Your Republic Is Calling You

by Young-Ha Kim

Ma-ri never admitted it to anyone, but her dream had always been to leave and go as far away as she possibly could, and she knew that the only way to achieve her goal was to be a star student. Once she got to college, away from her mother's weighty shadows, her natural optimism was reborn. Even if she encountered problems, she'd mumble to herself, "It'll all work out somehow. It's not a big deal." In her diaries, she would scribble things like, "Words are crucial. If one's words change, one's behavior changes, and that will lead to the transformation of one's fate."

  The university bared its true self the day after the admission ceremony in early March, when the campus was chaotic with people selling cotton candy and film and photographers offering to take pictures. Composed of a few grand brick buildings erected during the Japanese colonization and hastily built, cheap, cracked concrete ones funded by Western aid, the campus awaited her. The azaleas and magnolias that would eventually disguise the ugly architecture had yet to bloom, and the wind blowing over the small hill to the north of the school raced through the empty quad and out the front gates. The statue of the founder stood forlornly, and the plaza in front of the library was covered with asphalt instead of bricks, to discourage students from prying pieces loose and hurling them at the riot police. It was the beginning of 1986, with the newly formed New Democratic Party pushing for the reform of the electoral process to institute direct elections. The current of change would culminate only a few months later on May 3 with the student riots at Inchon, but Ma-ri, a freshman, wasn't aware of this volatile situation. Large posters flapping in the wind against the library walls hinted at the looming political turmoil. All around town, cinemas were playing a Japanese documentary about the 1980 Kwangju massacre, in which the government murdered students and civilians. But none of this was new or shocking for a native of Kwangju.

  On the first day of school, eighteen-year-old Ma-ri's attention was drawn to a "charming walk" workshop, hosted by Esquire, the shoe company. The ad in the newspaper asked her: "Does your walk have the seven essential marks of beauty?

  When you walk, the toe of your shoe touches the ground first.

  You walk with straight legs.

  Your knees brush against each other when you walk.

  Your steps are buoyant and you walk in a straight line.

  You walk tall.

  Your arms swing out to 15 degrees.

  You face forward, your head up.

  "How is your walk? People judge your personality, sophistication, and intelligence from the way you walk. Comfortable shoes and a good posture are the foundation of a beautiful walk."

  Reading this ad, Ma-ri suddenly became embarrassed. None of the seven essential marks described her walk. It was the first time she realized that there was more to a walk than transporting herself from one point to another. According to the ad, it was really a language that expressed one's personality, sophistication, and intelligence. She had to get rid of her Nikes and get herself a pair of cute heels. She went to Myongdong to buy a pair of Esquires and received a ticket to attend the charming walk workshop, taught by a top model. There were two sessions, one at 2:00 P.M. and another at 7:30 P.M., in Apgujong-dong, and she decided to go to the later one. Wearing her brand-new, shiny, pointy black heels, Ma-ri boarded the bus to Apgujong-dong. The bus crossed Hannam Bridge, passed Sinsa-dong, and raced toward Apgujong-dong. New buildings were rising all around the Kangnam district, which was just beginning to be developed, creating a sparse and uneven landscape like the mouth of a child who has started to lose teeth. On every new building hung a huge banner that said FOR LEASE. Some criticized Kangnam, with its many buildings and little greenery, calling it overdeveloped and likening it to a gigantic brickyard, but the fact that these neighborhoods didn't have any patches of green made them cooler to Ma-ri. Green was dated—gray was in. Kangnam instantly captivated her; a chic world lit by bright signs and inhabited by fashionable women driving along wide boulevards.

  Ma-ri got off the bus in front of Hanyang Department Store and walked to her destination, looking around like a tourist at the McDonald's, Pizza Hut, and other American franchises. The new shoes didn't fit very well and her heels were starting to chafe. Just when she was wondering how in the world she was going to learn to walk elegantly in this condition, one of her heels caught in the space between two bricks in the sidewalk and she twisted her ankle. The tiniest shocks had always hurt her joints easily, as they would throughout her life. If she'd plopped down right there and massaged her ankle, soothing her injured muscle and ligament, she probably would have been fine, but she kept walking through the pain, embarrassed, feeling as if all the people at the bus stop and those standing in front of the McDonald's were staring at her. She had to stop a few steps later, collapsing on the border of a flower bed. Ma-ri, more upset about missing the charm workshop than hurting her ankle, shed a few tears. Her ankle was now throbbing so painfully that she couldn't put any weight on it, and her inquiring touch confirmed that it was already swollen. She perched on the edge of the flower bed for a long time, trying hard to look nonchalant, pretending she was waiting for a friend. But as the sun set it got colder and colder, and Ma-ri was wearing a short skirt. This city, where she didn't know anyone she could call for help, started to frighten her.

  Kangnam, which had won her over just a few hours earlier, was a cold and uncaring concrete monster. Nobody approached her to help. Concluding that she was going to end up freezing to death if she didn't take action, Ma-ri boldly slipped off her shoes and tucked them into her bag. She limped down the frigid street. She was wearing stockings, but she might as well have been barefoot, the iciness from the sidewalk traveling to her heart and chilling it. The stylish residents of Apgujong-dong didn't pay any attention to this shoeless girl. This aloof, uncaring attitude of city dwellers was shocking to her. If a girl had been hobbling barefoot down Chungjangno in Kwangju, someone would have already given her a piggyback ride or put her in a taxi. But nobody even glanced at her in Apgujong-dong. Limping, she crossed the street and waited for the bus, holding on to a newly planted gingko tree, but the bus didn't appear for a long time. Finally, it arrived and she managed to get on and make it back to her boardinghouse in Sinchon.

  What would have happened to her if she hadn't sprained her ankle? If she had been able to attend the workshop and learn how to walk gracefully? If she had kept her first impression of Kangnam as a wonderful place? If she hadn't sprained her ankle, she wouldn't have had to spend a few days lying in her room. She wouldn't have been brought to the hospital by an acquaintance from back home. She wouldn't have joined or even heard of the group of politically active students of which the acquaintance was a member. At the time, she felt rejected from Kangnam and Seoul, and she was happy to hang out with the people who'd come forward to help her, hometown people whose words were heavy with the same accent as hers.

  She also wonders how her life would have turned out if she had never become pregnant with Hyon-mi. If her mother hadn't been depressed. If she hadn't met Ki-yong. If she hadn't decided to go to college in Seoul. Where did things start going awry? That might be a stupid question. What would her life have been if she'd made different choices? She idles in front of the crosswalk, lost in thought. She's shocked at how quickly the alternatives pop into her head. She wouldn't have been a student activist. She would have learned English, played tennis on the weekends, and gone camping during the summer with the guys in the yacht club. She would have dated a rich guy slated to go abroad for additional degrees, then chosen to marry an even richer guy, who would have been jealous of the first one. She would have earned her degree in sociology or psychology, returned to Korea and would be teaching at a university by now. She wouldn't be nearing forty without anything to show for it, with only a history of going from job to job like a nomad. She's never been particularly good at what she was doing, whether it was when she was an insurance saleswoman, a leftist student activist supporting Kim Il Sung, or even now, as a car saleswoman. She's never excelled at anything. Why is she
only ordinary, when she was always at the top of her class in high school and was respected by all of her teachers? Was this some conspiracy? She can't accept the conclusion that it's the result of her poor choices. It must be because of someone's persistent evil intentions, some invisible hand that secretly twisted her life and derailed it from success. Otherwise, how could her promising life have turned out this way?

  Beeeep beeeep. The sound alerting pedestrians that the light has turned green wakes Ma-ri from her reverie, and she unthinkingly steps off the curb. She takes four steps and an SUV screams by in front of her—really only a few inches from her nose—without slowing down. She sees a brief darkness in front of her, and the forceful backwind makes her falter. Her heart in her mouth, she turns to her right to glare at the car that almost careened over her, and spots a policeman. He lumbers onto the road, waves at the SUV to slow down, and motions for it to pull over.

  A cop pulling over a driver is just like a bear hunting for food; he looks lethargic but zeroes in on his target with great precision. The driver's window slides down as the cop approaches. Ma-ri draws in a deep breath and heads toward the car. And I bummed a cigarette off a cop this morning, she thinks, amused. If the driver argues that he didn't do anything wrong, she's going to make sure that he doesn't get away with it. She's going to tell the policeman that the car most definitely ran a red light. At this point, she's still confident. The cop glances at Ma-ri and the driver's head pokes out, to see what's going on. Ma-ri expects a young, muscular, and virile man, but the driver is a woman in her twenties wearing a stylish dark suit with a deep V-neck, probably Prada, her carefully styled layered hair shimmering gently around her small, cute face.

  Shooting Ma-ri a look of disdain, she flirts with the cop. "Oh, I'm so sorry, I have to be somewhere and I'm late. I only got my license a few weeks ago, too. See?" She gives him a coy glance and hands him her license. Even then, she doesn't lower her guard toward Ma-ri. The cop, unable to continuously ignore Ma-ri's chilly presence, finally asks, "Can I help you?"

  She tries as hard as she can to remain calm, and enunciates clearly, "This car almost ran me over in the crosswalk."

  The policeman looks at her cast-bound arm, then her face. "So are you hurt?"

  "No, I wasn't hurt, but I almost died," Ma-ri says, becoming indignant.

  The girl in Prada interjects. "Look, lady, that's because you jumped out when the light wasn't even green, you should wait before..."

  As those words reach Ma-ri's ears, an uncontrollable rage overtakes her. It's the kind of anger that the average person experiences at most a couple of times in her life. Like a poisonous snake darting away from the foot that has stepped on its tail, her hand shoots into the window and grips the girl's mane. The girl starts shrieking. Undeterred, Ma-ri shakes the fistful of hair back and forth as she yells, pointing to the crosswalk splayed across the twelve-lane road: "You're the one who ran the red! What the fuck's wrong with you? Can't you even say you're sorry?"

  If the cop didn't yank her off, she would have pulled out a handful of that silky hair. Ma-ri loosens her grip unwillingly. The girl, her hair covering her face, is shocked into silence. The cop warns Ma-ri gravely, like a soccer umpire, "What are you doing? If you keep at it, I'm going to arrest you for assault."

  Ma-ri's eyes swim. Everything is so unfair. She's the one who almost died, but the cop is taking the side of the hot young girl. She feels attacked and criticized, like the whole world is against her, even the cop treating her as though she's falsely accusing the girl. The cop blocks the Prada girl from getting out of her car, telling her, "Look, I'm not going to give you a ticket, so just leave."

  The girl smoothes her hair and puts her hand on the steering wheel. She jerks the gear into D, glares at Ma-ri, and spits, "What a psycho." She doesn't forget to smile at the cop, calling, "Thank you! Have a good day!" as the SUV jets off, leaving behind a roar and fumes.

  "Why did you let her go?" Ma-ri demands.

  The cop stares at her. "Lady, give me your ID."

  "My ID? What for? What the hell did I do?" she screams.

  "Just hand it over."

  "You have no right to do this! You think being a cop gives you all the power?" It's been a long time since she felt this crackle of electricity coursing through her, making her hair stand on end, but it isn't satisfying. Her enemy has disappeared and now she's fighting with the wrong person, a witness.

  "Excuse me, what's going on?" someone asks, approaching them.

  Even before she turns around, she knows it's the branch manager. He stands behind them, concerned. "Can I help? She works for me," the manager explains in a gentle but firm tone, a tone only successful men possess.

  The cop's attitude changes completely, and he asks deferentially: "Are you her supervisor? Please take her with you." The cop goes on to explain that Ma-ri was interfering with his duties, and the manager listens silently. Ma-ri gives up defending herself and follows the manager across the street.

  "Ms. Jang," the manager starts.

  "Yes?"

  "Is everything okay with you these days?"

  Ma-ri's newfound calm dissipates and her blood starts roiling. It's unfair that people assume that a woman's anger is abnormal and that something emotional is lurking beneath her wrath. That damn girl in the SUV is the one who violated traffic laws, not her. And the cop ignored a citizen's righteous complaint and let the violator go free. That's the only thing she's angry about. There's nothing deeper or emotional. She wants to turn to the manager and unleash everything on her mind, but stops herself. It's not worth it. And, well, it's true that things aren't exactly okay with her these days.

  "I'm fine. I'm just really angry, that's all."

  "Ms. Jang, as members of the service industry, we wrangle with emotions. You have to know how to stay calm. If you get overwhelmed by your anger, how are you going to control other situations?"

  Everything he says is true, but her fury is about to reach the breaking point. She wants to ask, sarcastically, Then why, if you can control yourself so well all the time, did you have to take drugs?, but she manages to keep her mouth closed. The pair walks silently past the showroom and go to their desks in the office. Ma-ri's dying for a smoke but doesn't want to push the manager. She takes a series of deep breaths and succeeds in staying in her seat. With great effort, she conjures a memory of Song-uk—his body, his scent, the way his skin feels against hers, the way he moves his limbs. Her anger shrivels bit by bit; perhaps her brain understands her intentions and is emitting dopamine. She begins to think of Song-uk's suggestion, which she considered impossible only yesterday, as her revenge on the world.

  CHOL-SU STUBS HIS cigarette out in front of the adults-only game room and, out of habit, looks around surreptitiously. He goes up the stairs. Three young men are leaving the pool hall on the second floor, laughing. One of them has a bit of dark sauce around his mouth, remnants of the black bean noodles people order while they're playing pool. Chol-su bypasses the pool hall and continues up to the third, through a metal gate. The sign on the door on the third floor says, TAEDONG TNC. He presses his right index finger on a black strip under the sign. With a beep, it recognizes his prints, and the door automatically opens and slides shut behind him.

  "I'm back," Chol-su announces.

  "Did you eat?" asks his superior, Supervisor Jong.

  "Yes."

  "What'd you eat?"

  "Spaghetti."

  "By yourself?"

  "Well, yes, I often do."

  "How can you eat something like spaghetti by yourself?" Jong asks.

  "There's a place I go all the time," Chol-su explains, leaning on his desk.

  "Do you cook it at home, too?"

  "Sometimes."

  Jong shakes his head, as if he can't understand Chol-su, and changes the subject. "How is she?"

  "I don't think she's figured anything out," Chol-su reports.

  "Really?"

  "Well, unless she's pretending she doesn't know anyth
ing."

  "You really think his own wife, who sleeps in the same bed, wouldn't know?" Jong asks.

  "I think it might be possible. How's Kim Ki-yong today?"

  "I think the son of a bitch figured it out. He went to his kid's school today and stayed there for an hour."

  "You think he went to talk to his daughter?"

  "I don't know what he did inside." Jong probes his ear with a cotton swab, a habit he acquired after his stomach cancer surgery. After they cut out half of his stomach the inside of his ear was always itchy. He eats seven small meals a day and digs around his ears with cotton swabs hundreds of times. It's as if his life's purpose is to eat and clean out his ears.

  "Where is he now?" asks Chol-su.

  "Oh, he parked his car near his office, then brought some stuff out and got on the subway."

  "Then what happened?"

  "Then I lost him. He used his cell in Chongno and then after that, nothing." Jong switches the cotton swab to his left hand and starts going at his other ear. "But this Kim Ki-yong is a really bizarre guy. It looks like he hasn't been active for the past ten years. How's that possible? He just imports movies that make you fall sleep, and that's it! Crazy son of a bitch. Why is Pyongyang leaving him alone?"

  "Maybe they have some secret mission for him."

  "You mean like that hag Lee Son-sil? That was amazing, coming down here in nineteen eighty and doing nothing until nineteen ninety-one."

  "She was ranked twenty-two in the Workers Party of Korea, right?"

  "Yeah. Rank twenty-two means she was at a premier level. A high-ranking spy comes down and for ten years she's befriending housewives, haggling over the price of bean sprouts, and participating in informal cash pools. She never gets caught, then she ends up going back north on the midget submarine that docked at Kanghwa Island, like nothing happened. She was a hugely talented agent, a natural. Just the fact that she was able to do nothing for ten years..."

  "Do you think Kim Ki-yong is a bigwig like her?" Chol-su asks, straightening up and heading toward the coffeemaker.