GJJ 26

Proof of Spring

‘Did he just call me an unspeakably nasty woman?’

Miyu clenched her fists tight.
He had to be some street thug trying to pick a fight to swindle her.

Before coming, Bok-sil had warned her again and again:

—Miyu-unni, don’t look like some clueless country girl.
If they find out you’re from Songpa, the ruffians will cling to you like mosquitoes.
They have all sorts of tricks—suddenly shouting insults, pretending to sell “good goods,” anything to catch you off guard.

—Don’t worry, Bok-sil. Do I look like someone easy to fool?

She’d said it bravely, but the heavy purse at her waist felt like a block of ice.
If a thug overpowered her, she’d have no way to fight back.
How ridiculous, after a lifetime of striding boldly through her own town. But this was reality.

Pull it together, Jo Miyu.

She scrunched her nose and drew a deep breath.

These punks think they can cheat me just because I’m some hick from Songpa?

Resolute, she turned toward the narrow alley.
At the end, an open space bustled with people.

The shouting wasn’t aimed at her.
Realizing that, her tense body relaxed and she let out a small sigh.

Miyu slipped into the crowd and poked her head through.

A storyteller was performing a scene from The Tale of Chunhyang.

“Ha! What a vile woman she is! Throw her in chains and lock her up!”

Imitating the wicked magistrate, the performer thundered at the invisible Chunhyang.
His acting was so vivid the audience trembled with outrage.

Then—whoosh—he sighed and stopped mid-story, calmly packing tobacco into his long pipe.

“What, you’re stopping now?”
“Right when poor Chunhyang is at the villain’s mercy!”

But the storyteller only fanned himself in silence.

“What’s he doing, just sitting there?”

He puffed another long sigh, grumbling, “Hard to talk on an empty stomach.”

“All right, all right. Everyone, a coin each for the story!”

People cheerfully tossed coins into the bowl, eager for the next part.
With a sidelong glance at the pile, the storyteller finally raised his voice again.

Miyu moved on, eyes darting to every spectacle as she threaded through the crowd.
From Dongdaemun she walked twenty minutes to Jonggak, then followed the Cheonggye Stream to Gwangtong Bridge—only about seven minutes more.

North along the stream, artisan workshops bustled, especially those crafting fine gat hats.
Street troupes performed: male acrobats beating small drums, female entertainers weaving through spectators for tips.
Pansori singers belted out songs, tightrope walkers amazed the onlookers.
Everywhere was packed.

Young men and boys practiced the fashionable martial art taekkyeon.
Women washed laundry in the stream while children splashed in the mud.

Everywhere her eyes landed felt like another world.

At last she reached Gwangtong Bridge, the largest over the Cheonggye Stream.
Just as Yi-un had described, art vendors crowded the area, even hanging paintings beneath the bridge itself.

Tigers, roosters, insects, plum blossoms, chrysanthemums—images dazzled her eyes.
Folk paintings, landscapes, daily-life scenes, portraits, calligraphic art—each with its own charm.

“My goodness…!”

Miyu clapped a hand over her mouth at a painting hanging in one shop.

Kim Hong-do!
Without doubt it was a genre painting by the great master.
And one she’d never seen before—an unknown work, lost to history.

Heart pounding, she examined it carefully:
two boatmen chatting at a riverside ferry,
a grandmother, a girl, a pig, and a chicken waiting in a ferryboat,
a shaggy dog barking at the river.
No elaborate background, just a simple composition, rhythmic brushwork with rich ink tones—an everyday scene alive with quiet grace.

It bore every hallmark of Kim Hong-do.

“How is it? Fine work, isn’t it? Afternoon at the Ferry—one of Danwon’s more delightful pieces.”

The shopkeeper, a wiry man in a small black cap, stepped forward.

“It’s extraordinary,” Miyu breathed.

“How much is it?”

“Three hundred fifty nyang,” he said, eyeing her doubtful purse.

“How low can you go?”

“You plan to buy it?”

“Why, do I look like I can’t?”

“Heh. If you really buy it, I’d be losing out. Two-fifty.”

“Two hundred. Not a coin more.”

“Do you even have the money?”

“Not right now.”

“Tsk, don’t tease me.”

He shook his head.

“I’m saving up. Don’t you dare sell it.”

All thought of settling for a cheaper piece vanished; this one she had to own, even for five hundred nyang.

“How will you ever raise that much?”

“Don’t worry. Uncle Mandol promised me a new shop to manage.”

“Huh? What does that—”

“Just promise you won’t sell it.”

The bony shopkeeper studied her eager face, then sighed.

“I can wait a little. But not forever. Danwon’s works are prized even in Qing China. If I send it there through a broker…”

“Three months. Please—three months and I’ll find the money.”

“Fine, three months,” he said at last.

“Thank you!”

Miyu beamed as though the painting were already hers.

“Forgery,” said a familiar voice behind her.

“What?”

She turned to see Yi-un, face unreadable, beside a towering, muscular man.

Glancing at the shopkeeper, Miyu grabbed Yi-un’s sleeve and pulled him a few steps away.

“A forgery?”

“Yes.”

“No way.”

“Yes.”

“My eyes aren’t that bad.”

“This time they are.”

The certainty in his tone made her frown.

“Wait a second.”

She went back to the painting, recalling every Kim Hong-do she’d seen in museums.
Still… it looked perfect.

The rhythmic brushwork, the natural ease—it all screamed genuine.
True, telling an excellent copy from the real thing was hard, but her eye was trained.

Yet the longer she stared, the more a subtle difference nagged at her.
It felt… tighter. More focused, perhaps, but less free than Kim Hong-do’s usual style.
Same, yet not.

How had Yi-un known? Even she had nearly been fooled.

Miyu returned to him, seized his wrist, and tugged him toward a quieter spot, away from the painting and potential arguments.

“H-hey, what are you doing?”
He stumbled after her, face flushing pink.

The huge companion blocked her path, eyes blazing.

“How dare you touch—”

His roar was like a tiger’s, enough to make a timid soul wet himself.
The busy street fell silent.

But Miyu simply looked up at the giant, then back at Yi-un.
“A friend of yours?”

“My painting apprentice,” Yi-un said calmly, shaking off her grip.

“Step aside. You’re drawing attention.”

“But—”

“Master said quiet!” Miyu snapped back, catlike.

“What did you call me? Hwak-seong-gi? Is that an insult?”

Their eyes locked, sparks flying, while bystanders gathered to watch.

Yi-un, sweating now, scanned the crowd.
Among the onlookers he suddenly spotted a familiar woman—Madam Bongbo, his late father’s old wet nurse.
Born a commoner but ennobled for nursing a king, she held a high court rank and certainly knew his face.

Yi-un grabbed Miyu’s wrist.

“Ah!”

Before she could react he was pushing through the crowd.

“Young master, wait!” Madam Bongbo called after him.

“Run,” Yi-un whispered urgently.

“What—why?”

“Please, just run!”

And so they ran side by side along the lively Cheonggye Stream.

“Ha! The handsome couple’s eloping!” someone shouted, pipe clenched in his teeth.
“A perfect match!”
“Like a painting come alive!”

Under the brilliant midday sun, the two young figures, clothes fluttering, hands joined, were indeed a radiant proof of spring.