by Young-Ha Kim
AFTER HER HUSBAND and daughter leave, Ma-ri finishes up in the bathroom. She's now wide awake. She takes out her cell phone from her purse and her thumb blurs over the keypad, tapping out a text message.
—Lunch?
A little later, an answer pops up on her screen.
—OK. Where?
Her thumb flies.
—Napoli. 12?
—OK!
She tosses her phone back in her bag. Sitting in front of the vanity, she starts blow-drying her hair. Men who are curious about what women are like when they think nobody is watching should try to catch a woman as she gets ready in the morning. Ma-ri is one of those women who blows out her hair and applies makeup like a cyborg, mechanically patting on foundation and slicking on eyeliner. She stands up and puts on the clothes she laid out the night before, pausing to yawn. She pulls on stockings, tosses her makeup bag in her purse, and walks to the front door. The cat follows her, meowing. Ma-ri steps around her, concerned that cat hair will get on her black skirt. She slips on her shoes.
"Bye, kitty, Mommy's leaving," she says, opening the front door. The cat stares back.
STILL LYING IN BED, Park Chol-su stretches his hand out slowly and picks up his wallet from the bedside table. Three hundred thousand won. He lays it back on the table and clicks the remote, turning on the TV. The clock on the top right-hand corner of the screen reads 7:47 A.M. He sits up, using only his abs and keeping his lower half completely immobile. His body is taut, ready for action. There isn't an ounce of fat on him, from his head to his toes. He looks at the TV. A sleek black horse gallops along North Riverside Road. Four horses have escaped from a trailer heading for the Wondang racetrack during rush hour, and cars are stuck on the road, unable to move. Emergency crews are trying to get close enough to the horses to grab their bridles. A smile flickering on his face, Chol-su watches the commotion that has erupted in the middle of the city. The frightened horses dwarf the drivers in their cars, who instinctively shrink away when the horses leap by, their large penises jiggling at eye level.
When the news moves on to another item, Chol-su heads into the musty bathroom to pee. He flushes. He plugs the sink, letting the water pool, and washes his face carefully, making sure not to splash outside the sink, and pats his face dry with a towel. He starts singing "Speak Up" by Crying Nut. Speak up, speak up, speak uuuup.
DREAMING JARS OF OCTOPUS
8:00 A.M.
MA-RI OPENS her Volkswagen Golf and gets in. Rain from the day before has made the fabric damp and the seat sticks to her legs. She rolls down the window to let in some air. Waiting for the engine to heat up, she lowers the visor and looks into the mirror. In the darkness, the crow's-feet around her eyes appear more defined. She flips the visor up and releases the parking brake, her plastered hand hovering between her chest and the wheel. With a metallic clank, the car jerks forward.
She has to drive more carefully than usual because of her useless left hand. It brings her back to the days when she was a novice. When did I first get behind the wheel? It was the summer of 1994, during a heat wave. The driving-school car had no air conditioning. She remembers beads of sweat rolling down her face, stinging her eyes.
She begins to reminisce about all the firsts in her life. The first time she rode a bike was during the summer after third grade. Boys biked away from the neighborhood en masse, like a desert caravan. She didn't know how to ride, so she perched on the back of the biggest kid's bike. Near the creek, the boy who'd given her a lift taught her to ride. She wobbled and weaved. After half an hour, she was able to manage this two-wheeled monster, which had a mind of its own. When she could finally pedal along the narrow road next to the creek by herself, the boys whistled and clapped from a distance. She returned to the starting point, breathing hard from the excitement, and the boy who had been running alongside, holding on to the back of the bike, handed her a cigarette.
Really? she asks herself. Did kids that young get together to smoke? She is suspicious of her own recollections; memories can become distorted. But that scene is clear and vivid in her mind. She remembers coughing before she even inhaled, not because she was choking on smoke, but because she thought that was what she was supposed to do. The boys, giggling, took one last deep drag, threw the butts into the dirty creek, and then climbed back on their bikes and headed home.
Ma-ri suddenly craves a cigarette. She opens the glove compartment, hoping for a stroke of good luck, but there are no cigarettes inside. She wishes there were just one. She wishes she bought a pack earlier.
The brake lights of the car in front shine crimson. Traffic starts to thicken. She cranes her neck, looking for the reason for the delay, and sees a car on the shoulder, its bumper damaged, several tow trucks and a police car flocked around it. The car appears to have swerved off the road and smashed into the guardrail lining the side of the riverside road.
Switching on her hazards, she pulls up behind the police car. She gets out and approaches the cop, who is on one knee, measuring the length of the skid marks. The cop struggles to stand up, his midsection as round as a tire.
"Which insurance company are you from? That was fast."
"Did someone die?" she asks.
The cop stares at her, then fixes his gaze on her cast. He seems to have realized that she isn't from an insurance company. A man in a worn leather jacket comes over and stands between her and the cop. He is flushed and limping a little—the driver of the car.
"Nobody died. Who are you? Who are you with?" the man asks.
Ma-ri turns away. "Never mind. I'm no one."
"Are you with the insurance company?"
"No."
The man turns red, like a scolded child. "Then who are you?"
"It doesn't matter." She addresses the rotund cop who is about to kneel again, "Can I bum a cigarette from you?"
Surprisingly without hesitation, the cop slips out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and holds it out to her. Salems. She starts to pull out two, then pauses to smile beguilingly at the cop to ask for permission. He nods lightly, and, leering, says, "Like it minty, huh?"
"Thank you," Ma-ri replies.
The cop holds out a lighter but she politely declines. Back in her car, she uses its lighter and takes a leisurely drag. If her left hand weren't injured, she would drive off as she smoked. Her brain is reacting to the nicotine before it even reaches her lungs. She relaxes; the world is somewhat brighter. She exhales and opens her eyes. The cop and the driver are staring at the small, round glow of Ma-ri's cigarette through the tinted windows of her car. Smoke snakes out through the sunroof like strands of noodles.
She starts thinking about her firsts again. How old was she when she realized that people died? She remembers a single white chrysanthemum lying across a lone empty desk. The elderly teacher pressing a handkerchief to her reddened nose and her classmates sniffling. Sitting right behind the desk with the chrysanthemum, Ma-ri felt the eyes of the teacher and kids on her, watching to see how sad she was. All the kids were stealing glances at her, because she was the only one not crying. So she covered her face with her hands but thought it was unfair. The girl wearing a pink dress, the one who sat next to her, told her what happened. The occupant of the empty desk was tricked and kidnapped by a bad man, then was discovered a few days later in an abandoned suitcase in front of a dry cleaner. Ma-ri didn't understand what kidnapping was. But the face of the girl found dead inside the suitcase was etched in Ma-ri's mind. Why did she have to go inside the suitcase and make everyone so sad? Was she playing a game of hide-and-seek? Why did she have to go to such lengths for a stupid game? She glared at the empty desk overtaken by the solitary chrysanthemum. Despite the vacant seat, the girl's absence was oppressive. Nobody noticed her when she was alive, but her disappearance made her unforgettable. Was she really never coming back? Ma-ri didn't fully understand the finality of death. But the girl never returned. For a while the class monitor brought a new flower every morning, but the ritual eventually petered ou
t.
So then Ma-ri had a working definition for death. It consisted first of a disappearance, then controlling everyone's emotions even after you were gone. That sounded pretty neat. She decided to pretend she was dead. When she got home from school, she took her shoes in hand and snuck into her grandmother's closet. At first nobody realized she was gone. She was bored but waited patiently. She even dozed off. Since the kidnapped girl wasn't discovered for a few days, she had to be patient, too. She fell asleep. When she woke up, the house had erupted into chaos, just like she had wanted. It even smelled different. Through a crack in the closet, she saw dark blue police uniforms. They were the same uniforms that appeared at school. She glimpsed her grandfather, his expression grave. Someone was already weeping, probably her youngest aunt. This ruckus continued for a while. Her grandmother called Ma-ri's mother, who was in Seoul at the time. Ma-ri was gone for only a few hours, but the place was in an uproar because of the earlier kidnapping case. The commotion created by her small joke so surprised her that she wished she were actually dead. It would have been much better if she really died and could float above everyone's heads, invisible like an angel. Then she wouldn't have to disappoint her grandmother, aunt, or mother. Their grief had to be easier to witness than their disappointment. She tried to strangle herself with her hands. She couldn't breathe. While she was trying to kill herself, her leg jerked and kicked the closet door. Then her grandmother's beloved chihuahua—was his name Jerry?—started barking furiously at the closet. Springing up, her grandmother flung open the closet door. Her grandmother, who was 5'7" and quite strong, grabbed her by the hair and yanked her out. Ma-ri rolled out onto the floor, along with a mound of blankets. She was lucky she didn't break anything.
HER VOLKSWAGEN ROLLS gently into the company's parking garage. The security guard, his uniform wrinkled, comes running out when he sees her. He stands in front of the car, blocking her way. She brakes. The guard moves over to the driver's side and opens the door.
"What are you trying to do with that broken wrist? Here, get out."
She gets out, feigning reluctance. The guard gets in and slides the car into the lift in one fluid move. She thanks him, smoothes her clothes, and enters the showroom. Inside, sparkling new automobiles are displayed like dinosaur skeletons in a natural history museum. She walks through the showroom to the office, bows with a bright smile to the branch manager, and sits at her desk. She revels in this moment, when she glances across her neat and tidy desk, opens the large drawer to the right, and places her purse inside. She also loves the hard marble under her heels when she walks into the showroom. Compared to work, home is an uncontrollable monster. There are always odd things in her kitchen cabinets—sauces she doesn't remember buying and mysterious herbal teas taking up space indefinitely because they never expire. The fridge is in such disorder that she can't get herself to clean it out. Her daughter's room is always a mess. She has a husband she still can't read and a daughter who becomes more adept at avoiding her as she grows up. Nothing at home has a clear-cut solution. Her head hurts just thinking about it all.
Her computer finishes booting up. An IM springs open. It's the manager. He often IM's her even though he sits directly behind her.
—Please report your morning schedule.
She types back:
—A customer's coming for a test drive this morning. In the afternoon I'm working on the mail merge for the motor show invitation list.
She looks behind her. The manager is studying his screen. He starts typing. Soon his message pops up on her screen.
—Ms. Jang, didn't you say you quit smoking?
She sneaks a sniff of her sleeve. She smells like mint and stale cigarettes. She takes out a fabric deodorizer spray from a drawer and heads to the bathroom. The manager, curly-haired and sporting horn-rimmed glasses, never looks up from his screen but knows everything that goes on in the showroom. Nagging me for smoking when he used to be a druggie! Ma-ri knows that's why he is so sensitive to the smell of smoke. He used to sell Gucci, Ferragamo, and marijuana at the imported clothing boutique he set up with money from his nouveau riche father. He waited impatiently for the arrival of the inventory not only because he was concerned about the success of his boutique but also to satisfy his own consumption. When actors, singers, and the young moneyed set heard he was a source for weed, his shop became a destination. He spent his twenties smoking marijuana and snorting coke, partying at various hotels. He never got caught, even when the singers and actors were arrested, one after the other. He avoided jail time by providing the police with the names of his well-known customers.
What Ma-ri can't understand is that the singers, actors, and other customers continued their relationships with him after serving their sentences. Is addiction that powerful? Or does he have a special charm that attracts people to him? To Ma-ri, he looks like an average middle-aged man. He is fairly short and not all that handsome. Sure, he knows how to select the right shoes to go with his nice clothes, befitting his former occupation as a clothier, but that isn't enough to overcome the limitation of his plain looks. It's been five years that Ma-ri has worked with him but she hasn't yet detected an ounce of masculine charm. Perhaps he possesses some hidden charisma that is invisible to her. After all, his second wife is a former model and he enjoys a continuous supply of women.
The network he created as a dealer is still intact. Sometimes, hoarse, has-been rockers come to the showroom and take test drives with him. They all swear publicly that they have given up drugs, but it isn't clear if they really have. It does seem that the manager has truly quit. He says he was able to quit by turning to Christianity. When he was suffering from withdrawal symptoms, he bumped into a friend from middle school. The friend mentioned church, something he had neglected for a long time. He remembered the glorious state of transcendence he'd achieved as a teenager by speaking in tongues. Returning to church, he realized that he could transcend his current existence and achieve ecstasy without getting high. He goes to church every Wednesday and Sunday and has even stopped smoking cigarettes. He says he believes in Jesus Christ as his savior but it isn't clear to Ma-ri whether his faith stems from his belief in God or his addiction to that feeling of ecstasy.
KI-YONG ARRIVES AT work earlier than usual. 8:30 A.M. His sole employee, Wi Song-gon, is already there. He's in his early thirties but almost completely bald, having begun to lose his hair in his early twenties. After college he went to work at a steel company in Pohang, then quit and attended several film schools. He dreamed of directing but ended up in Ki-yong's office, after trying his hand at different projects. Song-gon had acted as a guarantor for his father, who dabbled in inventions and had terrible credit, and ended up ruining his credit, too. To avoid having the bank garnish his salary, Ki-yong pays him in cash.
"Hello, sir, you're here early," Song-gon greets him.
"Yeah, I am. Hey, Song-gon, do you eat breakfast?" Ki-yong asks.
"Well, I know I should."
"I heard on the radio that eating breakfast makes your brain work better."
"That's what they always say. Do you eat breakfast?"
"No."
Song-gon checks his computer screen and reports loudly, "Oh, they say it's going to be difficult for The Green Shade."
"Yeah? Then we shouldn't go ahead with it. It was expensive anyway. What about Bergman's film?"
"I think we'll be able to get our hands on a print, but there aren't that many places that'll show it."
"Well, find out where we can," Ki-yong directs.
"Sure."
"How's the other stuff?"
"Everything else is going well. Do you have anything important scheduled today?"
"No, I don't think so." Ki-yong sits at his desk in the corner and turns on his computer. Song-gon turns back to his computer and starts typing.
When he first started working for Ki-yong, Song-gon's screen was positioned so that Ki-yong could see it, but at some point, Song-gon turned it away. Now all Ki-yong can se
e is the back of the monitor. Anyone spending a few days with Song-gon will quickly realize that he has an incurable porn addiction. Ki-yong hired female employees a couple of times, but when they found out that Song-gon was surfing the Net for porn, they quit. Song-gon was never lewd with the women, but they made their decisions quickly, almost harshly. A bald porn addict with lousy credit, Song-gon possesses all the qualities a modern young woman abhors.
"People collect knives or watch bizarre movies, so what's wrong with my liking porn?" he protested once to Ki-yong, who could only agree.
But Ki-yong really wanted to say something more: "Your problem is your lack of charisma. If you were overflowing with charm, watching porn wouldn't be an issue. People will overlook anything if someone's got charm. Even if he's immoral, lies, does evil things—all of that is fine. But they can't forgive a bald loser with a lame job who watches porn."
Ki-yong tears his eyes away from Song-gon and carefully opens a drawer. Three empty 35-mm film canisters are rolling around inside. Someone's gone through his desk. Placing empty film canisters upright in his drawer is his preferred method of booby-trapping. He glances at Song-gon. It's possible, but he doesn't think he could be the culprit. Ki-yong absentmindedly plays with the film canisters. This is already the second time. The CIA, working out of the American embassy in Moscow, once created a set of protocols called the Moscow Rules. There is one rule in particular that he recalls: "Once is an accident. Twice is coincidence. Three times is an enemy action." That means there is one more break-in to go.
Ki-yong presses his temple with his fingers. His headache is starting up again. Who rummaged through his drawer overnight? He doesn't keep anything important in there. Only files and pens and pieces of paper that would be in any movie importer's desk. Should he install a surveillance camera? He might be able to prevent a random infiltration but he wouldn't be able to detect the traces of someone targeting him. A professional wouldn't enter a room equipped with a surveillance camera, and there is no need to go to such lengths to apprehend a novice. He could also install a hidden camera but they would be able to figure out its existence with an electromagnetic detector. He senses something ominous brewing.