They are both brilliant actors, trapped in roles that neither want. Eleven glimpses into the unhappy marriage of Gu Yong Ha and Park He Ra.
Play Pretend
o.o0o.o
There are many reasons why she married him, but love was never one of them.
o.o0o.o
Their courtship is perfunctory. Pretty declarations of intent arrive in the form of fragrant hot-house flowers and flawlessly cut gemstones, and He Ra smiles prettily and pretends to be flattered as she accepts these meaningless tokens from the Gu House servant, all picked out and packaged by his young Master's hands.
The (too-bright) flowers she gives to her younger sisters (He Ra has always hated the colour yellow anyway), and the jewels are immediately valuated and sold to pay off some of the family's debts – their non-existent debts, as far as polite society is concerned.
(The gifts mean nothing to Park He Ra except how much they are worth.)
o.o0o.o
"Lady He Ra," her intended greets winsomely, when they meet in person for the first time. "It truly is a pleasure."
"Lord Yong Ha," she returns equally sweetly, trying not to curl her lip in disgust at his title – a counterfeit, coin-bought farce of a genealogy his filthy street-corner blood doesn't even deserve. It chaffs at He Ra that she – the Park He Ra – needs this man, and that her once-exalted family has sunk so low as to consort with such riff-raff. Gu Yong Ha is a dandy dressed in colours as vivid as the flowers he sent her. Coupled with the dazzling smile he flashes, it is almost bright enough to give her a headache.
(Then again, it always is rather discomfiting to find that your would-be-husband is prettier than you are.)
o.o0o.o
In their occasional pre-marital meetings (all minutely pre-arranged and carefully chaperoned, of course), Yong Ha is never anything but perfectly solicitous.
"Allow me, Agaassi," he says, gallantly offering his arm during a pleasant evening stroll on the night of the Harvest Moon festival. "The path is slippery here," he explains, "and I can't bear to see such a beautiful lady fall."
Unmoved by the flattery ('lady' she is, 'beautiful' she is not), He Ra merely smiles and thanks him, before dutifully accepting his pro-offered arm. Though his actions are ever-gentlemanly, his touch is light and devoid of ardour, and He Ra is much too prudent a woman to fool herself into believing that he actually cares for her.
A commercial transaction, she thinks. Offer and acceptance. Supply and demand.
A mutually beneficial arrangement.
(It's never been anything more than that.)
o.o0o.o
Their wedding is an ostentatious and overly lavish affair, with enough wine and guests and fireworks to make it to the front page of the morning news the following day.
The entire event is a little too lavish for He Ra's liking, but it was never really about her (for her) – not really. From the fine red-violet bridal silk to the important Ming delicacies at their sumptuous wedding feast, it was only ever just an excuse for the wealth of the Gu House and the prestige of the Park House to be proudly flaunted for the whole world to see. She knows this.
But she doesn't mind.
Appearances, after all, were important. They mattered.
(He Ra understood this better than anyone.)
o.o0o.o
Alone in the wedding chamber, she waits for her new husband to come to her. It is their wedding night, and though she knows what is expected of her, the clammy iciness in her palms betrays her trepidation and fright.
'No!' she reminds herself, gritting her teeth. 'Don't forget who you are. You are Park He Ra – daughter of a great and noble House – and you cower before no merchant's son!'
And so, when her husband finally enters the room to lift her veil, He Ra's eyes are serene. Slowly, silk and hair pins fall to the floor as her naked figure is revealed in the flickering candle light.
Face averted, half hidden by a curtain of long, ebony hair, He Ra allows herself to smile at the irony. Though she has never been so bare in front of any man, the walls to her heart have never been so impenetrable.
o.o0o.o
As she stares at her husband's peaceful, sleeping face, He Ra acknowledges that it could be much worse.
He's not a bad man, she admits to herself grudgingly. A wry, sardonic smile teases the corners of her mouth when she recalls their previous night's activities. And definitely not a bad lover.
But while she knows that most women would have long succumbed to her husband's (too) pretty looks and many charms, Park He Ra is not 'most women'. There is something that rings altogether false about this charismatic man, with his too practiced smiles and quicksilver tongue, but He Ra refuses to be charmed by it. It makes her suspicious. It makes her wary.
(You may have bought my title with three thousand mun, she thinks. But you, husband, cannot buy my heart so cheaply.)
o.o0o.o
He is not a sincere man, but then again, she is not a sincere woman.
"The servants tell me that you didn't come home last night," He Ra remarks in passing late one morning over tea. Her voice is light. "Did work keep you up again?"
Her husband makes a face. "Unfortunately so," he replies, equally lightly. "There was a mix-up with one of our premium silk shipments. I was forced to spend the whole night at the warehouse, sorting through the samples. Aish, it was dreadful!"
He Ra quirks a brow. "…Oh?"
His expression turns sly. "I would have much preferred being in bed with you, of course..." he purrs, his eyes suggestive and full of promise.
Liar, she thinks. Liar, liar, liar.
"I'll have Mi Na make you some ginseng tea," she says, tutting sympathetically. "You work too hard!"
Picture of the doting wife, He Ra does not draw attention to the fact that there is a stray and very telling blue-black bruise on the back of his neck – a lovebite that she never put there.
(We all play our parts.)
o.o0o.o
Months later, her increasingly absent husband is shocked when he discovers that she can manage their household accounts on her own.
"I didn't know you could use an abacus," he says, his voice laced heavily with surprise.
For long moments, He Ra is silent – the slight pause in her dextrous fingers the only indication that she'd heard him. (Briefly, she wonders if she should point out to that when one grew up in a withering noble house that struggled to make ends meet while pretending to have money to spare, balancing numbers because a matter of simple survival.)
But He Ra stays silent.
The seconds tick by and Yong Ha is forced to clear his throat several times in the uncomfortable quiet. Finally, after giving the wooden beads one last flick, He Ra slowly lifts her eyes to meet his gaze.
"With all due respect, most honourable husband," she replies at last, the addressal almost farcical in its courtesy. "…there is much that you do not know about me."
(You never bothered to try.)
o.o0o.o
It is not a happy marriage, but they are very convincing pretenders.
Years later, Yong Ha will still shower He Ra with empty compliments and empty gifts. Years later, He Ra will still remain the dutiful, faithful wife, keeping the dinner warm when he is late and a cup of tea waiting by the door when he finally (if at all) gets home. Years later, they will have perfected this script so well that they won't even be certain if they're acting anymore.
But He Ra doesn't know this yet.
For now, for tonight, when Yong Ha stumbles home in the early hours of morning smelling of strong liquor and easy women – other women – she can only dig her fingers into the bedding and turn away, feigning sleep.
She never deluded herself that a man like him would remain faithful, and least of all to her.
Besides, I don't care, she tells herself fiercely, I don't care. I don't.
Because it was never about love or fidelity or honour (silly things, useless things) in this sham of a marriage anyway – it was never about that.
She knows this.
(I sold myself to this fate.)
o.o0o.o
The next day, Park He Ra orders a han-bok shot through with gold.
o.o0o.o
[Finis]