Free Waxing Moon by H.S. Kim

mean their bankruptcy as well. His people weren’t that stupid. They were family people, responsible people who put rice on their tables at every mealtime.
    Mr. O took a bite of white rice cake, and Mistress Yee moaned louder.
    Mr. O put his hand on her buttock. “How is everything?” he inquired once more, collecting himself.
    “Send a messenger to my family. Let them know I am ill. I would like to say goodbye to them before I go,” Mistress Yee said feebly, looking up at her husband sideways, who was still chewing on a piece of rice cake.
    “Let me massage you,” Mr. O said. He began to knead her thigh. But his wife pushed his hands away, sobbing.
    “My little lamb, sit up and I will feed you something. I heard you haven’t had dinner yet,” Mr. O said, as if talking to a child.
    “No one cares about me around here.”
    “The visitor had so much to say, and I just couldn’t get rid of him quickly. He is my childhood friend. He feels quite at home here. By the way, he sends his best regards to you,” he consoled her.
    Mistress Yee just snorted and sat up and shot a fierce glance at her husband.
    “Now, now, anger is the root of all miseries. Ease your mind,” Mr. O said softly. He was tired and wanted to lie down with his wife, who often faked illness but was as strong as a horse.
    “You don’t understand. The head monk at the temple, he insulted me,” she said resolutely.
    “What do you mean?” Mr. O asked.
    “When I was done with my kowtows, I realized Mirae was no longer with me. I was so preoccupied I didn’t know she had left. She is such a busybody and pokes into everything. Anyhow, I went out to see where she was. And there she was, in front of Sari-tower, conversing with the head monk.” Mistress Yee hesitated a few moments. “I can’t tell you the rest, because if I did, you would stop the annual donation to the temple. And I don’t want that to happen,” she said in a saddened voice.
    “Tell me, my dear. You can trust me.”
    “Well, it’s obscene. Noble blood streams in your veins; you must not hear such talk.”
    “But it concerns you. I must know it,” he urged with a strain in his voice.
    Her eyes glared, reflecting the flame of the candle light on the low table. Mr. O felt that his wife was hiding something from him to protect him. He grabbed her small hand.
    Slowly, quietly, she spoke, as if resigned, as if she were seeing the event once again: “The head monk was fumbling under Mirae’s shirt. I didn’t want to attract their attention because I was so ashamed to have witnessed such foul, abominable vice. I wanted to step back into the main hall so as to hide myself, but as I started walking backward, I fainted. I think the head monk picked me up and carried me because when I opened my eyes, I found myself lying on the floor in the main hall. The head monk was looking down on me, breathing hard. I was frightened, so I asked for Mirae. He assured me that I was in good hands. Mirae didn’t come for a while. I didn’t know where she was. I sat up, feeling sick. The head monk mentioned something about desire being one of the three poisons in life, obviously referring to his own contaminated mind, and perhaps he was pleading with me not to reveal any of the things I had seen. But you are so persistent. And I can’t lie, as you know. So there you have it, the truth. But I don’t want you to act upon it hastily. We all make mistakes, monk or not.”
    Mr. O considered the whole confession gravely.
    Many years before, his father had taken him to the temple when the head monk was eleven years old. The father wanted to show his son what the unusually talented boy could do with stones. The boy was hard at work chiseling a piece of granite without looking up at the visitors. He was in the process of turning it into a statue of Buddha. He had started at the waist, which was smooth and curvaceous to perfection. It wasn’t until he got older and married that Mr. O realized