The
Wayfarer Never Rests on the Road Lee
Ze-ha Translated
by Brother Anthony of Taizé
1 The sun was
setting on a day a couple of weeks before the lunar
New Year; the year of the Black Pig (1983) was
hastening to its end. A Sokcho intracity bus stopped
briefly at the Mulchi crossroads and several
passengers alighted. A few men obviously equipped to
go hiking in the mountains, with rucksacks over their
shoulders or carrying utility totes, exclaimed at the
cold as they straightened their thermal jackets and
donned their hats, then began to walk toward the
roadside shops; following behind them, a somewhat
older man trudged along, seemingly on his way home
from buying fish downtown; he was carrying a parcel.
The man who got off last simply stood there blankly,
looking as though he had been hit by a tram. Before
him, stretching as far as the eye could see, lay
nothing but the sea. He
had boarded a bus at the Seoul terminal almost on an
impulse, and had been looking out at the water
occasionally as they rattled along, but now, when the
sea suddenly loomed beyond the window as the bus came
to a halt, it provoked totally different feelings in
him. And so, at the very last moment, driven by a
sudden urge, he quickly descended from the bus. It was
like a cliff that had appeared out of nowhere,
blocking the way ahead. Though
the road was not as busy as in Seoul, here, too,
vehicles, whether tourist buses or whatever, whizzed
by; the water began right at the edge of the asphalt
of a road that looked like a wide open plaza, being
three times the width of a four-lane highway.
Unconsciously, he shuddered once, then hesitantly
began to cross the road cautiously, as though skirting
a cliff. Perhaps
for the safety of vacationers, trough-like cement
planters lined the roadway, but as they were buffeted
by gusts of wind so strong that it seemed like the
tarmac was about to rise and stand upright, they
looked extremely small and crumpled. After clambering
down the two-foot-high embankment, he walked out onto
the ten-meter-wide strip of gravel and put down the
bag he was carrying. Just as he was bending down, a
shout rang out: “Stop! Don’t move! Step back three
paces! Leave that where it is.” The
sentry who had approached, with his gun drawn, glanced
into the bag he had been opening and then relaxed his
expression. “What’s
this?” “Godammit
. . .” he replied, “Can’t you see? A table of number
codes and roasted rice flour.” “What?” Inside
the bag there was nothing but a few sets of underwear,
a toiletry kit and a plastic bag. As the soldier
crouched down, examining the plastic bag, the thought,
“You might have been dead by now,” flashed through his
mind. If he had been a spy, he would not have let the
chance pass. What idiot would carry his gun in his
bag? “What’s
this? Looks like powder . . . quicklime?” He
glanced scornfully at the soldier who was rubbing
together the fingers he had withdrawn from the bag. “Didn’t
I tell you? It’s rice flour.” “Stop
fooling around with me! Oh, what the hell . . .
Scatter it somewhere and get back up there quickly. Go
on, get back up there, quick.” During
his military training, some fifteen or so years back,
he had witnessed an accident when a recruit, at a loss
what to do holding a grenade with the pin pulled out,
had thrown it awkwardly and blown off another
recruit’s arm. All around people were stamping and
pointing and shouting, but that recruit merely sidled
away with his face flushing ever more deeply; the
moment he grabbed the plastic bag from the soldier he
felt anger rising in him, as if his face too was
blushing like the recruit’s. He picked up his bag and
climbed back up toward the road without a word. The
windows of a couple of restaurants, on which were
stuck paper signs for maeuntang (hot fish stew), could
be heard rattling hard despite the distance. When
he opened the door of the restaurant to his left and
went in, the men who had gotten off the bus with him
were sitting around the stove. They paused in their
drinking to look around at him. One man, who had been
carrying a rucksack, looked as though he recognized
him and did not at once turn away again, but he paid
no attention and made his way to a corner, where he
set himself down on a rickety chair. “Why’s
the guy still not here? Does it mean he’s failed?” “No
way! There’re so many of them around here . . . it’ll
be the opposite.” “The
opposite?” “I
only hope those girls won’t be all over us . . . you
know, if you make a pass at one, the whole lot of them
come and stick to you.” “He’ll
surely have calmed them down in advance. General Kim
knows what he’s up to . . . if there are too many, we
can enjoy them too, I don’t mind two or three . . . .” “Hey
man, you shoot the moment you’re in, quit bluffing . .
. .” “What
do you mean? I’m not done yet. It depends on what
you’ve got. Once it finds the right pipe for itself,
it’ll go for an hour or more . . . .” “Hey,
stop bickering now, we’re all getting older. It’s over
now.” From
behind the men, who sniggered and began to be noisy
again, an older man opened a side door and approached
him. “You
want a maeuntang? It’s all there is.” “What
kind of fish?” “Flatfish
. . . that’s all we’ve got, too. And soju” “A
big bowl of that, just one bowl. And some rice . . .
.” He
gazed briefly at his clasped hands, then unfolded them
and from force of habit took out a cigarette. “Can
I have a word, please?” The older man approached him
again from the direction of the side door when he had
finished the soup and rice the serving woman had
brought him, and was smoking another cigarette, with
his eyes closed wearily. By then, the companion the
group of men had been waiting for had arrived noisily,
they all left, still chattering, and the place was
empty. They seemed to be a rowdy bunch, intent on
lechery under the pretense of mountain climbing. The
fellow wearing a beret who had appeared midway had
brought along with him four or five young women, when
the others began to squabble as the pairing didn’t
work. “Didn’t I tell you I don’t need one?” the man
with the rucksack said, sullenly. “I said I didn’t
need one; what are we supposed to do now you’ve
brought too many?” “Don’t
make such a fuss. . .
Show me anyone who’s against it. I brought one
each, so what are you going on about? You really don’t
need one?” “No
need.” “Don’t
bother if you don’t need one. I’ll deal with it . . .
Anyway, no one will lay a finger on your girl. All you
have to do is pay.” “You
goddamn pitiful excuse for a man . . . .” “You’d
better say that to your wife, I mean, all that
eunuch-talk . . . .”
Calling
the women by their names, “Yeong-ja,” “Chun-ja,” as
they sat around with deliberately wide open eyes, the
man with the beret led them outside; the last to leave
was the fellow with the rucksack, who turned to him as
he was going out. “Coming
up the mountain?” He
did not reply, hesitant, at which the rucksack-man
pulled down the brim of his hat. “If you take the same
road, come up to the White Snow Inn. You can play
go-stop with us, or whatever you like . . . .” Outisde,
the men could be heard calling a taxi. He put down his
spoon and listened. Despite the fact that they had
come to sell their bodies, the laughter of the women
that mingled with the men’s was much livelier than
theirs. “Don’t
say anything; just come with me.” The older man led
him to a room beyond the side door. The restaurant
seemed originally to have been a kind of lean-to shed
projecting forward, and beyond the side door there lay
the yard of a small old house with flat eaves.
Apparently there was no separate kitchen, for here and
there on the back porch and in the yard were strewn
shabby bowls and steaming cauldrons. “This is the room
. . .” after wrenching the door open the older man
said, and he looked in but then made no sign of
further movement, and instead, merely standing in
front of the stone wall, turned his head toward the
older man. “Could
you escort that gentleman to somewhere near Wolsan?”
the older man said. “He said he would pay a hundred
thousand won. He’s over eighty and he’s been like this
for the past three days.” “He’s
really sick!” He
glanced once again into the room, then made a move to
turn away, thinking to himself that today was a really
ill-fated day. “Why do you ask me?” “After
waiting three days, I couldn’t find anyone fit for the
job. I reckon you could do it, couldn’t you?” “There
are taxis, why ask me?” “Cars
can’t get up to Wolsan. There’s no road . . . No
telling which side of the Armistice Line you’re on . .
. .” “.
. . ” “It’s
a matter of getting somewhere close. You can go as far
as Seohwa.” The
person “fit for the job” the older man referred to
should clearly be someone who looked physically strong
enough. In
the room, an old man with his head twisted to one side
was lying down, his eyes wide open as if in a state of
shock, while a woman with an expressionless face,
wearing a nurse’s uniform, was sitting with her back
against the wall, looking at them. “Surely
you could take him?” “Carrying
him on my back?” The older man looked angry. “Didn’t I
tell you they’ll pay a hundred thousand won in
addition to the fare?” “I’m
on my way to the mountains. It’s not possible.” “You’re
too uptight and hard to people you’ve met on the road.
How much do you want?” “What
do you mean?” “Won’t
you do it?” “Find
someone else.” “Please
don’t try to force him, mister.” The
woman dressed as a nurse spoke in a dull voice from
inside the room. Unclear whether it was the sick old
man or the nurse who had offered to pay, he turned on
his heel and made his way out, feeling uneasy. Once
in front of the restaurant, he looked across the road
but the sea, which had been a dark green color, had
changed to a thick gray, and there was no sign of the
sentry. But surely if he sets one foot on the gravel
of the beach he would emerge from somewhere with his
grating voice. Having
caught a bus heading for the mountains at the road
junction, he gazed out at the fields that were already
being consumed by the spreading dusk, but found
himself unable to shake off that feeling of unease. It
might just have been a discomfort emanating from the
sick old man, but his feeling seemed rather to have
been caused by something about the woman dressed as a
nurse. He had been unable to tell at all whether her
face was that of a girl barely twenty years old, or
whether she was thirty, or nearly forty. In the room,
a low sound of pansori singing could be heard from a
radio cassette, and even under the naked light bulb he
had been unable to perceive clearly the outline of her
face, but it had awakened in him a strange sense of
repulsion. The old man, with his thick overcoat and
luxurious fur muffler, looked to be the fastidious
patriarch of a wealthy family. His condition seemed to
have worsened while he had been convalescing in the
hills and they were apparently on their way back. It
was clear at first sight that he had suffered a
stroke, and if the older man had not mentioned the
Armistice Line and if he hadn’t seen those wide open
eyes of the sick old man, he might perhaps have
accepted the proposal. Getting
off at the stop where the inns were, he found the
White Snow Inn and the man with the rucksack, who
seemed to have been expecting him, beckoned from a
second-floor window, his back to the light. “Come
on up, you can’t miss it.” As
he was going up, the man was standing at the head of
the stairs, about to come down. “Don’t take a separate
room,” he said, “we’ve plenty with four. We only asked
for three rooms, but the landlord asked us to take an
extra one for gambling . . . even though this is the
place we stay every time we come, damn it . . . those
guys will just sit up all night. I don’t enjoy
go-stop. Why don’t you come along to view the
waterfall tomorrow morning? Get some exercise?” “Didn’t
you invite me to play go-stop?” “Just
play for a couple of hours, then get some sleep. It’s
no fun, anyway. When you go somewhere you ought to
come back with a clear head; not that, all day, all
night . . . .” He
glanced around the room the rucksack-man showed him
into, but without putting down his bag he followed
along behind him. The second room seemed to be the
man’s room, and the gambling was going on in the third
room. The girls, one squeezed between each of the men,
were laughing, serving drinks and snacks, or helping
count the winnings; that seemed to be why they had
been summoned. “Hey, you there, schoolgirl, today you
look after this man in place of me . . . by the way,
have you eaten?” Still speaking, the rucksack-man
caught hold of one of the girls and made her sit
beside him. “If you’re going to stick to him, stick
like a rice cake,” another girl said, throwing an odd
glance at him. “Win
or lose, make sure you’re asleep by midnight; if you
get overheated you’ll ruin yourself. I’ll call you
tomorrow morning . . . I must go and practice yoga in
my room.” Having
arranged for him to join the party, the man went out. One
member of the group briefly summarized the rules of
the go-stop game they were playing using the flower
cards. He made no comment and pulled out his wallet,
realizing that the stakes were quite high. At the
least mistake, he might lose his fare home. They
say the fun of gambling lies in watching the players
reveal their true character. Once the game started,
they fell silent as if someone had poured water over
them. They seemed to have invented various rules in
order to raise the stakes, only the girls kept on
chattering or at times burst out laughing, making the
players raise their heads. The girl sitting beside him
seemed very young but she looked as if she had been
hit with a cotton bat. From time to time she would
pass him a snack or refill his glass, but she did not
say a word. Perhaps the fact that she was surplus to
requirements had worn her down; they say a woman who
can’t get caresses in her home will be unwanted even
in a bar. Around
nine, one of the girls picked up some of the money
that had been collected as a kind of tip at the end of
each game, stood up and went out. Then, coming back,
standing at the door she said, “Mr. Kim, phone call.” “So
early?” The man she had addressed as Mr. Kim frowned
with a flushed face and stared at the girl, but the
other men urged him on, “Don’t keep her waiting, have
your fun and come back.” The man rose and went out.
Some time later, they returned together. At
eleven, another man was called out to the phone, then
came back; half an hour later another went out. By
that time he had figured out what answering the phone
meant, and unconsciously glanced down at the money
piled before him. It was when they were losing that
they went out, had sex and came back, as a way of
exorcising their bad luck. It was past twelve thirty
when the girl who had been sitting beside him called
him from the door to answer the phone. He
followed along behind her without saying a word; when
they reached the room at the end, where the bedding
was already spread out, she began to take off her
clothes. “I’m
not doing it,” he said. “Besides, I wasn’t losing, so
why did you call me out?” “You
really don’t want to?” The girl looked at him,
expressionless, her hands on her skirt. “I
can’t get it up. I’ll give it a pass.” “I’ll
bring you on. Come here.” “Damn
it!” he said, “I told you I was giving it a pass.” “Really?”
the girl asked. “Hey! Great!” Still
the same, her face showing neither the gladness she
had expressed nor anger, the girl came up to him, put
her arms round his waist and kissed the back of his
head. “Let’s wait a bit before we go back in there;
then please say that the reason the phone call took so
long was because it was an overseas call. Promise?” A
lengthy overseas call . . . as he sat awkwardly beside
the girl, he suddenly felt weariness sweeping over
him. He was winning a little, but he reckoned that
even if he left after staying just another half-hour,
the others wouldn’t glare at him. It
was exactly two forty-five when he stood up and went
to his room, where he passed out for about two hours,
then near daybreak awoke to find someone shaking his
shoulder. The rucksack-guy was looking down at him,
pursing his lips with an odd expression. “Get
up. There’s been an accident. Some time after four
thirty, one of the girls suddenly began to vomit, then
fell back. Lying on her back, she passed away. Looks
like a heart attack . . . .” As he listened, he
unconsciously thought of the girl who had been sitting
beside him and felt anxious. “The
girl called Miss Choi?” “Did
you have some kind of hunch? I suppose you had your
phone call with her, but of course I’m not suggesting
. . . .” He
tried to say “No,” then gave up and stared at the man.
“Was that what gave her a shock?” The
rucksack-guy looked at him narrowly, as if at a loss
for words, then forced himself to smile. “You’ve
had a shock, too, old friend. You should go on down
first. The police’ll be coming, since we’ve reported
it . . . anyway, we’re civil servants. There’s no need
for you to get involved in any trouble, is there?
You’d better get out of here first.” He
asked how things would be settled, whether a doctor
had come, but the man with the rucksack merely replied
that it had almost certainly been a heart attack, then
fell into a heavy silence. Feeling uncertain whether
he should express thanks or embarrassment, he left the
inn. It looked like the other men were sitting
together in their room debating what should be done.
There was no reason why he should remember the names
of each of the men he had been introduced to in such a
setting, but on realizing he had not even had a chance
to introduce himself to the rucksack-man, he stopped
heading downhill and instead started walking up again.
After about a mile, he reached the resort area, where
the Swiss-style building of the Park Hotel struck his
gaze. Children with weird hairstyles on a school
outing were peering out from windows here and there or
loitering in front of the closed souvenir shop. The
low-lying, slate-gray sky was streaked with red in one
direction, but with the shadow of the mountains that
hemmed in the valley on both sides, and the icy chill
in the air, the scenery was still veiled in hazy mist.
On the grounds of the hotel, a grotesque statue of
E.T. towered over him, crude and obscene, while from
the valley rose the sound of nearly frozen water. He
regarded the monster, which could have come hundreds
of thousands of light years from some distant star,
with a sense of horror. The
words “Anyway, we’re civil servants” refused to leave
his mind. When he said those words, there was no
knowing whether the rucksack-man meant that since they
were civil servants they would take full
responsibility, or with that status the matter could
be easily resolved. If they said that someone who was
not part of their group had been involved, surely the
matter could become unnecessarily complicated. Such
situations are bound to become nasty for people
involved in delicate public procedures, like it or
not. Even if the result of the investigation was
clear, the police would keep asking what that person
was doing there, why he was there. If by any chance
the cause of the girl’s death had something to do with
the gambling, matters could become even more complex.
You mean you bought women with those coins from the
stake money? I am not sure how thick-faced you all
might be, but wash your mouth out first before trying
to tell that crap to the judge. Certainly no one would
believe you. He
loitered near the cable car station waiting for the
hotel’s coffee shop to open, then drank a cup of tea,
so that it was nearly eleven before he got back down
to the inn. It was completely deserted. “Those
people from the culture department?” The landlord
pretended not to know that anything
out-of-the-ordinary had happened, then perhaps
realized that he had been a guest too, and grew angry.
“Those rotten hicks said they were from the culture
department; my, what a filthy world. . . They went
down together with the policeman.” “Where
to?” “The
police station of course, where else?” “Did
a doctor come?” “What
could he do if he came? I feel sorry for the girl. Why
are you asking? Did you do it with her too?” The
landlord kept grumbling about the culture department
but he could not gather whether he was talking about a
newspaper or a broadcasting station or what. By police
station he must mean the one in Sokcho. He
boarded a local bus heading for Sokcho but then
changed his mind and got off at Mulchi; he pushed open
the door of the restaurant and went in. It was
completely empty. After throwing himself down on a
seat carelessly, he waited for the older man to
emerge. He guessed that Wolsan must be a remote
village somewhere at the far end of Inner Seorak
Mountain. Once he had passed close to Inje and he
recalled having heard a similar name there, Wolhak or
Wolsan, and although it must be near the Armistice
Line, he did not know how far the road went before it
was blocked, but if he hurried he could take the old
man somewhere near there, at least, and perhaps then
take the boat across the Soyang River as far as
Chuncheon. From Chuncheon he would be able to catch an
early morning train to Seoul. He
finally had to shout through the side door before the
older man came out, and looked at him blankly, with no
sign of recognition. “Are
those folks still here, the sick old man?” “They’ve
left.” “Did
you find someone?” “No
way . . . They left at daybreak, saying they would
just go to Wontong and wait. They took a taxi but
it’ll be even harder to find anyone up there. What use
is money when you can’t even get to your land? Go and
ask up there. Why, did you change your mind?” “You
said it was possible to get in as far as Seohwa? From
there, could I get to Chuncheon today? I really have
to . . . .” “It
might be difficult. They’ll be checking everyone
thoroughly.” Even
if the road checks were intense, the trip should not
take half a day. He looked impatiently at the man and
moistened his lips. “That’s
no good. I have to work tomorrow.” He
was on the verge of saying something like “even if the
world ends” or “I’m a civil servant,” but restrained
himself and ordered something to eat. 2 It was already
two by the time he boarded a bus for Gangneung in
front of the restaurant; at Gangneung he changed his
mind and took a bus heading for Gyeongpo, just after
four. He got off at the lakeside and began to walk
absently toward the sea. He
had to admit that although he had kept his wife’s
ashes for a long while, it was not because he was
attached to it but because he had so far not found
where to dispose of it. He might have gotten rid of it
at the crematorium or somewhere on a hillside, but
that day he had come out carrying it and then, because
he was feeling weary, had simply gone home, stuffed
her remains among a mass of junk, and had completely
forgotten it for some three years. “I’m
not from Wonsan.” Recalling
something his wife, confined to her room for five
years with what the doctors called valvular disease,
had carelessly muttered one day, he thought of looking
for the plastic bag, but he was not completely sure
that his wife’s birthplace was anywhere along the east
coast. He
had asked her: if not Wonsan then where? But she had
been unable to reply. Even though she had been tossed
here and there in confusion soon after her birth, she
should have retained some memory of when and in what
village she had been born, but she knew nothing. There
were times when the dialects of the southeast and
southwest were uttered together, at other times his
wife spoke casually using the accent of the northerly
Pyongan province, so that perhaps her speech gave
support to her tales of endless bleak wanderings, but
he had never been able to really accept his wife’s
total ignorance of her roots because when he first
came to know her in a street full of bars in the midst
of a market, where she was working as a peddler, he
had been attracted by her intelligence. If she had
grown up in an orphanage, she might have heard
something by hearsay or someone might have given her
some information, wrong though it might have been. If
not, surely a couple of place names ought to have been
lurking in her latent memory? His wife used to grow
flushed as though she had suddenly become a stutterer
and then struggle, muttering nonsense, before finally
shaking her head. Talking
of Wonsan was her improvised response to his saying he
was from Kaesong, she explained. At the time he had
only laughed, but the way that memory had risen
heavily in his mind only now, as he was about to cast
away the last remains of his wife, made him feel
strange. They
had come just once to Gyeongpo, some ten years ago, on
their honeymoon. Then, as now, the off-season holiday
resorts were likely to be dreary, and this place, with
the song “The moon rising in your wine glass, blah
blah” attached to it as an extra attraction, was no
exception. The shuttered sashimi restaurants along the
deserted seafront looked crushed as they bowed their
slate roofs and endured the wind, while in front of
the few that were open a few fish were cowering or
floating motionless in cement tanks sheltered under
the eaves, bathed in fluorescent light even in broad
daylight, reminding him of bleak deserts. After
pointing to one fish that had its snout cut off, he
went upstairs to the dining room and ordered a drink.
The floor was unexpectedly warm. The woman explained
it was a needlefish and that they did that because it
kept poking all the other fish with its sharp pointed
beak. He opened the window and took out the plastic
bag. In the southern regions, usually the wind
reversed direction at nightfall and blew seaward, but
when he tilted the bag, the ashes swirled around,
rose, then passed over the roof and went blowing off
in the other direction, toward the lake. He tossed the
empty bag into the wind and sat staring out at the
darkening horizon. It
was already dark when he awoke from a drunken doze,
sprawled across the table. The thought that he ought
to go back and the idea that in that case he ought to
go into the town kept nagging at him in turn, yet he
did not feel inclined to get up. After inquiring
whether the restaurant was also an inn, and at what
time the first bus for Seoul left in the morning, he
washed his feet downstairs then climbed back up the
stairs, with the woman following him, carrying
bedding, and explaining that they had no registration
cards on hand, before she added, “There’s a young lady
if you want.” He shook his head and spread out the
bedding. He
thought she had given up but soon after he turned out
the light and lay down, the telephone lying abandoned
in a corner rang. “Sir, There’s a nice young lady.” He
hung up abruptly without answering, but when it rang
again about ten minutes later he unthinkingly sat up.
Eager to put an end to the woman’s rambling
persuasion, he asked, “How much for a short time?”
Then he added, “I need to sleep some more. I dislike
whining so send her up later, around ten, after
telephoning first.” As
abnormal relations with his wife had lasted a long
time, he grew accustomed to relieving his
physiological tension about twice a month. Since that
had also been the time when he was studying on his own
to pass the class B exam for the fifth level of the
civil service, it might have been inevitable. Once his
bread-earning day’s job was over, he would sit down at
his desk, for he had quit drinking, and his eyes would
glaze over. He wondered what he was doing, living just
like a schoolboy preparing to retake the college
entrance exam, and would go out for a breath of fresh
air. That led to him giving in to the temptation of
buying a woman. By the time he discovered how that
sort of aberration actually helped him to concentrate
on his study, it was too late to stop anyway. For
something that was really no better than masturbation,
he naturally turned to bar girls or women in alleys,
and he usually took precautions, but today he felt
uneasy since he was not prepared. Awakened at ten by
the sound of the phone ringing, for a moment he
thought of asking her to bring a condom, but then gave
up, feeling too awkward. Perhaps for that reason, once
the woman arrived he went rolling downhill and came in
a flash. After paying the woman and sending her away,
he turned off the light and went back to sleep. In
the grim weather, a portion of the lake was glittering
in the morning sunlight, as though it was frozen over.
The road curved past it, circular like a playing
field, then stretched ahead, while in the middle of
the road some ten yards ahead a woman was walking at
the same pace as himself, her back and shoulders
visible. His consciousness was awake but he could not
decide if it was a dream or if he had just awakened
from a deep sleep and was on his way to catch a bus
downtown. Apart from himself and the woman, there was
nobody else out walking; the whole background seemed
to have withdrawn into the distance and was covering
everything in a kind of misty slow motion. He had the
impression that all the movements and all the sounds
around him were coming to a halt together. “Why
have you come here on such a cold day?” “Really
I’m not sure . . . but come to think of it today is my
wife’s death anniversary . . . .” It
had been the woman who asked and he had replied, yet
clearly the woman walking ahead of him had not turned
her head. That was not all. He could also hear the
faint sound of pansori music like that he had heard
from behind the side door at the Mulchi restaurant. At
that, he felt that it was all irrational and realized
that the remarks were from the conversation he and the
woman had the previous evening before they embraced.
That had been the end of their talking and the woman
had lain back with a very strange look on her face.
Now it was being replayed as though it had been
recorded and stored up. Moreover, seeing how that was
overlapping with the sound of a radio from another
time and place, it was evidently an auditory
hallucination. Ahead of him, his field of vision
shrank as if a screen was being spread in front of
him, while the air grew thick like a burning sand
storm. The woman’s back view rushed speeding backward
toward him at an alarming rate, as if it was being
enlarged, while her pace changed into a run. She was
racing toward a vehicle that was looming larger as it
approached. Ignoring his foreboding, with all his
might he kept himself from turning around and setting
off toward the road leading seaward, then, exhausted,
collapsed at the foot of a pine tree at the uphill
roadside. Even without lifting his head, he could
bring to mind the scene with people shouting and
children noisily heading in that direction. He saw the
woman of the previous night falling dead, blood
trickling from her nostrils, and the large hands of a
policeman covering her with a tarpaulin. “She
ran right into me, deliberately,” the driver was
gabbling, standing with unfocused eyes before the car
she had rammed her head against sideways. Wondering
hesitantly if he might check the woman’s face once
more, after a desperate effort he rose to his feet. There
was nothing in sight. The road beneath his feet went
stretching ahead but the woman whose back he had seen
and the vehicle that had run her over were nowhere to
be seen; neither was there any trace of the people who
had gathered far away out there and made such a noise.
He shook his head and finally realized that his wife’s
death a few years ago had suddenly come sweeping over
him as a phantasmagoric reality. He fumbled for a
cigarette with a sweating hand. Once
in central Gangneung, having gotten off at the wrong
stop, he walked a mile or so to the terminal. There,
changing his mind again, he hesitated, wondering
whether he should buy a ticket back to Sokcho or
whether he should take the route to Inner Seorak,
branching off at Yangyang. If Sokcho came back into
his thoughts, it could be because he was still
troubled about the affair of the rucksack-guy and the
bargirl. His intention was to snoop around the police
station to see if he could peek inside, before
crossing over Jinburyeong pass and heading for
Wontong. He
bought a ticket as far as Yangyang, then with an
unpleasant feeling, as if he had failed to brush his
teeth, he bought some bread and milk for his
breakfast; now he was staring out through the bus
window. He realized that the city that had looked so
clean during their honeymoon, seen again ten-odd years
later was not really so clean. He soon realized that
it was not so much the city that had changed, that the
difference was mainly in his own heart, yet he was
quite unable to understand why, or calculate just
when, in what amounted to a really short period of
time, the quagmire in which his heart was so deeply
sunk had begun to form. It might have been pity for
his wife, or something triggered by his own feelings
toward a world from which his wife had vanished.
Despite her physical condition, what might be seen as
his wife’s vitality, her clinging to life, had been
tough and strong as eulalia grass. Despite repeated
miscarriages, his wife kept wanting to get pregnant,
and up until the very moment when she was finally
incapacitated, she held onto her stretcher. Once she
was forced to remain bedridden, as the years passed by
in that condition, she constantly fretted about
everything; perhaps it was another form of that same
obsession. Living like this, I’d rather do away with
myself . . . when she would roll her eyes and grumble
like that, it was not that he did not at times rebuke
her with “okay then, go ahead and die.” But if he
never once made such a remark even to himself, how
could she have had the heart to commit such violence
against herself? “The
buses have stopped running for today. You can only go
as far as the spring village.” Even
after the woman behind the ticket counter, which he
had headed for after arriving at the Yangyang
terminal, said that, he simply remained standing there
blankly, his money held out. “They
can’t leave because there’s a blizzard warning; how
many times do I have to tell you? The snow’s about to
start. Shall I give you a ticket as far as Osaek
spring village?” “Any
tickets for Seoul?” “You’ll
have to go to Gangneung and take an express bus there.
But in the afternoon they’ll probably stop running
from there too.” If
it was going to snow, how much did they expect to
fall? If the roads were blocked around here, there’d
be no going anywhere. The safest step would be to
return quickly to Gangneung and head for Seoul at
once. Avoiding a man who was pursuing him, repeatedly
urging, “Take my taxi, I’ll give you a good price,” he
asked himself why he still wanted to head for Wontong,
when that meant making a mess of everything and being
away from work for at least one day, perhaps three or
four. If that goddamn old man had not had such wide
open eyes, if the luxurious muffler wound around his
neck and that overcoat had not aroused his resentment,
or if that cheeky nurse with her stuck-up expression
had not so shamelessly offered him bait . . . all
those things had stirred up bad feelings, still they
did not add up to a good pretext for not going, while
an ominous feeling was telling him that he could not
simply head for home with this uneasy feeling
bothering him. . . . “Didn’t
I say I’d take you, even risking that we’ll be blocked
at Wontong?” “Is
that why the buses aren’t going? It seems they’re
going as far as the spring?” “Nothing
doing there. Do you know how many people will be
coming down off the mountain to the spring? You’ll
have to pay whatever they ask.” “If
I get to Inje, will I be able to catch a boat?” “Would
the boats not leave just because of some snow?” It
seemed the taxi driver was merely saying whatever came
to his mind, but he had made up his mind, so he
stopped walking and gave in to the man who was
pursuing him. He
knew that it ought to take two hours or less to reach
Wontong. He would have accepted the fare the driver
charged if he intended to see the scenery on the way
or if he felt he could trust what he had said. Still
quibbling over the fare and not really trusting him,
when they finally reached the spring at Osaek, people
who had come down off the mountain could be seen here
and there beyond the car windows. “Look
at them; rushing about like frogs before it rains,
aren’t they?” The driver stopped the taxi, lowered the
window and put out a hand. “It’s coming down hard.” He
felt that the man was exaggerating to a ridiculous
extent, but for some reason he experienced an odd
feeling of release at that moment, as if he had
finally stepped off a treadmill that until then he had
been trudging on. As
they crested the Hangyeryeong pass, snowflakes
glistened in the sudden blast of swirling wind.
Lowering the window, he took out a cigarette. In
fact, it was not until the taxi had come all the way
down as far as Wontong that snow really started to
fall in earnest. Together with a blinding wind, it
soon grew into a blizzard and within two hours white
walls were piled up in all directions, so that he and
the village he had reached were completely imprisoned. 3 Intending to
send a wire, he asked where the post office was, but
the woman at the restaurant who brought his stew made
no reply, merely looked him up and down, turned on her
heel and hurried back inside. Dumbskull, looking for a
post office in a place like this, her face seemed to
express utter amazement, so that he was overcome with
embarrassment and fell silent. With the traffic
blocked by the snow, he would be absent from work for
three days . . . he felt almost dirty at using such a
lame excuse when he was merely one of the
lowest-ranking employees; perhaps for just one day,
but not for three days, he thought, as he stared
blankly at the snow-filled wind as it kept rattling
the store window like slaps on the cheek. The
three-way junction seemed to form the center of the
village and among the houses in sight at most only
three or four seemed to offer accommodation, yet he
felt awkward at the thought of searching one house to
another. Should he happen to find the old man and the
woman, what would he have to say to them? He
dashed into a store he noticed across the road from
the restaurant, bought a plastic raincoat for hiking,
slipped it on, and when he came out again the wind
seemed to have grown slightly less violent; by then it
was around three in the afternoon. Despite signs
announcing themselves as “inns,” the majority were
ordinary family homes where, in rooms and yards,
snowbound hikers with anxious expressions were
chattering loudly or shaking off the snow, while empty
rooms loomed dark as caverns. In
the sixth house, which looked like the last, where he
looked and inquired, there was again no sign of the
woman and the old man, but there he encountered two
men on the same quest. “Those
people are looking for the same folks,” he was told,
and on turning around saw through the snow flurries
two men perched on the ledge of a wooden porch looking
across at him. “Are
you looking for Mrs. Choi?” The slimmer of the two
stood up. “.
. .” “Have
you asked at all the inns here?” “They’re
not here.” He
answered vaguely, without thinking, then with a
perplexed expression looked at the man as he
approached him. “We’ve
looked for them all the way from Seohwa.” The man
reached under the projecting eaves and spoke in a
sociable tone as he looked up at him, then smacked his
lips: “There’s no sign of them.” Suspicious
questions as to why he was looking for them ought
normally to have come from their side in challenging
tones, but as they walked together back to the
junction and sat down in a coffee shop, nothing was
said. “Seohong,
Wolhak village. . . we’ve looked everywhere. You know,
the guys have been checking extremely intensely.” By
“the guys” he seemed to mean the soldiers making road
checks. The slim man sipped his tea, occasionally
stared outside and smacked his lips, while the more
heavily-built man, apparently the driver, kept his
eyes lowered, barely moved and said nothing. “I
happened to see the sick man in Sokcho for a moment
and so I’ve come after him.” As
the man chattered away, he sensed the overall
situation and when a chance came he felt obliged to
tell the whole story on his side in simple terms. “Well
now,” the man spoke in an admiring tone. “So that’s
how it was. It’s only human to want to get near your
birthplace, isn’t it?” The
enthusiastic reply seemed pointless so he just stared
at the man. The nurse called Mrs. Choi, who on her own
initiative had taken a patient away, was trying to
escape to somewhere with the moribund old man. So the
only solution was to catch her and bring them back . .
. The reply did not fit with what he had been
chattering about just before. “This is who I am,” the
man had said as they sat down, handing him a card on
which he was identified as “Executive Director, S
Company.” “Was
the nurse named Choi in charge of the old man?” “She
was seconded from the company hospital. That girl’s
impossible . . . that’s why she’s acted like this.” “That
girl, Mrs. Choi” struck him as a strange mix of labels
but since it was none of his business, he looked out
of the window. “What
shall we do?” Finally
the other man said something. “What
shall we do? We have to get to Inje . . . They’ll be
there without a doubt.” “But
we looked pretty much everywhere in that direction as
we were coming up here, didn’t we? Won’t they have
headed for Baekdamsa temple?” Probably
they had driven up via Hongcheon. Even without
unfolding the tourist map bought at the terminal, it
was clear that the road up to Baekdamsa temple via
Outer Gapyeong would by now be hell fit to make even
ghosts tremble. Wicked woman . . . he was pretending
to grind his teeth, but the man looked so much like an
actor playing the role of a child that he had to keep
himself from laughing aloud. “You
can come with us. After all, if you intend to head for
Seoul that will save you the fare.” “How,
in this snow? I mean, thanks, but . . .” “We
should be able to get through. We can. If we don’t get
to Seoul by tomorrow the president will be furious.” He
was at a loss how to respond to the man’s offer. With
things growing increasingly tangled, supposing that
they did find the old man, once the nurse started to
present her side of the story, he might find himself
caught in an even stickier situation. He was only
guessing, but he had a clear impression that the men’s
relationship with the nurse was not the usual
employer-employee relation. Dimly sensing a serious
conflict between the old man and his son, he followed
the two men, hoping they would be unable to find them
at Inje either. The
Mercedes they had come in managed to force its way
through on what had looked to be a hopeless journey.
Though the wind blew fiercely and the snow continued
to fall in white sheets, the car forced its way
through without any particular trouble, but that very
stability only plunged him into deeper gloom. Neither
driver nor companion said anything further. Outside it
was already growing dark but he felt increasingly
convinced that he should not ride with them all the
way to Seoul, even if they drew a blank at Inje. If
the snow slackened off during the night, the boats
would be running the next day. “Wait
here. I’ll just take a look . . . .” Stopping
the car at the first inn as they entered Inje, the man
went inside, then emerged and beckoned to them,
standing with his back against a street lamp. “I’ve
found them. They’re here. Come on . . . .” Then
something unexpected happened. The driver lowered the
window but made no attempt to do as the man said. “Why
aren’t you getting out?” As
the man drew nearer with an agitated expression, the
driver said, “Let’s just drive on.” “What
are you talking about, you filth?” The man slapped the
driver’s cheek through the open window. Holding a palm
to his slapped cheek, the driver bowed his head for a
while then meekly got out. As he watched the two
walking together, he hesitated for a time, completely
at a loss. Up
until now, he had been nothing but a total outsider,
but now, feeling that if a fight were to begin he
should try to stop it, he too got out and hesitantly
walked toward the inn. He paused in front of the room
indicated by the shoes left on the step outside, then
feeling embarrassed he went and perched on the nearby
wooden porch. “Take
this and give me the contract.” He could hear what the
man said but, unexpectedly, he spoke in a low voice.
“Does that mean that everything is settled?” The
woman’s voice too was quiet. He heard the man say,
“The president admires Mrs. Choi,” then the woman
replied, “It can’t be helped; please thank him.” He
moved to one side as the door of the room opened and
the driver emerged carrying the old man on his back,
together with the other man, while the woman stood
just inside the door as if seeing them off. “Ah,
you again!” the nurse spoke in that same voice devoid
of any hint of emotion. “What are you doing here?” The
driver with the old man on his back looked unsteady,
so he was obliged to follow them under the pretense of
providing support; the old man with his eyes still
wide open made his heart thump again. It looked as
though his lower body was completely paralyzed, as
well as the region of the eyes. “Aren’t
you getting in?” As
he was getting into the car, the man turned and
noticed that he was standing some distance away. He
nodded to indicate that he wasn’t. The car advanced
some ten yards then stopped and the man again put his
head out. From
the man’s lips came curses flying in a kind of roar.
He unconsciously started to move toward him, at which
the man’s head vanished and the car drove off. The
woman, who had come out of the inn, approached. He was
looking at her, perplexed. He simply could not
understand why the man had suddenly acted that way. “You
didn’t leave, I see,” the woman said, “Why have you
come here?” Embarrassed,
he mumbled like an outcast child. It was the second
time he was asked this question. He could have replied
that he had followed them because he had felt uneasy
about the way he had neglected the sick old man. But
the old man was no longer there, after all. The woman
seemed to have paid for the room and was now standing
there with her suitcase in her hand. She still had her
white cap perched on the back of her head and a black
coat draped neatly over her uniform, but despite the
growing darkness she showed obvious signs of
weariness, almost as if she had been beaten. “Didn’t
you ask me to take him to somewhere close to the
Armistice Line?” She
laughed weakly. “You are a step too late. If you had
come yesterday, things would have turned out
differently . . . .” “Didn’t
you say you would be at Wontong? That old fellow at
the restaurant in Mulchi . . . ” “We
were in Wontong,” the woman replied. He
looked at her oddly, wondering if she was lying. “You
didn’t take a room anywhere?” “I
found a room but not in an inn. I didn’t like having
people coming and going, all staring. Then I gave up
and brought him down here. If you had arrived
yesterday we would not have been able to meet. You
would never have thought of asking at ordinary houses,
would you?” Sensing
a trace of mockery in her voice, he said nothing. “Still
you meet those you are destined to meet,” she
observed, and sensing his sullenness laughed again.
“Let’s go somewhere else. I’ll buy you supper. You’ll
be leaving for Seoul tomorrow?” “Maybe,
it depends if the boats are running.” “I
have to go to Gangneung then head for Jeongseon. I
need to see my father first. “Is
that your home? Everyone’s from Gangwon Province, it
seems . . . .” “Are
you from Gangwon too? I’m from Yeoryang, not Jeongseon
. . . Have you never heard of Auraji River?” He
was on the point of saying, I’m not from here, but my
dead wife was . . . then gave up. “Auraji River?” The
woman, who was by now covered in snow, led the way,
not to a restaurant but into another inn. Uncertain,
he paused but the woman, looking back, urged him on.
“There’s no proper restaurant here. Why don’t you have
supper here, then you can go and sleep in another
inn?” The
woman went out to shake the snow from her coat and
order food, and in the meantime he spread his hands on
the heated floor where two cushions were laid. Perhaps
due to the pointless fatigue he had endured for the
last two days, his eyes closed. What excuse was he
going to offer once back at work . . . . “What
did that guy say when he swore at you before running
off?” The woman seemed to have washed up, she looked
fresher when she came in, then sat leaning against the
wall looking at him. “Didn’t
you hear?” “I
heard something, but it wasn’t clear. What did he
say?” Wondering
why she was so interested in the curses, he merely
stared into her face. “I
knew it. You bastard . . . or something like that,
perhaps? I knew it. Enjoy yourself with that whore . .
. right?” She repeated the words clearly. He
looked hard at the woman before turning his face away,
as if he saw something he was not supposed to see. “If
you heard that kind of language, I deserve it. That’s
what I did, even preparing the documents . . . .” “Was
it the contract the guy talked about?” “Yes,”
the woman lowered her eyes. “I was charged with caring
for that old man for two years. They made a request at
the hospital I worked for. I had no choice, it being
the firm’s hospital. They asked if I could undertake a
special job, not a matter of washing him or taking
care of his bodily functions. The moment I heard what
was involved I thought I should have a contract. It
does not exactly specify the dirty things I had to
do.” “Would
an eighty-year-old have the strength for anything of
that kind?” He asked, suddenly feeling angry or at
least bad-tempered. “Hadn’t he had a stroke?” “Have
you ever heard of what they call a hot pack? A water
bag applied as a poultice . . . a kind of
hot-water-bottle. What the Japanese call yudanpo is a
bit different but . . . I spent two years acting as a
hot-water-bottle. The contract called it ‘special
nursing.’ I insisted absolutely on inserting that term
. . . Recently they began to feel uneasy about the
contract. I had forgotten all about it, but the boss,
being such an asshole . . . .” “So
you ran away?” She
nodded and returned his gaze with an odd expression.
“They all knew we were coming here. Where else would
he go, if not here? Even before he fell ill he had
been saying all the time that he wanted to go to
Wolsan village. That was why he kept fighting with the
boss . . . Since you made your fortune here in Seoul,
you should think of Seoul as your hometown; the boss
used to bully him and the old man only grew more
stubborn . . . it was just an excuse. It was merely
his way of getting back at his father for all he had
against him. Do you know what the old man’s nickname
was in the old days? ‘The Jindo Bulldog,’ a
combination of a Jindo dog with a bulldog, you
understand? Then this winter he collapsed. Feeling
sure he wouldn’t last till the end of the year, I took
him away. Even if he can’t speak, once he starts to
pester . . . .” “With
all those worries, you still brought along the
contract?” She
laughed sadly. “Who knows what may happen? I’ve had
hard times enough in the hospital from people who make
trouble because of greed, even when they can’t walk or
move. And the boss was looking for an excuse to sack
me, too . . . The boss means to stand for the National
Assembly next year. Every topic of gossip has to
vanish . . . .” Supper
was brought in on a table. The woman poured out beer
but he did not feel like drinking so put the glass
aside and picked up the chopsticks. “And
I came following after, without having any idea . . .
.” “I
knew you would come here, didn’t I?” The woman, who
had been eating busily, lifted her head with an
undefinable expression. “I had thought of going to
Seorak Mountain for a few days of rest, but it was no
good, it was beyond my strength. I was waiting there
because I remembered something I heard once from a
fortune-teller in Myeonmok-dong. Why Mulchi? At thirty
I would meet someone bearing three coffins beside
water . . . that person was my husband in a previous
life . . . .” “Do
even nurses say things like that?” Her
expression turned playful. “Look
at this.” She laid her chopsticks aside and held out
her palm. “Have you ever seen palm lines like this?” He
looked casually at the jumbled lines that seemed to
have been cut with a sashimi knife, then asked
mischievously. “You
mean that before and after I dropped by there, nobody
appeared to take your hundred thousand won? Still it’s
not me, surely, and what’s that about someone bearing
three coffins or something?” “Who
said it was you? Don’t count your chickens too soon. .
. I just knew you would come . . . Show me your palm;
you never know . . . .” She
stretched out her hands as though dealing with a
patient. As she began to behave like a child,
obviously with her guard down, he gazed at her. “So,
are you still a virgin?” Pulling his arms back, he
casually asked, then regretted it. “Does
a virgin think nothing of talking like this? When I
first arrived in Seoul I didn’t even know how to eat
bibimbap. I thought the vegetables and the rice were
supposed to be eaten separately . . . In those days I
was a virgin.” Her tone suddenly became dejected. “I
am no virgin.” Seized
with an awkward feeling, he looked down and began to
force food into his mouth. She too kept silent. After
she had carried the meal table out and come back, she
took a paper from her pocket. “They
gave me my severance pay just now. What should I do
with this check?” Not
understanding her reasoning, he looked up, at which
she went on, still standing, “Shall I tear it up?” “Are
you out of your mind?” “Tearing
up the money I’ve earned doing that, is that something
that makes me a mad woman? It’s three
million won . . . I could rent a room for Father with
that, but . . . .” “Don’t
be silly,” he said. “What do you solve by destroying
it? It’s only making a fool of yourself. How old are
you for goodness sake?” “Then
I’ll tear it up. Far better to be a fool.” The
woman’s hand that held the check began to tremble. She
was weeping as she said, “I can’t do it . . . .” Her
body came crashing down. At a loss what to do, he
grasped her in his arms but sensing the deep groan
that was sinking down into his bowels, he had to keep
his eyes wide open. If they had been on the road, she
might have died too. He
did not know how he escaped from the room. As soon as
he started to rub her back, the woman stopped crying,
and he vaguely recalled how, between sobs, she had
repeated “I can’t endure being alone any more . . . .”
It was certain that he had repeatedly rubbed his cheek
against hers, but he could not be sure if he had said
he would come to fetch her the next morning, nor if he
had asked her whether she would go up to Seoul with
him. Once
outside in the alley, he found he was carrying a
bottle of beer; he must have brought it with him from
the room. He
went into the first inn that struck his gaze, took a
room, and once the bedding was spread on the warm
floor, he undressed and sat down on it and, leaving
the door that looked onto the yard slightly open,
began to drink from the bottle as he watched the snow
falling outside. The
woman who brought in the table with breakfast, which
he had not ordered, informed him that a boat would be
leaving at ten thirty. He heard the faint sound of a
drum being beaten which seemed to have awakened him. “It’s
a ceremony for the dead,” the woman told him, “Last
year a kid slipped on the icy road and fell into the
lake. The child was from the scholar’s family, just
over the hill . . . .” Shaking
off the woman, who was offering to carry his bag, he
went across to the other inn, where the nurse was
apparently waiting, for she immediately opened the
door and emerged as he arrived. Avoiding each other’s
gaze in embarrassment, they walked down the alley and
he set off quickly for the landing stage. During the
five or so minutes it took to reach the landing along
the path they did not speak a single word. While
they watched the boat with the shaman slowly coming
toward them from farther out, he handed a note with
his address and office phone number on it to the
woman. “Will
you come up straight away, once you’ve visited
Yeoryang?” “Yes.” “We
have to be prepared to make a double income for a
while, I guess. If we’re going to set up house . . .
.” “Are
you talking about that already?” “I
have to catch this boat. Can you find a bus?” “They
should be running. They’re already clearing the snow,
it seems.” Even
though only one boat had been canceled the previous
afternoon, the railing of the ship was already crowded
with hikers and other passengers who were chattering
with anxious faces as they shifted their weight from
one foot to the other. The ceremony seemed to be over
but as the boat used for the ritual drew in, the
shaman stepped ashore and began to sprinkle water
around from a gourd. Then she threw aside the gourd
and snatched a fan and a bell from her assistants, who
were carrying an hourglass drum and a barrel drum. She
began to ring the bell and the drummers began to beat
the drums again. “Be
careful,” the woman said. Unable to tear her eyes from
him as he crossed toward the ship, the woman suddenly
began to smile as she stood on the jetty, so he turned
his eyes away as if dazzled and lit a cigarette. Dragon
King, god of the East Sea, the East, Ksitigarbha,
god of the West Sea, the West, Naraka
Hell, the world of woe and tumult, Behold
and see, behold and watch over us! Smoothly
come down please, smoothly . . . . A
fire was lit near the shaman; people who had come to
see others off and some local children gathered around
it. By
the time he realized what was happening, the shaman
who had approached the woman, dancing all the way, was
holding out her fan. “Take
this,” the shaman screamed. Boundless
expanse of blue water, Sacred
tree, souls of the wretchedly dead, I
never expected to see you again. Oh,
my daughter, my pitiful daughter, To
the netherworld ninety thousand leagues away, You
left and now have come back . . . . After
reciting her lament, the shaman once again screamed
with glistening eyes. The nurse’s face was flushed
crimson. The shaman kept holding out her fan as if she
were pushing it toward the nurse, whose body staggered
backward, floundering. The nurse then dropped her
suitcase and seized the fan with both hands; she
seemed to be shuddering violently. The cap fell from
the back of her head. “Hey,
what’s going on there? Isn’t that a spirit coming down
into her?” “Why,
that’s a nurse . . . .” From
among the onlookers along the rail of the passenger
ship could be heard sympathetic voices as well as
clacking tongues. Cries of “Darling!” rang out, either
from his dead wife or from the nurse. Just
as he took one step forward, about to leap from the
ship, the woman’s gaze changed. Tearing at her clothes
with one hand, waving the fan with the other, she set
about dancing. The
ship listed as it floated on the water. A sound of
water ebbing from beneath the keel rose up, while
above the snow-covered peak across the water a giant
palm was suspended. Unable
to tell whether it was a dream or an illusion, he
stared with wide open eyes at the lines on his hand,
which he had hitherto taken no notice of; they were
running confusedly, crisscrossing his palm, forming
three squares. |