Purple Yearning

The vegetable that always catches my eye with its deep purple hue—whenever I visit a Korean market, I find myself picking up three or four dark eggplants. Before placing them in my cart, I turn them over in my hands, and my mind drifts to Kim Mi-jeong, my best friend from elementary, middle, and high school. She is a memory that usually sits quietly in a corner of my heart, like something submerged in water, but the sight of an eggplant pricks at my chest and brings her back to the surface.

Mi-jeong and I were inseparable. After school, she would come to my house to eat, do homework, and play. Even after spending the entire day together, we hated to part ways, walking each other back and forth between our houses until our mothers finally called us in for the night. My mother adored Mi-jeong for her gentle, easygoing nature and her kind eyes. "Eat up. You're both at the age where you're growing fast," my mother would say, looking proudly at the two of us growing up well together. She always kept cold drinks and snacks ready in the fridge for us.

Every morning, I would stop by Mi-jeong’s house so we could walk to school together. One day, I arrived to find her still under her covers. "Oh, you're here?" she muttered reluctantly, making no move to get ready. She avoided my gaze with a dark expression, clearly not wanting to talk. I sensed something had happened but didn't press her. "I'll go to school alone today. Come later," I said. Those solo walks became more frequent, and Mi-jeong’s tardiness began to pile up.

Shortly after we started high school, Mi-jeong asked me, "Seo-yeon, do you want to come to my new house today?" I had sensed a great change in her life but hadn't dared to ask, feeling only a lingering anxiety. As we changed buses and began the long, panting climb toward the top of a steep hill, she finally spoke. "My parents got divorced. My mom fell for another man and moved in with him. She told me to live with my dad. He’s so pitiful; I have to stay and help him with the housework."

The house was empty when we arrived. Seeing me breathless from the climb, Mi-jeong said, "You must be hungry. Sit for a moment. I'll make you something delicious." As she headed into the kitchen, she looked different—the childishness was gone, replaced by a mature air of someone who shouldered the burden of a household. I sat on the veranda, lost in a whirlwind of thoughts, looking down at the neighborhood sprawling far below. After a while, Mi-jeong emerged with a tray: freshly steamed white rice, kimchi, and a bowl of steamed eggplant seasoned with chopped green onions. I had always disliked the mushy texture and strange color of eggplants, but I couldn't refuse her sincerity.

To my surprise, it tasted like heaven. "I usually never touch eggplant because the color is so strange, but this is delicious! I didn't know you were such a good cook," I exclaimed. "I guess I had to learn quickly, living alone with my father," she replied. "Isn't it hard?" I asked, my eyes filled with sadness. "My dad’s business wasn't doing well. They fought every day before my mom left. I hate her. I never want to see her again. Watching them fight was harder than this. I prefer living just with my dad." She wiped the tears from her large eyes with the back of her hand and gave me a faint, forced smile. I felt a surge of resentment toward her mother, wondering why such hardships had to fall on someone as kind as Mi-jeong.

Even now, whenever I go to a Korean market, I cannot forget the taste of the eggplant dish she made for me. My hand instinctively reaches for those purple vegetables that look as dark and mournful as she did. Making seasoned eggplant takes time, so I save it for a day when I feel patient. I constantly hover over the pot, opening and closing the lid, worried they might get too mushy. I pick out the pieces as they finish, let them cool, and tear them into thin strips. The faded color of the steamed eggplant comes back to life when I add minced garlic and bright green onions. I add soy sauce and black pepper, then finish it with a coat of shiny sesame oil and a sprinkle of black sesame seeds. I try my best, as if painting a masterpiece, but it never tastes like hers. My heart aches thinking of young Mi-jeong in that tiny kitchen, hurriedly tearing hot eggplants for me while I sat waiting on the veranda.

One evening, I sat across from my husband with a spread of braised peppers, kimchi, and soybean paste soup with cabbage. "This soup is the real deal (Jin-guk). It’s the ultimate health food," my husband said. Having grown up on dried radish leaf soup, he never tires of soybean paste soup. His use of the word Jin-guk—which also means a person of genuine, deep character—suddenly brought back a memory of Mi-jeong.

It was shortly before I graduated from college. I was browsing a clothing stall in the Jongno underground shopping center when a woman called out, "Oh my gosh, Seo-yeon? Is that you?" "Mi-jeong! What are you doing here?" "I work here!" We hopped up and down, holding hands in excitement. In the middle of our catch-up, she asked, "Do you remember Jin-guk?" "Oh, that handsome, manly guy who was so popular? All the girls liked him," I recalled. Mi-jeong looked nostalgic. "Have you seen him since graduation? I used to like him so much. I wondered if you knew how he was doing. Not that it matters—I'm already married—but I still think of those kind eyes of his sometimes." "Married? Since when? To whom?" I asked, stunned. "To a man from the Gyeongsangdo coast. I met him while traveling after my college entrance exams. Come over to our place for dinner. I never forgot how your mom used to tell me to eat more because I was growing, even after I'd finished all the rice and bread in the house."

I followed her, unable to let her go so soon. I don't remember exactly where she lived, but the layout of the house is vivid. It was a "rooftop room" (oktapbang) like the ones in dramas—you open the door and the kitchen and single room are all visible at once. When we entered, her husband was sitting in the dark room like a heavy, cold boulder. "I ran into an old friend and brought her home," Mi-jeong said. "Hello," I greeted him brightly. He gave me a sidelong glance and said nothing. He had a frightening, intimidating look about him. "Seo-yeon, go sit in the room," Mi-jeong whispered. But there was nowhere to sit, and the man’s palpable anger terrified me. "I’ll just stay here," I said, standing awkwardly by the door.

Mi-jeong moved busily in the kitchen, clearly walking on eggshells around him. The moment she brought the dinner tray to set it down in front of him, the man suddenly stood up and kicked the table across the room. "I’m starving to death! Where have you been wandering around?" he roared. I was terrified. I bolted out the door and ran all the way to the bus stop. For a long time, that Gyeongsangdo man lived in my memory as the "table-kicker," but whenever I thought of Mi-jeong’s face in that moment of shock and shame, my heart bled for her.

After that incident, we lost touch. Perhaps we both wanted to forget that horrific scene. Later, I heard through old friends that the Gyeongsangdo husband had opened a men's shirt shop in Myeongdong and made a fortune.

Years later, my phone rang. "Seo-yeon, it’s me, Mi-jeong." "Oh my! How have you been? I heard you were doing well." Her voice sounded vibrant and happy over the phone. "Let’s meet up." I waited for her at a lavish Chinese restaurant in Sogong-dong. An elegant woman dressed in luxury brands walked in. It was Mi-jeong. My mother had been right; she had grown into a stunning, sophisticated beauty. Even though I told her I was full, the expensive dishes kept coming. "Since we've finally met, let's go to my house after dinner." She lived in a modern, beautifully decorated apartment at the end of the Han River Bridge with a sweeping view of the water. I wondered if the girl from the rooftop room had ever really existed, or if I had dreamed it.

Later, my husband was stationed in Los Angeles, and we lived there for a while. One time, Mi-jeong and her husband came to visit and joined us for an eight-day tour of the American West. It was an uncomfortable memory. Most of the tourists were from Seoul. The tour guide repeatedly reminded everyone: "Please make sure to leave tips at restaurants. In America, you must tip. Also, leave a tip in your hotel room each morning." The guide mentioned it at least once a day, which was bound to provoke Mi-jeong’s hot-tempered husband. After a couple of days of silent glowering, he suddenly stood up on the moving bus and screamed. "Guide! Shut your mouth! Stop talking about tips! My ears are ringing!" The scream tore through the silence like a blade. Outside, the red plains of the West were peaceful, but inside the bus, it felt like a powder keg. "If you shut up, I'll give you a hundred dollars. Do you understand?" The air in the bus grew heavy with collective shame. Other passengers stared out the windows at nothing, avoiding eye contact. My son, sitting next to me, whispered, "Mom, if I were the guide, I'd just shut up and take the hundred bucks..." Even his innocent joke couldn't lift the grim atmosphere. I stole a glance at Mi-jeong. She was staring blankly at her hands in her lap. Her knuckles were thick, and her fingers were trembling slightly. Even in the vastness of America, she was still trapped in the narrow prison of her husband’s verbal abuse. She looked like an eggplant trapped in a steamer until it was bruised and broken. I couldn't even bring myself to pat her shoulder; I just swallowed my dry spit.

A few years later, my family returned to Seoul. I called Mi-jeong. She sounded genuinely happy to hear from me, but her voice had grown hoarse and tired. "Come to my house," she said. The address she gave me was not the luxury apartment by the river. It was a studio apartment above a commercial building.

The moment she opened the door, I was hit by the smell of stale alcohol and an unidentifiable chill. The grand living room with the river view was gone. In a cramped, cluttered studio, Mi-jeong greeted me with disheveled hair. "Seo-yeon, you're here? Sit down and have a drink." In a corner, her eight-year-old son was glued to a game console, emitting mechanical beeps. He looked like a ghost. Mi-jeong’s eyes were bloodshot. The spark she had while seasoning eggplants in the mountain village was gone. "I'm in so much pain... I can't live without drinking," she confessed. "What happened?" "I got divorced." "How?" "That crazy man made my life miserable the whole time, and finally, this happened. I went to my parents' house with the kid and came back a day early. I found him in my bed with another woman. I must be crazy, too—I just stood there and watched them. When they were finished, I walked in. They flinched at first, but then they just looked at me as if to say, 'So? What are you going to do about it?' The woman acted like she owned the place. How could I live with him after seeing that? I divorced him immediately."

She continued, her words like sharp fragments of glass. "I regret not leaving him back then, that day you came over and he kicked the table. Remember when I worked at the underground mall? I wanted to start a men's clothing business, and the owner helped me out. My husband had a knack for it, and we made a lot of money. But as soon as he had cash, he acted like it was all his doing. He looked down on me and treated me like garbage. I gave him everything, and I ended up like a discarded rag. He doesn't even look for his own son because he's too busy playing around. He’s less than an animal."

The elegant woman in luxury clothes had vanished. In her place sat a woman whose purple skin had been scorched and faded by fire. It was then I realized: the dark purple eggplants I picked up at the market weren't a reminder of her "royal" or colorful times. They were the color of her heart—bruised, battered, and turned a deathly shade of violet.