A Temporary Marriage

Three years after her ex-husband and their daughter, Yuri, disappeared to California, Mrs. Shin designed clothes by day and sold handprinted scarves by night to save the necessary sum of money to depart Seoul and come to America. In order to find her daughter, she had assented to move into a stranger's two-bedroom condo on the fringes of Culver City — like two apartments! They would share the common space, nothing more. That had been the agreement.

But now that she had arrived, she saw that the living arrangements could be dangerous. The duplex was hot and cramped inside: a thready chintz sofa, the display cabinets heavy with souvenirs, the cumbersome oak table stained with the marks of sweating glasses, all seemed to touch one another. The kitchen faced the living room, and the living room, Mr. Rhee's bedroom. If he leaves the door open, she thought, we will see each other each time I look up from the cutting board. The lamp that Mr. Rhee switched on cast more shadows than light.

"Welcome to your new home." As Mr. Rhee spoke, his hands fluttered skittishly, batting at the air as if there were invisible mosquitoes. "Well, not really so new, but everything works well, well enough."

"Yes, it is a new home for me, isn't it?"

She did not want to look at him, understanding that she was aware of him as a man, and that gave him an immediate advantage over her. But she found herself looking. He was gangly and quick like a badminton player, unlike her ponderously built, strong ex-husband, and she disliked her disappointment. His doughy eyelids and sagging cheeks wore more sadness than she approved of, aging his face beyond his fifty years; his baggy peppermint-striped sweatpants smelled like a hospital gown and telegraphed his recent misfortunes. Even after the shame of her husband's departure five years ago, she had behaved like the fashion designer she was: she had never sanctioned mix-matching her bras and panties or privileged anyone to see her without an Hermes silk scarf, all efforts that gave her the appearance of confidence. Even after she lost her daughter, she had not allowed herself public displays of grief.

"I've left you the large room upstairs," he said. "I don't need a lot of space."

Mrs. Shin thanked him, all the time wondering if he was as innocuous as he looked.

"Well, shouldn't we document this — predicament?" she asked.

They needed photos to authenticate their engagement, then their marriage, to immigration.

"Predicament?" he said. "Well, yes, I suppose that's what it is."

She tolerated Mr. Rhee's arm around her shoulder, his parched white hair like the roots of spring onions, the dry- cleaning chemicals on his plaid shirt — a professional hazard of running Pearl Express, a dry-cleaning business. His garlicky breath scraped her nose. He, too, must have endured her stale travel smells.

After he set up his camera on the living room table, they both forced a smile until the timer clicked, the shutter snapped back, and she drew away. He continued to gaze.

She said into the silence, "Is there a rice grain on my nose?"

She had chosen not to marry some lonely Korean widower in America the old-fashioned picture bride way. The K-fiancee visa, and the next step, the marriage visa, had cost her a tidy sum precisely so he would not confuse this "predicament" for love.

"You have such young skin," he said, admiring her smooth, round face, her eyes the shape of plumped kidney beans.

She said, "I'm not looking for a real husband. I thought that was clear."

She was tired and frightened, so her words clicked like stilettos on tile.

She added, "I prefer a world without men."

"Don't worry," he said, blushing, twisting bunches of his hair with his hand. "I live for my boys. If you had children, you would know what I mean."

During Park Chung-hee's dictatorship nearly thirty years ago, Mr. Rhee had quit his engineering job at Hyundai Heavy Motors and immigrated to America with his wife. The family of four had settled in the basement of a kind American couple and cleaned office buildings until purchasing their own dry- cleaning store. They had done well enough until the recent recession, which had even lawyers watching their expense accounts. Until Mr. Rhee's wife had abandoned him for an American man she met in salsa classes, he had watched Korean news clips of the developing country's daily disasters — student demonstrators attacked by pepperspray bombs in 1986, the Samgpoong Department Store collapse that killed generations of families in 1995 — and convinced himself that he had been right to leave, even after the country flourished and began giving academic scholarships to the brightest from Guatemala to Mongolia, and setting trends in film and technology.

Mrs. Shin knew another Korea. In 1996 she had married up. A glittering four-hundred-guest Hyatt Hotel wedding, a Tiffany diamond flashing on her finger, and a villa nestled high in the hills, like a medieval castle overseeing the neon signs and pollution of Seoul, had transformed her. But money in Korea meant residing with the in-laws until the new bride was made acceptable, it meant surveillance and criticism. While hip-hop became the rage and women were sworn in as senators in the National Assembly, Mrs. Shin had subordinated herself to her husband's will, rivaled her mother-in-law for his affections, and accepted all blame when she remained childless the first six years of marriage. After nine years of a difficult, exciting life together, her husband had said that he could not do it anymore, that they were not healthy for each other, and left with their daughter. She was no different from Mr. Rhee; she felt that she had failed at living.

From Drifting House by Krys Lee. Copyright 2012 by Krys Lee. Excerpted by permission of Viking, a member of Penguin Group Inc.