By Yi Oryong
Translated by Brother Anthony of
Taizé
1.
"Is this some kind
of interrogation?"
I rose abruptly from the
sofa where I had been sitting. I kept my voice low. His name card fluttered
from the table but he did not pick it up. I reckoned it was good to show some
open signs of ill humour. It was too humiliating just to sit there like a
criminal, meekly answering his questions. One of the buttons on inspector
Park's homespun waistcoat was swinging to and fro, hanging by a thread. Was
that what had irritated me?
Detective inspector Park
also rose. He seemed about to grab me by the lapels; I pretended not to notice,
turned my back on him, and walked towards the window. It was only a little
after one o'clock, yet it was already growing dark in the hotel room. Perhaps
it was snowing outside? As I raised the window blind, I spoke again, rather
more boldly and harshly.
"I've already told
you, I have absolutely no memory of his name. I have already repeated it at
least three times in exactly the same words. He presented himself as a reporter
from the photo section of some newspaper, that was all I knew of him. I only
ever met him once; as I said, we just had a drink together. I can't even
remember the name of the bar now. I met him at the introduction of someone
called Kim in the photo section, so wouldn't it be simpler if you paid him a
visit? If you keep saying, 'That's impossible,' like that, aren't you inviting
me to tell lies? What's all this about, anyway?"
The simple fact of a stranger
coming to pay me a visit here in this hotel was in itself no pleasure. Even if
he had brought a bottle of Frontera sherry with him, I would not have been very
pleased. No one was supposed to know that I was staying at the Savannah Hotel.
No one except the publishing house that had sent me there. So this detective
had not come to visit me simply because he happened to have my address, like a
postman. He must have traced my whereabouts with the help of several
assistants, like a criminal, a wanted criminal. It was obvious that once having
put himself to the trouble of coming all the way out to this hotel, he was not
about to turn tail and take his leave with a bow and a scrape. Which meant...
well, which meant that this detective must be labouring under some enormous
misapprehension.
Inspector Park walked
across to the window where I was standing. Then as I stared out, he spoke from
behind me as if he were reading from a document. I found his voice, devoid of
all intonation and emotion, oddly irritating.
"He's dead. The day
before yesterday. The first day it snowed. Kim Ch'ol-Hun died some time during
the night. Only..."
"Only what? Have you
been asked to bring me some inheritance? What connection are you suggesting
exists between me and his death, for goodness sake? This is no undertaker's
shop. Neither is it a very suitable place in which to discuss the death of
someone with whom I am quite unrelated. I'm sorry, but can't you just go away?
The publishers will be none too pleased if they hear how you're taking up my
time like this. After all, they're the ones paying for this room. These hours
don't belong to me, you know."
Learning that he was dead
merely seemed to make me more nervous. Only now a strange feeling of
apprehension was beginning to make itself felt too. I sensed that my fingers,
that had been holding a cigarette since the moment I first met inspector Park's
gaze, were trembling slightly.
The sky was clouding over
but it had not begun to snow yet. In that expanse of grey pollution, the
November city spread, freezing. Old buildings lay slumped on the asphalt like
rats in a trap. Nothing had changed since yesterday. Nothing was changing at
all. There was nothing at all to make me nervous. So why was I standing there
like that, angry and fretful and feeling so apprehensive? What was the reason
for it? Surely that man's death, no matter how it came about, had nothing to do
with me?
Inspector Park remained
unruffled even when I told him to go away. Rather he smiled, as if we were
friends talking.
"Of course, I have
this kind of job but I'm a great admirer of your novels; I've read them all
without skipping a line. From the very outset I had no intention of
interrogating you. Only you must collaborate with us. We don't mean to trouble
people, but we're determined to find out why he died."
Inspector Park pulled out
his lighter and applied the flame to the cigarette I was holding in my mouth.
It was only then that I realized it had gone out. His voice reached me across a
great distance, as if it were coming from behind the wall, in the next room.
Ch'ol-Hun was dead. It
had happened on the same day that his mother came up to Seoul from the village
where she lived. It was his mother who had discovered the body. The room was
full of the stink of coal fumes. Strangely enough, the lid of the
coal-briquette stove was off. Ch'ol-Hun was lying sprawled on the floor with
his hands clasped, like someone praying.
"He died of carbon
monoxide poisoning. Only it was no simple accident caused by negligence. It was
either suicide or murder. After all, he was a press photographer. He had easier
methods available if he wanted to kill himself. He regularly handled poisons
when he was developing his films. Besides, he was fond of his mother. Even if
he meant to kill himself, surely he would have wanted to meet his mother first?
Yet it happened in the night prior to the very day his mother was due to
arrive."
We returned to the sofa
and sat down.
"It was the first
time I've ever seen a suicide who didn't cut his finger nails first. It's
really quite fascinating. Not a single suicide is capable of making a complete
break with the world. Even when they've got fed up with living and are doing
away with themselves, they still worry about afterwards. For instance, they
take care not to make any mistakes in writing the suicide note; or they take a
bath and put on clean clothes before dying, so that their corpse won't look
grubby; they can never stop worrying about what people will think. There are
even some, the really bad cases, who go so far as to offer the press articles
so as to dramatize their suicide. The contents are always grossly exaggerated.
It's astonishing the number of pessimists there are in this world who die
wondering just how many articles their suicide will provoke. I've dealt with
any number of suicides and one point they all had in common was an inability to
uproot completely every last trace of lingering attachment to life, and the way
they all arranged to leave behind some melodramatic kind of testimony in their
preparations for death. That's what's bothering me. The fact that in the case
of Kim Ch'ol-Hun there is not one trace of any of those characteristic signs of
a suicide. If it really was a suicide, it's the most absolute and perfect
suicide anyone was ever capable of committing. Only I believe no one can kill
themselves like that."
"You mean it was
homicide? And if homicide...."
Now I was questioning
him, in nervous tones.
"That is precisely
the problem. Whatever bruises there were, he got them falling from the bed. I'm
still waiting for the autopsy report, but there's no doubt about its being
carbon monoxide poisoning. It might be assumed that someone waited until he was
asleep, then took the lid off his coal-briquette stove. Only there's no sign of
anything having been touched. More important still is the fact that he seems
not to have had a single close friend. Even at work, he's reported almost never
to have associated with his colleagues. He had nothing worth stealing, let
alone worth killing for. There are only two things that look suspicious: one is
that his camera couldn't be found, the other is the fact that the previous week
he and the woman he'd been living with for six months broke up. His camera was
a Rollei-Code, but after he quit the newspaper job he was unemployed for a long
time. Don't you think a musician, say, if he's destitute, will sell the
instrument that was like his own flesh and blood to him, in order to buy some
food? We can't assume for certain that someone stole that camera. I met the woman
too. Her alibi was waterproof and there was nothing dirty hidden in her
relationship with him. It wouldn't be bad as the subject for a novel, I reckon.
Don't you agree?"
Inspector Park seemed to
be setting a trap for me. I felt obliged to make some kind of reply.
"You mean you want
me to write a novel. Now you're not interrogating me, but giving me a lecture
about creative writing, I suppose? You'd better bring a better subject next
time."
Inspector Park assumed a
solemn air once again and drew a crumpled envelope from the same inside pocket
from which he had previously produced his name card.
"But fortunately
there's still one last clue left: this letter. We found this letter, that he
must have written just a few hours before he died. You hold the last key to
this incident. So please help us."
"A suicide note?
That's not what you were saying just now. You must be happy that he left a sign
of suicide like other people, after all."
I had the feeling that
inspector Park was playing with me.
It was no suicide note,
however. It was a letter destined to be sent to me by way of the newspaper. It
had my name clearly written on the envelope. It even had stamps on but they had
not been franked. The sender's name was there: Kim Ch'ol-Hun. My fingers began
to tremble again. The letter was written on a page of college note paper,
without any initial greeting, a few words scrawled like a memo:
When I see you next time,
I'll show it to you finished. I can have it done in less than a week. I feel
confident. I don't care if you smile. If it doesn't work, it's the end of me.
I'm not even thinking about what might happen afterwards. Could you let me have
your address, please?
December 14. Hun
Inspector Park opened his
notebook.
"More like a
telegram than a letter, isn't it? You must tell us what he means by
"it". You told us you couldn't even recall his name, yet you're the
person he destined to receive his last written words. Now we..."
At last I could laugh.
"Alright. We've come
by a very round-about way. It's as though we've left the nearest shortcut and
gone wandering off somewhere. An indirect interrogation is sometimes the least
scientific. Why didn't you show me this note to start with? Only I don't think
you'll find it a particularly good clue. This "it" refers to "The
General's Beard", you see. He..."
For the first time
inspector Park's face grew flushed.
"Please don't joke.
I don't think they'd be very pleased down at the station if they thought I was
sitting here listening dumbly to your jokes like this. This time doesn't belong
to me, either. Suppose we save the jokes for outside of working hours, for when
we're in a bar or something?"
He spoke as if he assumed
that I had merely been joking. But my words had been the exact truth. The first
time we had met at Kim's introduction, it had also been on account of "The
General's Beard".
He had wanted to write a
novel. Only before he started to write, he wanted to discuss it with a
novelist. In those days I was having a novel serialized in the newspaper he
used to work for. Perhaps that was why he had chosen me.
The first time I set eyes
on Kim Ch'ol-Hun, I did not think much of him. He looked like the kind of young
man you can meet anywhere if you stand for just five minutes at the roadside.
Even now, except for the
scar on his forehead, I cannot picture him at all. He was an ordinary youth,
just one run-of-the-mill young man.
He was one of those
fellows who worries all the time about getting failing grades at school yet has
nothing brilliant but his dreams; there he becomes a public official with his
own secretary, happens to fall in love with a millionaire's beautiful daughter
(his only child, if possible), goes abroad to study, gets a Ph.D. in the
States, rides about in a Cadillac, hangs out with diplomats, plays bridge with
them... then stuffing all those dreams into his rucksack, he goes off to the
wars, buries the fragments of his shattered dreams among exploding mortars and
smoke shells, then goes about grumbling that society has nothing much to be
said for it, but he'd like to get himself a well-paid job. He was one of those
aspiring fellows who, when this and that and everything turns boring, goes
about saying how everyone wants at least once to write some kind of novel.
If there was anything
particular in his case, it was simply the fact that the title of the novel he
was planning to write one day was an odd one: "The General's Beard".
As for the plot, it was somewhat absurd, just about what might be expected from
an admirer of Kafka.
As soon as the alcohol
took hold of him, Ch'ol-Hun became garrulous. Originally he had said that he
needed to learn a lot from me, but it turned out quite differently and he went
on and on in a hostile tirade.
Despite the nervous
glances of Kim, who was sitting beside him, Ch'ol-Hun kept affirming excitedly
that the modern Korean novel was too anemic and that writers were mere bakers,
incapable of anything except sprinkling yeast on newspaper articles to make
them swell up.
I just sat staring at the
"no credit" sign fixed to the bar wall and smiled, now at the odd
etymology of the word credit, a combination of the Chinese characters
"out" and "over", and now at the two characters for
"no", one a so polite "thanks" and the other a warlike
"cut off", the two hobbling along like a cripple, as I listened to
what he said. That was the sum total of all that had passed between us.
"Really? Then the
letter means that he was going to write a novel; do you..."
Inspector Park nodded in
the direction of the wall, that was papered with a hempen weave. His face
reminded me of a punctured balloon.
"I wonder if you can
recall the broad outlines of the plot of the novel he mentioned that day? It
probably won't be of much help but there were sheets of note paper spread
across his desk; he had obviously been writing something...."
"I don't see that
the novel could have contained anything worth killing him for. Really, of
course, what you might term a story is like a human skeleton. If that's all
you've got, there's no way you can tell if the woman was pretty or ugly. That's
what I told him: that a novel isn't something you talk about, it's something
you write."
"Still, the novel's
title was 'The General's Beard'?"
I had the impression that
inspector Park was someone who hated wasting time and on account of that found
himself wasting more time than ever.
"He said that his
novel began on the morning of a day when there was a coup d'etat. The main
character was a low ranking employee in some office, I'm not sure what his job
was. Then there were the unshaven faces of the troops making the coup: they had
been living for a long time hidden up in the hills, with no way of shaving....
so down they all came with their long side-whiskers and beards. The only thing
people could talk about that day was 'the general's beard', that general who
led the parade of rebel troops, and not at all why the coup had come about or
what the nation's future would be like. You see, he had a beard just like all
the others but his was neatly trimmed and shaped, he looked that much smarter
than the rest. Shall I go on?"
Inspector Park continued
to stare at the patterned wallpaper. Outside it had started to snow. Freed now
of my insecurity, I suddenly became talkative. I even felt sorry about my
previous bad behaviour. So I went on telling him about "The General's
Beard".
After the Revolution,
people all began to grow beards just like "the general's beard". The
civilians entering the revolutionary administration, in their struggles for
power, began attacking one another over the growth of their beards.
Overnight, beards became
a kind of symbol of a person's support for the Revolution. Not only the high
grade civil servants, but the heads of government-run industrial firms,
industrialists that had received favours, bank managers, all began to turn up
at public functions sporting beards just like the general's in token of their
loyalty.
"The general's
beard" spread like an epidemic. Everybody, from university presidents to
rickshaw boys, grew beards and went parading through the streets. Every morning
when people got up, their beards had grown a little longer, and the
"general's beards" that had by now become standard in their immediate
neighborhood increased one by one.
The point soon came where
it was hard to live in society without a beard. The novel's hero, the office
employee, began to feel increasingly uncomfortable. All around him, faces
without beards began to disappear completely. If he entered a barbers shop,
they would refuse to go anywhere near his beard with a razor blade. He was
obliged to argue with the barber every time he went to have a haircut, and
found himself quarrelling with people wearing beards. In buses and in
restaurants, as well as in the street, he lived in a state of constant anxiety
and fear under the stares of individuals regarding him out of the corner of
their eyes, the stares of individuals with beards. But he refused to the bitter
end to grow a "general's beard".
"If you feel
uncomfortable, you only have to grow a beard too, don't you?"
That was all the advice
his companions at work offered, each with a splendid beard that transformed
their faces so that they had all turned into strangers.
The more uncomfortable he
felt, the more firmly he refused to grow a beard. Yet soon even the few friends
he had been trusting most began to appear with unshaven faces.
"--Surely not?
They've simply not shaved today."
All the same, as the days
passed the area of beard would become more clearly pronounced and by the end of
a month a completely different face would appear, as he had feared. People were
gradually abandoning him.
His anxiety began to
hinder him more and more severely. One day his boss, complete with full-grown
beard, summoned him. He found himself being urged to take a rest and get
treatment.
He ventured to enquire:
"Is it on account of the beard? Have they brought out a law making beards
compulsory?"
His boss laughed behind
his "general's beard". Then he scolded him in polite terms: this was
a democracy, individual freedom was guaranteed by the constitution, so how
could he possibly talk like that? It was precisely to cure him of that kind of
obsession that he needed psychological treatment. Being labelled insane and
getting driven from his job was by no means the end of his torments.
If he met people in the
street and tried to ask something, all the beards seemed to flee from him. Then
at night the beards would come to take their revenge. He had recurrent
nightmares in which long beards wrapped themselves round him until he could no
longer breathe. No matter where he went, thickets of beards pursued him,
clutching at his neck as he tried to escape. He would wake from the dream as he
hung writhing in the beards like a butterfly caught in a spider's web.
He tried surrendering to
the authorities. He would get himself dead drunk, then kick open the police
station door and go barging in. Going up to the officer in charge, with his
"general's beard" he would beg him in tears: "Arrest me. I won't
grow a beard, never, I won't. Put the handcuffs on quickly, and take me off to
prison". But they only drove him out of there too. Growing a beard or not
growing a beard was entirely up to each person's free choice. He found himself
being dragged out by the constables on duty, each with his "general's
beard", and dumped like trash at the curbside.
"He was dumped by
the roadside, you say?"
Inspector Park's eyes
were shining.
"A political novel?
Was the 'general's beard' a term for our present government?"
I had the feeling that
this was the first time I had heard Inspector Park ask anything with so much
attention.
"A fable. A modern
Aesop's fable. I suspect that Ch'ol-Hun intended to symbolize contemporary
conformism by 'the general's beard'. He probably didn't mean to satirize any
one particular period or the events in any particular country. You can say it
was about the days of the kings of the Golden Age, about the days of Alexander
the Great, or about an emperor that we cannot even imagine who will rule some
day in the far distant future."
I was afraid that
inspector Park was getting the whole picture wrong again.
"...rule in the far
distant future..."
Inspector Park kept
repeating what I said, as if fascinated by something.
"Why yes. With every
day that passes, society is become more intensely conformist. Only look at our
shoes, our clothing, our pens, dishes, buttons, houses... everything is
becoming more and more stereotyped. He wanted to deal with the way human
destiny is going, the way everything, be it politics or daily ways of living,
everything, our entire civilization, is being choked by that 'general's beard'.
Only it was too intellectual for a novel, I would say... too intellectual a
topic to succeed easily."
Inspector Park stared at
the clock. The outside world was being buried under the first real snow of
winter that was falling thickly. I saw inspector Park out. Just as I opened the
door I added a few last words to console him.
"It's a tricky
assignment you've got. By the way, have you ever heard this story? It happened
somewhere abroad. A young fellow was cleaning his revolver when it accidentally
went off, fatally wounding him; as he was dying he managed to write on the
wall: 'It was an accident,' so that people would know how he had died. Now I
can understand why he acted in that way. It's wrong to give investigators a lot
of trouble. What do you say, wasn't it a suicide after all?"
I shook hands with
inspector Park. His grasp was weak.
"No. It must be
murder. I'll have to find that missing camera. If you say it was suicide,
you'll have to explain why, what reason there was for him to die. That's more a
task for someone like you, a writer, a psychologist, a philosopher, than for
me. If you agree, I could let you have a look at his note-books, that we've
kept as evidence. And you could read his final text, too. It's at his home. His
mother from the country is still staying there. If it appeals to you, that
is."
I felt fatigue overwhelm
me. Nothing was going to get written now. I fell onto the bed. The sound of
inspector Park's footsteps as he went down the stairs was absorbed into the grey
space outside, where snow was falling. Then all was still. Why had that man
died?
2.
I passed through a number
of dark, narrow, muddy alleys full of burned-out coal briquettes, scraps of
egg-shell, the dried and twisted bodies of dead rats, all kinds of rubbish.
Once past those alleys with their rows of collapsing wooden fences, I turned
another corner. At the entry of the road I found myself in, a few women were
peering into an alleyway and furtively muttering among themselves. As I turned
into that same alley, they parted as if taken by surprise, casting anxious
sideways glances at my face.
The house where Kim
Ch'ol-Hun had rented a room stood at the very end of the alley, blocking it. It
had probably originally been built by the Japanese to house railway officials.
It was one of those old long wooden houses on two floors, now divided among a
number of families and remodelled with a fence and gateway closing off each
section; the whole building looked like a complicated maze. I checked once more
the address from the back of the envelope that inspector Park had left behind
and at last located Kim Ch'ol-Hun's room.
The staircase leading up
to the second floor was a prolongation of the dark alley outside, slippery and
sordid, with the dead and rotting bodies of rats. Each step in the worn wooden
stairway groaned wearily as I trod on it on my way up. The old sliding door in
Japanese style, its fretwork covered with white paper, was rattling so noisily
in the wind that there was no point in knocking. This was the room he had
rented. I was taken aback on opening the door. On the bed at the other side of
the room was sitting an old woman wearing a winter bonnet, her eyes closed in
meditation like a Buddhist saint, while at her feet, as if attending worship in
a temple, I could see the back of a young woman with her head resting against
the side of the bed. This was the room where Kim Ch'ol-Hun had died. Yet at the
sight of them I found myself taken with a strong urge to laugh, that I had to
struggle to control. Because of the way I had been reminded of a temple.
The old woman slowly
opened her eyes. As soon as she saw a new face, tears came flooding into her
eyes. Yet the wrinkles embedded in her cheeks gave her a smiling air. She began
to speak in soft, hoarse tones, as if talking to herself, but gradually her
voice trembled louder.
"It's not right, not
right. Give me back my boy quickly. You mustn't cut him open; it's not right.
You think I killed him... But why? That I made him suffer like that because
while he was alive he had that scar on his brow? It's not right to think such
things. I tell you, it's not right if someone goes sticking a knife into my
boy's body. Even if he's dead; you'll only add to his mother's heartache."
The old woman calmed down
again and closed her eyes. A Buddhist rosary was wrapped round her hand.
She seemed to have taken
me for someone from the police. Meanwhile the young woman introduced herself as
Ch'ol-Hun's sister and drew up a chair for me. Then she began to whisper.
"Mother means that
it would be wrong to perform a post-mortem. Why not? She is all the more upset
because of a strange kind of guilty conscience."
"A guilty
conscience?"
I spoke out loudly at the
unexpected words. The old woman blinked her eyes open for a moment, then began
to recite words from the Scriptures while counting her beads.
"Mother is convinced
that he was killed because of that scar on his forehead. It happened when he
was still just a nursing baby. She was sewing late one evening. Her husband's
old grandmother was living in the house, which made life with her in-laws worse
than usual, even at her age. She was nursing her baby and ironing at the same
time, but finally fatigue overcame her and she fell asleep. Then something
dreadful happened. In her sleep, her iron slipped... on the baby's
forehead..."
"Her iron? on his
forehead?"
I recalled the scar
branded vividly into his brow. Branded! I had simply assumed it was a wound he
had got during the war. The old woman must still be marked with the scar of
that burn too. That was why she was trying to prevent people from inflicting
any more wounds on her dead son's body now.
"He never had any
friends, not even as a child. He was always on his own. He used to spend hours
shut up alone in the back room. Often we didn't even know he was there and
would eat supper without him. Mother was always worrying that his character was
warped like that on account of the brand on his forehead."
Suddenly the crazed old
woman emitted a wail.
"No! No! Give me my
boy back quickly!"
I went towards the bed.
There I paused for a moment, unsure of how I should address her.
"Mother" "Missus" "Granny" I tried each of the
words on my tongue. At last, although it felt indecent, I called her
"Mother". I told her that I wasn't from the police, that I had been
Ch'ol-Hun's friend.
"Friend? You say his
friend?"
Her response struck me as
being exactly the opposite of inspector Park's.
She was shaking her head
slowly from side to side, as if to say, 'You are someone completely unrelated
with my son'.
I too felt perplexed at
having called him my "friend". Had I not reacted strongly when
Inspector Park simply asked me if I knew Kim Ch'ol-Hun?
Why had I denied him so
violently? Yet it was true. I
really had been unable to recall Kim Ch'ol-Hun's name. But there was nothing
base about it.
Not at all. Peter denied
Jesus three times, although he knew him very well. Surely it is only natural to
deny it, when someone asks you if you know a complete stranger? Yet here I was
now firmly calling him my friend. To put on a straight face and quite
unnecessarily deny all knowledge of someone you can call your friend, that is
base.
Given that we only met
once, that he was someone whose name I could not recall, could I still really
say that he meant nothing to me? In that case what had brought me to this
place? Why was I so curious about his death? Why was I resolved to find out the
reason he had died? Was it to obtain material for a novel, as inspector Park
said? I was perplexed at the changes that had taken place, the way I called
that old woman "mother" without the least embarrassment although it
was the first time I set eyes on her, or the way I calmly gave the name of
"friend" to the very Kim Ch'ol-Hun that I had stoutly denied knowing
to inspector Park only the night before.
"Don't be offended;
Mother's thinking of Ch'ol-Hun. There's only the two of us left now; mother is
out of her mind. I used to lament having become a widow so young; but perhaps
it was all for the best, seeing what's happened. It's hard for Mother."
I took care not to loose
sight of my basic intention. I had come here to find out the cause of his
death.
"Did Ch'ol-Hun
really kill himself because of that scar? The other children used to make fun
of it; then when he grew bigger he used to avoid company on account of it...
that warped his personality... but he survived well enough until now, didn't
he?"
The young woman adjusted
the collar and fastenings of her dress. Can it be that people plunged in grief
are not afraid of what others may think? The ribbons closing her dress had been
hanging loose.
"Did Ch'ol-Hun never
talk to you about his elder brother? If he killed himself, it might have been
because of him. After what happened he never so much as mentioned his brother
once. It's true that his scar isolated him from people, but having his brother
taken from him like that was even more of a shock."
"Did he die?"
"He died in prison.
Ch'ol-Hun was exceptionally fond of his brother, perhaps because he could never
make any other friends; that brother was his only playmate. It was only after
Liberation in 1945 that we found out he'd joined the Reds; it had been a
mistake to send him to study in Japan. As soon as Liberation came, he kept on
at Father about how he ought to redistribute his land to the landless peasants.
It was awful. He used to get hold of Ch'ol-Hun too and tell him all sorts of
strange things, though he was still only in primary school; in the end they
were not allowed to meet inside the house at all. He got the kids of the tenant
farmers together and set up a party cell; that got him kicked out of the house.
Father threw him out."
The old woman was still
counting her beads. The black grains of the rosary slipped noiselessly between
her fingers, that were thin as bamboo leaves.
"That must have affected
him a lot."
I tried to get her to
agree with me, but she paid no attention; instead she continued in a kind of
soliloquy.
"That happened much
later. It was the evening; the rats had been skittering and slithering about up
in the ceiling all day long. It was raining and the wind was blowing. After two
years' absence, his brother came rushing into the house, soaked to the skin. He
stood there shivering like an animal and scattering drops of rain. He begged us
to hide him, and at the same time he kept railing at someone. 'It's all his
fault I'm going to die,' he said. He went raving on about how he wasn't a Red
now, or anything like it, or anything at all. Even now, we don't know what had
happened. Although maybe Ch'ol-Hun knew. He had come back home for the vacation
just then; he was already more or less grown up; besides, he was the only one
his brother talked to at all."
"So did your father
forgive him?"
I was curious about what
had occurred. "Father..." she repeated after me.
His father no sooner set
eyes on him than he dragged him outside. The older brother had knelt there on
the ground in the pouring rain, pleading, but his father had not forgiven him.
"I can forgive you.
But our ancestors will never forgive you."
With those words he
ordered him to leave. Ch'ol-Hun had knelt beside his brother in the rain,
imploring. He pointed out that they had lost all their ancestors' land in the
reforms, so he should forgive his brother. That really put their father's back
up. As soon as he heard the words 'land reform' he went mad. It was because
there were people with their kind of ideas that the land reform had happened,
he said. It was all the fault of louts like them, if he could no longer wield a
sickle before his ancestors, and if the world had changed so much.
Then the police who had
been pursuing him came and dragged him away.
"It was
dreadful," the woman added. "After that, Ch'ol-Hun fell sick.
Whenever it rained, he used to leap out of bed and go rushing out, saying that
his brother was calling him. It was frightening, dreadful."
"I suppose his
brother must have called out to Ch'ol-Hun as he was being carried off?"
"He kept on and on
calling him. He said he had something to tell him; he tried to get near him. He
said he was sorry about something, too. He was carted off, all the time
shouting, while Ch'ol-Hun couldn't follow after him or weep for him. It was as
if his lips were sealed and his ears stopped up. That night he developed a
fever and grew scalding hot, as hot as a cauldron on a fire, that sick he was.
He clenched his lips together so hard, they had bruises on them. I never saw
Ch'ol-Hun cry after that. When Father died, he only wailed for him once."
"Mother... you ought
to get some rest."
That was the word I used,
exactly like a son addressing his mother, as I seized the hands of the old
woman sitting there on the bed. I had grown close to Ch'ol-Hun now he was dead.
It had been a six-tatami
room; the mats had been stripped from off its wooden floor, but it felt even
larger, maybe because of the lack of furnishings. There was no fire in the
coal-briquette stove. Some pictures were hanging on the wall above the
writing-table. There was one, by Géricault I think, showing a tilting raft full
of shipwrecked people, some of them gesturing towards the horizon. Amidst the
storm and darkness, they are waving their clothes in a plea for help.
A writing-table and some
bookshelves, a desk-lamp, a cabinet, and a cracked vase... there was one large
window opening westward, it looked as though sunlight would only penetrate
there just before sunset. The room was remarkably like a cavern.
"Don't let them cut
him open. Don't let them wound him. You mustn't forget my merits."
The old woman started to
cry, recalling the violence that would be done to the corpse during the
autopsy. I promised that I would talk to inspector Park about it, although with
no great conviction.
Finally, rummaging in his
bookshelves, I was able to lay my hands on a number of his notebooks. Although
the police had taken various things away, part of his diary had been left
behind.
I took my leave of them,
heedless of whether they could understand or not.
"To provide a
brightly decorated bier and a warm grave is not the only thing the living can
do for the dead. We must discover why he died. It's important. Someone's death
brought the law and the police into being. Another's death provoked the
creation of hospitals and of new medical studies. That's not all. By one
person's death many other people can discover a new way of thinking, and
writing, and living. Young Ch'ol-Hun's death is not simply the end
either."
On returning to my room
at the Savannah Hotel, I began to scrutinize his diary. He had starting keeping
it some two years before his death. The dates were inserted at random,
sometimes nearly a whole month was passed over. Most of the contents were
merely factual memos or things briefly noted down.
A happy man's diary is an empty one.
Someone with an unwritten diary enjoys
a satisfying life; such people replenish their daily words by action.
The thickness of the leaves and the
thickness of the action are ever in inverse proportion. No animal keeps a
diary. I suppose that the same is true of God.
In every respect I hope that some day I
will be able to go beyond the pages of this diary and really live a life worth
living.
That was the inscription
set at the top of the first page, like a series of epigrams. The following page
was marked with the day of his father's death. The exact date was not noted,
which suggested that it had happened long before he started to keep his diary.
I intended at first
merely to skim through, just getting the main gist, but once I reached the
passage about his late father I found could not bear to skip a single letter.
It reminded me sharply of what I had heard from his sister.
People frequently write about returning
to their family home dressed in silks and laden with honours. But our country
home is no place for someone wearing silk robes to return to. People robed in
silks don't need a home, anyway. In our home village, there is far more talk
about people intent on hiding their grief-filled, filthy, tattered clothes than
there is about people coming to show off silk robes.
People return to their former homes in
sorrow. Our bodies are not the only things that turn homewards. Anyone who
recalls their home while living in the city is surely weary of city life. But
being weary of city life is the same as being weary of life itself....
I went home to bury Father. Even when I
got the telegram saying that he had suddenly died, I did not weep. Even when I
was dressed in mourning clothes and standing before his coffin, no tears
flowed. Was that because I felt too tense under the obligation to weep and
keen?
For a son not to weep at his father's
death is considered a sin against piety. Seeing the rest of the mourners, I
made repeated attempts to weep. I wonder why I was unable to weep streams of
tears like Mother?
I tried thinking of moving things so
that tears might flow by association. I imagined the village school yard, empty
except for the platform in front after school is over, our home's storage
terrace in the rain, sparrows caught in a net, our village's desolate river
bank, the bank where I used to read, draw pictures and sing, poplar trees with
their branches bare.
It seemed that it was only in childhood
that tears of emotion flow at the mere sight of branches high enough to touch
the sky trembling in the breeze, at the very thought of silent high noon with
the splendour of green foliage.
I still could not cry. Those things no
longer made my heart sad. I tried thinking of the fate of our ancestral home as
it gradually fell into ruins, of its tiled roof overgrown with weeds and its
collapsing wall, its ravaged garden, and the rusting handles on the gate.
Father who had bought me a tricycle. Father who used to give me coins from his
pocket. Father who used to play paduk, twist cords, clear his throat... I tried
imagining his various different faces. But I could feel no sorrow.
Just then I suddenly, quite abruptly,
caught sight of a black chest looking rather like a coffin set beside the
folding screen that concealed Father's body from view.
At that instant tears came welling up.
It had been a long, long time since I had wept as I wept then. In a house of
mourning, each and everyone is endowed with the freedom and the privilege to
cry to their heart's content. It is because it a place where tears are
authorized that people unexpectedly find a kind of cheerful sense of relief
rising up in them during a funeral.
"No, no! Those scoundrels. Don't
they know whose land it is?"
From inside that chest I heard an echo
of Father's voice as he strode through the village, shouting in protest.
The chest had belonged to him, it was a
kind of Pandora's Box. Right up until his death he would not let it leave his
side for a moment but kept a firm hold of it. I had even heard that his dying
wish was that it should be buried with him.
Inside the chest were land titles and
survey maps. Ah! Land, property, fields, and the red earth of the hills--only
now the prescription had expired and Father had closed his eyes clinging on to
a box full of useless land titles that were now nothing more than scrap paper.
Land has been our destiny. Land got my
brother thrown out, land drove my father mad. From the very moment of
Liberation, we had been the victims of land.
Land has been our destiny. We were a
landowner's sons, who had no idea of how to survive without land. We, and I
myself belonged to the land. Now the land was taking its revenge on us. I spent
my school days in terror and loneliness and gloom because I was "a son of
the land". When I was dragged off by the children of the liberated tenants
and whipped, I thought with sorrow of how much land Father owned.
"Now you aren't a yangban
and this is not your land."
In order to test their new-found
freedom, the tenants' children used to beat me up. The son of the ruined
landowner came home every day with a bloody nose. The land divided me from my
friends, it divided Father from my brother. It divided the village folk from
our family. By the time the War came in 1950, we had already lost all our lands
but still Father was put to hard labour.
I don't have the heart to write about
my brother. Even after the land was all gone, we were unable to get free of it.
People vanished together with the land. One by one, the familiar faces vanished
from our front gate.
Father only succumbed after struggling
with all his might to prevent the loss of the land. As the doors to the visitors'
quarters were shut, and dust began to gather in the rooms where kisaeng girls
used to come and play, while the calligraphy on the boards fixed to the pillars
melted away, and the trees in the garden, no longer pruned, ran wild, the deeds
in that chest that Father clung on to turned into so much useless scrap paper.
Ah, that Pandora's Box that Hope never
emerged from! How many sleepless nights Father spent coughing as he guarded a
chest where nothing remained but dust. In the end my brother too staked his
youth on smashing that chest although what it contained was bound eventually to
turn into waste paper without his lifting a finger. Whether it be the one
intent on guarding, or the one intent on smashing, or the one just looking on,
we were all of us forced to shoulder the same useless chest to the bitter end.
We had nothing left except a chest full of expired titles and land registers.
And now it was to be buried together with Father's body.
Mother asked me to read the
inscriptions on the envelopes containing funeral contributions. Previously she
had been weeping sadly, but now she was counting the money.
"From the family of Sok-Tol, one
hundred Won."
"That scum, and we used to let
them farm the best rice-fields too. How ungrateful can you get?"
"Here's two hundred Won from the family of Ok-Sun."
"To think that we helped set her
up with a place to live in when she got married and now look how rich they are.
How dare they!"
"One thousand Won from Chang-Pyo's
folk!"
"A thousand? Chang-Pyo's father
knew what was what. He was the only one able to recognize a kindness when he
saw one. Naturally they still feel indebted to us, even the third
generation."
I could not bear to read out any more
of the names on the envelopes.
Mother! All those things are over now.
Stop thinking about land. It's all over now Father's dead.
Mother was just like him, unable to
escape from inside that chest full of dusty title deeds. She had no true sorrow
capable of lifting her beyond those bitter sums of money. At the sight of
Mother's face as she sat there counting money in her widow's garb, I once again
tasted the salt of tears on my tongue.
Mother will never be able to get free.
She will never be able to detach herself from the little patch of bald fields
she inherited, and the memory of all that land. She's one of those people who
can never leave home.
That was the end of the
first section. I was incapable of going on to read anything more, the writing
was so minute. I walked to the window in order to rest my weary eyes. It was
already evening. Seen from this fifth floor room, Seoul lay grim and barren as
if strewn with cinders. If you had thrown a stone down, the only result would
have been a blurred cloud of dust.
The remains of some
child's kite, the paper all torn away and the bamboo frame left like a
skeleton, trembled in every puff of wind. The only thing I could distinguish
clearly from this hotel window was the bathhouse on the edge of the hotel's
front yard. The tall chimney rose like an extinct volcano, with not a trace of
smoke issuing from it. The scars of machine-gun bullets from the war remained
unrepaired. It would soon be demolished to make way for a car park. The window
panes had all been smashed, so that the word "bath" originally written
on them was nowhere fully legible. It looked as though it was being used as a
temporary store. Piles of junk could be glimpsed through the windows.
The bathroom itself,
where once naked bodies had loomed through billows of white vapour, was
probably a mess of spider's webs and dust, broken bicycle wheels, desks, empty
cans and beer bottles, and other trash. Out of the ruins one young fellow
emerged. He was carrying a black wooden chest closed by a rusty padlock,
issuing from the gloomy city's sticky alleys with their perpetual smell of
rotting fish.
Perhaps he would never be
able to free himself from the chest of bygone history. An inherited box that
could never be removed from his shoulders: I was beholding Ch'ol-Hun's ghost,
advancing laden like a snail with its house on its back.
Soon after I had turned
on the lights in the room, inspector Park came to see me. We shook hands
easily, with no sign of hostility.
"Are you still
thinking about this Kim Ch'ol-Hun business?"
As he spoke, inspector
Park tossed a college notebook on to the table. It must be the last section of
Ch'ol-Hun's notebook, that he had promised to show me.
"Aha, I see you've
already read another part of his diary."
Inspector Park riffled
through Ch'ol-Hun's diary where it lay on the table. I had the impression that
he was smiling a victor's smile.
"Now I must tell you
about my investigations."
I spoke without any
intonation, imitating inspector Park's way of talking.
"Have you discovered
any reason why he might have committed suicide? At least there's one thing you
ought to be careful about. In terms of seniority I'm above you, after all. You
can't explicate the reasons for a suicide solely in terms of the event itself.
Character as well as chance factors can call up the spirit of death. One person
may kill himself for the price of a tram fare while another can loose billions
and still not die. A widow can have her son die without being unduly affected,
yet stuff herself with sleeping pills when her pet dog gets lost. Of course,
I'm sure you know all about this kind of psychology. I'm just telling you some
of my experiences for reference."
I answered, feeling
increasingly confident that I could communicate with him.
"You're warning me
that even if some kind of problem had come up, there's no proof it necessarily
led him to kill himself. But..."
A call-boy came in,
bringing a bottle of scotch and some glasses.
"But don't worry. So
far my investigations are focussed not so much on the cause of his death as on
the creative reasons that made him want to write a novel called "The
General's Beard".
"On why that one man
could not bring himself to grow a beard when everyone else was doing it? Surely
that's very simple."
Inspector Park was
drinking his Johnny Walker straight.
"His mother says it
was because he had that scar. While his sister, and she's a widow too... the
last surviving offspring. She says it was because the shock he got was too
severe, when the brother he loved was arrested for political reasons. But if
you look at his diary, he seems to suggest that it was because of his father's
chest, where he kept all his title deeds."
"Novelists always
complicate things. When you listen to them, the world seems wrapped in a thick
fog. They turn the simplest things into riddles. That's why I always steered
clear of literature."
What he said upset me,
certainly, but my fingers did not shake like they had the day before, as they
clasped the glass.
I defended my approach.
"It's not really a
vague way of seeing things. I was simply speaking on the spur of the moment. At
any rate, my investigation will continue."
This time it was
inspector Park's turn to defend himself.
"It only underlines
the fact that we see this incident in differing ways. It has nothing to do with
the question as to which of us is capable of seeing reality more clearly. But
I'm going to have to pursue the interrogation that you so much dislike. How is
it that you are suddenly so interested in the reasons for the death of someone
when you said that you couldn't even remember his name? And in 'hours that
people have paid you for'? I mean to say, it's going to waste more time than
asking a leading question."
I did not reply at once
but instead, for no particular reason, clinked my glass against his in a kind
of toast.
"I recall that you
already said that our points of view were different... Why are the police so
intent on finding reasons for his
death? If someone killed him, you're going to have to find them. In order to
repay the dead man's enemies? Surely not just that. You'll say it's in order to
protect the legal order of things. For the sake of the people who are attached
to the law with their every breath. Whereas if you say he killed himself,
that's an end to your investigation. Only for us, and I suppose you're going to
criticize that 'we' as being like a foggy day, for us that's the point at which
our obligation to investigate the matter begins. The moment you say that the
criminal isn't some precise individual wearing dark glasses, or carrying a
45-caliber revolver, or with a hideous scar on his face, it becomes all the
more fascinating. We must capture and bring to justice that invisible criminal.
For the sake of the people who are attached to life with their every breath.
Whether it was a chest with the character for "happiness" stuck on
it, the mark of an iron on a forehead, or the calls of someone being taken away
to prison one rainy night... I feel convinced I have to find out who the
criminal was that killed Kim Ch'ol-Hun. He was clearly deprived of his right to
life by force."
I was drunk, doubtless
from the effect of the whisky on an empty stomach. I mocked myself inwardly:
You're getting to be quite a moralist.
From somewhere outside a
patrol-car siren rose, continued, then died away. Yet another crime must have
occurred.
3.
I resolved to pursue my
investigations calmly. Therefore I did not immediately start to read the final
volume of Ch'ol-Hun's diary. The following morning I spent some time sitting in
a coffee-shop, where the only records they played were popular hits like Paul
Anka's "Crazy Love" and Elvis Presley's "Kiss me Quick",
before returning to the hotel room. I at once opened the note book.
The diary entries written
just before his death began in epistolary style but then continued in a
monologue. The text began with the name of a girl, Hyei.
November
24, cloudy, first snowfall
Hyei!
I received
a letter from Mother a few days ago. If you had been with me, I would have read
it aloud, like I used to.
Whenever I
read Mother's letters, you used to laugh but I like reading her letters. I like
the way she writes, using the old system of spelling that is the only one she
knows. I can't imagine Mother writing a letter with the same kind of grammar
and modern spelling that we use. She still uses one of the archaic characters
in her letters, as if she were living back in the times of Ch'un-Hyang, and it
is one of my little pleasures that they show how wrong it is to think that the
old character can be represented with modern writing.
Hyei!
I'm
worried about this letter of hers. As far as the style of address or the
old-fashioned spelling goes, nothing has changed in the slightest. What bothers
me is what she says.
She writes
that she can't live in the countryside any longer. Even Mother has realized
that the days are over when people employed laborers and farmhands to work the
fields. Still, for a long time I've been convinced that she could never leave
the land and our old home.
Hyei!
Like I
told you before: because of that, I could always say that if I got tired of
life I would go back home and work in the fields with Mother. Of course, I'm
sure you realized that my words were lies, mere escapism. But the simple fact
that I could imagine such a thing constituted a last straw of hope for me.
Hyei!
And now
she writes that she is arriving in Seoul tomorrow. It seems that Kim So-Im has
come forward and offered to buy the house, together with the remaining land.
I know his
daughter well enough. Kim So-Im was one of our tenants back in the old days,
too. Now his daughter is living with a G.I.. It's as much as to say that our
house, the house of Kim Chong-Taek of Chang-Dong, the great Kim clan, is going
to become the home of a G.I.'s in-laws
Yet you
know, Hyei, that's not the thing that has really upset me. That old house is
too big and cumbersome, whether you look at it in terms of my unbearable
memories or our widowed mother's life. The outer wing where the men used to
receive visitors has already been turned into the village church, and the
servants' quarters are being used as one political party's local offices.
It's a
house that needs a new owner to take it over.
Hyei!
What I'm
afraid of is that my last bastion of self-defence has disappeared, the
possibility of saying, "Well, I can always go back to our village and farm
with mother, can't I?" I'm not sure that saying I'm living here with
mother will be the same thing at all. In mathematical terms, it makes no
difference whether you say mother's coming to me or I'm going to mother. But in
the light of what our lives have been like, I reckon that saying mother is
coming to me and saying that I am going to mother mean something fundamentally
different.
After that, for the space
of about half a page, the writing had all been crossed out until nothing was
legible. The diary entry continued on the following page.
Hyei!
I've done
another stupid thing. Mother is going to come up by train tomorrow to talk
about getting rid of the house. So just now I called the enquiries desk at
Seoul station.
There I
was, holding the telephone and explaining how Mother was coming up from the
countryside to sell our land, and that I reckoned it would be hard for her to
find where I lived on her own, so that I'd better go to meet her off the train.
At that
point the girl on enquiries interrupted me in an angry voice, asking what on
earth I was talking about. Get straight to the point... it's nothing to do with
me whether it's your mother who's coming up or your grandmother, whether she's
selling some land or a whole mountain. She sounded furious.
Hyei!
Don't laugh at me. I've always been like that. She was right. They're busy
people. The fact that Mother is selling the house our people have lived in for
three generations and moving to the city can signify nothing to anyone except
me.
Hyei! That
wasn't the last of my mistakes. Hastily changing the topic, I enquired what
time the train from Pusan would arrive at Seoul tomorrow. I would have to be
there to meet her.
At that I
heard the girl heave a sigh and mutter to herself something about how country
people always made her sick. There were dozens of trains arriving from Pusan
every day; which particular train was I asking about, for heaven's sake? Was I
asking her to sit there reading out the whole day's list? And she hung up.
Hyei! What
she said was perfectly correct. Not having indicated the time of the train may
have been Mother's mistake or mine, it was clear that it was entirely our
mistake.
I'll have
to go out early to Seoul station tomorrow. I'm going to have to spend the whole
day pressed against the barrier at the exit from the platforms, with all those
people swarming around me.
There'll
be any number of mothers coming up to Seoul from the countryside. I'm going to
have to explore hundreds, thousands of mothers' faces as they come pouring out
in procession. I'll have to distinguish Mother's face in all that mass.
I'll spend
the whole day there tomorrow, the whole day standing there. I'll have to wait
there all day long, exploring, among the footsteps of people dashing off in a
hurry, the eyes of total strangers.
Only he had not waited,
he had died. He was dead when his mother arrived. Could death have been what he
had been waiting for all that time? Surely that was what he was waiting for,
gazing at those mothers' faces, among the footsteps of people dashing off in a hurry,
the eyes of total strangers!
In any case, on reading
that I began to wonder if it might not have been suicide after all. Perhaps
this girl that he had been writing to had understood Ch'ol-Hun's feelings?
Hyei?
Could she be the girl
that inspector Park said had been living with him for six months, whose alibi
and background he said were clear? I felt a desire to meet her. For that, I
would need inspector Park's help. I decided to phone him. I had the impression
that since I had now read the very beginning and the very end of the diary, I
would do well to meet people and get some more tangible information before
continuing to read the remaining diary entries.
4.
I got an urgent call from
my publishers, demanding to know how their manuscript was coming along. Seeing
that it was meant to be about the Christmas season, it was going to be late,
even supposing I had almost finished writing. But I had done absolutely nothing
about it. Nothing was written. It looked likely that today too I would not be
able to write anything. As soon as I had eaten the "continental
breakfast" supplied by the hotel, I set off for the office block where,
following inspector Park's instructions, I hoped to find Miss Na Shin-Hyei.
The building in question
stood in the main business area stretching along Chongno Street. It was a dark,
old-fashioned cement construction that had not been redecorated for a long
time. Even in broad daylight, all the lights were burning. In the lobby, an old
porter, blind in one eye, was shaking his hands and quarrelling with a
cleaning-woman about something. There was an elevator, but it was an antique
model of a 1930s kind, with a sign stuck to the gates: "Power failure, not
in use". Seeing that all the lights were on, despite the sign, it looked
as if the elevator girl had got the sack, or the thing had broken down. Behind
the elevator gates with their peeling paintwork, a cavernous dark space yawned
like an abyss.
The girl worked in an
estate agents' office on the fifth floor. I steeled myself to climb the
exiguous stairway, where it looked as if I would have to be careful not to bang
my head. At every landing as I climbed, my eyes encountered the dark cavern
looming beyond the elevator gates with their sign "Power failure, not in
use".
In the office, one
solitary woman was sitting among empty desks. I had heard reports that there
were many companies with just their administrative offices in the buildings in
the region of Chongno. It looked as though this estate agents was one of them.
The woman was filing her
nails and before I could ask anything informed me: "The chairman is out.
He won't be back today." I had the impression that she was reading a
speech from a prepared text.
Only her immense eyes,
dark eyes in which black flames seemed to be flickering, held an ardour
incapable of indifference about anything. Her makeup was not particularly
elaborate. Perhaps that explained why her eyes were so conspicuous.
"I'm not interested
in meeting the chairman; I want to meet Na Shin-Hyei. Is she around... could I
perhaps see her?"
I asked in this indirect
way although intuitively I felt sure that this woman must be Na Shin-Hyei
herself.
"Are you from the
police? Do I have to go with you now?"
She showed no trace of
anxiety. Her voice sounded clear and young. She put her handbag and her desk in
order. I said nothing in reply to her question as to whether I was from the
police.
"Some coffee-shop
nearby would be convenient; that is, if you can leave the office."
We were obliged to go
down all those stairs. Naturally the sign "Power failure, not in use"
was fixed to the gates of the elevator. The young woman went ahead of me. She
wore her hair in a ponytail, like a student, tightly tied with a scarlet ribbon
which made a vivid contrast with the black of the hair. It was a style favoured
by younger students, and not really suitable for someone of her age.
"You and Kim
Ch'ol-Hun lived together, so... um..."
As soon as we were in the
coffee-shop, I began to question her like a real detective.
"You don't have to
be embarrassed. I lived with him for six months. That's what I told them at the
station."
I was completely taken by
surprise. She spoke frankly, in open, unaffected tones. She seemed to be
inviting me to ask whatever I liked. Most women avoid meeting a man's eyes when
they are speaking. Usually while they are talking they look at their
wrist-watch, or stare into the distance over their partner's shoulder, or
something of that kind. But as this woman spoke, she was scrutinizing each
portion of my face with those almond eyes in which black flames seemed to be
flickering.
Normally a person who
knows no shame has no authenticity either. But Shin-Hyei seemed to possess such
purity that not even a devil could have made her fall. I reflected that you
sometimes come across a mysterious kind of woman who remains a virgin even
after loosing her virginity. I felt reassured as I interpreted her character.
If she was like that, I would have to be completely open with her.
"I'm not an
inspector from the police at all. But I'm someone who needs your testimony,
yes, your testimony, much more than they do. I'm writing a novel."
Shin-Hyei seemed to smile
slightly.
"Are you looking for
materials? It seems that writing a novel with only the imagination is hard as
well."
"As well? What do you
mean?"
I quickly questioned her.
"Because there once
was a man who thought he could love a woman with just his imagination."
"You're talking of
Kim Ch'ol-Hun?"
"He only wanted to
love me in his fantasies. He did all that he could to escape from the real me,
the me that bleeds if I'm scratched, that snores when I sleep. The only things
he cared about in life were his own dreams. When I was in front of him, I had
the impression that I was vanishing into thin air like petrol evaporating. I
reckon it takes more than imagination to write a novel, so do you think a man
and a woman can go on loving one another deeply using only their
imaginations?"
"I want to hear all
the details of your story in their proper order. Don't you find this music
rather loud?"
The waitress came over.
"I'll have
tea."
"That gramophone
music..."
"Leave it as it is.
It's better loud."
Shin-Hyei looked at her
watch. Then she began by explaining that she wanted to get everything off her
chest. With the way the police asked questions, it was like having to explain
the marks left by a cart-wheel without mentioning the cart or the wheel;
whereas she really wanted at least once to be able to tell someone what their
relationship had been like. She added that it would be better with a stranger like
me.
"I had a wretched
and strange... or rather, the fact that I had a very peculiar father and that
before we met I lost my virginity in a rather melodramatic manner must have
been what attracted him to me. I think I can draw that conclusion quite confidently."
She had lived an almost
hopeless existence. At the time when she met Ch'ol-Hun, she was working as a
dancer in a back-room dance-hall, depending entirely on the tips she got from
the customers. It was one of those February days when you can feel the first
signs of spring. Shin-Hyei had got off with a man claiming to be a company
director and they were dancing together. Suddenly they heard the door being
broken down and a group of about ten young men came bursting in. They were
being raided by a plain-clothes police squad.
Shin-Hyei had not run
away. She simply stood there laughing at the sight of the chasing, running,
vases smashing, people being arrested, while all the while, from the gramophone
that no one had bothered to stop, issued the strains of a tango, "La
Cumparsita". She had finally been arrested too. But she had the impression
that she was like the music that had gone on playing, indifferent to all around
it, that she dwelt in the same world apart as music inhabited. The fat businessman
she had been dancing with was trying to hide his terrified face with a towel.
Cameramen from the press, given the tip-off in advance, were busily firing off
their flash bulbs.
Once outside, Shin-Hyei
began to worry about her father. He was at home, half-paralysed, waiting for
his daughter to come back. He spent his life lying there like some insect, unable so much as to turn over on his
own. If she didn't come home within a few days, only a few days, he would be starving,
staring up at the ceiling and reciting the Lord's Prayer.
That was how it had been
during the war, when Shin-Hyei had come back up to Seoul after it was
liberated. Her father was lying prostrate on the wooden floor of his rectory.
Pastor Na, the victim of a stroke, lay there like a corpse, simply staring up
at the ceiling. He had been tortured by political security agents from the
North.
As soon as she thought of
her father, she began to tremble with apprehension. She opened her bag, took
out her lipstick, and hastily scribbled something on a slip of paper. A sketch
of where her house was, with the address. She quickly jotted down a few words:
"Please, it's my father. I'll make it up to you when I get out." She
thought how the little note was like a message thrown to the winds. She tossed
the note to a photographer who was taking shots of her face.
"Please, I beg
you."
She was already being
dragged towards the police van as she spoke.
Returning home after
three days in the cells, she found all the lights on, while her father and that
journalist were engaged in friendly conversation.
"He was on very
close terms with Father. They had obviously talked together a lot. He had even
taken care of his bodily functions, something that normally only a son can
do."
I sucked the last cold
dregs of my coffee as I listened to Shin-Hyei's tale.
"I suppose that your
father was preaching to Ch'ol-Hun?"
"Not at all. Father
never used to try to preach to anyone once he was outside the church. That was
not his way."
Shin-Hyei pulled down the
neck of her sweater so that I could see her necklace. It was a copper cross.
"Father gave me this
cross as he was dying, as a kind of last bequest. He was a clergyman, yet he
never liked the idea of me attending Sunday school. Once I was a bit older he
told me to stop going to church. He said that usually the more you know God,
the further you go from him; that if people start to feel what God is like,
they become unhappier and then, unable to overcome the resulting stress and
anguish, they end up hating God. He told me that if you wanted to keep God from
being cursed, the best way was for people to live without knowing him. He even
said that blaspheming God was a much worse thing than not knowing him."
The little copper cross
propped on her hands shone reflected in Shin-Hyei's eyes with their flickering
black flames.
"Your father must
have regretted becoming a pastor."
"Not at all. To his
last breath he used to say quite peacefully that he breathed every breath
quietly in company with God. Only he had to endure a tremendous struggle. 'Ah,
Shin-Hyei!' he told me, 'There may not be one man in ten thousand capable of
gaining the victory in my kind of battle and winning through to God. It's no
easy thing for an innocent man to keep believing in God when he has lost a wife
and children. Most Christians put on masks of falsehood and lies in order to
escape such sufferings, and cause God to be cursed.' He had lost his wife and
two sons. Besides which, he was quite exceptionally unlucky as well. That was
the kind of father Ch'ol-Hun liked. Abandoned, paralysed, completely ignored by
everyone, lying shut up in a tiny room like a corpse, that was the father he
liked."
She told how at first she
had felt revolted by Ch'ol-Hun's kindness.
"Why did you pay any
attention to the unlikely request of someone like me, a dancer you'd never seen
before, a loose woman being taken away by the police? Was it because the dancer
said she'd make it up to you? Or do you make a vile hobby of dishing out pity
to people?"
She admitted that instead
of thanking him she began to pick a quarrel.
"No, it's nothing
like that. I simply remembered what one human being shouted desperately as she
was being carted off, dragged away like a dog by the police. I'd have done it
for anyone, even if you'd been a murderer; I could hear those hastily scribbled
words written in blood-red lipstick crying out like your voice in the rainy
night. Now I have to thank you. I have never before been able to talk as
open-heartedly as I have with Pastor Na. He needed my help. It was only a short
period, just three days, but during that time, I always knew if he wanted a
drink, or had to do his needs, or felt bored and wanted to talk, even without
asking. Shin-Hyei! We talked so much! We talked and talked, like shipwrecked
fishermen meeting on a desert island. Without the electric light, but using
that oil lamp, hearing it hiss and give off a stink of paraffin. We talked far
into the night. You know, Shin-Hyei, I had a terrible time finding this house with just the address. Your
house lay high up on some hill, like Kafka's "Castle", and I couldn't
find the path leading up to it. But now, after three days going up and down
that path, I've found out where it leads."
Shin-Hyei forced herself
to put on a smile.
"He used to
exaggerate about everything."
She tried to make it
sound unimportant, but I saw the black flames come flickering brightly into her
eyes.
I told her to keep on
talking, employing inspector Park's technique of interrogation.
"Could you
understand what he was feeling?"
"I was thinking what
a shame it was he had that scar on his forehead. Because I had the same kind of
scar; I could sense that he wasn't one of those brash types who tell a girl
straight out that they want to make love. He told me that he saw his scar as a
"token of solitude", guaranteeing that he could never hurt anyone.
Ours was a relationship that was doomed from the start not to become a real
one."
"Did he often come
visiting after that?"
"Almost every day.
He came virtually every day, explaining that he had been intending to change
his job anyway. He liked us; but it was impossible to tell if it was father or
me that he liked more. Father used to be waiting for him, too. Of the three of
us, I was the only one relatively indifferent towards him."
So Ch'ol-Hun had come
almost every day to Shin-Hyei's house. To Shin-Hyei he said that he would be
getting another job soon, and that she should take it easy in the meantime. He
kept pestering the indifferent Shin-Hyei to keep her promise and "make it
up" to him. When she asked him what he wanted in return, he asked her to
reveal to him some secret that she had never told anyone, to show him something
invisible like the scar on his forehead. He was suggesting they should play at
being each other's father confessor.
Shin-Hyei asked him what
kind of game he thought he was playing, that she considered telling your
secrets to other people to be as disgusting as showing them your underwear. He
insisted that it didn't have to be that kind of thing, but that they would grow
closer by telling each other things that they had never before told a living
soul. Ch'ol-Hun proposed that he should begin by telling her about the scar on
his forehead.
Shin-Hyei paused and
smiled shyly.
"It really was a
droll kind of game. We kept playing similar games all the time we were
together. The one listening would sit somewhere a bit higher up, on a chair or
a table or a window-sill, while the person telling their secret would sit below
and talk with their eyes closed. He would pester and badger me like a baby with
his 'Right! let's play confessions'."
That first day, Shin-Hyei
had sat astride a rock up on the
hill while Ch'ol-Hun leaned against a young pine tree and spoke. On
later inspection, it turned out that the entry in his diary for February 18
reproduced that first make-believe confession to Shin-Hyei in the form of a
monologue.
Shin-Hyei!
I had no friends. Ours was a yangban family and father was a landowner.
The rest of the village kids were all the children of vulgar farm laborers,
servants and serfs. The fact that I was the landowner's son, and the grandson
of a high minister, was stamped on me even earlier than the brand from the hot
iron on my brow, from the day of my birth.
I was born
like that. When the other kids were out catching snakes, I would stand watching
a good way off, all alone. I longed to join in with them, but I was not as good
at those things as they were. The kids went wading through fields of mud,
getting themselves bitten by leeches as they caught loaches. I merely watched
them from my vantage-point, perched on a farmhand's back.
If mother
ever asked, 'Why can't you join in and play with the other children?' I used to
tell her it was because they said bad things about the scar on my forehead.
There was that as well, of course. I had simply been born different from the
children who went rolling in the muddy fields to their hearts' content.
Shin-Hyei,
even when I tried to act like them, I couldn't. I did join with them and take
part in stealing baby sparrows from their nests, but there was one boy, called
Il-Pyo, who was an absolute demon at wheedling the baby sparrows out from their
nests inside the straw thatch of the houses. He would climb a ladder and pull
out the chicks one by one; then he would hand them down to the other children who
were gazing up from below. One day I found myself holding one too.
Ah,
Shin-Hyei! Why couldn't I? Why was I unable to keep hold of that baby sparrow,
when everyone else was quite calmly holding theirs? I no sooner had hold of
that clammy sparrow chick, with its feathers not yet sprouting, than I threw it
to the ground, nearly fainting. The kids laughed at me and called me a coward,
but it gave me the creeps to such an extent that I could not endure to touch
it.
It wasn't
only while I was small, Shin-Hyei!
The day my
older brother was arrested--he taught me a lot, you know, drawing, singing,
skating, taking photos, and that means my present job, too--from the time he
was arrested I found it even more impossible to associate with other people.
And something taught me there was a clear meaning in my being alone, in being
alone with myself.
Shin-Hyei!
It was--Shin-Hyei, just listen--it was one day when we were on a middle school
outing. We went to visit Magok Temple. The other pupils in my class were
forming little groups with their closest friends and having their pictures
taken with the temple's main hall in the background. You paid your money and
the school photographer took the pictures. Only you know, there was no group
where I belonged. None wanted to fit me in and I couldn't find any kids worth
fitting in with. I was alone, alone... standing blankly beside the
photographer, I watched the other kids getting their pictures taken, baring
their white teeth and pushing back their shoulders. There was not one that
called me over to have my photo taken with them.
Shin-Hyei,
that was the first time that a sense of shame overcame me. The sense that I
could not fit into any group and had to walk alone, all by myself. I took off
and hid in the valley behind the temple, where I lay with my feet in the
stream. I stared up at the sky, listening to the sound of the other kids
chattering in the distance. The sky was really high above. I thought that I was
floating along like a cloud. And that tale by Anderson, my favorite one, about
the swan that hatched among the ducks, I thought of that too. Then I fell
asleep... Shin-Hyei! I only woke up when I heard all the children calling out
my name in a kind of chorus: 'Ch'ol-Hun, where are you? Ch'ol-Hun, where are
you?'
Fifty or
sixty people were calling my name. It was already evening. Checking that all
were present at the moment of setting off down the hill, they realized I had
vanished and the other kids were scouring the hills in search of me. Hearing
the entire class calling my name, I felt happy. But my happiness was very
short-lived. I was duly thrashed by the sports teacher in front of the
assembled pupils. They looked on with contemptuous expressions.
Shin-Hyei!
What happened that day made me more miserable than ever. I may not have been
with them, but I belonged among them. I mean, I was one of their number. After
all, even if I wanted to get free,
even if I tried to get as far away as possible from them, there was no
escaping the fact that I was one of their total number.
Shin-Hyei!
Can you imagine what it felt like? Because of me, my classmates were obliged to
go home thirty minutes late and because of that I found myself further from
them than ever. Just thinking of it makes me go nearly crazy. Besides, it all
happened only two months after my brother was taken away, and I was in a sickly state. That incident has
pursued me ever since, like the scar on my brow. People showed no interest in
me, I was a complete outsider, and yet they could never be content simply to
leave me alone.
Shin-Hyei!
Be patient just a little bit longer. It must be boring but my confession is
nearly over. It's nothing important, only you're the first person I've ever
told it to. Suppose we abolish completely every last secret between us, do you
suppose we can become utterly one? Ah! A single body. Can two people ever
become completely one, do you think? I want to believe in such a miracle. Then
I went to do my military service. There I could feel it clearly; I was separate
from them, and at the same time I was part of them. It became obvious whenever
the whole platoon got punished for my particular mistake, or I for someone
else's mistake. They gave me the nickname
"Councilor". Councilor... that's what they call people in the
army who are outsiders, odd-men-out. I tried hard to make friends, to
understand them, did all I could to get in among them, it was no good. Out on
that wide parade ground, even when we were in line together, keeping step
together, arm-in-arm as we did our training, I was alone just like when I stood
at the water's edge while the kids caught loaches.
Still,
Shin-Hyei! I did make just one friend. He was born into the royal clan, his
name was Yi Jin. He spoke to me first. He remarked that it's people's weak
points that bring them together. That friendships fostered by weaknesses like
drinking or gambling or vice are stronger than any inspired by morality or
shared birthplace. He told me he reckoned that society was all rotten; this
generation had reached a point where they all lived like gangsters, so that
especially in the army, the only way you could get close to them was by
mastering the art of swearing. He was certainly a master at swearing richly in
a most unroyal manner. He was right; if you wanted to become part of them, you had
to start by changing your way of speaking.
You know,
Shin-Hyei, I really tried. Don't laugh. I made a conscious effort to use the
expressions that they were always using. Only the problem was, it wasn't
natural for me as it was with them. When I tried to swear, for some reason
everybody laughed. I was incapable of reeling off whole strings of oaths like
them. Now Shin-Hyei, I'm going to end this last part of my confession with a
really terrible, fateful incident.
It
involves that friend who told me I ought to learn to swear. Yi Jin, I mean. He
got himself killed because of me.
There had
been a lull, there was no fighting. We were resting at the side of some
paddy-fields. Suddenly a communist plane appeared, flying low and firing its
machine guns. I took cover in the sluice pierced in the side of the rice-field,
it was just large enough for one person. Only you see, Yi Jin couldn't find
anywhere to run to, he was hovering in confusion up on the bank. He was in
danger.
I was fond
of Yi Jin. I felt he was like me. I dashed out, dragged him down, and forced
him into the sluice where I had been hiding. Then I crouched down low on the
bank nearby, although it was dangerous.
When the
strafing was over, I went back to the sluice. Yi Jin! It's ok now, you can come
out! I shouted as I went, so glad I was to be alive.
Ah,
Shin-Hyei! You know how I found Yi Jin? He was bleeding. Inside that sluice
where I had been kneeling, in that sluice that I had believed would be safer
than anywhere else, he was dying. He was calling my name as he died. With eyes
rolled up so that the whites showed, he kept asking for me. It's your fault I'm
dying! he seemed to be saying. Shin-Hyei... that was the result of my
self-sacrificing friendship. Because of me, he got the bullet aimed at me.
Shin-Hyei,
that is my confession. Now it's your turn. I'll sit up on the rock.
Shin-Hyei raised her
head. The flames had died out in her eyes and darkness was spreading over them.
She was holding a sheet of silver paper from a pack of cigarettes that she kept
crumpling up then smoothing out; she spoke as if she were in a dream.
"Aren't you tired?
I've just been chattering on idly. I don't seem to have told you any of the
things you want to know. That's how it always is when people speak."
I sensed that Shin-Hyei
did not want to talk any more, but I was curious about how Ch'ol-Hun had been
when they broke up.
"I want to know why
he killed himself. I want to get to the bottom of the motives and reasons he
had for doing it. All that I've heard so far does nothing more than explain why
he was alone. There must have been something extra that had an effect on him.
No bell rings by itself."
"Why, you belong to
the same group as inspector Park. Will you be satisfied if I tell you it was
because I left him?"
There was a sudden
commotion at the coffee-shop counter. There seemed to be some bother between
the waitress and a drunk.
"I say I paid for
the phone call. Besides, it was only two Won."
"I said I didn't get
it because I didn't, that's all."
The two of them continued
to repeat the same words in increasingly loud tones.
"Let's get out of
here. Next time... I'd rather we talked of important things next time. It's
been too sudden; I've got a headache."
Shin-Hyei stood up. The
cross at her breast shone brightly.
5.
For the next few days, my
head was full of thoughts of Kim Ch'ol-Hun.
Why did he suddenly die?
If it wasn't suicide, was it homicide as Inspector Park had said? Should I meet
Shin-Hyei again? I was curious as to why they had broken up, and what had been
Kim Ch'ol-Hun's attitude at the time of their breakup. Yet I had the impression
that if I went carefully through the notes in his diary, I would be able to get
the overall picture. I was about to plunge into his notebooks again, when I
received a phone call from Inspector Park. They had found Ch'ol-Hun's camera in
a tiny second-hand store in the Eastgate Market. A woman had sold it to them
for next to nothing a few days earlier. He joked that he was sorry, but it
looked as though he was going to get to the bottom of the riddle of why he had
died before I did.
That was how close we had
been brought by Kim Ch'ol-Hun's death. I made a joke in return, to the effect
that we would no doubt end up by getting a full picture of the criminal
solitude that had killed him, but that he would never be able to arrest or
charge it...
I turned to the February
entries in his diary. The tale of his "confession game" was written
under the date February 18. From the contents it became clear that the
confession game had not been his own invention, that he had based it on a hint
from a scene in Marcel Carnés film "Dangerous Turning". What was more
interesting was the way that Shin-Hyei too had taken part in the game she said
was so entertaining.
Thanks to what he wrote
about their game, I was able to confirm the correctness of my previous surmise
that what had attracted him to Shin-Hyei was the melodramatic manner in which
she had lost her virginity. After describing what he had confessed, the notes
went on to summarize the contents of her confession to him. Here and there he
had inserted comments of his own in brackets. There was of course no way I
could be sure if his record was exact.
February
23
Shin-Hyei
sat where I had been, leaning against the pine tree, and gazed up at me.
"I represent
humanity. I'm the priest representing humanity, here to receive your
confession. But you can be sure that I'll keep your secret as safe as my own
life."
I had the
impression that I was about to grow dizzy at the sight of Shin-Hyei's
mysterious eyes gazing up at me. She hesitated for a moment, then began to
speak.
"There
is just one fact that Father knows nothing about. And it's something so
melodramatic that it's positively indecent. But I'll tell you. In fact, I wish
you would explain it. Because really it was a completely meaningless
incident."
"Come
on, Shin-Hyei, tell me about it."
I felt
prickly with anticipation; I had the impression I was developing a chill. She
closed her eyes.
We kept
walking further and further from Seoul. It was early in January 1951, during
the retreat from Seoul, when my melodrama began. It was freezing. Father had
told me to get away from the city. There will be persecutions, he said, and
since that would include you, you must leave. I set out for Pusan with another student,
a boy from next door who had just entered university. In Pusan there was a
friend's house, a girl I had gone to school with, whose father was a pastor of
the same denomination as my father.
I'll tell
it very simply, without any frills. I was in love with that student and he was
infatuated with me. It didn't feel like an evacuation, it was more like a merry
picnic. Yet there was a war on, and it was bitterly cold. We were cold and
lonely, yet I refused to let him come near me. It was often very inconvenient,
because it meant we couldn't share the same room, but still...
And
although I was extremely fond of him, I kept on exhorting him, more like an
adult, explaining that I had to stay chaste. He used to reply that it was
wartime and that bullets don't avoid the young. Father, you must treat all this
as a joke. (Is she really laughing? Probably it's to avoid too much tension.
I'm afraid that I spoke too plaintively during my confession.
Father!
It's as if war is designed to make people jealous of young people's pure
beautiful love. It's as if war only picks on youth. It was a kind of silent
threat. What he was asking for was different from what some playboy might want;
he told me plainly: before he died, before the god of war called him, he wanted
to possess me. But Father, how old do you think I was? I was too young. At my
age, just looking and smiling and talking was enough.
Don't
smile now, Father. You see, his prophecy came true. And it all happened much
too soon. He was grabbed as we were walking along, pulled up onto a military
truck, and driven away; there I was, all alone. He wore glasses with thick
lenses but war has no time to take account of things like the power of a
person's glasses. I continued on in the column of unfamiliar refugees until I reached
the town of Chochiwon, by which time my feet were so swollen with chilblains
that I could not walk another step.
Father!
What do you think I did then? (Poor Shin-Hyei...) I fell in with a group of
women refugees from the factories of Yongdung-po, just south of Seoul. They
said there was a possibility of getting to Pusan on board a military freight
train. They told me to follow them and not ask any questions. They seemed to
have struck up a relationship with the soldiers guarding the station. It was night.
We crept into the station precincts and hid in a freight car with no locomotive
attached. Would it really leave? Where was it headed? How long would we have to
wait inside it?
Father!
Ch'ol-Hun! (She suddenly began to tremble. I guessed that something terrible
had happened to her there. Poor Shin-Hyei! War is no picnic. So much can be
forgiven. I longed to embrace her. But as soon as I moved, she made a
gesture as if pushing me away,
warning me to stay where I was.)
My
chilblains were itching so much I couldn't sleep. Unlit trains were rattling
past, spouting smoke. Then we were discovered by some American soldiers. I was
grabbed by a black soldier, who dragged me away to the fuel-yard where coal lay
in mounds. It was already daybreak. In one corner of the coal-yard there was a
kind of sentry-box with walls neatly made of straw sacking. I screamed and
struggled but my youth was at an end.
In the
pale dawn light, I gazed about me in search of help. There was no one in sight.
All I could see, tied to one side of a shed not far from where I lay, was a
mule loaded with what looked like military supplies, staring vacantly in my
direction. A very scrawny mule. I made a sign with my hand in the direction of
the mule, as if it were a human being. The mule was looking into my eyes. The
eyes of that animal, completely ignorant of everything, were twinkling like the
dawn stars against the pale grey of the sky.
I didn't
cry. At the same time as I dusted off my skirt, stained black with the coal
dust covering the yard, I brushed away for ever my youth, my love, my dreams.
The black soldier was flashing white teeth and smiling. I was fainting, nearly
unconscious.
When I
opened my eyes, the train was moving. Beyond the barred windows I could see
snow-covered barley fields. The women workers had come back too. They were
rejoicing at their good luck, feeling that now everything would be alright. It
turned out that they had known all along what would happen; it was an implicit
condition that had only been kept concealed from me.
Some of
them comforted me with the thought that it was better than freezing to death. I
had given up my virginity in exchange for a train ticket, that's right, a
ticket. I sat there in that freight train, inwardly making apologies to the
student--to that student who maybe was dead by now.
That's
all. That's all the secrets I've got.
I had
become an adult, hardened; I heard a door closing. There was no one who would
ever be able to open it again. The key had been thrown out of the train into
the mounds of coal, back there in the coal-yard. Human eyes vanished from my
sight; I could see nothing but the eyes of the mule, staring blankly at me as I
pleaded and did my utmost to call for help. And the mule's breath steaming
about its mouth.
Thank you,
Ch'ol-Hun; the day when I wrote that letter with my lipstick and ventured to
call for help, I seem to have encountered human eyes for the first time in many
years. (Shin-Hyei! I embraced you wildly. You were trembling. There's nothing
to be afraid of. There's two of us. We can't just look on like that mule. Not
if we open human eyes. We've opened human eyes and we're watching over each
other, aren't we? I hugged you until there was no space left between us
anywhere. I was thirty and it was the first time I had ever been able to
embrace a woman.
I had a feeling that I
could understand why Ch'ol-Hun had come to like Shin-Hyei. In her eyes with
their flickering black flames lay the entrance to a secret passage piercing the
thick wall that separated him from other people, that was what it was. It must
have seemed like an emergency exit--the passage he had been looking for.
The more I perused
Ch'ol-Hun's diary, the more I had the impression that unclear points were
sorting themselves out. The virginity that Shin-Hyei had lost so
melodramatically must have seemed to him like a wound; he had pried that wound
open, trying to delve down into her heart. Ch'ol-Hun must always have longed
for someone else's wound to match with his own.
Under another date, he
wrote something to just that effect.
Yi Jin
knew something important. He taught me that if people want to blend closely,
they must commit a crime together: drinking, or gambling, or vice... it's true,
things like that have the power to unite people closely. Yet there was something
he didn't know.
There was
something important that he didn't know: that the unity based on evil is an
ideal, and nothing more. Those bonds are like shadows that melt and vanish in
the rays of the rising sun.
For
someone to become truly one with another person, they must touch one another's
aching wounds. I'll never be able to become a Christian like Pastor Na. But now
I understand. If Jesus was able to become one with his disciples and all
mankind, it's because of the wounds left in his hands by the nails. Jesus told
Thomas, when he wouldn't believe in the Resurrection, to stretch out his hand
and touch the print of the nails and the wound left by the spear in his side.
Just what
is a wound, then? What is the wound gaping in the soul's inmost darkness? If
you know that, you can become close friends even with total strangers. We are
not special like Jesus. But we live with just the same kind of scars as he has.
We can't show a miracle of resurrection like Jesus. But we have exactly the
same proof of resurrection as Jesus, those fresh scars. Pastor Na taught me the
meaning of my wound, and I enabled Shin-Hyei to touch that wound. I am no
longer lonely.
Ch'ol-Hun had been
alienated from other people and at the same time had himself turned his back on
others. He was afraid of "people" and was reluctant to associate with
them. Especially after seeing the way his attempt to help Yi Jin had caused his
death, he seemed to have become more convinced than ever about just how little
he should mix with people.
Naturally, it was not
clear what difference it made that he had met Pastor Na before meeting his
daughter. What psychological effect did Pastor Na have on him? It took some
trouble, but I studied carefully the diary entries from the thirteenth of
February until the eighteenth. That was the time when, at Shin-Hyei's request,
he had met Pastor Na. But his notes were rather different from what I had
expected. There was nothing noted about any direct psychological change in
himself. All I found was a quite objective account of what Pastor Na told him,
and of their conversations, written like the script for a play.
My head was heavy, but I
felt that I had to read carefully what Pastor Na had told him. His handwriting
was very small and in many places the ink had run. The first part dealt with
his impressions of Pastor Na, the later part related what he had said.
How does
Pastor Na manage to look so peaceful even when he's alone, as if he has
company? Everything around him was bleak, yet he seemed to be out playing with
baby angels in fragrant fields. It must really be true that physical sufferings
can have no direct effect on the mind.
He cannot
deny that he is alone. For years now he's done nothing but lie there like a
corpse. Probably visitors, his faithful parishioners, used to come at first and
sing hymns. But would anyone go on and on caring for that body slowly sinking
into death? He must have realized that people were leaving him one by one and
he must have felt solitude crowding into his breast in ever increasing
quantity, as if eager to be present at his death.
But he
makes his solitude serve him. He reckons that his solitude has a halo round it.
Wouldn't I be happy too, if I could be strong like that when I'm on my on? Even
though he's all alone, he looks like someone with a lot of friends.
(...)
Pastor Na
spoke with a voice light as early morning sunlight, pure as that of a newborn
babe. Anyone hearing him who claimed he was a fraud or a hypocrite could only
be an agent of the devil.
When their
physical tortures failed to work, they found a different method to torment me.
It was really very intelligent of them. They turned to psychological torture.
Using children. One five, the other nine, the sons of one of our church's
deacons. They tied me to a chair in such a way that I could not turn my head
away; and then, what do you think? they started to torture those children
before my very eyes.
You can't
imagine what it was like, their screams, the blood seeping from their infant
bodies. Then they spoke to me:
We're
going to torture these kids until you open your mouth and talk. You're a
pastor: you're supposed to love people, to save innocent souls, help people.
It's your fault these children are being hit. Then they told the children:
Plead to the pastor, then maybe we'll stop hitting you. Don't plead to us, ask
your pastor for pity; he's so fond of you.
Ah! Do you
think I could endure it? If I spoke, I would be handing over to capture and
death two of our church's young members who had trusted me and told me their
secret. I had sworn to God not to tell a living soul where they were hiding.
Yet if I remained silent, those completely innocent children were going to go
on suffering torture before my very eyes.
I thought
over every part of the scriptures. But it was nowhere written how we ought to
act in that kind of situation. I came near to blaspheming against God then. I
was repeating over and over, like Jesus on the cross: "Eli, eli, lama
sabachtani? Why have you forsaken me?" The children could not stand
the beating and were on their knees before me, pleading. "Pastor, save us.
We won't play games in church again." Yet I ground my teeth and refused to
speak. They had been able to tell me their hiding place because they trusted
me. Don't you see? It was a trust so sacred that nobody, nobody I say, could
touch it.
Then
finally I spoke. Those children were there before me, desperately begging one
last time, when I realized that the others were just as heartless as the men
who were beating up the children. And then, would you believe it, there were
those two brothers, dabbing away at one another's wounds, no doubt thinking
there was no one they could rely on, except one another. The nine-year-old was
wiping the blood from his little brother's cheeks and stroking his hair, while
the five-year-old wiped away his brother's tears and hugged him. Oh, God!
(Tears were pouring from Pastor Na's hitherto peaceful eyes. He paused for a
moment, perhaps wanting to pray).
My friend!
I broke my promise. I spoke. I am not sure I would have found peace if that had
been the end of the matter. But when they arrived at the address I had given
them, the young men weren't there. They had moved somewhere else as soon as
they heard I had been arrested. They had not trusted my promise to them. They
were safe because they trusted nobody. I knew they were only being sensible,
that they had no choice, and after all, I had betrayed their trust; yet somehow
I felt sad to think that they had not trusted me, and had gone somewhere else.
The men
from the North thought I had lied to them, and laid into me for all they were
worth, demanding to know the real address. Inwardly I was letting go of all my
bitterness. Young friend! Don't think I'm being hypocritical. At the pain I
felt as they beat me, my heart grew calm and instead I rejoiced. If they had
not beaten me, I would have beaten myself. As a result I was crippled, but
inside I'm at peace, my heart is completely at rest. God has forgiven me...
Ch'ol-Hun noted
absolutely nothing about his own feelings on hearing that story, but I felt
convinced that through what happened to Pastor Na he had been exposed to a
powerful temptation urging him to mingle with people in the outside world, with
people he did not know.
If that was so, had the
Ch'ol-Hun who on February 18 became acquainted with both Pastor Na and
Shin-Hyei cast off his shell of solitude? Had he struck up relationships with
new friends at his work-place? And hadn't he felt obliged to change the subject
of that "General's Beard" that he intended to write? Hadn't he
changed it so that the main character grew a beard like everybody else, then
began to fight the beards?
I was anxious to know
just how that psychological transformation had expressed itself in action. I
even had the sudden feeling that I had fallen into a trap. I had the feeling
that I ought to meet the man who had first introduced me to him. According to
his diary, it had been June when he resigned from his job with the newspaper.
The passages where he wrote about things that had happened at work mostly dealt
with events occurring before he met Pastor Na. From February onwards, almost
every entry was either about Pastor Na or Shin-Hyei. I resolved to visit the
newspaper offices on the following day.
6.
It was my first visit to
the newspaper since I finished the novel they had serialized. I thought they
would have gone to press already but the editorial office was in an uproar.
Telephones were ringing on all sides. The voices answering the phone all seemed
to be yelling, pitched an octave higher than the surrounding din.
"Lee Ch'ong-Gil,
twenty-two; Park Tok-Man, sixty; Kim Ok...Hee? What? Hui? H... u... i... ok;
what did you say? just six? Six years old?"
They seemed to be
receiving lists of names by long-distance telephone from somewhere in the
provinces. It looked as though there had been some kind of big accident.
Mister Kim was in the
electrotype room. While I was waiting for him I went over and sprawled in the
visitor's chair beside the chief editor's desk.
"Has something
serious happened?
"You can't have seen
the special editions. People crushed in a stampede. Lots of people crowded into
a cinema down south to see a visiting film-star and it seems someone had the
bright idea of shouting "Fire!" to clear some of them out. In the
panic that followed... about twelve people were trampled to death."
I suddenly had a vision
of flocks of wild animals, herds of elephants racing through some African
forest away from a forest fire.
"Trampled to
death?"
The incident had no
bearing on it, of course, but in some weird way it conjured up in my mind Kim
Ch'ol-Hun's death... an image of Kim Ch'ol-Hun being trampled to death by a
herd of wild elephants. A newspaper office is always a busy place. Their real
workplace is not this building, it's out where things are happening. They can
never foretell where they will be at any given time. Was he really able to
endure that kind of work? Yet he had deliberately chosen the job, hadn't he?
Still, wasn't there something in Ch'ol-Hun's diary about how being a newspaper
photographer had made him still more lonely?
I thought about that
passage as I smoked a cigarette.
I'm
invariably standing behind the camera lens. There's no way I can dash out in
front of the lens and enter the world that I'm photographing. I always have to
be out of sight, keeping a proper distance from what's out in front.
I go
running after events. I have to be out where the news is. But at the same time
as I'm wherever the news is, I always have to stay out of the news. The camera
reporter is not like the news reporter; he has no right to inquire about why
something happened, or how it's turning out, or what the last word is. All he
has to do is take the pictures, develop them, print them off, and hand them in
at the desk. There are even times when it's only after reading the article
accompanying some picture I took, that I understand clearly what was happening
out there.
My place
is behind the lens, not in front. I'm sorry I quarrelled with that reporter. He
couldn't understand how I felt, and it was only natural. I couldn't stand the
way he told me, "Just get your pictures taken and head straight back. I'm
the one doing the reporting".
Of course
my job was done, once I'd snapped that suspect's face. But I couldn't simply
carry on and ignore the fact that as the police were taking him away he shouted
out to his daughter: "Suny, tell dad I'm innocent". I've taken photos
of a lot of faces. Yet for the most part I never knew who they were.
Given the atmosphere in
the editorial office, I could understand how Ch'ol-Hun must have felt. The
editor seemed to have asked me something but I hadn't heard him, so I just
replied, "Yes," dragging out the end in an ambiguous manner. I felt
that I ought to ask him something in return. People like to feel you're interested
in them.
"Kim Ch'ol-Hun's
dead?"
The editor scratched his
nose with the tip of his pen and stared towards his office.
"That was a long
time ago."
It looked as if he was
waiting for the finished copy for the last edition. He probably felt that a
death that at least got a mention on the local page was more important than the
death of Kim Ch'ol-Hun. The editor's attitude betrayed a trace of resentment.
Yet this was someone he had lived with for more than a year as a member of his
staff.
"They seem to suspect
murder..."
At that, the editor
frowned slightly.
"Who would have
wanted to kill him? He had no money, he was not someone anyone would notice
particularly. He was out of a job and life must have been difficult."
He assumed that he had
killed himself because life was difficult, since he was unemployed; at the same
time, he showed no sympathy.
"Because he was out
of a job..."
I was taken aback to
realize that there could be yet another viewpoint, considering unemployment as
the reason for his death. There were countless reasons. Now 'reason' may sound
very scientific but I have discovered that in actual fact it is always employed
as an ambiguous and subjective word. Mister Kim was coming towards me, wiping
his glasses on his necktie.
"Why, what's up?
It's good to see you again."
We exchanged the
customary greetings, then went down to the company coffee-shop in the basement.
Mister Kim is the younger brother of a friend of mine, we have known each other
since he was in high school.
"You introduced
Ch'ol-Hun to me, didn't you?"
"He's dead. Coal-gas
poisoning."
"I know! Did you go
to the house to pay your respects?"
"There was not one
person in the whole office who knew where his house was. That's the kind of
fellow he was."
"Surely there must
be an address-list of employees?"
"He'd left the
newspaper a long time before. What's up? Did he give you that, what was it?
beard novel and ask you to get it published?"
Mr. Kim was using the
same turn of phrase as when he was in high school. He looked rather weary as he
spun an empty film spool round and round on one finger.
I started by asking why
his colleagues had disliked Ch'ol-Hun; the reply proved to be very simple. He
had the aloofness of a rural gentleman-scholar; he was hidebound in his
activities; he was unsociable in his habits; and so on, one after another. To
give you one example, he added, he
was so selfish; there he'd be, using the darkroom at the busiest hours
of the day and always taking his time, without a thought for anyone else.
Mister Kim too had been looking
at Ch'ol-Hun from the other side of the wall. They had graduated from the same
art college, they were both photographers, working for the same paper, yet he
had been nothing more than just another human being for him. There had been
something in his diary about his work in the darkroom. He used to like the
darkroom.
Once I'm
in the darkroom I feel perfectly safe, I'm completely alone. It's the middle of
the day--outside, the sunlight will be pouring down, with people swimming
through its glare like so many fish. And I'm all on my own standing here like
this in the darkroom, cut off and isolated from the light and sound and air of
the outside world. In the thick darkness the fluorescent screen is casting a
livid glow like a full moon. It looks like a doorway opening onto the world
beyond.
The sharp
tang of the hypo, the darkness, the glow, the purr of the timer with its
phosphorescent hand turning... Ah, this is Eternity! A Paradise of eternal
sleep. Working in the darkroom liberates me.
"What's a fluorescent
screen?"
Mister Kim laughed in a
puzzled way at my sudden question.
"You're acting a bit
oddly today, aren't you? Ah, I know! You're writing a novel and you've come in
search of background. It must be hard, writing novels. The fluorescent screen is
something we use in the darkroom when we want to see a film's level of
exposure... we can't use just any kind of light in a darkroom. In Hell there
may be places where you find 'darkness visible' but not in a darkroom. We need
absolute darkness, which is why we use the fluorescent screen's special kind of
luminosity--it's not really light at all. Just what it takes for us to see a
film's degree of exposure...."
I did not want to take up
too much time. Therefore I decided to ask just a few simple questions about
some important points.
"From about February
this year, wasn't there any change in his manner, especially in his attitude
towards his friends?"
"Well, I don't know;
I can't say exactly that it started in February, but in the time before he
stopped working here, his attitude was certainly very odd."
He pointed his index
finger towards his head and drew circles in the air; he meant to say he had
lost his wits.
"What reason have
you got to say that?"
I was furious. But Mister
Kim said that he had been like that since college. While he was at art school,
he had painted weird pictures, the kind of thing that are called abstracts now,
and bewildered the professors.
"I want to paint
realistic pictures too. But if you paint one thing, it means you're cutting off
part of that thing; and to save the one subject of your painting, means
eliminating many other objects all around it."
That was how Ch'ol-Hun
stood up to his professors. According to Mister Kim, when they paint a
landscape, it seems that artists cut off everything surrounding the view, in
order to paint that scene and nothing more, just like the square frame
surrounding the picture. Ch'ol-Hun said that he hated that. He said he was
worried about the scenery left over that didn't fit into the picture.
Besides, he said, if they
were painting trees or houses, there were all kinds of things scattered round
about them, stones or earth, but usually in order to concentrate on the subject
they were painting, they would exclude all the other things. Ch'ol-Hun considered
the artists' aesthetic intentions to be a form of violence against things. He
said that he reckoned that each and every stone and pebble had a right to be
there.
Therefore the other
students used to make fun of him.
"Try taking photos
of the landscape. Then it will come out exactly as it is, without anything
being sacrificed."
Sure enough, the very
next day Ch'ol-Hun turned up at school carrying a camera.
Then Mister Kim wanted to
talk about the time he fought with Ambassador Kim.
"That habit he had
of abruptly turning on people for no reason, like he did with Ambassador
Kim."
"I've heard all
about that."
I stopped him.
It seemed that the story
of his quarrel with Ambassador Kim had become common knowledge in the newspaper
office. He had described the incident in detail in his diary.
It had happened a few
weeks before he met Pastor Na and the record of it in his diary constituted a
unique piece of narrative, making a different impression and showing another
aspect of Ch'ol-Hun.
It would
have been much better if I had refused when that reporter from the political
desk asked me to go with him to Ambassador Kim's house to take the photos for
his interview. Naturally I was not tempted by his remark that if we went, we'd
get a good meal. Ambassador Kim had spent not more than three years in the
United States, yet he virtually spoke to us in English and at the end of every
phrase he would pause and repeat, "Now how do you say that in
Korean?"
His facial
type was distinctively oriental, he had something of the Mongol about him, yet
he harboured a smile imitating Ike's and he kept on shrugging his shoulders
like a westerner. His wife was all dressed up as if she was due to leave for a
party in five minutes, and very excited. She was in such a state that if one of
her ancestors of a century before had turned up in traditional dress and straw
sandals, she would have killed herself in mortification. Still, I took it all
in my stride.
"When
I first came back to Korea, after taking my degree, that is... My dear, the
kimchi's so hot, it quite scorches one's stomach. Luckily tastes in food are
not absolute. We really ought to start our reforms by changing the way we
eat."
"When
you first went to America," I blurted out, "how was it? Surely the
butter was so greasy it scorched your stomach too?"
The
reporter shot a sideways glare at me. Actually, the ambassador was the
newspaper chairman's younger brother and we had been sent to write what is
known in the newspaper world as an "in-house" article. I nonetheless
continued to keep myself under control. When the time came to take the
pictures, he made a great fuss about the gifts he said he had received in the
United States, and arranged for them all to be in the background; he pointed
out a picture showing him shaking hands with a certain high American dignitary.
"What
do you think of that? It was taken by a photographer from the Washington
Post... doesn't it make me look rather unnatural?"
I still
controlled myself. My colleague spoke enthusiastically about how well American
photographers get their camera angles, and even went so far as to commandeer
it, proposing to publish it in the paper. Everything was going just fine. It
was when the time came for the family photo, when the ambassador's wife called
"Mary! Jim!" in the direction of the inner room, that it finally
happened. Hearing those names, I fully expected to see a couple of high class
pedigree puppies emerge.
Then the
door opened and I saw a pair of twins about four years old walk out. They were
obviously not blond haired, but do you know, those kids were speaking English,
calling out "Mummy, Mummy". The ambassador's wife (albeit as yet only
a nominated ambassador's wife) perched one child on each knee and boasted
proudly that so far they knew no Korean. Then mother and children began to
chatter away ten to the dozen in an English from which the 'T' sound had
vanished.
My young
companion looked curious; first he established the kids' ages, names, and
relative English-speaking skills in his own rough English, then gravely he
proceeded to ask, "And do you like Mummy more, or Daddy?" as if he
was reciting lines from one of Shakespeare's plays. Standing beside him,
Ambassador Kim "translated" his English into his own fluent English
for the children's benefit.
They
replied that they liked their Daddy. Ambassador Kim glanced at me and
explained, "That's the American way, you see. American kids generally
prefer their father...." and again he flashed an Ike-like smile. I
couldn't take any more. Why did I get upset? Why was I not strong enough to
stomach something that everyone else seemed prepared to take no notice of? I
addressed a double bow to his wife and addressed her with the utmost civility.
"Excuse
me, but don't those children have Korean names? Even if they still can't understand
their own country's language, surely they must be able to recognize their own
names. You may perhaps be unaware of the situation here in Korea; in our
country, people use foreign names like Mary or Jim for dogs, bar-girls in
dance-halls, or for foreigners' whores. Western things are all very well, it's
just western names that haven't been given a very high-class reception in our
country so far. When I heard you calling your delightful offspring, I assumed
you were calling your dogs. It's not the children's fault, of course,
madame."
The
reporter swore at me first; then the ambassador's wife, and finally the
dignified ambassador himself began to shout. If I'd only let it go at that,
things might not have been so bad but strangely enough I could not control my
agitation.
I burst
out violently: "I don't want to sound moralizing, but I reckon it would be
better to take one of the totem poles from the entrance to a village and send
that as our ambassador, rather than a man like you."
If only I
had not seen the ambassador's children, that day would probably not have
witnessed such a disgraceful scene. I felt sorry for the kids. With no Korean,
and only dolls to play with, I reckoned that they could do nothing but watch
other children playing from a distance, their hands behind their backs, like I
used to when I was a child. I had the impression that they were undergoing my
own sufferings. That was what I could not endure.
Since I knew all about
the incident with Ambassador Kim, I told him to go on to what followed. Mister
Kim expressed the opinion that it had not always been the case, but that at the
time he left the newspaper he had definitely not been normal. He had put the
empty film spool on the table and was rolling it about with the palm of his
hand.
"That was surely the
reason he left. He started to try to do things nobody had asked him to do. His
eyes had a strange look about them, like someone haunted, and every time he saw
any of us he would give us a broad smile. It was really weird. Then something
happened. Do you know about that? There's this Yom Sang-Un, you see, the fellow
who got last year's press-photography award... anyway, it involved Yom Sang-Un.
His wife was dying of uterine cancer at the time. She would grasp hold of Yom
Sang-Un's hand and refuse to let go. Yet at the same time, he couldn't spend
every single minute stuck there with her... so he continued to go to work. Then
one day he didn't go out to the scene on account of his wife, he just handed in
a montage at the desk. A photo of the June monsoons, to go with an article
revealing how the victims were sick and starving for lack of any proper policy
towards them. Only the photo he used was not a shot of an actual scene but one
manufactured to fit the story. It was no great crime, but the investigating
authorities got wind of it and came along; low and behold Ch'ol-Hun started to
swear blind that he was the one that had done it, instead of Yom Sang-Un. They
arrested him. He made a simple problem into a complicated one, putting Yom Sang-Un
and the newspaper in an awkward position. It was incomprehensible. There was
that, and then he was asked to resign from the job."
"Did you think he
was crazy?"
My face grew flushed. My
voice grew louder, and Mister Kim looked surprised; his hand stopped rolling
the spool about.
"It was certain. And
when he was asked to resign, there was a report from the psychiatric hospital.
He was out of his mind."
I could understand him.
Why had Ch'ol-Hun taken the blame for Yom Sang-Un's action? He must have sensed
what that young woman would feel as she lay there, desperately sick, pursued by
the fear of death. If Yom Sang-Un was arrested, she would surely lie awake,
open-eyed, alone all that long night. He had felt that. He had considered that
you couldn't tear away Yom Sang-Un's hand from hers, clinging so to speak to
the last thread holding a dying life as it dangled above the void.
He had written nothing
about that. Because he must have been afraid. That time he had knelt with his
brother on the muddy ground by night in the pouring rain, begging his father to
forgive him, trying to help him; or when Yi Jin had panicked trying to avoid
the bullets and he had given up the sluice where he had taken cover, trying to
save him... every time he tried to do something for someone else, the result
had been a monstrous failure.
He must have been eager
to avoid going through that again. Human encounters were all mere chance,
irrational, a thick layer of misunderstanding, and meaningless, like billiard
balls freely rolling, bounding and rebounding: if he were forced to reach that
conclusion once more, in the case of Yom Sang-Un, the pain would be very hard
to endure.
For it happened after Kim
Ch'ol-Hun's meeting with Pastor Na and Shin-Hyei. It was a time when he was
advancing step by step towards self-confidence, towards a new self-confidence
that involved plunging deep into the thick of humanity.
I had a feeling that I
ought to get out of there before I began to hate Mister Kim. Outside the
coffee-shop, the paper had just been rushed off the press and there was the
sound of boy's voices shouting raucously. The uproar was spreading in waves,
farther and farther afield.
7.
Under pressure from my
publishers, I did not go out for a few days. I was determined to start writing.
Not that I had forgotten Kim Ch'ol-Hun. I kept reading his diaries in spare
moments. He had written about the sparrows perched on the wire fence and about
scraps of food in the sewers, the early morning wind, the monsoon rains, the
sound of the radio drifting in from next door, about laborers hanging from
ropes cleaning the windows of high buildings, about vegetable salesmen and
handcart men from the countryside--insignificant details in the world about
him. The subject matter was all about ordinary, common-or-garden things but
they were not the kind of factual observations that you can easily find
anywhere. Neither was it some kind of idealized fiction. Putting it briefly, it
was reality grown abstract; I had the impression that I was reading a poem or
looking at a picture by a surrealist.
What struck me was the
way reality grew increasingly abstract with every page of the diary, so that by
the time I reached his separation from Shin-Hyei I was finding it almost
impossible to understand what he was writing. Occasionally, though very rarely,
like when you wake from a dream or when fog lifts briefly, some vivid passages
would occur, realistically treated, but they soon turned back into fantasy.
Comparisons using "like" or "as" or "as if" faded
into metaphor and finally even the metaphors were lost in a crowd of evocations
that I could not interpret, they had become so utterly déformé.
There were innumerable
riddle-like phrases such as "At the footbridge the wheels were falling off
a horse cart," or "At my fingertips I could hear the sound of the
wind sweeping through the forests of Sarawak," or "the porthole was
smashed and salty sea water came pouring in so that it was impossible to go on
listening to the music," "I wonder why icy water troubles me."
Things concerning
Shin-Hyei were equally transformed into fantasy; there was even a phrase to the
effect that "I could no longer stand the sound of Shin-Hyei hacking away
at her flesh." Yet something even harder to understand was the way that,
from the day he and Shin-Hyei broke up until directly before he died, for
almost a week the diary was suddenly written in a perfectly ordinary, normal
narrative style. My head was aching so badly that I could no longer go on
reading his notes.
It was just then that I
received an unexpected phone call from Shin-Hyei. She spoke warmly, as if to an
old friend.
She said that in the
meantime she had become the object of new suspicions because of the camera and
inspector Park had been pestering her. Now everything had been cleared up and
she wanted to talk with an untroubled heart, she was not even frightened that I
might use it as the subject for a novel. That human voice, flowing from the
receiver like a portion of Ch'ol-Hun's notes, made me aware of a wall.
Shin-Hyei's voice flowing out from behind the wall....
I felt acutely the truth
of the commonplace saying that "time is the best medicine". Shin-Hyei
seemed to have cheered up. In order not to spoil her good humour, I agreed to
meet her in the Sky-lounge of Bando Hotel. The evening would be best. It would
be nice to talk looking down at the November city. We would meet at seven
o'clock.
Shin-Hyei had arrived
first and was sitting there. Dressed in a black leather jacket, Shin-Hyei
looked fresh, like someone out hunting in the hills. Her warm eyes, flickering
with black flames that looked as if they were about to melt something, were
unchanged. Shin-Hyei dispensed with the usual formal opening greetings about
the awful weather or my health and launched directly into what she wanted to say.
"Why are you so
interested in someone dead? Aren't the living more important?"
"Certainly. You're
alive, for a start. You're breathing; you can enjoy a drink; if you're bored
you can yawn. So let's be interested in Shin-Hyei."
I nimbly eluded
Shin-Hyei's question. She said she would have a Tom Collins. Because of the
sky-lounge's blue-tinted windows, Seoul had a mysterious air, rather like a
phosphorescent fish swimming in an aquarium. The evening was clear but chilly.
One of those moments when the hiss of steam in the radiators makes you very
snug.
"I feel as if I've
known you a very long time. The first time we met, it was as if I was being
reunited with someone I'd been separated from."
I felt a little uneasy,
but I adopted a familiar style of address. I had the feeling that it would be
alright.
"That's what he said
too. Only today I've decided not to talk about him. It's a lovely evening.
Sitting here with a drink, until a few minutes ago I could look down at Seoul,
all squeezed into that space out there... isn't it lovely?"
As she spoke, Shin-Hyei
boldly thrust her bosom forwards, as if she were practicing deep breathing.
Cars' headlights cast great shadowy stains across the asphalt and vanished into
the night.
"Shin-Hyei! We're
not talking about Ch'ol-Hun. He's not here any more. When we talk about him,
we're talking about ourselves. What you say is right, but this is for the sake
of the living. We're drinking a toast in the glass that Ch'ol-Hun drank from
and left behind. What I want to know is the reason why you and he separated,
and whether he could really have died because of you?"
A shadow once more fell
over Shin-Hyei's face. She laid a hand across her breast. She seemed to touch
the copper cross hanging at her neck.
"You know, that's
what I keep asking myself. At first I found him strange and likeable, with that
dreamy air of his. It was a time when I was tired of being surrounded by all
those men stinking of the tripe they'd been eating. Besides, father had just
died. People who are sad become a little unreal, don't they? He just called it
"inner light" and he was true to it. I made no secret of the fact
that I liked him too."
"Immediately after
your father died, then, you and he... in his lodgings..."
Shin-Hyei smiled sadly.
"You're having
scruples again. Yes, that was the time we started to live together. I wonder
why you have scruples about pronouncing the words 'live together'? Is it such a
foul expression? Perhaps it is if you write the word in Chinese characters; on
account of the character for "live" especially, it makes you think of
two wild beasts mingling their fur in a cave. Only we were no wolves or foxes.
A pair of little squirrels perhaps, if you like. Anyway, our cohabiting was a
far cry from anything like the life of animals up in the hills. "In a
cave" is right enough. It really was like being in a cave. But the animals
in the cave were those mythical ones called muoh in the Chinese legends,
that feed on people's dreams."
Waiters in white were
carefully threading their way between the tables, as if passing down hospital
corridors. The indoors temperature was agreeable.
"The sky-lounge gets
dreary in autumn."
I was not going to let
Shin-Hyei squirm her way out of trouble like that. I brought her attention back
from the hairy fern she was staring at.
"Were you a muoh
too?"
"At first. But from
the start I had my mind firmly fixed on realities, those that smell of lard and
dripping. That was where we differed. He was intent on beautifying his wounds
and exchanging this world for an imaginary one; I was not. My wounds have made
me more attentive to realities."
"From the moment you
so melodramatically lost your virginity."
I felt awkward saying
that, but I pretended to be drunk to reduce the effect.
"Don't ask about
precise details. Yet I can't deny the truth of what you say. At first I thought
I would die. As I lay in the train listening to the sound of the wheels, gazing
out at the wintery barley-field furrows speckled with snow, I thought of
falling out and dying. But just as I was about to throw myself out, I felt
something like a hot ball of fire rise into my throat. My whole being was
ablaze with a desire to live--it was quite different from regret at leaving
life behind--with a feeling that I had to live. Every time I have experienced
difficult moments, the same ball of fire that I wanted to extinguish comes
rising again. I don't know what it is. I can't say for sure. It was as if I was
mad, or like a great gale, I simply wanted to live, passionately, intensely.
Inside of me there was a fire, but the doors were firmly shut. Shut and locked
fast. It was on the verge of exploding, like underground lava in search of a
volcanic vent. I was trying to find someone who had the key that would open
those scalding doors. I felt sure that if once, just once, I could find someone
who would insert and turn the key, life would erupt and come bursting out, that
the fire imprisoned inside me would kindle everything around me as it flowed
freely outward."
The dark flames were
flickering brightly in her eyes.
"You mean that
Ch'ol-Hun didn't have that key either? That instead he only locked the door
more tightly shut and fanned the fires burning inside?"
Shin-Hyei looked
surprised and glad. She clapped her hands.
"Yes, yes, you've
got it exactly. That's exactly what it was. There came a moment when I couldn't
endure it any more. I had the feeling that if I didn't get away from him, I was
going to end up so badly burned that I would have no choice but to die of
it."
"Right! Now,
Shin-Hyei, won't you play the confession game with me?"
I sat silently, ready to
listen to what Shin-Hyei would say. I combined Ch'ol-Hun's incomplete and
blurred diary pages, full of enigmatic riddles, with Shin-Hyei's vivid story,
and a full picture of the life they had lived together began to appear clearly,
as a drawing appears on a piece of magic paper or rather, like a coloured photo
emerging from a process printer.
Shin-Hyei's words gave
bones to what was contained in Ch'ol-Hun's diary, while the contents of his
diary fleshed out the bare bones of Shin-Hyei's tale. You might equally say
that, if his diary was the negative film, Shin-Hyei's story was like a positive
print. Once that unrecognizable negative was projected onto the print paper,
the result seemed likely to be pretty close to the real picture. By combining
both their viewpoints, I was able to weave together a single story in my mind.
Ch'ol-Hun termed his life
together with Shin-Hyei "drifting" and called his upstairs rented
room their cabin. He remarked to Shin-Hyei, "We're drifting endlessly
onward. All the other passengers have already drowned; waking here in this
shattered cabin, we're the only two left, drifting onwards." Sometimes he
would remark, "We've been drifting for a month now," or if something
good happened he would say, "For the first time since we've been adrift an
island has appeared".
Ch'ol-Hun turned
everything into fantasies of that kind when he spoke. Their activities together
in bed he used to term "a purging of loneliness" or "a solitary
assault" or "a fleshly dialogue" while his leaving for work at
the newspaper office was called "going fishing".
"You just stay there
and enjoy the sea breeze. I'll go and catch the fish we need for our supper.
Won't you pass me my rod...?"
By his rod he meant, of
course, his camera.
At first Shin-Hyei had
enjoyed the game. She felt it was not like life at all, but like a play acted
by little school-children. They would lean out of the "porthole" and
feel utterly contented by a sunset or the spectacle of the filthy sea (the city
landscape) with debris floating on it.
Their life's daily course
was always the same. They played, not only "the confession game" but
also "chieftains"; it was always Ch'ol-Hun who invented their
pastimes.
He used to say that one
day their drifting craft would reach a new continent not marked on any chart.
He used to say that a phoenix would come flying up to them, or natives appear
wearing nothing but banana leaves. He explained that they would be a primordial
race, not recorded in the dictionary of human species, their thoughts and deeds
quite unlike those of the human beings we were familiar with.
One morning, in bright
weather with a rustling breeze blowing as on a May-time dawn, he declared that
they were arriving at the new continent. Ch'ol-Hun and Shin-Hyei would become
the "chieftains", the masters of the new kingdom. That was what he
meant by playing "chieftains".
"Will the noble
chieftain not go hunting?"
Shin-Hyei would ask and
he would reply:
"Not at all. The
people here do not destroy life by such things as hunting. This is what you
must say: Will the noble chieftain not go and feed the wild animals?"
Ch'ol-Hun was exactly
like a small child. When he played, is was not just a joke, it was for real.
Once Shin-Hyei asked:
"Master, when shall
we be going home again? This primitive life has grown boring. My head aches
from all the perfumed essences these natives rub themselves with."
At which Ch'ol-Hun looked
grave and gave vent to his anger.
"Shin-Hyei! Why,
you're bored with playing chieftains. You think it's just a silly game. Why
can't you understand? In this new continent we've discovered, the people know
everything a person is thinking without a word being spoken. They live
constantly hand in hand, like in a round dance. They practice no deceit or
disguise, no plotting or suspicion. No fences, no posts, no prisons, and
without ever reading anything like a newspaper they live in perfect knowledge
of one another. That's why our natives don't need to rub themselves with
spices. And in their land absolutely nothing ever happens to give anyone a
headache."
They spent most of their
days playing either the chieftain game or the confession game.
Gradually Shin-Hyei began
to feel uneasy. Ch'ol-Hun looked like someone sleep-walking or caught in a
daydream, and it frightened her. She didn't feel tense when they were playing
chieftains, but as soon as the confession game started she always felt gloomy.
The harder Ch'ol-Hun tried to be forgiving and reconciling, the more he
tormented himself in self-mortification and a nearly pathological desire to
justify himself.
"Shin-Hyei! Why on
earth do I do such things? On my way back to the office today, I knew perfectly
well that all I had in my wallet was a ten-Won note. Yet still, when it was
time to pay the fare, I took out that ten-Won note and held it up to the light
as if I was afraid I was taking out a hundred-Won note by mistake. I was just
play-acting. It was all because I felt guilty and thought that the other
passengers would laugh if they knew that I only had ten Won in my wallet.
Shin-Hyei! It was such a wretched performance. There was no one paying the
slightest attention to me; no one was going to laugh on realizing that I only
had ten Won. Yet there I was, acting as if my wallet was stuffed full of banknotes.
Why? I won't... Shin-Hyei. I won't do such a thing again."
As a general rule, all
his confession games followed the same pattern. If ever Shin-Hyei claimed that
she had nothing to confess, he would get cross and claim she was keeping some
secret from him. That was the way they lived together. Then the summer rainy
season came. There would be no sunlight for several days at a time. A sour
mustiness filled the room while the ceiling and walls dripped with humidity.
Heavy clouds, grey like rats' fur surged past the westward-looking window they
had been calling their porthole. Shin-Hyei felt bored and listless.
She was listening to the
splattering raindrops. She gazed down into the backyard, where as soon as one
raindrop had flowed into the drain another followed it. Suddenly a mass of
flames rose into her throat while her breast began to burn fiercely. It was the
first time it had happened since she met Ch'ol-Hun. From that day onwards,
Shin-Hyei was unable to quench the fire blazing inside her. The flames were
licking across her crimson tongue in search of a volcanic vent. But the door
was still firmly shut.
"Ah! I want to live.
Not in some childish fantasy; I want to live in a proper reality, where blood
comes flowing if I'm scratched."
Shin-Hyei examined the
picture by Géricault hanging on Ch'ol-Hun's wall. It was the same picture she
had always seen, yet somehow it looked quite different. It was a copy of the
"Wreck of the Méduse", that showed seamen clinging to the stump of a
broken mast and shouting. They were waving clothes they had stripped off
towards the darkness and storm. The waves were towering high and the heavens
were covered with clouds. In the face of those black waves that threatened to
engulf their bronze-hued flesh, she beheld those shouting faces!
Shin-Hyei felt like
throwing the window open and screaming into the rain-drenched space beyond:
"Rip open this door.
I want to live. I really want to live, to live."
Ch'ol-Hun had stopped
working. He never left her for a moment, but sat beside her all day long, like
a shadow. For that reason she felt all the more like shouting something. She
had tried to bring the fire to an eruption by "fleshly dialogue" but
at those moments Ch'ol-Hun always looked at her with a fearful expression in
his eyes. He would caress her physical body with a kind of animal's homing
instinct, but then he would abruptly kick at the nest and go flying up into the
empty expanses of sombre imagination.
That evening, rain was
still pouring down. When their "purging of loneliness" was over she
roused herself from her despondent lethargy. Ch'ol-Hun had fallen into a weary
doze.
"It's raining again!
Out in the soaking wet fields the mice must be shaking their fur... that's what
I'm like now."
Shin-Hyei had nothing to
do. She began to cut her toe-nails. Suddenly Ch'ol-Hun shouted aloud like
someone crying for help:
"Ah! Don't make that
sound. Stop cutting your nails."
He was blocking his ears
with his hands. 'He's in torment again.' Shin-Hyei knew that it only had to
rain for Ch'ol-Hun's sense of hearing to become extremely acute. She knew. She
knew that his brother had kept shouting his name out into the rain-filled night
as he was taken away. She stopped cutting her toenails. She tried to comfort
Ch'ol-Hun, who was sitting up on the bed gazing at her face. She was thinking,
'He can hear his rain-soaked brother's voice, that's what it is.' But he spoke
with a voice filled with regret as if he was playing confessions. It was not
what she had thought.
"You must be bored.
Listening to the rain and cutting your toenails... Only I beg you not to do
that. Else I'll end up despising you. I always considered your body to be like
a fish as you lay there beside me after we had purged our loneliness. I had the
impression that you were a different person. Fish drawn up on to dry land open
and close their gills in search of water, don't they? I felt there was
something fish-like about the way your shoulders move up and down as you
breath. I had been intending not to tell you this, Shin-Hyei; it was wrong of
me to let myself be reminded of a fish's flesh with all the scales gone. Will
you scold me? Seeing you cutting your nails only made the impression stronger.
Nails are a part of a person's body too, you see. Of course, since they have no
sense of feeling, a person can cut their nails without feeling any pain, as if
they were sharpening a pencil. But when you cut your nails with that cracking
sound, my mind feels pain as if bones were snapping, as if a nerve were being
stabbed with a needle. I can't stand that sound. Is it because of the way the
muggy night is fluttering lightly away? Forgive me, Shin-Hyei."
They both went out in
search of work. Ch'ol-Hun said he would contribute nude photos to foreign
photographic magazines, Shin-Hyei that she would go back to the dance studio
she had once frequented and get a job. For the first time, she began to feel
that she had been wrong to drop out of school, back in the days when she had
been working her way through a college course in physical education.
Things went on like that
until the autumn. Confession games and chieftain games grew infrequent. At the
same time, Ch'ol-Hun said he was writing a novel and talked a lot about it with
Shin-Hyei.
It had been "The
General's Beard".
"What do you think?
Suppose I finally let the main character grow a beard. No, it'll be better if
he ends up not growing one..."
Shin-Hyei made up her
mind to leave him any number of times.
The rainy season was long
past and it was late autumn. Shin-Hyei received a call from the police, to the
effect that Ch'ol-Hun was there and they had some questions to ask her.
Ch'ol-Hun was sitting on an ancient creaky chair, staring at the posters on the
police-station walls. Shin-Hyei reassured the officer in charge as to
Ch'ol-Hun's identity and answered a few questions.
"I assure you that
he's not mentally disturbed."
The officer knitted his
brow, which was of that narrow kind frequently found in people devoid of
imagination. Shin-Hyei felt like a primary school student's mother summoned to
meet her offspring's form-master. Ch'ol-Hun had gone to the kindergarten.
Shin-Hyei knew that sometimes, when he had nothing else to do, Ch'ol-un would
go to the kindergarten near the local ward office and watch the children
playing.
Only that day, Ch'ol-Hun
had made trouble. The children were playing a game out in the yard. It was a
game that you often see kindergarten children playing. The teacher stands in
the middle, clapping, while the children circle round in time to the rhythm.
Then One, Two, Three, Four... the teacher calls out a number and the children
run to form groups with that number in them. If it's Five, five to a group; if
its Three, three to a group; the children have to match off. It all has to be
done very quickly, in the time it takes to count to three. No matter how quick
they are, some of the children fail to match up in time and have to drop out.
The last child left is the winner. Ch'ol-Hun had been watching them.
The children were
shouting noisily as they ran about to form their groups. If a child tried to
join a group that was already complete, the children chased it away. Otherwise
the whole group would be "out". Ch'ol-Hun spotted one child that
could not find a place anywhere, running about among the completed groups.
The teacher called out:
"Anyone who can't fit in has to drop out. Off you go, now."
Ch'ol-Hun suddenly went
rushing up to the teacher.
"Why are you making
the children play that game?"
Ch'ol-Hun gave the
teacher a push. The watchman came running up and took him to the police box.
"What normal person
would ever do such a thing? Anyway, it looks as if he'll do dangerous things if
he goes out; as his wife, you must take good care of him."
She had taken him back
home.
I can't leave Ch'ol-Hun.
He's a thirty-year-old child; he's sick and needs someone to look after him.
Shin-Hyei wavered in her
resolve to escape from that cave, or rather from that aimlessly drifting ship's
cabin.
It was true. He needed
someone to look after him, a kind of substitute mother. Shin-Hyei had never
believed him when he kept repeating that he would "be obliged to go down
to the countryside and farm with Mother". "He'll just go on drifting.
He'll keep on and on drifting, clinging to a drifting hull. He's clinging to
me, after all." Shin-Hyei reflected that she could not let go of that
clinging hand.
Thereupon the fateful day
arrived. After a long interval, Ch'ol-Hun suggested they play the confession
game. It was the evening before they split up. Winter was coming. The window
was rattling and the wind was blowing with a whistling noise. They had for the
first time done some shopping that day. Shin-Hyei had found a job in that
estate agents office and on the first day had taken an advance on her wages, as
they were going to have to buy a coal-briquette stove. It was only a vulgar
stove, but since they had been living together it was the first purchase they
had made.
They lit the stove, then
basked in its warmth, feeling as if they were camping up in a wintery mountain
refuge. They listened to the wind. Suddenly Ch'ol-Hun proposed that they play
confessions. He took his turn first.
"Shin-Hyei, do you
realize that my camera's gone? I gave it to the model who poses for my nude
photos. I've decided not to take any more pictures."
For the first time,
sitting there in front of him listening to his confession, Shin-Hyei was
shocked.
"As she was leaving
the studio she said she was going to have a cup of tea and I went with her.
What she told me touched me deeply. She's originally from a wealthy family and
until last year she had a private car to take her to school. Only then there was the coup, her
father was put in prison for political reasons. She's an art student, that's
why she took up nude modelling to earn her school fees. How do you think she
felt when she first took off her clothes in front of people? You know how even
a fallen woman hates letting any man see her body. And she had to take off her
clothes and reveal her pale flesh in broad daylight. To think that she does it
to earn a living; it's enough to make you weep. She told me, 'It was the
reverse; for me it was the other way round. Before ever knowing a man, I lost
all sense of shame about my body'. She clenched her teeth and spoke with
conviction. Now I'm a corpse. A breathing corpse, or if not that, some kind of
object. Because my hands, my breasts, my limbs, have all lost their original
purpose. The mouth is for eating and talking; the breast for breathing; the
legs for walking; the hands for smoothing the hair or carrying a handbag; but a
model only uses those things for show, so much useless flesh, nothing but a
faint shadow, a few curves, some bumps, a line, just an outline, a volume; it's
with thoughts like those that she removed her clothing item by item and climbed
up to pose on the modelling stand... The day we met, it was her mother's
birthday. Her mother had been selling off her personal trinkets as if she had
no other goal in life. Right on down to the last one, her wedding ring. On
learning of that, she asked the jeweller not to sell it. She told me that she
wanted to buy it back and take it home as her birthday present. Only she had no money..."
Ch'ol-Hun had given her
his camera. He stopped and asked Shin-Hyei to confess something too. He always
used to make an angry scene if she said she had nothing to confess. Shin-Hyei
made up her mind; she began to confess. For the one and only time, she really
felt disgusted with Ch'ol-Hun.
"I'm fed up with it.
I'm making my last confession. If you think I'm jealous of what you did for
that girl, you're making a big mistake. It's something I decided a long time
back, right back in the summer rains. I'm sick and tired of chieftain games and
confession games; even imagining that novel sickens me now. This is no
"Doll's House" it's a "House of Fables" or a "Hollow
Room". I've got to get out of here. You're all the time talking about
wounds, wounds... wounds... but what about all the rest, the parts that haven't
got wounded? There's a lot more of them, and they're more important. Even if
your whole being is wounded, it's nothing compared with the whole of life. I've
decided to move out of this room tomorrow."
Ch'ol-Hun took it for
jealousy over the model. He simply kept begging her not to misunderstand.
"You're nothing but
a ruined aristocrat."
Shin-Hyei said his sympathy
was extravagant.
The next morning,
Shin-Hyei was getting her things together. Ch'ol-Hun made no attempt to
dissuade her; he just stood there blankly and watched her pack.
"Why don't you try
to dissuade me?" Shin-Hyei asked.
"You really meant
it... but I reckon you'd better go. I realized that while you were packing...
that we're just like everybody else, I mean. I used to think that I was
experiencing a miracle, two bodies becoming one. We spent a whole six months
together. Yet watching you pack, I see that your things and my things are
strictly and systematically distinct, that they have been here from the very
start as different people's things. Watching you bundling up your luggage, I
realized that your things and mine were perfectly unmingled and could be
separated remarkably easily. Now this toothbrush is yours. This mirror, too.
This sock is mine, and this book is mine, this fountain-pen is yours..."
Ch'ol-Hun spoke as if
screaming in despair. Still watching, as Shin-Hyei put her seamless stockings
into her suitcase, he went on:
"And those socks;
from the very beginning, the unique things that I always saw as belonging to
someone else were your socks. Do you know what I used to be looking at when you
got into my bed? Those socks, fluttering down on the floor like a cast-off
skin. Another person's things... that's what I used to murmur to myself as I
looked at them."
Shin-Hyei did up her bag,
sat on the bed and hugged Ch'ol-Hun.
"We're people who
were destined to part some day. Write your novel. That way you can make your
imaginary world come true; you'll be more at ease. I'm just one of those people
with their too solid flesh, simply another mammal, nothing more; I don't know
how to metamorphose like a silkworm. It's true, you have to write your novel.
So I'll listen one last time. How does your novel end? I suppose the hero
decides not to grow a beard?"
Ch'ol-Hun was gently
biting his lip.
"Alright! I'll write
my novel. This once I won't repeat the old tragedy where helping somebody
results in their getting hurt. Because so far all the people I've liked have
ended up getting done in! I can't possibly want you to end up like that. I've
been sweating over the question of how "The General's Beard" ends for
ages now. But watching you leave, I've got an idea that I think I can
use."
"Won't you tell
me?" Shin-Hyei listened eagerly.
Ch'ol-Hun began to speak:
"'The General's Beard' ends one rainy summer's day..."
Drizzle was falling
through the foggy air. He was crossing the road by an overpass. A beetle, a
squashed black beetle was dying there, floating like a scrap of fluff. He
walked on, avoiding the beetle. Beards, rain-soaked beards were pursuing him.
He tried turning into a dark alley-way, escaping from the beards. But now a
black jeep, a black jeep with its number-plates covered, had him in its
headlights and was hurtling after him.
The driver's face was
covered by a general's beard. He tried to escape. But the jeep followed him,
making a sharp turn into the alley. He lifted a hand, trying to escape from the
dazzling headlights. He heard a noise. There was a screaming of brakes. He was
falling, struck by a mass of beards. It was raining. Thick fog. The jeep's
headlights vanished into the night.
He turned his head
towards the vanishing lights.
"I'm dying because
of a beard. I've been murdered. Ah--the last man not to grow a beard is dying.
I am the one person who did not change, the unique person to preserve intact
the human face as it was before beards were worn. But they will say it was a
traffic accident. A chance traffic accident."
He was dying. No one was
watching over his body. He saw
another layer of darkness covering the night. In that darkness kindergarten
children were walking toward him; it was as if he was watching a silent film.
He could hear nothing,
yet they seemed to be singing and playing some kind of game as they approached
him. All the children were wearing beards, general's beards, as if they were
acting in a school play. He could feel those children with their beards drawing
closer, their gestures soundless as in an old silent film. He died.
After she had heard the
end of the novel, Shin-Hyei stood up. Outside, winter was coming. Carrying her
suitcase, she emerged from the narrow alley. She hurried out of the alley,
littered with the frozen bodies of rats. Ch'ol-Hun must be looking out after me
from the porthole. He's drifting on alone now.
Shin-Hyei laughed sadly.
She walked on towards the city streets with their stench of tripe, footsteps
clattering like so many typewriters, drunks staggering, cars racing.
"Do you think he
died because of me?"
Shin-Hyei lifted the red
cherry from her Tom Collins and placed it in her mouth, than stared into my
face. She looked anxious.
"I told inspector
Park that I would find out the cause of his death. And yet... I'm not sure.
There's no easy explanation. There's something vaguely there but I can't
explain it. Now it's all over."
I meant it. I could
plainly call to mind the face of that person called Ch'ol-Hun; I could feel I
had been his closest friend; but I had no right to speak about his death.
"A sky-lounge in
winter is a gloomy place."
Shin-Hyei glanced around.
It was time to go. We were the only people left, surrounded by empty chairs.
8.
I finally managed to
finish my manuscript for the publishers. It was later than promised, but at
last I was free to leave Savannah Hotel. It was December 23rd, tomorrow would
be Christmas Eve. I reflected that I ought to buy presents for my relatives
down in the country. I had no further curiosity concerning Kim Ch'ol-Hun. My
meeting a few days previously with the psychiatrist had been my last effort in
the attempt to discover the reasons for Kim Ch'ol-Hun's death. Doctor Yun had
spoken of "the Seventh Veil".
"There's the seventh
veil. There was a film about it, you remember. Everyone is wearing seven
different veils as they go about their lives surrounded by other people. We
live solidly disguised. Then as we grow close to someone else, the veils are
stripped off one after another. But we can never remove more than the fifth
veil. There remains the veil that we can only remove when we are alone with
ourselves, and the veil that we ourselves do not know. Removing the seventh
veil, that veil of the heart, is the task of the psychoanalyst. You are making
a big mistake if you think that you can uncover the reason for someone's death
by reading their diary or listening to the things they say. To find out the
reasons for a person's death, you have to look into their unconscious mind, the
gulf of the unconscious that they too knew nothing of, the seventh veil; only
then is an explanation possible."
According to Doctor Yun,
Ch'ol-Hun was suffering from an Oedipus complex. That was clear just from his
novel about "The General's Beard". Analyzed according to the
psychology of the unconscious, the beard must represent the father, meaning
authority. The fact that he was unable to weep when his father died should also
be seen as a sign of the Oedipus Complex.
He explained how, once he
was deprived of that controlling power, a split personality had developed;
Shin-Hyei had been a substitute mother for him but when he heard that his real
mother was coming up from the countryside, a conflict had arisen between the
two images. He felt certain that in his unconscious Ch'ol-Hun had so to speak
killed himself by fits and starts...
I felt no wish to hear
anything more from Doctor Yun. It might be as he said. But could there really
be a formula which allowed you to explain someone's death as easily as solving
a mathematical problem? I felt sorry for Doctor Yun. His was yet another
viewpoint, merely adding one more complication.
I went out into the
street. Santa Claus and his reindeer and white snow made of cotton-wool had a
soothing effect. Poinsettias and cyclamens were blossoming behind greenhouse-like
shop windows. Wave after wave of people bearing armfuls of gaily wrapped
Christmas presents came flooding by. From the record shops came bellowing the
sound of Christmas carols.
I turned into the streets
around Myong-dong. There I suddenly glimpsed inspector Park, wearing a ski-hat.
He seemed glad to see me. He said that the Christmas season was always a busy
one with the need for special anti-crime measures; yet he looked perfectly
relaxed.
We went into a little
curb-side grog-house, although it was still early.
"How's it going with
the camera? Will you soon be arresting the criminal?"
I spoke with a pleasant
sense of provocation. Inspector Park did not know what had happened to the
camera, while I did. I felt the truly diabolical pleasure there can be in
keeping a secret from another person.
"No problem. The
time limit on prosecution has a long time to run yet. There's still almost five
years. I'll get the criminal in the end; then I'll buy you another drink."
As time went by, the bar
grew noisier. There were some who were already at the rowdy stage and were
quarrelling in loud tones:
"No, hold on
there... look... you've got it wrong, old friend. I ask you now: ish it
posshible? Ol'pal... you've got it all wrong."
"And have you found
the reason for his death? Have you caught the criminal responsible for his
suicide? The one you said we would never be able to lock up? Why did he kill
himself? For what reason? Why did he die? Because he'd been fired? Because he'd been jilted? Because he
was tired of living? Because he was crazy? Or because he couldn't get his novel
written?"
Inspector Park laughed.
He was beginning to get drunk. I was not feeling intoxicated.
"Because you have
this time limit on prosecution, at least once the date is past you can relax.
Not that anyone ever keeps waiting that long anyway, surely? Whereas my
investigation can never be complete, not until the day I die and not even then,
not until my sons die and my sons' sons in the time to come. There is no time
limit to the search for the reasons of a suicide."
Inspector Park flicked on
his gas-lighter and applied the flame to my cigarette. The cigarette I was
smoking had gone out.
"Because I don't
know him. Why, I couldn't even remember his name. It was only when you said he
had been a photographer for that newspaper that I recognized him! So how can I
know anything about his death? He died his own death. After all, nobody can
explain another person's death. Each one of us is the only person who knows
about their own death. I was wrong to think that I could explain another
person's death. I have no right to know. But now I think of it, isn't tomorrow
the day Jesus was born? You have to rejoice. People have to lift their glasses
high. Won't you drink a toast? Not to death but to life... to someone being
born, to that Birth. Here. Cheers! to life being born... to the birth of Jesus
and to our own kids' birth."
All of a sudden,
drunkenness overwhelmed me. I wanted to go on and on chattering. I felt like
talking about anything and everything
with inspector Park for a long, long time. I was so drunk that I felt inclined
to recite in a loud voice some lines
from that poem by Bishop King:
Stay for me there; I will not fail
To meet thee in that hollow vale.
And think not much of my delay;
I am already on the way.
Meanwhile the loudspeaker
on the pavement in front of the bakery across the street was bellowing out a
Christmas song:
"Tonight old Santa Claus
With his white hair, white beard,
Is coming on the wings of the
wind."
Inside my head, other lines from
from Bishop King's poem overlapped with that:
And follow thee with all the speed
Desire can make, or sorrows breed.
Each minute is a short degree,
And every hour a step towards thee.
"Wearing his bright
red hat,
His scarlet cloak wound
round about him,
Through a cold land's
snow he comes."
At night when I betake to rest,
Next morn I rise nearer my west
Of life, almost by eight hours'
sail.
Than when sleep breathed his drowsy
gale.
But hark! my pulse like a soft drum
Beats my approach...
I heard the sound of our
glasses striking together, as I sank into the surrounding uproar.