Vermilion

The first rule of working for Joaquin Hernandez was never to ask what his paintings meant. The second was that I should never trust a man who made rules for other people.

But how was I supposed to remember either rule with his hand resting at my waist?

His warmth reached me through the thin fabric of my dress. His other hand lifted slowly to my cheek, giving me time to turn away. I didn’t. When his thumb brushed the corner of my mouth, I caught his wrist and held it there. It was such a small thing to want, someone’s hand against my face, and yet the wanting felt almost unbearable. I had spent years imagining how I would behave when this moment finally came. Now that he was standing in front of me, I couldn’t remember a single sensible thing I had planned to say.

His fingers slipped beneath my hair, and he leaned closer. I closed my eyes, already certain that one kiss wouldn’t be enough. The bed was only a few steps behind me. I wondered whether he would follow if I moved toward it, and the thought made my hand tighten around his wrist. Instead, he lowered his mouth to my ear and caught the edge of it gently between his teeth. My breath caught. His lips brushed my skin as he began to whisper.

“Seo-yun-ah! Ireona!”

All right. I hadn’t expected shouting. Something quiet and affectionate, perhaps. Possibly my name, if he could manage it without making it sound like I had forgotten to take the laundry out. There was also something disturbingly familiar about his voice.

“SEO-YUN!”

Oh. Of course. My mother.

I opened my eyes to the ceiling fan turning above my bed. The hand at my waist was gone. So was the man attached to it. My mother was yelling through the bedroom door, and the only thing holding me was a sheet twisted around my legs. I lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling. Apparently, four years of living away from home had made me forget that my mother could interrupt absolutely anything without entering the room.

Three brisk knocks followed. “Are you awake?”

“Yes, Eomma.” My voice sounded far too irritated for someone whose mother had done nothing wrong. I pulled the sheet over my face. “I’m awake.”

“Then why do you sound like you’re still sleeping? Breakfast is ready.” Her slippers moved away down the hallway, and I stayed beneath the sheet until I could trust myself to emerge without looking as embarrassed as I felt.

At twenty-four, I had learned how to discuss desire in a room full of professors without blushing. I could explain the symbolism of an exposed shoulder in a portrait or defend an artist’s use of intimate space. Apparently, imagining a man touching my cheek was enough to undo all that education. I pressed my hands over my face and whispered a brief prayer that began properly and ended with me wondering whether the stranger had been about to say something.

That was the part I kept to myself. My mother knew about the grades, the scholarship, and the degree in art history I had brought home from the School of the Art Institute of Chicago. She knew I went to church and answered my aunt’s questions about marriage with the same patient smile. She did not know how often I wondered what it would feel like to be wanted by someone I wanted just as badly. I intended to wait for love. The intention had done very little to quiet my imagination.

I sat up and reached for my phone. There were two promotional emails, a rejection from a gallery on the mainland, and a message from Camille Reyes.

Coffee. Thirty minutes. Put on shoes this time.

I typed back that slippers counted as shoes. She responded with a photograph she had taken the week before: me standing outside a convenience store in a cardigan, shorts, and the worn house slippers I had forgotten to change. I sent her an unkind sticker and got out of bed.

Morning light fell across the desk squeezed beside my window. My graduation photograph leaned against a stack of books, and a copy of my senior paper sat beneath a hairbrush. On its cover was a reproduction of Joaquin Hernandez’s The Empty Chair. I straightened it automatically before opening the wardrobe. Even after spending months writing about that painting, I sometimes stopped to look at it as though the woman at the table might have moved while I wasn’t watching.

Studying Joaquin’s work had begun as an assignment and become an expensive habit. I had borrowed exhibition catalogs from libraries, watched interviews with bad audio, and once taken two buses across Chicago to see a painting smaller than my bathroom mirror. I knew he lived on Guam now. Knowing that had been one of the private pleasures of coming home, although I had never seriously imagined meeting him. People like Joaquin Hernandez belonged on gallery walls and lecture screens. I was still deciding which of my T-shirts looked least unemployed.

I settled on a white blouse and jeans, tied my hair back, and went downstairs. The house smelled of toasted bread and sesame oil. My mother stood at the counter cutting a rolled omelet while my father sat at our little dining table with his glasses low on his nose. Beside him were a utility bill, his phone, and the small sewing kit my mother had left open after repairing a neighbor’s trousers.

Our house had one bathroom, a refrigerator that hummed loudly at night, and a dining chair that required a folded piece of cardboard beneath one leg. After four years of student apartments, I found all of it comforting. My parents had moved from Busan to Guam while I was at college. Coming back to them had felt easy until I discovered that a degree and a hopeful attitude did not automatically produce a job.

My father looked up as I took a piece of omelet from the cutting board. “Any replies?” he asked in Korean.

“One this morning.” I reached for a second piece before my mother tapped my hand with the flat side of her knife. “It wasn’t an offer.”

He removed his glasses. “What did the school say about the time you have left?”

“The same thing they said last week, Appa. I need work related to my degree.” I had authorization for practical training after graduation, but the days I could spend without qualifying employment were running down. My father knew that. We all knew it, which was why the subject had begun turning up at every meal. “I sent three more applications yesterday.”

“I know you’re trying.” His voice softened, and somehow that made me feel worse. “But we need to know what happens if you don’t find something. You can’t just stay because we’re here.”

I nodded and looked at the floor. I had imagined returning to Guam, finding a position with a gallery or collection, and finally living close enough to my family that seeing them didn’t require an airport. Instead, I had begun checking my email before I was fully awake. Even jobs I didn’t want had acquired the power to disappoint me.

The knock at the front door came before I had to answer. My mother glanced at the clock, then at the plate she had set out for me. “Who is that?”

“Camille. We’re getting coffee.” I picked up a piece of toast and gave her a hopeful look. “I’m taking breakfast with me.”

My father leaned back in his chair. “Your generation,” he said in Korean as I moved toward the door. “There is food on the table, coffee in the kitchen, and work to find. Naturally, the important thing is to go somewhere else and pay for coffee.”

“We’ll look at jobs there.” I bent to kiss his cheek before he could object. “I love you, Appa.”

“Love me after you eat something.” He pointed at the toast. My mother wrapped two pieces of omelet in a napkin and pressed them into my hand on the way out.

Camille waited on the step in sunglasses, holding her car keys between two fingers. She had grown up on Guam in a Filipino family and could turn a five-minute errand into a social event. We had met during one of my visits home from college, when our mothers decided we ought to be friends and sent us to buy groceries together. It was one of the few occasions when our mothers’ planning had worked exactly as intended.

“Good morning, Mr. Han,” she called past me. My father waved his glasses at her, still talking. Camille waited until we reached her car before asking, “Was that a blessing or a warning?”

“He thinks coffee is preventing me from becoming a productive member of society.” I climbed into the passenger seat and unfolded my mother’s napkin. “He’s also worried about my work situation.”

“Then we’ll be productive with caffeine.” She glanced at the omelet. “Is one of those for me?”

“Apparently.”

At Infusion in Upper Tumon, we found a table near the window. Camille ordered an iced coffee while I chose a latte and opened the job listings on my phone. By the time our drinks arrived, she had rejected two positions on my behalf and I had explained for the third time that I couldn’t simply take any available job. It needed to connect to what I had studied, which was proving inconvenient for everyone involved.

“This one says collections assistant,” she said, turning her screen toward me.

“In Boston.”

“A small problem.”

“A very large ocean.” I took a sip and returned to my search. Across the room, a woman in a pale blouse stood beside the pickup counter with a phone to her ear. Her dark hair was pinned neatly back, and she held herself with the stillness of someone who had already dealt with too many interruptions that morning.

“I don’t need another general assistant,” she said. “I need someone who can catalog a collection properly. Medium, dimensions, condition, exhibition history. Someone who understands what they’re looking at.” She listened, then pressed two fingers against her forehead. “Yes, ideally someone familiar with Hernandez’s work. We lost enough time with the last person.”

Camille’s head lifted. I had gone so still that my phone screen darkened in my hand. There were other artists named Hernandez. There had to be. I looked down and tried to find the listing I had been reading, although the words had stopped meaning anything.

Camille leaned across the table. “Did you hear that?” she whispered.

“Yes.”

“Then get up.”

“She could mean anybody.”

“How many Hernandez collections have you been writing essays about?” Camille pushed her chair back. I caught her wrist, but she had already begun smiling in a way I recognized and feared. “Don’t make that face. You haven’t even been rejected yet.”

“Camille, she’s on the phone.”

“Excuse me,” she said, approaching the woman. “I know someone.”

The woman gave her a distracted glance. “That’s wonderful. So do I.” She turned slightly and continued into the phone. “No, I wasn’t speaking to you. As I was saying—”

“Someone qualified for the job,” Camille added. “The collection job.”

The woman closed her eyes briefly. “One moment,” she told the person on the call. Then she lowered the phone. “I don’t know who you are, but interrupting a private conversation twice is very rude.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry.” Camille’s apology was sincere enough to make me feel even more ashamed that I was still sitting down. “But my friend has an art history degree, and she spent her final year studying Joaquin Hernandez. She’s looking for work, and I thought you should meet her.”

The woman’s expression changed at his first name. “Which friend?”

Camille pointed at me. I stood too quickly, knocked my knee against the table, and grabbed my cup before it tipped. By the time I reached them, I had managed to make being introduced look like a minor evacuation.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “She was trying to help. We didn’t mean to interrupt your call.”

The woman studied me for a moment. “I’ll call you back,” she said into the phone, and ended it. “Your name?”

“Seo-yun Han.”

“You studied Mr. Hernandez’s work?”

“Yes. For my senior paper. I focused on his portraits, particularly the way he uses empty space to change the relationship between the subject and the viewer.” I heard how rehearsed I sounded and stopped. “I can send you the paper. And my résumé and transcript, if you’d like documentation.”

“Which painting did you write about most?”

“The Empty Chair.” For the first time that morning, I didn’t have to search for what to say. “The title makes you look at the chair first, but I think the woman’s hand is the more interesting part. It’s resting beside the second place setting. She could be waiting for someone. She could also be about to clear the table.”

The woman looked at me more closely. “And which do you think it is?”

“I changed my mind three times while I was writing.” I gave a small, embarrassed smile. “I still haven’t settled it.”

Something in her face eased. She asked about my coursework and whether I had handled objects during my university placement. I told her about condition records, supervised handling, and the collection database I had used. My voice steadied as we talked. I knew these things. Whatever she thought of my jeans or Camille’s approach, I could answer her questions.

The barista set two drinks on the counter. The woman collected them, then took a card from her bag and wrote on the back. “Marisa Flores. I manage Mr. Hernandez’s studio. Send your résumé and paper to that address now. Bring your supporting documents, and come to the house at one-thirty.”

I stared at the card. “Today?”

“In approximately three hours.” She handed it to me. “This is an interview, Miss Han. Please come prepared.”

“I will. Thank you.” I stepped aside so she could leave, then remembered something else. “Thank you for hearing me out.”

She glanced briefly at Camille. “Next time, wait until I’ve finished my call.” The door closed behind her before either of us could answer.

For several seconds, Camille and I stood beside the counter looking at the card. Then she gripped my shoulders and gave me a small shake. “One-thirty,” she whispered. Her grin was so wide that I finally started laughing. I covered my mouth, glanced apologetically toward the barista, and laughed harder.

Back at the table, I sent the documents with hands that required two attempts to type the email address correctly. Camille watched over my shoulder, making me remove one unnecessary apology from the message. Only after I pressed send did I look down at what I was wearing.

“I don’t have anything.”

She frowned. “You just sent her everything.”

“To wear. I don’t have anything to wear to interview at Joaquin Hernandez’s house.” My graduation blouse had a stubborn mark near the cuff, my only formal trousers needed altering, and the dress I wore to church had been selected with my mother’s enthusiastic approval. None of them seemed likely to survive the house I was beginning to imagine.

Camille lifted her keys. “Then we go to Tumon.”

“I can’t afford a shopping trip.”

“We’re buying one outfit. People fly here to shop, Seo-yun. We can manage one outfit without needing international assistance.” She gathered our cups and glanced at the time. “Finish your coffee. Your very rude agent has work to do.”

The first dress she handed me had narrow straps and an open back. I held it against myself outside the fitting room and asked which part of the cataloging duties required my spine. She laughed, took it away, and returned with a blouse covered in elaborate ruffles. When I emerged wearing it, she tilted her head, considering.

“What?” I asked.

“You look like you’re about to announce a very disappointing school inspection.”

I went back inside before she could photograph me. The next dress was too tight across my shoulders, and the one after that had a neckline that kept me pulling at the fabric. By then, I was hot, anxious, and increasingly convinced that I should go home and wear whatever made my father nod approvingly.

Then I noticed the navy dress hanging near the end of a rack. It had short sleeves, a soft neckline, and a skirt that fell just below my knees. In the fitting room, I fastened it and looked at myself for longer than I had looked at any of the others. The waist fit without pinching, and when I moved, I didn’t have to adjust anything. I let my hair fall loose, then tucked it behind one ear.

Camille’s expression softened when I stepped out. “That one.”

I was already smiling when I turned the tag over. One hundred and sixty-eight dollars. I looked at the number again, hoping I had mistaken a decorative line for a digit. “Absolutely not,” I said, reaching for the zipper at my side. “I’ll wear something I have.”

“You like it.”

“I also like having money.”

She held out her hand for the tag. “I’ll get it. You can pay me back when you’re working.”

I shook my head. We had bought each other coffee and meals before, but this felt different. “Cam, what if I don’t get the job?”

“Then you’ll have something to wear to the next interview.” She said it simply, without the bright, teasing voice she had been using all morning. I looked at her reflection beside mine, and my throat tightened. “Take it off before they charge us for you standing in it all afternoon.”

We were quieter at the register. I thanked her while the cashier folded the dress, and Camille bumped her shoulder against mine. Outside, she made me promise to call the moment the interview ended, even if all I could manage was an incoherent noise. She dropped me home with enough time to shower and prepare, then waited until I had found my keys before pulling away.

My father was in the living room when I came downstairs wearing the dress. He lowered the television volume and looked toward my mother. She emerged from the kitchen, took one look at me, and stopped drying her hands.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“An interview.” I placed my folder on the table and checked that the printed documents were still inside.

“Dressed like that?” My father frowned. “With whom?”

I looked down at myself. “A person who might employ me.”

My mother came closer and adjusted one sleeve. “You said coffee. Now you come home with a new dress. You spent too long in America; you tell us half a story and expect us not to ask questions.”

“Eomma, it really is an interview.” I showed them Marisa’s card and explained the encounter at Infusion. As I talked, my mother’s hand stilled on my shoulder. My father put down the remote and reached for his glasses to read the address.

“Today?” he asked.

“At one-thirty.”

He checked the clock. “I’ll take you.”

“Appa, I can—”

“You can look through your papers while I drive.” He stood and went to find his keys. My mother pressed my small silver cross into my palm; I had left it beside the bathroom sink after showering. I fastened it at the back of my neck while she held my hair out of the way, and for a moment neither of us said anything.

“You studied hard for this,” she told me, smoothing my hair back into place. “Let them see that.”

In the car, my father asked about the work. I explained the cataloging, the records, and the possibility of working directly with a collection I knew from books. He listened, although I suspected that much of it sounded like an elaborate system for writing down things anyone with a tape measure could discover. His questions were practical: how long the job would last, whether there would be a written offer, and whether I knew anything about the pay. I wrote them down beside the questions I had prepared myself.

As we approached the address, the road grew quieter. Through breaks between the trees, I caught glimpses of the sea, bright enough to make me squint. I shut my folder and laid both hands on it. The dress had felt reassuring at home. Now I was wondering whether the shoes I had chosen looked too old.

My father slowed in front of a gate set between pale walls. Beyond it, a drive curved out of view through carefully tended greenery. He looked from the address on his phone to the entrance, then turned to me.

“Whose house is this?”

“Joaquin Hernandez’s.”

“Should I know him?”

I smiled despite the nervousness tightening my stomach. “He’s an artist, Appa.”

“A singer?”

“A painter.”

He looked at the gate again. “He paints pictures?”

“Very good pictures.”

My father considered this for a moment. “Then make sure he pays you properly for writing about them.” I laughed, and he smiled as he pressed the intercom button. A voice asked our business; he gave my name with the care he used whenever he thought someone might misunderstand it. The gate opened, and he drove slowly up to the house.

It was larger than I had expected, its pale exterior broken by shaded windows and wide overhangs. I looked for something to compare it with and found nothing useful. Someone lived here. Someone got up in the morning and walked through that door without wondering whether they had brought the right shoes.

When my father stopped, I kept my hand on the seat belt for a moment. He noticed. “You know the work,” he said. “You were talking about it all the way here.”

“Talking to you is different.”

“Yes. I have no idea what any of it means.” He waited until I looked at him. “They invited you because you do.”

I leaned over and kissed his cheek. He wished me luck in Korean, then told me to call when I was finished. I got out carefully, checked that I had my phone, and lifted the folder from the seat. My father waited while I walked to the entrance. At the top of the steps, I glanced back; he raised one hand from the steering wheel.

I pressed the doorbell before I could give myself another reason to hesitate. Footsteps approached from inside, and the door opened. The woman from the coffee shop stood in front of me, her hair still neatly pinned, her expression composed. Her gaze flicked briefly to her watch.

“Good. Right on time.”