by Young-Ha Kim
"I'm craving their sushi."
"Is that place any good?"
"I never took you? They do a good steamed cod head, too."
"You only took me to cheap places," Soji says.
"My treat, okay? It's really good."
"Thanks. So let's meet in the lobby at six."
"Okay. I'd better get going now." Ki-yong pauses at the door. "So we'll meet there at six, and if something comes up I'll call."
The hallway outside the conference room is quiet. Ki-yong bows. Soji returns his bow. Ki-yong walks toward the main entrance, where daylight is filtering through. A beat later, Soji follows. The music signaling the end of the period reverberates through the speakers; Schubert's "Trout Quintet." With that signal, the giant monster of a school starts to come alive. Like a small earthquake, the floors thunder and the high voices of students coagulate, sticky like mucus, growing slowly in intensity. The vibration and the noise, erupting from the higher floors, slither down to the first floor. Ki-yong goes back through the dark hall lined with trophies and plaques and emerges from the building. He feels sluggish. The kids who had gym brush past him and run up the stairs, chattering. The pungent, not unpleasant smell of sweat and body odor trickles into his nostrils. Ki-yong regains his energy. He might not have that much time, but he doesn't want to lie obediently on the butcher block awaiting his fate. He starts the car. Soji stands at the entrance of the school building, watching him disappear beyond the front gates.
HYON-MI ISN'T ONE of those kids who race around during breaks. She prefers to remain by herself, resting her chin on her hand, and look down at the grounds from the window. Some impatient boys who have gym next period run out to play basketball before the kids who just finished gym even get back to the classroom. Near the basketball court, a middle-aged man with a familiar gait and demeanor walks briskly toward the parking lot. Hyon-mi cranes her neck to get a good look. Dad! Why is he here, and not Mom? Did he meet with her homeroom teacher? But her teacher would have told her. Hyon-mi wonders if she should open the window and call out to him, but ends up just looking at his retreating figure. It's the first time she's seen her dad from above. Maybe because of the angle and the distance, he looks unusually small and dispirited. That morning, at home, he was larger than life, but the guy walking across the school grounds is a different man. He's one of many suits driving a Sonata, no different from her asshole physics teacher. Her father looks back at the school building—where kids emerge, hunched against the early spring chill—and gets into his car. A woman stands at a distance from her dad. Soji, her Korean teacher. She has short spiky hair like a Japanese career woman, so she's distinguishable from the other female teachers. It's clear that Soji walked her dad out. Why Soji, not her homeroom teacher? Her father's car glides through the front gates and turns down the steep road.
A-yong comes over and sits next to her. "Whatcha looking at?"
"Nothing."
A-yong rolls her small eyes in a knowing way and asks, "Are you going later?"
"Where?" Hyon-mi averts her eyes, pretending to fiddle with something.
A-yong whispers, "Jin-guk's house. Are you going?"
"Oh..."
A-yong narrows her eyes. "Stop pretending like you don't want to."
"I should go, right?"
"You mean you want to go, don't you?"
Hyon-mi, starting to get annoyed, gnaws on her nails. "You know, I don't get him."
"Who cares? You like him, and that's all that counts."
"I don't know. That's the thing I'm not sure about."
"It's his birthday. You should at least go to the party."
"Are you going, too?"
"Should I? Won't I be the clueless third wheel if I go with you?"
"No way. I'm not going by myself."
"Is it true that his parents are divorced?" A-yong asks.
"I don't think so. I don't really know."
"I heard people talking. You haven't been to his house, have you?"
"No."
A-yong snickers and starts doodling a cartoon figure of a girl with long legs and big eyes on Hyon-mi's notebook. "Or you can go alone. I'm not going."
"Why not?"
"It doesn't matter. Do whatever you want." A-yong goes back to her seat, grinning mischievously.
Students are returning from the cafeteria or from hanging out with their friends in other classrooms. Hyon-mi glances at Jin-guk, who is coming in the back door. When their eyes meet, Jin-guk looks away. Hyon-mi stares down at her desk. Doodling in her notebook, she wonders why she's suddenly attracted to this guy. She didn't even know he existed at the beginning of the semester but then, just in the past two weeks, she's become obsessed with him. He isn't that good in school or noticeably popular. At the beginning of the semester, their math teacher, nicknamed King Kong, said, "I don't know if you guys know, but a long time ago, there was something called ham radio. Amateur wireless communications..." A few kids looked at Jin-guk, murmuring, "They're still around." That was when she became conscious of his existence. Visibly excited, King Kong approached Jin-guk, but Jin-guk only mumbled, "My dad did it, so..." But King Kong dug deeper, and found out that Jin-guk had a third-level amateur wireless communication license.
Hyon-mi is fascinated that, in an age of instant messaging and chatting, Jin-guk knows Morse code. He has his own call signature, something unique and different from an instant messaging ID, which anyone can have. Hyon-mi feels close to Jin-guk. A former Go champion and a wireless communication aficionado: they're both holdouts from a bygone era.
THE MAN WHO made the appointment to test drive the Passat comes into the showroom just minutes before 10:00. Through the large showroom window glass, Ma-ri sizes up the car he arrived in, the way shoe salesmen judge people by their shoes. It's a 2003 silver Hyundai Grandeur, the kind of car driven by someone who doesn't depend on a monthly wage, a ride for a man who owns his own business even if it's small, who wants to hear that he has style but doesn't have an adventurous streak. A good candidate for a Volkswagen. Volkswagen customers are different from people who buy other German cars, like Mercedes or BMWs. They tend to be organized entrepreneurs who dislike showing off. Never gangsters or swindlers, they exude less masculinity. And they're the kind of people who think they are extremely knowledgeable about cars.
The man walks toward Ma-ri, his steps precise and confident. Like a man who hasn't ever been punched in his entire life. Economical and neat, he doesn't make unnecessary movements. He's taut, from head to toe. His pinstriped navy blue suit isn't cut from the best cloth but it's stylish, with a little nip at the waist.
Ma-ri smiles and stands up. "Are you...?" she trails off.
"Yes, I made an appointment yesterday. My name is Park Chol-su."
"Yes, hello." Ma-ri hurriedly takes out a business card from its case on her desk. She fumbles a little and the cover of the case starts to fall. The man, who is observing her every movement, snatches the falling cover swiftly and hands it to Ma-ri.
"Thank you."
They exchange business cards.
"Is the car ready?" Chol-su asks.
"Yes, it's right outside."
Chol-su looks down at Ma-ri's arm. "How did that happen?"
"Oh, it's nothing." Ma-ri smiles brightly, as if she had known him for a long time. After bowing to the manager, Ma-ri leaves the showroom with Chol-su.
THE WEIGHT OF ENNUI
10:00 A.M.
CHOL-SU GETS in the driver's side of the car as Ma-ri buckles up in the passenger seat. He checks the gauges, the parking brake, and the rearview mirror. After carefully glancing around the car, he tentatively starts the engine. Ma-ri offers some tips from the passenger seat, but he doesn't seem to need much help. The Passat passes Yangjae Highway and merges onto the highway toward Pundang. Chol-su abruptly guns the engine to test the car's reaction time and weaves in and out of the lanes, leaving other cars behind. His expression doesn't change but he has melded with the car, breathing with it. Ma-ri can
almost feel the adrenaline pumping from his brain—a man, restrained but agile, calm but giving in to an intense energy, is sitting next to her. Unconsciously, Ma-ri moves away from him and leans against the window.
A test drive is dangerous in many ways. Drivers are encountering a particular car for the first time, so they are basically beginners. They usually can't locate what they need quickly and panic. Since they aren't yet used to the feel of the brakes and have trouble reining in their excitement, the car jerks or swerves. And they floor it without an ounce of hesitation, something they don't do in their own cars. The rpm gauge dances beyond the red line and their bodies are plastered to the seats, as if someone is pulling them from behind. A few times, Ma-ri has actually wondered whether men were aroused by the smell of a new car. As soon as their feet touch the accelerator, their breathing grows irregular and excited. Their upper bodies lean forward, in attack mode, and their aftershave mixes with their sweat, emitting musk. The scent of virile males. Forgetting that Ma-ri is sitting next to them, they swear and revert to a state of boyhood. In this tight space, their shoulders brushing against each other, a peculiar tension grows between the test drivers and Ma-ri. The men become attracted to her, a chick who understands cars, and Ma-ri sometimes feels a burning heat, sitting next to these boylike men. But as soon as they return to the showroom and the men hand over the keys, they revert to being nice, polite middle-aged men. They leave quickly, looking a little embarrassed. They bluff a little, acting as if they might buy the car right away, quickly going over their financial situations in their heads, then get back into their own cars, feeling a little shriveled.
Chol-su switches into manual mode and shifts gears. The car jolts forward.
"Powerful engine," he comments.
"It has good horsepower, but the torque is what sets this car apart."
He glances into his rearview mirror and switches into the passing lane. "When I was young my family had a Mark V. Have you heard of it?"
"No."
"Ford and Hyundai collaborated on it. It was our first car. When my father washed the car in the parking lot of our apartment complex, the kids would come out to watch."
"There weren't many cars back then," Ma-ri agrees.
"It wasn't because of the car; it was because of my father, who was a comedian. The kids would swarm over and imitate him. But he was different in real life, quiet and introverted. When he didn't react, the kids would taunt him with his stage name."
"Did he do anything?"
"Sorry?"
"Your father. Did he do anything about it?"
He smiles. "He would say that kids throw rocks at monkeys in a zoo and bang on windows of a pet store because they want to communicate. Because the animals don't respond to them, the kids try to talk to them the only way they know how."
Ma-ri nods. The rpm needle shoots past 2,500.
"If they kept calling out to him, he would put the rag on the hood of the car, turn around, and do his signature silly dance, grinning. The kids would laugh and copy him, and the whole neighborhood would be filled with dancing kids. Then he would turn around, finish washing the car, and come back home. He would put Karajan on the record player, lie on the sofa, and listen to it without speaking. Watching him, I understood that being a comedian was harder than it looked."
"Ah..."
"The next day, my father would be back on TV, joking and dancing his trademark dance. Oh, how did I get to this? Sorry about that."
"No, no, it's a funny story."
His eyes harden. "You think that's funny?"
Ma-ri starts to apologize. "No, that's not what I meant. I meant..."
The corners of his mouth lift a little. "No, it's fine. Other people's stories are always funny."
A short silence ensues.
"The speed limit is fifty miles per hour here," she warns, pointing to a sign. A silver camera reveals itself with a flash, the sunlight refracting off its surface. Chol-su slides his foot over to the brake.
KI-YONG PARKS HIS car in the lot in front of his office. He looks into his car one last time as he shuts the door. The thought that he may never drive it again flits through his head. He glances around and takes the stairs to his office. Song-gon, who was watching Japanese porn with his earphones on, hurriedly closes his browser window.
"Hello, sir, you're back already?"
"What do you mean 'already'?"
Song-gon glances at the clock. "Oh, I lost track of time."
"Did you find out about the screens?"
"They're supposed to call me back."
"I'm sorry to ask you this, Song-gon, but can you go buy me a keyboard? Something's wrong with mine. Some keys work and some don't. I forgot to pick one up on my way in."
"Sure, I know how frustrating it is even if one key doesn't work. Is it urgent? It's going to take a little time."
"That's fine. Why don't you take your lunch break while you're out?"
"Okay."
Ki-yong takes out a few ten-thousand-won bills from his wallet and hands them to Song-gon, who heads out. As soon as Song-gon leaves, Ki-yong opens Song-gon's desk drawer and rummages through messy files, a rainbow of Post-its, earphones, a stapler, a stack of business cards, wires, a promotional paperweight, and packing tape. He studies everything carefully but nothing arouses his suspicions. Ki-yong replaces the items in the reverse order he took them out and goes to his own desk. His monitor is blinking slowly like the eyes of a cow, lulled into energy-saving mode. When Ki-yong taps on some keys, the computer comes alive, awaiting orders. He clicks on the e-mail that indicated Order 4 and follows each step, collecting strange metaphors. Finally, he reaches the end: "March 16th, 0300 hours. Rendezvous at 3674828."
Ki-yong looks at his watch. He has less than twenty-four hours. He takes out a map and finds the coordinates. Taean Peninsula on the west coast. He digs his fingernails into his temple. An agent of Ki-yong's stature can easily go back through China, so why was this dangerous course chosen? Two possibilities pop into his head. Either his identity has been leaked and the South's intelligence agency has barred his leaving the country, or it's a test of Ki-yong's loyalty. Either way, it's a problem.
Ki-yong opens the body of the computer with a Phillips screwdriver. Big balls of dust roll around inside. He carefully removes the hard drive. He takes it to the bathroom, places it in the sink, and turns on the tap. Sinking to the bottom, the hard drive emits a few errant air bubbles. Only bubbles, despite all the hours they spent together—it feels as if he were watching a part of his brain being sliced out. When the bubbling stops, he picks up the hard drive, shakes the water out, and brings it back to the office. Now it would be safe to throw it away in a trash can in a subway station bathroom. Ki-yong reassembles the computer. He then takes out his desk drawers, one by one. Business cards, pens, paper clips, a stapler, and glue sticks fall on the rubber pad protecting his desk. He sifts through the stack of business cards; some names he remembers, others he doesn't. They would soon be whispering about that movie importer who suddenly disappeared. He puts the cards back in the drawer so that anyone looking through it could find them easily, and sweeps the rest of the items back in his desk.
He walks up to the bookshelves. Like a man about to go on his summer vacation, he deliberately runs his hand over the spine of each book. Which books should he take? Will he have time to read? And if he follows Order 4 and goes back, could he even read these books? Probably not. He will have to go from an existence surrounded by books to one made up of walls. He selects Simon Singh's Fermat's Enigma. Since it is a mathematics book, neither the South nor the North would have an issue with it. He picks out the poetry volume necessary to crack codes in case he gets another order. He hesitates, then puts in his bag Oloikov's Death of a Soldier, a novel he has always meant to read.
Ki-yong also grabs his iPod, on which he has more than two thousand songs. How many songs will he be able to listen to in the future? It has taken so long to collect this many. At first, when he got to the
South, he listened to cassettes. He was intimidated by the walls of CDs and tapes stacked in music stores without space for even a toothpick between them. He couldn't believe that all these different kinds of music could coexist in the world. He had grown up in a country of marching songs. His countrymen didn't enjoy music in private, but sang in unison to tunes blared from speakers in the streets. The first electronic gadget he bought when he got here was a Sony Walkman. He listened to the South's pop stars, especially Cho Yong-pil and Lee Mun-se, and the Beatles. The Beatles in particular shook his soul to its core. He listened to "Hey Jude" or "Michelle" alone in his room through the headphones of his Walkman, savoring the forbidden. These songs opened a door to a new kind of happiness, one he'd never experienced in Pyongyang. Later, when he found a more permanent place to live, the first thing he did was set up a small stereo system and a CD player. As time passed and sound quality and fidelity improved, his tastes gravitated toward classical and jazz. And then, before he realized it, the era of the CD had passed and everyone listened to music in the form of audio files. He was diligent about ripping a CD, converting it to MP3s, and storing them in his iPod, but these days he never surrendered himself to music quite as passionately as he did during his first few years in the South.
It isn't only Ki-yong who changed. The world around him has transformed as well. He came south before personal computers became widely available—he learned how to use one alongside South Koreans. He learned FORTRAN and BASIC, and entered the world of word processing through programs like Posokgul. And he transitioned from the world of MS-DOS to Windows, from the Bulletin Board System to the Internet. He actually adapted quicker to this new world than the average forty-year-old South Korean. As a transplant in South Korean society, his whole mission was to adapt. He didn't have the confidence or the courage to resist or reject change. That was a privilege of only the natives.
He unfastens his watch. He takes out a Sunnto scuba diving watch from the drawer and swaps it with the watch he was wearing, which was a part of his wife's dowry. Plated with 14k gold, it's unfashionable now. Unfashionable—it feels foreign to judge aesthetics so fluidly. In his former world, judging beauty and ugliness according to individual standards was one of the most dangerous adventures one could undertake. Ki-yong's eyes, heart, and hard drive have been completely rewired to become a product of this current world, like a refurbished cyborg. As if someone drugged him, rendered him unconscious, and switched everything out. His old hard drive was thrown into a pool of water and bubbled to its demise.