by Young-Ha Kim
He looks at his watch. It's 6:15. He places a call from a phone booth. In the place of a standard ring, he hears the tune of "Russia Romance."
Soji picks up. "Hello?"
"Hey, it's me."
"Hi. Why are you calling from this random number?"
"Oh, my phone battery died. I'm in a phone booth. I'm running a little late. Sorry."
"That's okay."
He listens carefully to see if she sounds unnatural. They hang up, and he walks out of the booth, continuing to watch her through the glass. Nobody approaches her and she doesn't get a call. He waits for ten minutes. She's just sitting there, reading. Still, he waits a little longer. It can't hurt to be careful. He walks toward Myongdong, but spots a line of cops standing guard. What's going on? Is a diplomat or a high-ranking official coming through? Is there going to be a protest? He doesn't feel like going through a tunnel of cops. He stops and, pretending that he's getting a phone call, presses his cell to his ear, and doubles back toward the hotel. He pauses at the entrance of the hotel and looks around again.
If one goes swimming or plays tennis after a long hiatus, one's disappointed in one's stiffened muscles and frequent mistakes, but surprised that one's body hasn't forgotten the basic moves. This is how Ki-yong feels. In the last couple of hours, he has reengaged mental muscles he hasn't used in a long time. His senses have become more acute, his visual field has expanded. The images that hit his retina are transformed instantly into words and stored in his brain. Three burly men in suits, a woman in sunglasses, two drivers in their cars, two bellhops, no suspicious cars—this is the way he's processing his surroundings, the way he was trained to do years ago.
He circles the hotel again and uses the back entrance to get to the lobby. A couple of men are unloading a refrigerated truck. He can hear Mary Hopkin's "Those Were the Days" through the open door of the truck. Oh, my friend, we're older but no wiser.
He comes to a halt in front of Soji, who raises her head. "Oh, here you are."
"Did you wait a long time?"
"No, I got here right before you called."
"Let's go eat," he suggests.
They take the stairs down to the basement. At the Japanese restaurant, the manager, a model of hospitality and decorum, shows them to their table. They sit down and are handed warm towels. He looks at her hand. "Soji, what happened to your hand?"
A red gash, tinted pink because of the medicine she slathered on, adorns the back of her hand. "Oh, I hurt myself." She smiles bashfully, like a student acknowledging a mistake.
"I don't remember that from earlier today."
"No, it happened later, in the afternoon."
"You beat up the kids?"
"No!" She waves her hands, startled.
"I'm joking," Ki-yong reassures her. He orders sushi. She wants braised cod head, but it's sold out, so she orders sushi as well. Ki-yong adds shrimp tempura to their order, worried the sushi won't be enough.
"How about some hot sake?" he asks.
"Sure."
Ki-yong orders the drinks and stands up. "Excuse me, I have to go to the bathroom." Ki-yong goes outside and looks around. Nobody is loitering in the corridor. He notes that there are three different exits, and checks each quickly, darting down each path. He glimpses a door that leads to the kitchens of both the Japanese and Western restaurants. They probably have side doors for food deliveries, which probably lead to the street. He also double-checks the passage to the parking garage before heading back.
"So," Ki-yong says as he sits down, "did you bring it?"
"Can I ask you something?"
"You didn't bring it?"
"Can I just ask you something?"
"Okay," Ki-yong says, and nods reluctantly.
"What's in the bag anyway? Is it really a novel?"
"Why're you suddenly so curious?"
"Well." Soji smiles, embarrassed. "I just feel like it's mine, since I've kept it for so long. You know what I mean?"
"Yeah, I guess. But it's mine. I just asked you to look after it for a while."
"Yeah, but because I had it for so long, I feel like I should get to find out what I've been keeping safe for five whole years. You know that short story by Lee Seung-woo titled 'People Don't Know What Is in Their Houses'?"
The waitress, her hair pulled into a bun, brings them chawan mushi and two sake cups. He sinks his spoon into the soft egg custard. "Some things are better left unknown."
The chawan mushi is fragrant, but it feels scratchy as it slides down his throat.
"I don't think ignorance has ever helped mankind. Not knowing has always been the basis of meaningless violence," Soji insists.
Ki-yong puts his spoon down in his empty bowl. The clank resonates unusually loudly. "Soji, this doesn't have anything to do with mankind, it has to do with my personal life. It's completely private. It has to do with my future."
She spoons the chawan mushi silently. "Ki-yong, can't you share a personal problem with me? Why can't I be in your future?" Her voice is low and soft, but he winces at the desperation laced in her words.
"What are you talking about?"
"You've never been like this before," Soji explains. "Why wouldn't I think it's odd?"
"What do you mean 'odd'?"
"You suddenly appear at my school to ask me to bring you the thing you gave me for safekeeping five years ago, you buy me dinner at a fancy Japanese restaurant in a hotel. It's all a little strange, like you're about to leave and go somewhere far away."
Ki-yong picks up a sliver of ginger with his chopsticks and puts it in his mouth. "Do you like ginger?"
"No." Soji shakes her head, taken off guard.
"What about honey?"
"Don't change the subject."
"No, I'm really genuinely curious."
"I don't really like either. I eat them sometimes but I don't seek them out."
Ki-yong swallows the ginger and takes a sip of the hot sake. "I guess that's fairly normal. Everyone eats it once in a while, when they go to a Japanese restaurant or if they drank too much the night before."
"That's true."
"Soji, I might have to go to a place where honey and ginger are prized items. Where, when women give birth, they are given a few spoonfuls of honey stirred into a glass of water, and they're so grateful for that because it's so expensive."
She frowns. "Where are you going? Somewhere like Laos?"
He looks deep into her eyes. "If it were you, would you go?"
"I don't know. For how long?"
"Not for a short trip. If I go I don't know if I'll be able to come back."
The waitress brings their tempura and sushi, interrupting their conversation. Soji plucks a piece of ginger and slips it in her mouth, and he sips his sake, his leg trembling uncontrollably.
"I knew something like this would happen at some point," Soji confesses. "It always seemed you weren't really from here. Maybe it's because you're an orphan, but you always seemed lost."
"I did?"
"I slept with you, remember?"
"That was only once, though."
Soji laughs. "You can't sleep with a woman without her knowing everything about you."
"I've never heard that before."
"Tell me, Ki-yong, where exactly are you going?"
Ki-yong pushes a piece of sushi in his mouth. He isn't sure what kind it is, only that it's a lean white fish. "It's better if I don't tell you."
"Why do you say that?"
"Eat," Ki-yong urges, pointing at her food with his chopsticks.
Soji picks up a piece of shrimp sushi. Ki-yong drinks some miso soup; it tastes nutty and silky.
"I never thought I was going to die a teacher, even when I was younger. I always thought I would live a wonderfully tragic and dramatic life. My dream was to leave home and write in a faraway place, like Hemingway or Joyce. Is Ma-ri going with you?"
"I haven't told her."
"What?" Soji can't believe it. She wonders what that means. "Yo
u haven't told her yet, or you won't?"
"I'm not going to tell her."
"Why not?"
"She wouldn't come with me. And I don't have the right to make her unhappy."
"But you're married!"
"Well, we were, until now."
"Wow, Ki-yong, you're really cold. I never thought you were this detached."
"Do you want to come with me?"
"Yeah, but you have to give me some time. I have to collect my retirement pay and I want to get my security deposit from my landlord."
Ki-yong laughs, the heartiest since this morning.
"What's so funny?"
"Nothing." He shakes his head. "You really have no idea where I'm going, do you?"
"No. How would I know?"
"Can I have the bag now?" Ki-yong holds his hand out.
Soji takes the black bag out of the shopping bag she brought it in and hands it over to Ki-yong. He takes it and feels it with his hands, trying to gauge if everything inside is intact. The lock is still intact, too. "Thanks for taking good care of it." They raise their sake cups and clink.
"I had a hard time finding it," Soji says, and presses her lips together.
"So people really don't know what they have in their houses."
"I couldn't remember where I'd put it, since it isn't something I ever used."
"So where did you find it?"
"In a big clay jar outside."
"Really?" He sniffs it. It smells faintly like dry earth a split second before rain.
"It shouldn't smell bad; it's a rice jar. Doesn't it smell like rice?"
"Maybe," Ki-yong says.
"I broke the lid while I was taking it out."
"Oh, that's how you hurt your hand?"
"Yeah, I was trying to catch the falling lid. Jeez, what kind of idiot tries to grab a heavy, falling jar lid?"
They are quiet for a while. Their sushi plates become emptier.
Ki-yong says, "Soji, as a writer..."
"Yeah?"
"Do you believe that you will accept whatever life gives you, happily?"
She thinks for a moment, and nods. "I think so. I was just thinking that I've been living so placidly for the past few years. Hemingway fought in the Spanish Civil War, and André Malraux participated in Mao's Long March. But when I look around, I realize there's no possibility of a revolution or danger anywhere here, except maybe adultery—but I don't want to go on such an ordinary adventure. Do you know what I mean?"
"Do you really think that any experience helps with the creative process?"
"I'm sure it's better than having none. A blind man can probably draw well, maybe even amazingly well. But if he could see, and experience the world with his eyes, I'm sure he would be an even better illustrator."
"But if you had been blind and suddenly you could see, wouldn't you be overwhelmed by what you saw and lose your instincts?"
"Are you talking about Yonam? There's a story in one of Yonam's collections about a blind man who can suddenly see. He goes out into the streets and promptly gets lost. And he pleads with people, saying, I can't figure out how to get home, can someone help me? So a passerby tells him, Just close your eyes."
Ki-yong has never been a big fan of adages. He doesn't enjoy fancy words and clever or paradoxical expressions. He doesn't think they contain the true meaning of life. This time, he says the same thing he says every time someone tells him something like this: "That's an interesting story."
"But I think it just shows Yonam's ignorance. Sure, you could get lost during the first few minutes, but once you reconcile sight with the other senses you developed while you were blind, it would be even easier for you."
Ki-yong remembers hearing about someone like this. Aldous Huxley lost his vision in his youth but he recovered it in his late twenties through surgery, and went on to write passionately. He, for one, didn't close his eyes again. "Dialectical development?"
"Exactly! Relying only on your senses and revering ignorance only does you a disservice." Her eyes sparkle.
Ki-yong is reminded of Soji in college. He closes his eyes. People often feel sad on returning home and running into someone they haven't seen in a long time, because the encounter reminds them that they have grown old, although in their minds they are still their young selves. A boy doesn't become an old man, but an old boy. Similarly, a girl grows up into an old girl.
"Ki-yong?"
"Yeah?" He opens his eyes.
"Tired?"
"No, my eyes hurt." He presses his eyes with his fingers.
"When are you leaving?"
He removes his fingers. Although his eyes are open, his eyesight isn't bright. "Tomorrow."
"That soon? Are you ready?"
"No."
"Are you thinking about doing something awful?" Soji looks at him suspiciously.
"What do you mean?"
"Are you depressed?"
"No."
"It seems like you are."
"If I were depressed I'd be lying in bed. I wouldn't be out and about like this."
"Well, I'm glad."
"Thanks. I guess it's good at least one person's worried that I'm suicidal."
"What about Ma-ri?" Soji reminds him.
"Ma-ri's basically a roommate."
"If this is an attempt to get me to go with you up there, it's not working," Soji jokes, pointing above her head toward the white, clean-sheeted guestrooms on the higher floors.
"I don't think Ma-ri feels any lust anymore. I wonder if she's already at that age where her supply of female hormones is starting to dwindle?"
"Can I tell you the truth?" Soji asks.
"Yeah."
"It's just that she doesn't like you. You didn't know that?"
"Then she'd still be lustful, even if she didn't like me. She doesn't have lust."
"How do you know?"
"I know."
"How?"
Their conversation jumps back and forth like a Ping-Pong ball bouncing over a net.
"I'm telling you, I know."
"Well, how?"
"I was trained to know."
"What?"
"I was trained to listen in on conversations and spy on people, to discern truth and lies from someone's words."
"What, were you in some kind of special task unit?"
"Soji."
"Yeah?"
"You know where I was born?"
"Where?"
He smiles awkwardly and writes "Pyongyang" in Chinese characters on a napkin.
Soji glances over, squinting, then her head shoots up quickly, shocked. "What? Is this true?"
"Calm down. Lower your voice," Ki-yong orders. He eats the last piece of sushi and drinks some soup. "It's true."
"It can't be. I've known you forever! Since college!"
"I came down before that."
Soji puts her hand to her forehead, something she always does when she's taken by surprise.
"I'm older than you think I am."
"Oh, I ... I see. So ... yeah ... oh, no wonder, yeah ... okay. So, you ... no really, Mr. Kim ... no, I guess that's not ... even your name. So really, why..."
"Calm down, Soji. I came down because I was ordered to come down. I've never told anyone."
"Ma-ri?"
"She doesn't know."
Soji's features contort, panic appearing on her face. "Why are you telling me any of this?" Soji asks, her eyes bulging.
"You..." Ki-yong hesitates. "You're a writer. You use whatever life happens to throw at you..."
Soji's expression stiffens. "That's it?"
"Well..."
"Are you telling me you've given me something to write about? Am I supposed to thank you or something?"
"No, that's not it. You have to understand, I just got my return order this morning, and I have to go back tomorrow. It's so cruel, don't you think? I've been chased the whole day, and I've only just managed to evade them. Now I'm here, and I'm able to relax for the first time today."
; "You do know that under the National Security Law it's a crime to not report North Korean spies, right?"
He nods.
"You know I'm committing a crime just by sitting here looking at you?"
"Yeah."
"I always thought it was an interesting crime: you're breaking the law not by doing something, but precisely because you're not doing something. I always thought people who get caught for this must feel so frustrated. Helpless."
"Look, I'm sorry."
"I take back whatever I said earlier about how ignorance doesn't help mankind. I was being flippant in my own ignorance. Now here I am, committing a crime for just knowing something about you."
Ki-yong lowers his head and eats another sliver of ginger and a clove of marinated garlic. He wonders how strongly he would smell of garlic if he were caught now and interrogated.
"Ki-yong."
"Yeah."
"Don't go."
"Then what should I do?"
"Give yourself up."
"Aren't you scared of me? I'm an agent and a member of the Party. I've sworn allegiance to the Party and the Dear Leader."
"You've changed. I mean, you must have changed. I know you. You like hirasake, sushi, Heinekens, and movies by Sam Peckinpah and Wim Wenders. You like the story of Meursault shooting the Arab and you underline the elegant prose of a far right-wing pundit, Yukio Mishima. You eat seafood pasta at Sunday brunch. You drink scotch at a bar near Hongik University on Friday nights. Right? I think you just told me because you don't want to go. You secretly want me to talk you out of it, isn't that right?"
"Don't you think all of those preferences were merely a part of my disguise?"
"Why would you do that? To make me feel comfortable with you so you could recruit me to the other side?"
"Maybe."
She closes her eyes, as if to gather her thoughts. "You know the plays that are on extended runs, for ten or twenty years? You're like those actors who have been in the play for so long that they don't remember who they were before the play. You live that same role every night, no matter how you live during the day. So then you find yourself confused, since the Ki-yong at night has more continuity than the Ki-yong during the day. You know how the portrait of Dorian Gray ages instead of the man himself? I don't know who you were before, but you've become so good at this particular role that it's come to a point where it's hard to tell which part is you and which part is the character. Like Dorian Gray's portrait being the real Dorian and Dorian Gray the man being fake, I think this is the real you. Forget about your original self."