but before long the Koreans scattered among the twenty-two haciendas realized the injustice of the system in which they worked. They had been thoroughly deceived by John Meyers and the Continental Colonization Company. The promise that they would be able to work freely, earn lots of money, and go back home wealthy was just candy coating. This was the reality that all the weak people of Mexico faced; the hacienda system had been making serfs of the natives for hundreds of years. The Koreans were stuck here, cut off from communication or traffic, their eyes darting back and forth like frightened mice, desperately trying to think of a way out of a horrible situation.

  31

  YI JONGDO COULD NOT sleep. At Yazche hacienda, where he had been taken, the immigrants were accommodated not in the Mayan pajas but in spare communal housing with tin roofs and walls of thin, hollow, brittle bricks. They were easy to build, but during the day they were as hot as a kettle lid. Beneath the corrugated iron roof, built so low that one could barely stand up straight, Yi Jongdo had shut his mouth tight and agonized over how to escape from the nightmarish reality he had witnessed over the past few days. Farm work was impossible for the soft-skinned Yi Jongdo. His whole life he had done nothing but read books and write. Of course, some of his friends’ families had come to ruin and had no choice but to dirty their hands in the earth, but even so, it had not been such uncouth work as this. And then the unique stubbornness of a Korean scholar came to the surface. On the first day, when everyone began cutting the henequen leaves, however awkwardly, he stood there with his mouth shut tight and did no work at all. “Look at the aristocrat! Look at him!” the immigrants whispered among themselves and mocked him, but he stood rigid, not even trying to avoid the blazing sun. The interpreter Gwon Yongjun was also at Yazche hacienda. He approached and asked him, “Why are you not working?” Yi Jongdo kept his lips shut tight and did not reply. Gwon Yongjun had figured out Yi Jongdo on the ship. Even now he insists that he’s an aristocrat, so he should be treated like an aristocrat, right? Gwon Yongjun stuck his face right in Yi Jongdo’s and asked again, “You don’t want to work?” Yi Jongdo still did not reply. Guards on hor
seback gathered around them. Yi Jongdo stiffly lifted his chin and spoke to Gwon Yongjun. “There must be a governor or magistrate here. Take me to him.” Gwon Yongjun grinned at this. “Fine, let’s go.” In a strange mixture of English and Spanish, Gwon Yongjun conveyed Yi Jongdo’s wishes to a guard. The guard nodded and the two of them got into a carriage and headed toward the great house near the hacienda entrance. The manager, who was acting as the hacendado, was sitting in the shade of the house drinking liquor. “What’s the matter?” Gwon Yongjun conveyed Yi Jongdo’s words in stuttering Spanish: “Big man in Korea, does not want to work, he has something to say.” The manager made a reluctant face. Then he mumbled in Spanish, “If he doesn’t want to work, why did he come?” Yi Jongdo stepped forward and spoke. “I am a member of the royal family of the Korean Empire and a literati. I have not come to work but to lead the immigrants and be their representative in the emperor’s stead. Please convey my words to the emperor of Mexico and let the emperor of Korea know that I am here. I will write you the proper letter. And our current residence is not fit for myself and my family, so please move us.”

  Gwon Yongjun translated this into English, and then someone translated that into Spanish for the manager. The manager looked mildly amused. He asked Gwon Yongjun, “Is what he says true?” Gwon Yongjun smiled obsequiously and said, “Who knows? If that’s what he says, then that’s all I know.” The manager looked at Yi Jongdo’s shabby clothes and then took something out of a drawer and waved it before Yi Jongdo’s eyes. “This is a called a contract. You came here on the condition that you would work for four years.” The manager pointed at the name written on the document. “I paid John Meyers for you and your family, therefore no matter what happens in the next four years, you have to harvest henequen. If you break this contract, I will report you directly to the Mexican police. Emperor? There is no emperor in Mexico. It would be best for you to forget about all this, go back, and pick henequen leaves.” The manager stroked his mustache and gulped down the tequila that sat in front of him.

  Gwon Yongjun translated his words for Yi Jongdo. It was not as if Yi Jongdo had expected any other reply. As he returned to the dusty fields, he had already given up hope. Yet he still could not work in the henequen fields with the others. It was not a matter of pride, but of ability. So he returned to his dwelling. Lady Yun, who had been lying in the hemp bed, Yeonsu, and Jinu jumped to their feet and greeted him. “What happened?” Yi Jongdo shut his mouth tight, sat down on the floor with his legs crossed, and opened his book. That meant he did not want to talk. Gwon Yongjun poked his head in and glanced at the family. Then his eyes met Yeonsu’s. The corners of his mouth turned up in a sly smile. Only when Lady Yun, who had fallen ill from fatigue, saw the interpreter did she guess what had taken place. Gwon Yongjun told her what had happened at the hacendado’s house. And he added a warning: “If you continue to not work, it will be considered a breach of contract. There are limits to your employer’s patience. He may pity the loss of his investment, but he will end up driving you away. Then what will happen to your family, unable to speak a word of Spanish? You’ll be food for the vultures, that’s what. I’m saying this as a fellow countryman—come to your senses. I don’t know why you got on that ship, but this is not Korea, this is Mexico. One wrong move and you could easily starve.”

  After Gwon Yongjun left, Lady Yun grabbed Yi Jongdo and said coolly, “Shouldn’t you try to do something? We’ve starved for two days already.” Yi Jongdo had nothing to say and remained silent. Yi Yeonsu got up from her seat and went outside. All the men had gone off to work, leaving only the women and children. Women with towels wrapped around their heads glared at Yi Yeonsu as she stared blankly at the sky. It had been the same on the ship, with only Yi Jongdo’s family being shunned. No one spoke to them. It was already widely known that they didn’t work, so everyone was wary that they might come to beg for corn. Furthermore, whenever the men caught a glimpse of Yeonsu’s face, at dawn or in the evening, they grew so flushed that they did not know what to do, and this did not go unnoticed by their women.

  Yi Jinu, who was often so depressed that he would speak to no one, stood up. “I will go out to work.” Lady Yun shushed her son. Then she pleaded with Yi Jongdo once again. “Dear, let’s go back to Korea. That would be better.” Yi Jongdo thundered, “They said we signed a contract, did they not? How do you propose that we return now? And who do you think will take paupers like us by train and boat so far a distance?” Lady Yun was breathless. It felt as if someone had stuffed her throat with paper. There was no way. Yet the young Jinu was far more realistic than his mother or father. And when he got over his depressions he often became manic, and this was one of those times. He felt that he could do anything, and he wondered why his parents were so worried. Whether they worked or not, they had to stay alive, did they not? That was his thinking. And no matter how hard he thought, he saw no other way to survive. He was also displeased with his father, who didn’t know how to do anything and stayed at home like a snail. Yi Jongdo was like his declining nation: he didn’t want to work, he was lazy, he was irresponsible. Having led his family to this end, it was only right for him to take responsibility.

  The next morning, Yi Jongdo awoke early but did not move. Instead, Jinu boarded the carriage and went out to the fields with the rest. Lady Yun cried as her son left to do manual labor before the sun had even risen. “What on earth kind of place is this?” But Yi Jinu looked cheerful. He bowed his head in greeting to everyone who appeared older than him, and he found a spot at the front, next to Gwon Yongjun.

  The only one who did not work in the henequen fields was the interpreter. The Spanish he had learned while on the ship was poor, but it was enough to act as a go-between. Everyone curried favor with Gwon Yongjun. After only a few days, he was being treated like a midlevel overseer. The Spanish hacendado also gave Gwon Yongjun special treatment. His pay was many times more than that of the others, and his house was a fine brick building. It was enough for a decent life, with a proper bed and an attached bathroom.

  Yi Jinu wanted to be like Gwon Yongjun. At any rate, each hacienda would need an interpreter. Gwon Yongjun could not go around to all twenty-two haciendas, so if Yi Jinu learned even a little Spanish, he would be able to serve as an interpreter at another hacienda, where he would swagger like Gwon Yongjun and receive much higher pay. Yi Jinu was quickly growing accustomed to life on the hacienda. He followed Gwon Yongjun around, picked up the Spanish that he used, and practiced it diligently.

  Of course, the work was not easy. On the first day Yi Jinu bled, and on the second day his sores oozed. After a week, calluses formed on his hands. For days on end he collapsed as soon as he got home, and fell asleep on the spot. As always, Yi Jongdo did not budge, but sat in his place and read The Analects of Confucius. Father and son no longer spoke to each other. Yi Yeonsu rubbed a salve they had brought from Korea on her brother’s arms and legs. “It’s rough, isn’t it?” Yi Jinu shook his head. His eyes were dark. “It’s not all that bad, it’s fun. I’m going to be an interpreter. Then I’ll go to another hacienda.” “An interpreter?” “Yeah, I’m learning from Mr. Gwon. The first thing you need to learn are the numbers. Uno, dos, tres, cuatro.” As he recited, he counted on his fingers. “Does he teach you well?” Yi Yeonsu patted her brother’s shoulders. “The sages said there is no shame in learning.” Yi Yeonsu had her doubts about her brother’s studying. The interpreter’s authority came from owning language, so why would he want to teach others?

  When Saturday came, Yi Jinu took his wooden chits to the paymaster and received his pay. Then he went to the store and bought food for the week. It was nowhere near enough for a family of four. The days stretched on when they thought they would starve. Despite this, Yi Jongdo did not budge. Yet he still ate first, and he still ate the most. As if it were somehow his noble duty, at each meal he sat in the best spot, albeit on a dirt floor, and was the first to lift his spoon. He said not a single word of encouragement to his son, nor
a single word of apology to his wife and daughter. He was a descendant of the royal line, where it was common for an entire family to be slaughtered because the patriarch fell out of favor. It might have been better for him had he been sentenced to death and forced to drink poison. No exile was as cruel as this. Even if the head of the family was banished to a lonely island in a distant sea, his family could wait for the king’s pardon with their relatives and servants in their hometown. But here it was impossible for a literati to maintain the least shred of dignity. Yi Jongdo’s tragedy lay in the fact that all these things were his own fault, as he had been needlessly pessimistic about the situation in Korea, and that there was no one with whom he could share the blame. He had thought that at least he would be able to use his writing to communicate, as he had in Beijing, where men like himself could make their thoughts known through the great Chinese characters, even if they could not understand each other’s speech. He felt his error to the very marrow of his bones, yet he had to maintain his authority as the father. Not authority, but duty. He could not teach his children servility. This was the failing of the literati. If the head of the family bowed his head and admitted his error, who would forgive his family members when they were in error? Yi Jongdo slowly drank the thin corn gruel and spoke to his son.

  “There is no shame in pulling a plow to cultivate a field. But why must you cling to this interpreter official and learn the speech of the barbarians?” His tone was stern. Yi Jinu looked into the eyes of his mother and sister, as if asking for their support, and then he answered his father. He had not yet passed puberty, and his voice trembled. “Then what would you have me do, Father?” He showed his father the scratches and welts on his hands and arms. “Look. After only three days, this is what the hands and feet of all our people look like. It is not because they are dull-witted, but because there is no other way. We must learn. Only by learning the ways of the barbarian can we survive.”