“One last question. I understand that you’re originally from Korea. So can you tell us more about your nom de plume, Izzy Gold? How did that come about?” the interviewer asked. Kim Iseul caressed the grey cover of her latest book ‘Murder on the 13th’ before saying, “It’s just a translation of my Korean name. When I started writing my manager suggested that I choose a different name to make it easier for readers.”
At that moment, her manager Cathy walked in hurriedly with her phone in hand.
“It’s your mother.” She knew it must be bad news.
After almost 30 hours of flying from New York to Seoul, and from there to Jeju Island, a boat ride on the East China Sea and a cab ride later, Izzy finally arrived at her ancestral home in Seogwipo City. Although it looked grand from the outside, the situation inside was grim. Her mother, Kim Dae clutched at her shoulder and wet her blouse with sobbing for a good ten minutes before she could get a word out. Izzy herself couldn’t manage a single tear.
Dozens and dozens of relatives had come out to console the grieving family, especially Izzy, who never got a chance to say goodbye to her father. She stared at the grey clouds gathering in the sky as people behind her passed soju and bowls of noodle soup, playing cards and droning on and on about how good a man he was, both to family and friends.
Someone touched her back, it was her grandmother, Kim Sook.
“He loved you a lot, you know,” she said to Izzy.
“Yes, well, he never showed it to me.” she replied.
“Come with me, I’ll show you something.”
She took Izzy upstairs to where her father’s office used to be. She had never been allowed to enter this room growing up, although she had been fascinated to know what was inside. And she still was when she saw each wall of that room covered with newspaper articles, both in English and Korean, all about the famous writer Izzy Gold. Not just that, he had kept every award or medal she had won at school, displayed on a shelf. Every story she had written, every scrap of paper she had thrown away, had been preserved with love and care. Izzy took one look, and tears streamed down her eyes.
“Iseul-shi, you must understand,” Grandma Kim said, “He had always been so proud of everything you ever did. It is you who was ashamed of yourself, of your name. It broke your father’s heart.”
The skies were clear at the funeral the next day. Iseul held her mother’s hand tight as she greeted the guests entering the funeral hall. A little girl walked up to her with her new book.
“I know this isn’t the right time, but can you sign this for me? I’m a huge fan.”
“Sure”, she said.
“What have you written?” the girl asked.
“With love, Kim Iseul.
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