by Young-Ha Kim
His father finally appeared, two days after Grandfather went missing. He embraced Grandmother and didn't say anything for a long time. Grandmother cried like a young girl in his arms. Chol-su's father, whose job was to make people laugh, didn't laugh once while he was there.
It had always been a mystery to Chol-su how his verbose father had been born from his silent grandfather, whose yearly tally of uttered words was fewer than those in the Charter of Citizens' Education, and his grandmother, who didn't know how to string together a proper sentence. Perhaps his father felt pressure to prove his eloquence from childhood. He probably believed that it was the best way to break the perception that he was a stupid child. He became famous by dancing jigs and jabbering rat-tat-tat like a quick-fire gun. One TV program even counted how many words he could utter in one minute. Even a tale long enough for a novel could be told in two minutes if his father had a go at it. His father talked nonstop; people couldn't ask him questions because they were so busy listening. Chol-su's father's most popular shtick was to repeat whatever the other guy was saying, and then tack on what he wanted to say. So he'd often start: "Oh, so you think such and such? Well, I think..."
Chol-su didn't know what words were exchanged between Father and Grandmother. One day, when he came back to the house after venturing into the village to eat dried persimmons, he found Father packing their things. Grandmother had refused to come with them. She had already figured out how to live with her sorrow—she would set the table for her husband and herself, and during meals she would talk with him as if he were sitting there. If a normal person had done this, she would have been sent to the mental hospital, but since it was Grandmother, nobody thought anything of it.
Father and Chol-su went back to Seoul.
"What about Grandmother?" Chol-su inquired.
"The neighbors said they would take care of her."
Three years later, a ginseng hunter discovered Grandfather, covered by a blanket of rotten leaves, in a ravine about three miles away from where his footsteps had vanished. It remained unsolved how he got there and why, but that didn't change the fact that there he was, lying in the depths of the mountains. Not long after Grandfather's burial, Grandmother died in her sleep. Chol-su's father, who was very busy at the time because of a gig hosting a TV show, returned to his hometown to bury his mother. He seemed annoyed and reproachful, as if he were saying, "It would have been easier if you'd both passed away at the same time!"
The cracking of the billiards downstairs drifts up to Chol-su's ears again.
Jong, who's been nodding off, opens his eyes, feeling Chol-su looking at him. "What?"
"Nothing." Chol-su shifts his gaze.
"You should keep tailing the woman. I hear she's pretty?"
"Yeah, but even if she's pretty, she's still the wife. He's lived with her for over ten years."
"Yeah, but I'm sure he'll go see her. Just follow her."
Chol-su gets up from his seat, taking his time.
Jong advises, "Keep your eyes open, 'cause she could be one of them too."
Chol-su nods and is about to head toward the door when Jong's cell rings. "Yeah, uh-huh, uh-huh, okay," he says, glancing at Chol-su, who decides to wait.
Jong hangs up. "So it turns out that she's not one of them," he informs Chol-su, as he scribbles something on a piece of paper and hands it to him.
"Should I go arrest him?"
"No, just follow him. This asshole's starting to panic."
"Okay."
"If you lose him, follow the wife, okay?"
Chol-su nods and leaves the office.
THE NOOK BETWEEN HER COLLARBONES
3:00 P.M.
I NEED CHOCOLATE. Ma-ri hangs her head so that her chin nestles in the nook between her collarbones. If she hung her head any further, she would look like a marionette with broken strings. I wish I had some dark chocolate, she thinks, rummaging through her desk. But all she finds are crumpled pieces of silver paper, smudged with chocolate on one side. She's so desperate she almost smoothes out the paper and licks it.
On her desk is a heap of motor show invitations she needs to send to her customers. The invitations are more than a pile of thick paper; they signify the emotions she will soon experience. Her customers will come to the motor show, find her, expect her to smile and welcome them, then go back home without buying a single car. The manager will give her a hard time. So every time she looks at the pile she wishes she had a piece of chocolate. But she doesn't have any. Last month, when her waistline ballooned to nearly twenty-nine inches, she quit cold turkey. But her waist didn't return to its normal size. Song-uk told her he liked the slight pouch on her belly and her fleshier waist, but she didn't believe him. "You're just saying that to make me feel better. I know I'm getting old."
"No, really, I like it like this."
This conversation repeated itself several times, like codes shared between soldiers at guard posts. Song-uk admired Ma-ri's midsection, stroking it, Ma-ri was unbelieving, and Song-uk reiterated his love for it.
One day, he said, "Girls my age just have all of the negative aspects of women."
"What do you mean?"
"They're critical and picky and self-conscious and they want so many things, like kids. But they don't even know what they really want. You're different, because you have only the good parts of a woman. You're warm, you're a good listener, and you're confident. You're ready to accept what life gives you."
You have no idea, do you? You will never know, and you never should. I'm not that woman, it's just that I'm in love.
She tried to smile like Raphael's Virgin Mary, but she couldn't help smirking. Her young lover didn't notice and they kissed instead of speaking. His tongue burrowed in her mouth, attacking, as if it were a knife about to slice off her tongue. You're really confident about life. You probably think you can do whatever you want with the older woman in front of you. I used to think I could change the world, but now I realize that I can't even control my urge to eat something sweet.
Ma-ri hangs her head again. She feels a masochistic pleasure in having an affair with a twenty-year-old guy. As if she were hanging naked from the ceiling, revealing her private parts to the whole world. As if her sensitivity to criticism were becoming more and more acute, leaving her so self-conscious at meeting people's gazes that she's forced to look away, punishing herself even as she sinks deeper into the relationship.
BOWLING AND MURDER
4:00 P.M.
ALMOND PISTACHIO for me."
"Green tea, please."
Ki-yong pays for both. The acne-covered clerk sinks his silver scoop into the ice cream containers, carves out balls of ice cream, and deposits them into paper cups for the two men. They docilely pick up plastic spoons and go find seats. Ki-yong glances out the floor-to-ceiling windows, watching the hundreds of people walking hurriedly by, scurrying like ants in the mazelike underground tunnels of the Coex building.
"It's been a long time," Ki-yong starts.
"Yes, it really has."
The Baskin-Robbins is nearly empty. In the store are three girls, probably in their early teens, but they're immersed in their own conversation. The two men start eating their ice cream.
"These days I find myself preferring cold food," Ki-yong's companion says, making small talk.
"Really? Usually the older you get, the less you like cold food."
"I think I feel hotter these days."
"That's not necessarily a bad thing, I guess."
"Well, I can get very sweaty. In the summer it's a little too much."
Ki-yong contemplates the man across from him. He didn't think he could find him so easily, as they weren't that close during their days at Liaison Office 130. Lee Sang-hyok managed each of them in completely separate lines of command.
"I thought I had forgotten your name," Ki-yong offers.
His companion isn't amused. His eyes betray a strong suspicion. "It's been a long time. I'm surprised you found me," he replies, edgy.
"I was walking down Chongno and for some reason your name came to me, like a revelation. Like it was written on an electronic signboard," Ki-yong explains.
The man snorts. His skin is dark, perhaps an indication of the vast quantities of alcohol that have wrecked his liver. Overall, his body isn't alert. Ki-yong finds himself frowning at the man's state, and is shocked at himself. He's surveying the man like a reviewer from Pyongyang who's come to verify the man's ideology. Maybe this man sitting across from him is looking at Ki-yong the same way, too. This thought makes him a little uncomfortable.
"So you called me up out of the blue because you remembered my name and thought, 'Oh, I should look him up'?" the man asks, still suspicious.
"No, that's not exactly it." Ki-yong pauses for another bite of ice cream. The sweet creamy spoonful slides down his throat. He raises his head. "Mr. Lee Pil," he calls.
"What?" The man slowly removes his spoon from his mouth, his eyes a conflicting mix of fear and annoyance.
"Did anything out of the ordinary happen today or yesterday?" Ki-yong asks carefully. His leg starts to tremble, shaking the table. Ki-yong presses his elbow on the table in an effort to stop the vibration.
"What's going on?" Pil demands, looking around a little wild-eyed.
"Was there nothing out of the ordinary?"
Pil turns his head and scans the outside of the store.
"There's no tail. I checked on my way here," Ki-yong reassures him.
"Look," Pil says.
"Yes?"
Pil lowers his head and whispers, "My kid is sick."
"What?"
"He has cerebral palsy. I'm divorced and if I'm not here, there's nobody to look after him. I'm barely making ends meet, running a cell phone store. I'm sure you know this. I don't have anything left over after I pay the bill for my kid's special education school." Pil starts to tear up.
Ki-yong feels trapped. "Mr. Lee, why are you telling me this?"
Pil straightens in his seat, wincing every time he moves; it seems as if he's injured his back. "Please take pity on me."
Ki-yong is rendered mute.
"Please take pity on me!"
Ki-yong looks around and grabs Pil's wrist. He has to calm him down. "Look, Comrade Lee, I know what you're thinking. Don't worry, I'm not here to take you back."
Pil tilts his head to the right, uncertain. He doesn't seem to trust Ki-yong completely yet. "Really?"
"Of course. Why would I ask you to meet me here, if that were the case?"
Pil looks around again, his body relaxing a little. "I guess that's true."
"I understand why you're concerned."
"Wouldn't you be? You turned up out of the clear blue sky for the first time in ten years and dragged me here."
"Well, I didn't drag you," Ki-yong corrects.
Annoyed, Pil spoons up more ice cream but then stabs his spoon into his cup, as if he has lost his appetite. "So what do you want from me?"
Ki-yong studies his face. Dark circles and deep wrinkles shadow his eyes. He has gained weight in the past decade and seems to be in a general state of exhaustion. Ki-yong is reminded of Dalí's melting clocks. He pulls his chair closer to Pil. "I think Secretary Lee has come back."
Pil furrows his brow, looking nervous, as if he just woke up from a nightmare. His face is a dark question mark. "What? Lee Sang-hyok? I thought he was purged years ago."
"That's what I thought, too. I thought after that one thing we did, he"—Ki-yong twitches his right cheek and lifts his chin to one side, to signify something had flown far away—"was tossed out."
Pil nods in agreement. A hint of supplication lurks in his gesture of affirmation. "Is Lee Sang-hyok ... Is he here? In Seoul?"
"I'm not sure about that yet."
"And?"
"I don't really know myself. All I do know is that someone's found out about us."
Pil's breathing grows ragged, agitated. "But we were cut off so long ago!"
"This morning, I received"—Ki-yong holds up four fingers—"the order."
Pil looks even more worried.
"Someone called and told me to check my e-mail. I did, and it was definitely Order Four," Ki-yong explains.
"The return time?"
"Tomorrow at dawn."
"Shit," Pil spits, visibly shaken. "I mean, we were both Lee Sang-hyok's line. They wouldn't have just found you. No. No way. What the hell am I going to do about my son? He'd never be able to survive up there. He won't be able to deal with the change. It was so hard with this new school, too. At first I put him in regular school but he couldn't fit in. Those asshole kids. Having palsy doesn't mean you're stupid but the little fuckers stuffed dirty tissues into his mouth and kicked him around. Children, they're devils. These Seoul kids, these sons-of-bitches spawns of capitalism, they don't know what the hell living in a community means. They have no clue as to how to help one another. All they know is how to be selfish. And it's not even their fault, it's what their parents teach them."
"Calm down," Ki-yong orders.
Pil glares at him, his eyes burning. "You," he accuses.
"What?" Ki-yong tenses automatically.
"You, what are you, a fucking rat?"
Ki-yong scowls.
"The KCIA, no, now they're called National Intelligence Service. Did you go over to their side? You fucking asshole..."
"Hey, watch what you say," Ki-yong warns. Though he lowers his tone, every syllable is gnarled and harsh.
"Let's be honest with each other, okay? Let's put all our cards on the table." Pil's rage brings out their regional Pyongan accent. That stops Ki-yong cold. He draws in a deep breath. Calm down. Calm down. I can't get into this. I won't be pushed around by anything.
"I don't blame you for thinking this, but let me tell you once and for all that I'm not an informant," Ki-yong replies evenly.
Pil squints at him. He stands up, comes around the small plastic table, and all of a sudden, he tackles Ki-yong, like a kid goofing around. He swiftly pats him down, in a way that is hard to believe of a man who was sitting across from Ki-yong just a minute before, crumpled and unfit. He's looking for handcuffs or a gun. Ki-yong grabs Pil's shoulders and shoots up from his seat. They wrestle, entangled like boxers in a clinch. A plastic chair falls over with a clatter. The young clerk screams, "Stop!"
"Come on, you asshole, let's do this outside," Pil says to Ki-yong, rudely. They don't loosen their grips.
"Fine," Ki-yong says, nodding. They let go of each other but don't stop glaring. They raise the chair upright, apologize to the clerk, throw out their paper cups, and leave. The girls in the shop are still gabbing away, unaware of what has just happened.
Outside, Ki-yong raises his arms. "Search me."
"I did already." Pil looks around. "Sorry, but you would've done the same."
"Okay, so now we're fine?"
Pil shakes his head. "Not yet."
"What else do you need?"
"Are you trying to buy me? If it's about money, shit, I have no problem bowing down before money. I'm serious." Pil tries to gauge Ki-yong's reaction.
Ki-yong doesn't say anything but points to a small bar across the way. It's still early for it to be crowded inside. It's the kind of bar that people going to see a movie at the multiplex visit to kill time with a few beers. They go inside, and the stale stench of old beer assaults their noses. It's dark and the employees are cleaning up.
"You open?"
As their eyes get used to the dark, they see silhouettes of young people drinking beer. An unfriendly bow-tied waiter shows them to a table. As they sit down, Ki-yong orders a Heineken and Pil asks for a Guinness.
"I hear a glass or two of beer a day is good for you," Pil says, as if the wrestling match they just engaged in happened a long time ago.
Today has been a shitty day for both of them. They were wrenched from their lives, which they were living in peace, one day at a time. Sure, there were some hard days, but they never encountered anything of t
his magnitude. They wait for their beer in silence. The waiter rushes over with two beers and bowls of tortilla chips and salsa. The waiter puts the Heineken in front of Pil and the Guinness in front of Ki-yong. They trade. Ki-yong gulps down the cold beer.
Pil opens his mouth first. "So? What are you going to do? Are you going back?"
Ki-yong eats a chip. "Remember Han Jong-hun?"
"Who?"
"From Liaison Office 130. Remember, the three of us..."
Pil frowns. "Oh yeah, him."
"He's gone. Yesterday he told his secretary that he was going abroad for business and they haven't heard from him since. His wife doesn't know where he is either."
"So what happened to him?"
Ki-yong glares at Pil. "Why do you keep hounding me? I don't know a thing. What the hell would I possibly know? It's been a long time since our line's been cut, and I've been busy making a life, just like you."
"How would I know that's true?" Pil retorts, smiling sardonically. "How the hell am I supposed to know what you're up to? I really have no idea why you're telling me all of this."
Ki-yong tries to breathe evenly. His former comrade is even more nervous than he. It's no surprise that he's on edge and guarded, but Ki-yong wants to be able to complain too, and be reassured. "Look, for what it's worth, we're in the same boat. I don't know if Han Jong-hun went back or is in hiding. But we have to believe that since I got an order, you're going to get one too."
"How would you know that?" Pil asks aggressively, but he appears less enraged.
Ki-yong doesn't reply.
"Lee Sang-hyok was thrown out. The guy after him wouldn't touch our line with a ten-foot pole; he couldn't trust us. The guy after that probably didn't even know we existed. After a couple more guys, there would have been a real nitpicky guy, and he would have found you and Han as he was going through files. It's possible that they haven't found me yet, and it's not a given that they will. It's a mess up there, you know."
"I wish that were true," Ki-yong says.
"That's what I think—I think I'm safe. Nothing's happened yet."
Ki-yong sighs. "Fine, it sounds like you really know nothing. Don't worry. I'll take care of my problem myself."