The Storyteller’s Tale
Lee Seung-U
Translated by Brother Anthony of Taizé
Published in Koreana: Korean Art
& Culture (The Korea Foundation) Vol. 23, No.3 Autumn 2010 pages 85 - 95 (See Introduction)
1
What happens is always the same, or at least similar. Such is life. In
what ways is someone different really different? In those days,
carefully scrutinizing some five free ad-magazines and two free
newspapers, circling or underlining things then phoning to check
whether the information published there was correct, was my main daily
job. Not an ideal job, for sure, but it’s tough to find a job that
suits you. A series of experiences soon taught me that the more
enticing something looks at first glance, the more careful you should
be. Most available jobs were salesmen and low-level salesclerks who are
obliged to get rid of hard-to-sell products using whatever feeble
methods they can find. For example, you have to ignore any ad that
promises five million a month. Likewise anything inviting applications
as director-general or joint-investor. Mornings I would spend operating
the vacuum cleaner and the washing machine; I don’t know where all the
dust comes from, despite sweeping and dusting every day, and since you
can’t spend a whole day like that, in the afternoon I was obliged to go
shopping for something to eat that evening. The wife usually came in
after seven. Twice a week on average she would work overtime. On those
days she came home after midnight, usually stinking of drink, and out
of some kind of mean-spiritedness she never warned me so I could make
less effort preparing supper. Perhaps she never told me because I never
asked, that’s true, but I had no way of knowing if that was the real
reason why she never told me. Just like most working men who come home
in the evening after a day at work, I would relax, after a day spent
bustling about at home, and watch television. My evening hours were
rich and diversified like a well-filled meal table, with drama and news
and comedy shows. I sometimes got the impression that I spent the whole
day washing and cleaning and preparing food just in order to watch the
dramas and the comedy shows.
That kind of daily routine can be a bit boring but,
once you get used to it, you can create a sort of rhythm in the
monotony (by reading the magazines in a certain order, for example, or
deciding just when to go shopping), once you have learned how to enjoy
such things quietly. If I spend several hours with my eyes fixed on the
small print of the magazines, I vaguely begin to sense that my mind has
been tamed by them and is moving automatically; at such times I feel a
bit befuddled, rather like after taking some strong cold-cure, and my
nerves gradually relax, I long to let my consciousness go slipping away
stealthily; a bit odd, at least, not too bad, I reckon. I might say
it’s as though, while things are being used, they draw the user into
their own order. Strange, isn’t it? I lived like that for fifteen
months. What does that figure of fifteen suggest? Do you wonder? You
can guess, I reckon, you’d probably be right. It means that until
fifteen months previously I too used to go out to work. It’s no simple
matter, losing your job, as anyone knows who’s been through it. You may
pretend it doesn’t matter, explain one way or another why it doesn't
matter, but in the end you can’t say it doesn’t matter. And even if you
do, so what? A sentimental poet of the 1950s once said, “Human life is
not lonely, and it’s as vulgar as a magazine cover.” I think he also
realized that life isn't vulgar because it’s like a magazine cover, but
that rather a magazine cover is vulgar because it’s like life. I have
just begun to understand that a little . . . . that life in the midst
of loneliness can never be vulgar. Just as a magazine cover cannot be
lonely, so life cannot not be vulgar.
I got accustomed to it, and it quickly became part
of my daily life, but then something happened, something that obliged
me to interrupt my dull-as-ditchwater routine. I’m going to tell you
about it, so just listen. It must have been about three in the
afternoon. A phone call suddenly came from my wife, who had gone out
early that morning. By that time my nerves had grown quite flabby from
the hormones emanating from the words in the magazines. A woman's voice
said I must come out quickly, at once. I’m sorry to say that at first I
did not recognize it as my wife’s voice. I reckoned it was either a
wrong number or a crank call, and quietly hung up without saying a
word. It was a method my wife had taught me. If you’re home during the
daytime, as anyone who has been there knows, you get all kinds of odd
telephones calls. The most common is from real estate agencies, saying
they have reliable news of a redevelopment area so I should trust them
and invest. Sometimes a youthful sounding woman’s voice says she wants
to be my sweetheart. Nowadays telephone companies keep calling,
insisting I should transfer my number. My wife recommended that if I
got any such calls I should say nothing and simply replace the receiver
quietly. Among her friends there were people who had replied in the
wrong way, and after that had been pestered day and night until they
changed their phone number or even moved house. It was not so much on
account of my wife’s advice as because I did not want the ordered, dull
routine of my daily life to be disturbed that I tended to hang up
immediately on any caller I did not recognize. That was usually the end
of the matter. But this time it was different. The telephone rang
again. I thought that the same person as before had dialed the same
wrong number or was playing the same game and just let it ring while I
concentrated on scrutinizing the innumerable, amazingly simple
combinations of words in the magazines spread out over the floor. But
the phone did not seem inclined to stop as it normally did, rather it
seemed to be becoming more insistent. Thinking that it sounded like the
cicadas whose cries made midsummer days feel even hotter and more
irksome, I moved lazily and brought the receiver to my ear. It’s rather
childish but I was about to whisper in a low voice, This is the
crematorium. But even before the receiver had reached my ear, the same
voice as before came shooting out like bullets flying: “What are you
doing? Why did you hang up without saying anything?” The voice was so
determined and full of conviction that I let drop the joke I had
prepared. I could not simply put the phone down again, either. I racked
my brains, wondering who on earth this woman might be, with her rather
rapid, husky, nervy voice. It was no good, I could not put a face to
it. I had no choice but to cautiously ask who she was. “You mean you
don’t recognize the voice of the wife you share a house with? For
goodness’ sake!” Now it sounded like her voice. “Is that you, dear?” I
asked in a slightly dispirited voice. She went yacking on and on: “How
could you possibly forget the voice of your wife? I only went out this
morning? For heaven’s sake, it’s living proof of how rarely you think
of me; really, it’s too bad.” I cannot really say if I rarely think of
her or not, not straight off, but I could not agree that the fact of
failing to instantly recognize her voice on the phone was in itself
living proof of how rarely I think of her. If you’re going to quibble,
it wasn’t even my fault. In all that time she had never once phoned me
during the daytime hours I spent at home, so from the start she was
eliminated from the list of people who might possibly be calling. Using
a tone suggesting that she would have a lot more to say about the topic
but since the matter was urgent she was putting that off for later, she
urged me to come out at once. I did not know what was the matter, but
it seemed to be really urgent. In a slightly intimidated voice I asked,
“Where? Why?” “Where? My office, of course. No, wait, there’s no need
for you to come here, you can go straight there. Note down the
address.” What was she talking about, I asked, annoyed on seeing the
tidy order of my dull-as-ditchwater daily life beginning to twist out
of shape. “Look, it’s a very important client of ours. We have to keep
him happy. The usual narrator’s sick. She still meant to come out but
she really can’t, she’s got a raging fever, she says. Taking medicine
has had no effect. There’s a really bad cold going around, you know.
None of the other narrators is available. I would go if I could but I
have an appointment at the same time. I’ve arranged to meet the person
in charge of Silvertown, we might be going to sign the contract, I
can’t not go. Anyway, you’ll have to take over as narrator just for
today. It’s not difficult. I’ll send you the materials in a file,
together with the customer profile and a map. Open your email now.
There’s still an hour and a half, so you can do it if you hurry. You’ll
have to dress neatly. You’d best wear a suit with a tie. Comb your hair
and shave, too. OK?”
2
My wife’s declaration that she was going to start working came some
three years after she began attending lectures about writing fiction
organized by a literary association, and at that time I had been
loafing around for fifteen months after losing my job overnight when
the team I was in was abolished during a restructuring at the office
undertaken, they said, in response to the economic downturn and changes
in industrial structures. She gave as the reason that, even if she went
on attending, she had no hope of ever becoming a novelist, but I have
no way of knowing if that was true, and it’s hard for me to express any
opinion since I never had a chance of seeing anything she had written.
It was not that I did not ask her to show me her work. I expressed that
degree of interest. But my wife always put it off: Later, later. It was
not a matter of, “What does someone like you know about novels?” But
still it made me feel sad inside. It is certainly true that, even if I
had read what she had written, I was not qualified to judge whether or
not she had any hope of becoming a novelist. It does not really matter
whether she had any such hopes or not. It might perhaps have been the
reason why she decided to stop studying novel-writing, but it could
never explain why she made up her mind to go out to work. Every time
she looked at our credit-line bank book and sighed, saying, “Somebody
will have to earn some money,” there was nothing I could say.
At first I thought she was uttering some kind of
complaint, simply because it’s hard living like that. But it was not
that. There was no pondering over where to set up an office, she never
went out to ask anyone’s advice, nothing upset the usual atmosphere. I
felt anxious, ignored, until at last, feeling sad, I finally asked,
“What kind of work are you doing.” At which she replied in a flash, as
though she had been waiting for the question, that she had an idea.
After a slight pause, she asked, “Have you ever heard of ‘jeon-gi-su’?”
Supper had been cleared away and we were vacantly watching the evening
news. “Jeon-gi-su? What’s that? An abbreviation of something to do with
electricity (jeon-gi)?” I replied casually and at once my wife, smiling
brightly with an “I knew it” expression, started to explain the word.
She spoke smoothly and without hesitation as though she had been
preparing for my question and had memorized everything. She seemed
enthusiastic. “In the Joseon era, there used to be people who would
read aloud professionally from story books at the roadside where many
people passed. There’s a record of it in a book called the Autumn Room
Anthology written by a scholar, Jo Su-sam, early in the 19th century.
Around the time of the Japanese invasion of the 1590s, Chinese romances
such as the Romance of the Three Kingdoms and Water Margin or Outlaws
of the Marsh reached Korea, and their influence provoked an increased
interest in novels and stories. As a result, in the later Joseon period
professional story-readers appeared on the streets of Seoul; they
received a regular income to read aloud from novels or tell ancient
stories. Those people were called Jeon-gi-su (Storytellers).”
Such was her explanation. Those people would set themselves up in a
place where there were many people passing, and mostly read from
ancient Korean story books such as The Tale of So Dae-seong, The Tale
of Sukhyang, The Tale of Simcheong, or The Tale of Seol In-gui. All of
that came, of course, from the Autumn Room Anthology. Beginning with
the start of the month, performances were held on the first day beneath
the First Bridge, on the second day beneath the Second Bridge, on the
third day in front of Inhyeon Palace, on the fourth day at the entrance
to Gyo-dong, on the fifth day at the entrance to Daesa-dong, on the
sixth day in front of the Bell Pavilion, then on the seventh day the
order would be reversed, up and down, throughout the month, starting
again the following month. “In those days, you might call it a kind of
new profession. There were no proper pastimes and the simple folk of
those times had no way of enjoying any leisure, so that listening to
the storytellers must have been one of their rare moments of pleasure.
So of course they were immensely popular. They mostly lived outside the
eastern gate, and earned a meager living from the coins tossed to them
by the audience, but that was not all, of course. Playboys from rich
families, or older women with nothing to do, as well as girls from
gisaeng houses must surely have provided extra support. What do you
think? Fun, isn’t it?” This was the first time I had heard that people
with such a job had existed in the Joseon period, but since I could not
begin to see what she found so thrilling about it, suspicion and stress
mixing half and half. I simply asked, “So what?” “Presumably people
like that vanished once literacy rates rose and book distribution
increased. Instead of listening they just read. But what about today?
Is there nobody in need of a story-teller?” “What, are you saying
you’re going to read to people as a job?” I asked, displaying some
surprise. I also think I wanted to express in that way my
disappointment to my wife, who had told me it was what she called a new
business idea. My wife’s notions of business were less than
satisfactory, but I was unhappy with myself for not being worried by
that. I tried not to provoke complicated emotions by adding, “I
understand what you are saying, but surely there’s too great a
difference between the Joseon era when the storytellers were active and
today? First of all, in those time only a limited number of people
could read, and there were very few things available to read. And as
you mentioned, there were no proper pastimes and people had no way of
enjoying any leisure. Story-tellers were bound to be popular in such a
context. Everything is so completely different now. There’s nobody
who’s unable to read, we’re flooded with books, and despite that, since
we’re flooded with so many even more amusing and entertaining things,
we’re in a situation where nobody pays any attention to them. Of
course, there must be people who are unable to read books even though
they would like to. I’m not sure how many they might be, but so far as
I know lots of audio-books have come onto the market for people like
that.”
Although she agreed in part with my opinion, my wife
did not change her mind. She reckoned that either I was taking no
notice of my contemporaries’ profound solitude and alienation or I was
underestimating them. “The number of people living isolated in their
own little inner space is surely greater than the number of illiterate
people in the Joseon era, or at least it’s no less. I mean all those
poor souls who confine themselves in a dark emptiness, like a black
hole, unable to expose their faces to the world’s bright light because
of fear and anxiety. Inside, they long desperately to communicate, but
they are incapable of expressing that desire outwardly, that is another
characteristic of such people. They hope that their isolation and
emptiness will be dissolved in some hitherto unseen way, through some
kind of extremely private, secret process in which their isolation and
emptiness are not advertised. They do not want the fact they they are
isolated individuals to be revealed, let alone the fact that they are
yearning for communication.” If I did not go on quarreling, it was not
because I agreed with her. Rather, for some reason, I was feeling
reluctant to hear anything more and it was only after a little more
time had passed that I realized that my reluctance was somehow related
to the liking for my inner state of isolation that had begun to grow
within me. In fact, my dull-as-ditchwater, well-ordered daily life was
no different from a black hole-like emptiness.
My wife got together with an old university friend
who had earned a fair amount tutoring students for the university
entrance exam, set up a site with the appropriate name of “Seoul,
21st-century Storytellers,” and went into the story-telling business in
earnest. When she handed me her business card, “Seoul, 21st-century
Storytellers, Lee Yeong-nan, Head of Planning,” her expression was a
mixture of excitement and pride. This storytelling business, that
proclaimed itself to be a visiting program with home-study materials,
began, as you may know, with a membership system, recruiting and
educating people known as narrators who would read books or tell
stories, and sending them out to members. It’s still the same now, the
principle being that a suitable book should be chosen in consultation.
But there were people who decided on a title for themselves. There were
those who asked for a digested version of a specific book, while others
asked to be read a newspaper or magazine, or to be told an entertaining
story. Occasionally there was a request to be read to over the
telephone instead of visiting. For myself, it was rather unexpected to
discover just how many people wanted other people’s help to read a book
or hear a story. As I saw how, slowly but surely, the number of members
increased, I was forced to accept that my wife’s judgment had been
correct. There were a lot of people who offered to be narrators,
perhaps because they had trouble finding a job. The clients’ levels and
tastes varied from person to person so that the books to be read were
very varied, requiring a considerable intellectual capacity, besides
which the voice had to be sufficiently effective. Of course, selecting
narrators was particularly complicated. Perhaps because it was
important to choose a text that corresponded to the character of the
job, the role of the narrator and the disposition of the client,
training sessions and meetings often seemed to be required. As time
passed, my wife came home increasingly late and it seemed inevitable
that she no longer bothered with housework. My wife never actually said
as much, but I had the impression that she hoped I would stop looking
for a job. From the start she indicated that she took it for granted
that I would stay home and look after the housework. That was simply
the way things were, I’m not saying I was dissatisfied.
3
Male, 59. Character: reserved and meditative. Music-lover (almost
always wears earphones). Prefers aphoristic essays or works of a
religious nature. Khalil Gibran’s “The Prophet,” Max Picard’s “The
World of Silence,” Aurelius’s “Meditations,” the Bible’s “Proverbs” or
“Ecclesiastes.” Sometimes asks to go walking together.
My first client, summed up in a few words, seemed to be someone of
rather reclusive tastes. Even considering that a reclusive character is
inherent in this manner of providing information, still the contents
were sufficient to make me feel curious, surely? As my wife had
requested, I washed, shaved, combed my hair and put on a suit. I read
the materials my wife had sent while I was in the subway. Together with
the basic information on the client, whose name was Han Sang-cheol,
there was a file with the text I was to read. It contained an extract
from Tolstoy’s “On Life” typed in a 12-point font. I skimmed through it
absent-mindedly, thinking it was not very interesting. The thought that
the person who wanted this boring piece of writing might well prove to
be not very interesting made me feel depressed. That it was boring
emerged clearly from the table of contents to the recommended book. I
thought about phoning to bother my wife by asking how long I had to
spend with this fellow but then I felt I was being pathetic and gave up
the idea.
The man was living in a rural villa not far outside Seoul, surrounded
by poplars and willows so that it was not easy to find the entrance.
Unable to find the way in, I passed by it several times. The tall,
leafy trees looked like guardsmen. But of course there was no way of
knowing what it was the trees were guarding. It simply served to
confirm a little more my previous image of a man with reclusive tastes.
I was welcomed by a solidly-built woman in her mid-fifties, her face
pale, her attitude restrained. Yet she did not look like the owner of
the house. You find people like that. A face gentle yet expressionless.
A warm yet dull voice . . . . someone who has been working in a house
so long that she seems to have become part of it. Someone who seems to
know precisely about every aspect of the house. Owners are not like
that. An owner does not look like part of the house, neither do they
look as though they know precisely about every aspect of the house.
Even when in fact they do. As I pointed at the file and introduced
myself as the narrator sent by “Seoul, 21st-century Storytellers,” I
felt rather tense, although I was not lying. I suppose it was a kind of
inferiority complex. “The regular narrator is sick and so I’ve come
instead, I don’t know if you’ve been informed.” I mumbled on,
scratching the back of my head as if embarrassed. My hand kept rising
toward the unaccustomed tie I had put on. The woman, seemingly not
interested in any such feelings of mine, led me to a chair in the
middle of the garden and told me to wait there.
I stood awkwardly in front of the chair and examined
the house. Broad-leaved trees surrounded it almost entirely, giving the
impression it was cut off from the world outside. The building seemed
to be quite old, I could see cracks here and there and places where the
paint had flaked off. The garden was quite spacious but it did not give
the impression of being well maintained. Overgrown branches and
irregular patches in the lawn spoiled the effect. A rectangular wooden
table and five wooden chairs had been set up and I had just sat down
when I heard someone approaching. I quickly rose again. The woman who
had welcomed me before had come out pushing a wheelchair. My eyes
turned naturally to the person sitting in the wheelchair. It held an
elderly man whose skinny frame and small stature contrasted with those
of the woman. Deep wrinkles and unfocussed eyes, a lack of expression
suggesting a complete loss of interest in the world, reminded me of a
mask while his thin body with no sign of vitality left me with the
feeling that it was like a dry log. If this man was indeed the music
lover with a taciturn, meditative personality whom I was supposed to
read to, his age ought to be fifty-nine. That was what was written
down. But leaving aside the taciturn, meditative personality, the term
music-lover did not appear to suit him at all. Even more impossible to
believe was the age of fifty-nine. On his ravaged, old face the shadow
of death lay more thickly than shades of life. As for his expression,
there was one, of course, but there was no guessing what his vacant
stare was directed at, and it made my flesh creep. You might even go so
far as to imagine he had emerged from a graveyard. I doubted if this
man was a fifty-nine year old music lover with a taciturn, meditative
personality, but I had no reason to suppose he was not Han Sang-cheol.
The woman brought the man to me, bowed her head in
greeting and withdrew, and at that moment I had the impression that she
was being relieved of an impossible load. Feeling burdened by the
unaccustomed role that had been thrust upon me, I again muttered that I
had come instead because the usual narrator was unwell. I saw the old
man’s eyelids slowly open then equally slowly close again. Perhaps on
account of the speed, he looked extremely bored. I also saw his fingers
twitch slightly as they lay on the armrests of the wheelchair. For some
reason I felt that looking at his fingers would be impolite and averted
my gaze. He had earphones in his ears (at first I had thought it was a
hearing aid) that seemed to be connected to the small cassette player
he had on his lap. Music after asking someone to come and read? The
thought struck me that it would not do, but I felt no desire to ask him
to remove the earphones. I was thinking that as far as I was concerned,
all I had to do was read Tolstoy’s “On Life,” whether he was listening
or not. Besides, I found myself expecting him to understand better if
he listened with music in the background. In which case there was no
reason for me to complain that it wouldn’t do. I wished he would say
something, but he gave no instructions. After fumbling with my tie and
clearing my throat, I sat down on the chair facing him. Then I began to
read the prepared text from “On Life.”
Man lives only for his own happiness,
for his own good. If he does not feel a desire for his own welfare he
no longer feels himself to be alive. Man cannot think of life without a
wish for his own welfare.
As I read, from time time to time I observed the old man. There was no
change in his expression. There was no knowing if he was listening
attentively or not, and I felt worried. At a given moment I even began
to wonder if he could hear my voice. Not whether he was listening to my
voice but whether he might not be so deaf that he could not hear
anything. If that was the case, what on earth did I think I was doing?
His persistent lack of response made me feel awkward, puzzled,
apprehensive, mortified, and finally reduced me to self-pity. It was
the pointlessness of having to keep on and on saying something to
someone incapable of understanding. Thanks to the myth of Sisyphus,
surely everyone knows what a dreadful punishment it is to be obliged to
keep repeating a meaningless gesture. Being obliged to keep rolling a
rock up a hill that constantly rolls back down again is a dreadful
punishment, not because it is physically arduous but because it gives
humiliation and boredom.
“Shall I stop reading?” I asked. If the old man
simply nodded, there would be no need for him to speak, and suppose he
showed no reaction at all, I intended to take that as meaning I should
stop reading, and do so. If he nodded, that indicated consent and I
could stop; I had decided that if he showed no response at all, that
would prove that he was deaf and could hear nothing, so there was no
need to go on reading. But my expectations proved wrong. Not that he
expressed himself. He neither nodded nor shook his head. He simply
slowly opened his eyelids and silently looked at my face. That’s a
response, isn’t it? I tried to read some message in his face, but
failed. I could read nothing, but the fact was he had shown a response;
by showing any response at all, the fact was he had shown that he was
not deaf and I could not ignore that. That meant I could not put an end
to my assigned task. What was I to do? I had to keep on acting as
narrator. I tried to control my irritation. Frankly speaking, I had for
some time been feeling intensely frustrated and humiliated on account
of the way my meaningless action had failed to provoke interest in my
audience. My feelings of frustration and humiliation were similar to
the discomfort felt on having one’s inner feelings observed
unilaterally by someone wearing dark glasses. Dark glasses are an
excellent means for observing without being observed. While I was
reading Tolstoy’s “On Life” the idea kept pursuing me that my audience
was deciphering the flimsy, conventional and feeble text entitled
“Myself.” And by some kind of association, a forgotten memory of
something that had happened fifteen months before came into my mind.
For a long while after I had left the company in the wake of the wave
of restructuring, I kept wondering why I had been the only member of
our section to be forced into early retirement. Finding the answer was
difficult and painful. I reflected belatedly on how uneasy I had felt
all the time I was working there. Once I realized that sensing the
atmosphere in the office or reading the boss's mind had always been the
most difficult things for me, I quickly understood why I had felt
uneasy. I had found it hard to laugh when the boss laughed without
knowing the reason. There had also been several occasions when I had
provoked an icy atmosphere in the office by a single phrase spoken in
jest. Now I finally realized, as I stood scrutinizing the expression of
an immobile old man sitting in front of me while I read Tolstoy, that
while people could easily read me, I could hardly or not at all read
other people. I felt that it was an important realization. Immediately
I grew anxious and found myself unable to continue my meaningless
reading. I could not read Tolstoy.
Still, it was less than fifteen minutes since
I had entered the house, there could be no question of my simply
leaving already. I felt sorry that I had not asked my wife how long I
would have to act as narrator. But what was I to do? I was going to be
obliged to decide and act for myself. I was being paid, I thought, so
surely I would have to stay there for an hour at least. It was dreadful
to imagine spending the remaining forty minutes imitating a poor radio
actor. At the thought that I was not so much like a poor actor as a
broken-down radio, I felt as though I was crawling across mudflats. I
grew impatient to see the old man lower his eyes once again; in that
case I would be forced to go on being a poor actor and a broken-down
radio, something I disliked intensely. I just had to catch another
glimpse of his eyes before his eyelids covered them again, even if they
looked like black holes. I felt convinced that for that to happen I had
to stop reading and talk to him.
“Have you heard?” As I spoke freely my voice
naturally grew faster. “It seems there's a tribe somewhere in Asia that
worships turtles as gods. When a turtle lays eggs, someone is
designated to take care of them carefully, serving as a nursemaid.
Turtles are herbivores, but if they only eat grass they grow weak so
from time time they are fed tonics. I wondered what those tonics might
be made of . . .” I gave up reading like a poor actor and adopted the
tone of someone making conversation. It seemed that would be the only
way of awakening his interest. I really had no wish to go on
pointlessly pushing a rock uphill. Neither did I want to be seen
through. Of course, I had no other text ready beside Tolstoy's “On
Life.” I was impatient because I had no idea of what to talk
about. Luckily, you might say, just then I recalled a program
about a strange tribe that I had seen on television one morning. My
wife had already left for her work and I was feeling relaxed as I drank
my coffee and enjoyed the morning, while strange tales emerged
from the television, that was on out of habit. I was simply watching,
without any particular pleasure, but seeing the way in which that came
to mind just when I needed something to talk about, I suppose I must
have been feeling some degree of interest. The old man's eyelids had
been drooping occasionally but now he looked up. Success. It was
not clear what he was focusing on, but once I could look him in the eye
I grew more confident. I continued talking. I probably made up things
when my memory failed me. “Lizards. The villagers catch lizards
and press the juice out of them. That's the tonic they give the
turtles, to help them have many children. Those villagers believe
that if a turtle is hurt, even by accident, they will fall very ill.
They claim that there have been several cases where people have injured
a turtle and died before the day was out. Stories like that being
handed down would explain how turtles came to be vested with divine
powers. The people believe they are under the curse of the turtle god.
It does not matter if turtles really have such powers or not.
People simply believe it. Who knows, after all, some regime needing to
keep control by the spread of such myths might fabricate something of
the kind. That's the way things generally are. The outside appearance
is not the whole story . . . .” The old man was concentrating on me.
His gaze was still as vacant as ever But I could sense it. How hard he
was panting, deep inside . . . . At least, I had been able to stop
being a broken-down radio. Fortunately.
4
My wife smiled brightly as she questioned me: “How did you do it? How
on earth did you do it? That difficult old man . . . .” Behind her
incredulous expression I could read indications that she found it
wonderful that I had such talent, but I decided not to let it affect
me. What did it matter? As a matter of fact, I was equally incredulous.
What had I done, finally? In place of Tolstoy's “On Life” I had
talked about adopting turtles as gods, after which I talked about a
movie called “Village” I had seen thanks to a borrowed video about a
year before. Because I had to keep on talking, no matter what I
said. It was about an isolated mountain village that invented a
myth according to which a monster was living in the forest, in order to
keep villagers from going outside. Like the tale of the turtle,
that too was not part of the program. It would be hard to claim that
there was any clear similarity between the two stories. I suppose that
some kind of association brought both tales to mind but I am incapable
of explaining the process. And what was I going to say next? It did not
take very long to tell those two stories, and then I had to start on
something new but I had nothing ready, so perhaps that was why I began
to talk about the landlord of the place I was renting. Maybe because
the apartment-block had been built nearly thirty years ago, every time
we opened a tap a stream of rusty brown water came pouring out. Then
from a few days back there had been a tap from which water continued to
drip, even though it was closed completely, enough to half fill the
bathtub overnight. Surely that's a serious matter? I called the owner
and asked him to have it repaired but, well, he shouted back in a loud
voice that it was up to the person living there to mend it. How dare
he? Was it my property? I protested. It was not as though it was my
fault if it was dripping, it was because the building was so old, so
why should the tenant have to mend it? At that he asked sarcastically
where I would ever find an apartment that large at so low a rate, which
drove me up the wall. He seemed to be saying that if I was dissatisfied
I should get out and it really upset me. It was true that the rental
for that old apartment was cheap but surely that was no reason for
replying as if I was complaining for the mere sake of doing so. Was it?
Then, as I went on arguing, the fellow hung up as though he was fed up
with listening. It was really weird. I told the old man all that.
“There are so many occasions when common sense fails to get across.
Surely, even if a cheap rental's cheap, what needs repairing has to be
repaired. I was so angry . . . I felt like rushing out and
planting a fist in the fellow's goddam face. That bastard!” As I spoke,
I grew increasingly worked up. I sensed that the man's hand resting on
the arm of the wheelchair was trembling a little more violently, but I
had no idea what emotion that was meant to indicate. The more I
denounced my landlord, the more my agitation turned into an odd kind of
pleasure, so I went on at some length. That was all. You couldn't say
that I had played my role of narrator well. But so what? What had I
done, after all?
When I left the house after filling up a whole hour,
I was feeling very hungry, and at the same time I wanted to go
somewhere where I could lean back and relax. It was in part a sign that
I had done some hard work for the first time in months, but also a
result of the fatigue that came over me as the tension wore off. I
undid my tie and removed my jacket. My shirt was soaked. I had not
realized that talking to someone consumes so much energy. The stories
in our heads exist as a mass of images. Unraveling them as stories
involves giving them bodies. A chain of trivial details forms a
story because they form a body. After the mass of images has been
divided carefully into details, each has to be joined to the others in
a chain. That is what happens inside us whenever we talk to anybody.
The details have mainly to be summoned up by the memory but when that
fails to happen, when the memory does not function, they need to be
invented. That was when I discovered that not only making things up but
even simply recovering memories is really hard work. I was nearly
exhausted. As I gazed up at the poplars and willows that surrounded the
house like a fence, I murmured to myself that I was really not cut out
for this kind of work. Whether or not people blamed me for still not
having found a job, I had no wish to do that a second time.
But, perhaps as a kind of strange provocation, that
difficult client kept asking for me to come again. “What do you mean?
You're asking me to go back there? To that grim old man?” At first I
suspected my wife of wanting to turn me into one of her employees. I
thought she might be saying that the client wanted me as a way of
expressing it that would appeal to her husband's self-respect. Because
I had left the house not at all convinced that I had satisfied him. To
the very end, his mask-like lack of expression had not varied. Having
to pour out an unending stream of some kind of words toward his
unfocussed, inanimate eyes had been equally grim. Moreover, I had begun
to wonder, although I could not be sure, if the old man was not simply
taciturn but actually incapable of speech. There was no telling
if he could hear, but perhaps he could not speak . . . which was
why I asked her whether the old man had expressed that wish himself.
“The gentleman didn't tell me himself. It's always that woman who
contacts me. You must have seen her at the house.” My wife was sitting
in front of her mirror, removing her makeup. “She doesn't seem to be
his wife,” I said, “Is she some kind of relative?” “She's been working
in his house for a long time past,” my wife explained. I remarked that
there seemed to be too great a difference in their ages for her to be
his wife, which reminded me that on the client-description form his age
had been given as fifty-nine, and I asked if they hadn't got his age
wrong? When I said that he looked too old to be only fifty-nine, she
vaguely agreed but then added indifferently, “Maybe he's not well.”
“Even if he's not been well, I still don't believe it. And that fellow
is more than taciturn; he can't talk, can he? He never said a word for
a whole hour. Have you ever heard him speak?” My sharp-witted wife
immediately understood my meaning. “You think I'm making it up, don't
you? Why would I say what wasn't true? So what if he said nothing for
an hour? It shows he's taciturn.” Then she put on a serious expression
and added, “I'm running a business, not a spare-time activity.” Well,
that put me to shame. There are times like that, aren't there, when you
kill a conversation by trying to check a viewpoint or a position . . .
I felt wretched and decided to shut up. My wife turned her face, that
was shiny with the cold-cream she had applied, toward me and went on:
“I think he just refuses to talk, really, that client; he's twice sent
away narrators we've sent, he seems rather hard to please. Of course
the narrators find him grim, too. But he likes you, doesn't he? It's
never been like this before. Why would I say something untrue? You're
really remarkable.” That was what she said, but I did not think I was
remarkable at all. I could agree that he was grim, but not that I was
remarkable. Moreover, I had not entirely freed myself of the suspicion
that that 'remarkable' might be no different from a hand intent on
pushing me into that grimness. I kept reminding myself of my decision
never to go back to that house.
In the end, I was unable to keep to my decision. Not
on account of my wife's stubbornness (though she certainly is more
stubborn than I am) but because my resolve was not firm enough to
sustain the decision I had made. My wife kept repeating, “The client
wants you, you know.” No doubt it was my victim mentality, but
her words sounded to me like a voice saying, “There's nobody else
asking for you, is there?” I'm not sure if my wife was really harboring
that intention or not, but I had no other choice, apart from the image
of my paltry figure spending the best part of every day with job ads
spread in front of me.
I suggested that for this client we should choose
story-telling or even conversation, rather than reading. It was not
that I had any particular basis for it, only a thought to that effect
had struck me. I said that I had no idea why that old man wanted me but
it might be on account of the way I had talked about things seen on
television and criticized my landlord instead of reading Tolstoy's “On
Life” and my wife agreed that it might be so. “That's the hardest part,
deciding on a selection of texts corresponding to a client's tastes.
Some of them make up their own lists, but not the majority. Choosing
texts that correspond to their taste, level and situation is the most
important thing. The way you speak matters too, of course.” I asked the
reason why Aurelius, Tolstoy and Ecclesiastes had been chosen as texts
for me to read to the old man. My wife recalled that the woman
who looked after him had said that he wanted religious, meditative
texts. Hers had been the first call “Seoul, 21st-century Storytellers”
had received. That suggested a high probability that the woman had
taken the initiative in choosing the texts. I suspected that whether or
not it was the woman's decision, they were not to the old man's
personal taste. She might have chosen at random, but even if she
hadn't, even if they reflected the old man's wishes to some extent, as
was certainly also possible, I said, even so, he clearly does not know
what he really likes. I also think I insisted strongly that the
manner of speaking was more important than the contents. My wife looked
quite moved as she praised me: “You're a born narrator.” I wished she
would stop making such statements to encourage me. I was on the point
of telling her that, while it might be alright for her to talk to the
others in that way, she should not treat me just as she did the other
narrators, but stopped myself because I reckoned that such a request
would naturally imply that I was a narrator.
Despite such feelings, I found myself obliged to act
as narrator twice a week and obviously could not go chattering on
aimlessly as before. My wife, who according to her business card was
“Head of Planning, Seoul, 21st-century Storytellers,” said she would
leave the choice of texts to me, as if she was doing me a special
favor. I concentrated on finding stories. Of course, I consulted
various books. But instead of taking books along and simply reading
from them, I chose a method that would be more like storytelling. I had
quickly discovered on the first visit that in that way I could avoid
sounding like a broken-down radio. If my wife's evaluation of me as
wonderful was based on that, I had no reason to deny it.
As a narrator, it was pointless for me to organize
the tales I would tell in a systematic order. Enough to say that I had
discovered that variety was the very essence of storytelling. For
example, I drew on myths and legends, television dramas, fables,
comedies, newspaper articles, even Buddhist and Christian sermons. I
introduced my personal experiences here and there as well. It would not
be difficult to make a list of the different stories later. Instead, I
changed my mind, seeing that that was not particularly important. On
the first occasion, I had had difficulty filling an hour with this and
that story, but now I would be capable of expanding a single story to
fill any amount of time. Should I say I was a veteran now? That was
what I had meant by saying that the manner of speaking was more
important than the contents.
Not that there was any visible change in the way the
old man listened. The change was in me. Becoming able to accept the old
man's mask-like expression, his inanimate dryness and dark emptiness as
time passed, I think that can be termed a change in me. The times
I spent at his house grew longer, at first it was a matter of a
cup of tea but later they happened to coincide with mealtimes and I
started eating with him. “I'll just add another spoon,” the distant
relative who looked after him spoke in a kind though toneless voice,
almost like a whisper, then added, “The gentleman doesn't usually eat
with other people.” It sounded as though she expected me to express my
gratitude for a special welcome, a request I found it hard to respond
to. While I waited for the old man, she used to make tea and bring it
out to me, at which moments we would make slight conversation, usually
about the day's weather or mood. One day I happened to ask who the old
man was. She stared at me for a while as though it was an unexpected
question, if not a forbidden one. In order to show that I had not asked
out of real curiosity, I shrugged my shoulders and lightly waved a
hand. To which she replied, “If you knew what kind of person he is, you
might be surprised.” Thereupon I grew curious and asked again what kind
of person he was. She did not reply at once and I did not press
her. I felt it would be wrong. She sat there in silence for a while
then, having checked that my tea cup was empty, as she stood up holding
the tray she spoke in a kind of mutter. “A man who has spent thirty
years of his life in hiding, waiting to be called for, that's who he
is. Pretending to be deaf, then dumb. I don't know how it's possible.
All the time believing in one vague promise . . . . until his
body is in its present state. Now he'd be no use even if he were to be
called for, yet he lives waiting for that one message. When you think
of it, you can't help but feel sorry for him . . . .” I had already
guessed that there must be some kind of story so I was not surprised,
and hearing that much only made me more curious to know the full story,
but I could not interrogate her directly. She went into the house
carrying the cup and after that made no further reference to the story.
On a few occasions I took the old man on a stroll,
pushing his wheelchair, but we never went beyond the fence of poplars
and willows. Far off between the trees a railway-line was visible; we
used to stop there and silently watch the trains passing. I stood
behind the wheelchair holding it steady and told him a short story by
some writer about the fuss when a venomous snake being kept in a
plastic bottle on the veranda of someone's apartment somehow vanished,
or the happenings that ensued after an elephant broke through the wall
surrounding a zoo and escaped. After a few things like that, I told him
at length about how I had come to be a narrator. I likewise explained
the reasons and process by which my wife had come to start her work.
Then at a given moment I told him how I had been fired. From a given
moment, I mean, I mainly talked about myself. The department head
deceived me to the very last moment. Although he had already put my
name on the list of those qualified for voluntary early retirement,
even when we were out drinking together in the evenings he expressed
exaggerated trust in me until the very day before I was notified. I had
not been capable of reading his inner thoughts. Indeed, I had never so
much as thought that I ought to be reading them. How he must have been
laughing inside himself. Even now my face flushes and I grow angry when
I think of it. As I told the story, I became agitated, my voice rose, I
may even have sworn a few times. I always feel better after that .
He seemed to hear what I was saying and at the same
time not to hear. I did not care if he was listening or not, I just
went on talking. I no longer even worried about the old man's
earphones, that had previously worried me so much. Nor his vacant
eyes like black holes. Turning into a broken-down radio and
telling stories to the unresponsive old man had been very burdensome
but now I felt it didn't matter, so it didn't; I wonder how that came
about, sometimes I surprise myself. Is it true, as my wife said, that
I'm a born narrator? Anyway, from a certain moment I, the narrator, no
longer paid any attention to the preferences or opinions of the old
man, the client, but simply selected and told this or that story as I
wished. As I went on expanding my stories, it finally dawned on
me that perhaps I was not telling stories for him to listen to but
rather he was listening so that I could tell stories. If the benefit I
got from talking was greater than that which he received from
listening, who is dependent on whom? Surely human nature is closer to
being “a speaking being” than “a listening being” . . . . and suddenly
I wondered if the reason why high-class ladies from the women's
quarters or girls from the gisaeng houses or playboys who had
lost their official positions all called in the old-time storytellers
might simply have been so that they could hear stories.
5
That kind of strange, symbiotic relationship between
Han Sang-cheol and myself continued for a while. Without acknowledging
it to one another, we were using each other. Indeed, after a while I
even began to look forward to the times when I went to meet him.
Meeting him had become part of my dull, boring everyday life so that
the dull boredom gained in stability. It was like a comfortable sofa. I
had the feeling that once I was on a comfortable sofa, I could spend a
long time lounging there. But my time on the sofa was not to last long.
The incident happened when the old man finally
opened the mouth he had kept shut for so long. I am really obliged to
call it an incident, for the old man opened the mouth he had never once
opened since I first began to visit the house. The wind was blowing
hard that day. Occasional raindrops had been falling since early
morning. To avoid the wind and rain we had moved into the living room.
As always, the old man was sitting in the wheelchair, his earphones
were in his ears, his arms were neatly laid on the armrests. I was
sitting opposite him telling some kind of story. I don't recall exactly
what. Occasionally it was something serious, mostly it was something
light. The old man was looking in some other direction. I used to talk
without looking at his eyes. It was more comfortable. Worse still, I
sometimes talked while thinking about something else. Of course, he
probably thought about other things as he listened, too. It had all
become so natural that nothing was a problem any more.
At a given moment, the old man suddenly raised
a hand, pointed at something, gasped out a cry, and fell forward. I
don't know why, but he seemed to try to stand up too quickly, lost his
balance and fell, at the same time as a mental shock made him lose
consciousness. That was my guess. It all happened so quickly that it
was hard to grasp the situation. I called for the woman urgently then
looked in the direction the old man had pointed. But I could not tell
what he had seen there. Wind coming in through the slightly opened
window was making the curtains shake, there was a framed picture of the
lake at the summit of Baekdu-san Mountain, a television set and two
orchids in pots, I could discover nothing particular. The
television was not on. Had he observed some ghostly eyes that I could
not see? As I was thinking, the woman who cared for him came
rushing in. “What happened?” She asked as she raised the
fallen old man. I said I did not know and shook my head. I was rather
preoccupied in case she thought I had given him some kind of shock. I
helped her put the old man back in his wheelchair, and he gave a groan
as though he had recovered consciousness. The voice sounded hoarse,
divided, disagreeable. “You'd better go and rest. Come along, let's go
and rest.” The woman pushed the wheelchair into the next room.
Confused, I could only stay standing there uncertainly. I still did not
realize that, although it was only a cry, I had heard the old man make
a sound with his vocal cords for the very first time.
“It looks as though you'll have to go back home for
today.” The woman did not emerge for a long time after taking the old
man into the other room and I had been wavering as to whether I should
simply go; finally she came out and indicated that I should go. I too
thought it would be better. Yet there was some kind of uneasy feeling
that kept me from leaving at once. It was rather as though I felt I
would be leaving the scene of an accident and sneaking away. At least,
I reckoned it would be cowardly. Surely it was only natural that I
should think that the woman would know the reason for what had
happened, while I did not. This was not the moment to quibble as
whether it was natural or not. Nourishing the hope that she might be
able to satisfy at least a little of my curiosity, I asked, “What
happened? For goodness sake, what happened?” The woman glanced toward
the room where the old man was and sighed deeply. She showed signs of
hesitating briefly, then gently closed her eyes and spoke.
“It's all over. The long wait to which he sacrificed
his whole life is finally at an end.” Her words sounded to me like a
Zen riddle. I was bewildered. I could not help asking her what was
over. “I told you that you would be surprised if you knew who that old
man was, didn't I? I don't know if you will remember. A long time ago,
a powerful former high-ranking official met a suspicious end. It
provoked a great uproar for a long time. The truth about the incident
was never made public and a long time went by. A lot of people have
forgotten all about it. But that old man has lived on, never
forgetting. He spent half his life hidden and silent. Waiting for the
day when he would be called for. If he never spoke, it was not because
he had forgotten but because he had not forgotten. Because he could not
forget. He was not permitted to forget. The highest-ranking official
over him had said that if he hid and kept quiet for a little while, he
would call for him. It has been thirty years now. Too long for a little
while . . . yet . . .” How to understand that the old man had never
lost hope in the promise of his former chief to call for him, even
though his body was overshadowed by death? Life is not a lonely thing,
surely, it's just as vulgar as a magazine cover. But probably that wait
had ended up by becoming less urgent, nothing much more than a habit.
Why did he not understand that a magazine cover is vulgar because it's
like life? Just as a magazine cover can never be lonely, a human life
cannot not be vulgar. That day, on the radio that he was always
listening to through his earphones, the news came of that chief's
death. That was why he had been shocked, cried out, collapsed, she
said. Just see how vulgar a human life can be. No matter how
lonely it may look, life is bound to be vulgar. It was the woman who
told me, but later I was able to verify the facts from the lips of the
person most directly involved, Han Sang-Cheol. Yes, the old man told
his own story. Of course, at the time I thought that day would be the
last. But about a month later, the old man called for me again. I felt
rather uncertain but I couldn't not go. Indeed, there was no reason for
not going. What stories should I tell? I was a bit worried. I thought I
knew him a little, but in fact I hardly knew him at all, so that
choosing stories was difficult. I went with a few tales ready:
the man who passed through walls; the man who sold his shadow, the man
who sold real estate in the stars.
The poplars and willows surrounding the house
were the same as before. The untended garden, too. But the man had
changed. The emptiness gaping like a black hole, the shadow of death as
if he had just emerged from a graveyard had vanished completely.
On entering the house, I found the old man in much
better health than before, even declaring that he'd soon be up out of
his wheelchair. “Today, I'll be the narrator. Today, I want you to
listen to me.” With that, he launched straight into his own story. He
related without pausing to rest. His story was long and dark, amazing
and passionate. He told his story with such passion that as I listened
I wondered how he had been able to live until now without telling it.
Then, once he had finished telling his story, another thought struck
me. Maybe what he had been waiting for had not been someone else's
voice calling for him, but his own voice. Maybe he had been waiting for
a time to come when he would not have to wait any longer. Maybe he had
been waiting for an end to waiting. Maybe that was why he had been
listening to the radio without ever for a second removing the earphones
. . . Of course, he did not say as much himself. Those are just
my conjectures. Who can know what lies beyond things said? We should
never forget that, as someone once said, under the surface of our lives
flow long and dark, amazing and passionate stories that there is no way
of knowing unless they are told. The old man died not long after
telling me his story, so it might be considered a form of sacramental
confession. Of course, I could tell the long and dark, amazing and
passionate story I heard from him. A long time has passed but I still
remember it almost word for word. But that's enough for today. I'm too
tired. I've told too many stories today. I need to rest a while. Be
careful as you go out.