by Young-Ha Kim
"The authorities up there don't think that. They think that this Ki-yong is the fake one. They forgot about me for over ten years, but now someone's found me and is trying to make the agent in the file and the real me become one and the same. It's like, everyone's clapping, the show's over, and I've come back to the changing room."
She reaches across the table and grabs his hand. Her tears drop onto it. "Don't go, Ki-yong."
"If I don't, they're going to send someone to kill me." Plus, he would be arrested by the South's public security authorities and charged with murder. But he doesn't say that.
"You won't be safe even if you go back," Soji insists.
"But if I go back I'll have a fifty-fifty chance to live. If I don't..."
"You always have a fifty-fifty chance to live. If you die, that's it. Those odds mean nothing. The odds when you're playing Russian roulette are one out of six, but every time the trigger's pulled, the odds are always fifty-fifty. You live or you die. Don't you think that's true?"
He doesn't say anything. She cries, silently. He wonders why she's crying, but he's oddly comforted by her tears. The waitress comes over and pours them tea. Soji takes her hand away to wipe her eyes. The tea is warm and soothing.
LIKE THE FIRST TIME
7:00 P.M.
MA-RI PICKS up the soju bottle. The brand name, "Like the First Time," is printed in a font that resembles a wood carving, under the wings of a bird in flight. She reads out loud the sentence at the bottom of the label: "Soju made from all-natural mineral alkali water."
Song-uk holds out his cup. She pours some soju in it, and toasts, "Like the first time!" Though she says it without much thought, she feels like she's begging.
He smiles mysteriously and repeats after her. "Like the first time."
They clink cups. Song-uk's friend grabs his cup, too, looking a little left out. His Von Dutch hat is pushed low over his eyes, making it harder for Ma-ri to read him. She forgets his name as soon as she's introduced to him. Song-uk refers to him as Panda, which he says is because of the dark circles under his eyes. If Song-uk hadn't told her that Panda is the top student in their class, she wouldn't have been able to deduce it from his appearance.
Their three cups come together in a whirl as they clink, and each drinks. The twenty-proof alcohol is bland, not too strong and not too weak, and it coats their tongues as it trickles down their throats.
"So, going back to what I was saying," Song-uk addresses Panda. The heavy beat of dance music in the restaurant muffles his words. "That's nihilism."
Panda smirks. "Wha ... wha ... what's nihilism?" he stutters.
"What I'm saying is that even though people wear T-shirts with Che's face on it when they go on vacation, it doesn't mean that his vision was meaningless. Basically what I'm trying to say is that the Che souvenirs are something separate from revolution. Where do you think the Cuban people would be right now if there hadn't been a Cuban revolution? Cuba would have been turned into another Haiti, with political instability, coups d'état, endless confusion..."
"How ... how ... how would you know that?" Panda rebuts.
Ma-ri, toying with her cup, wonders whether you can still become a great judge if you have a stutter.
"All the other countries in Latin America are like Haiti."
"Not Chi ... Chi ... Chile," Panda says.
Song-uk, revealing his annoyance, retorts, "Are you telling me that you support that dictator Pinochet?"
"Wh ... wh ... what I mean is, some countries' governments are stable. Whether it's because of Pinochet or not."
"Are you saying you're condoning terrible torture, kidnapping, massacres, coups d'état?"
"Well, what about the massacres ordered by Mao in the name of the Cultural Revolution? Millions died in China. He was worse than Stalin," Panda shoots back, not even stuttering this time.
"So you're saying Pinochet and Mao are the same?" Song-uk doesn't let it go.
"Look, guys, the meat's burning," Ma-ri jumps in.
The two look down at the grill, at the smoke curling up from yellowish pieces of pork belly.
"I'm leaving if you guys keep fighting," Ma-ri adds.
Song-uk glares at Panda and tries to appease Ma-ri. "I'm sorry, but we're not fighting, we're just having a political discussion. We're just on different sides of the debate."
She scratches her left wrist. So you can differ in political opinions and can have sex in the same bed. "Okay, whatever. But all this meat's burning to a crisp while you guys go on and on. What about a discussion on vegetarianism? Why not talk about how the poor animals are painfully exploited?"
The mood turns somber. Song-uk slides over toward her and whispers, "What's wrong? Are you pissed that we've been talking among ourselves?"
Ma-ri shakes her head. Her left arm itches like crazy. "Pissed? No, I was just curious."
Song-uk looks over at Panda and indicates with his head that they should leave. Panda picks up his bag. "Should we go?"
She looks around the restaurant. The air is smoky with the burning fat and cigarettes, as if a fog had settled indoors. She wants a cigarette badly. If she could smoke one, just one, she'd be able to suffer through this uncomfortable situation. "Let's stay just a little longer."
It's unbearable inside, but she doesn't want to leave. If they go outside, they will take her, triumphantly, like males of the Stone Age, to some darkened motel room.
"Why? We're basically done eating. Should we go get a drink?" Song-uk suggests. He turns off the exhaust fan and stuffs the few remaining bits of meat resting on the grill into his mouth. The hot air, which has been warming the back of her neck, vanishes, as if someone has yanked her scarf off from behind. She gets up, slinging her purse over her arm. The two young men follow her. She goes to the cashier and hands over her credit card.
"It's forty-five thousand won," the smiling owner says, and holds out a spray deodorizer. Ma-ri hands it to Song-uk, who sprays it on her back. The artificial lilac scent assaults her nose. Ma-ri explains, "If I don't do this, the smell of the meat will be overpowering..."
The owner holds out the credit card slip. She signs it, takes the carbon copy, and pushes the door open.
"Thanks for dinner," Panda says.
Song-uk pats his friend on the back proudly, as if he had paid for dinner, and Panda puts his hand on Song-uk's arm in a friendly gesture. To Ma-ri, they look like good-natured chimps.
IT'S ONLY PASTA in tomato sauce, but Hyon-mi thinks it tastes great. It's hard to believe that a boy of fourteen made it. The noodles are silky but chewy, cooked perfectly al dente.
"Jin-guk, where did you learn to make this?"
"My mom. Why, you like it?"
"Yeah, it's awesome."
"It's really easy. Although it would've been better if I put more stuff in it. Have some pizza, too," Jin-guk offers, indicating the large Pizza Hut box next to the small dish of pickles.
"I'm getting full already," Hyon-mi says, and picks up a piece of mozzarella-laden pizza. She washes down a mouthful of pizza with some Coke. She's feeling better. She didn't feel that great when she arrived at Jin-guk's because of her fight with A-yong, but the smell of tomato sauce and Jin-guk's warm welcome lifted her mood. And spaghetti and pizza are two of her favorite foods.
"Where's everyone else? Are they at cram school?" Hyon-mi asks.
"Oh, Chol? He just went out for a sec."
"Oh, he was here already? Is he the one who doesn't go to school?" she asks, looking around.
"Yeah."
"Where'd he go? To the store?" Maybe he went out to get beer or cigarettes. A straight-A student, she's never participated in anything illicit, but she knows her peers drink and smoke.
"Nah, he's just a little shy."
"Oh, so he left because of me?"
Jin-guk waves his hands around, flustered. "No, no, he's coming back. He said he needed some fresh air. He collects guns—oh, not real guns, just fake ones—and they have some good models at the flea market to
day, so he decided to go take a look. He said he was meeting the seller at the subway station."
"Oh, okay. Is he the only one who's coming? What about the others?"
"Yeah, the other guys couldn't come because of cram school."
She nods and puts her Coke down.
His eyes sparkle. "Chol, though, he's mad funny. He studies with a gun strapped on him. When he gets home, he puts his gun on, and plays computer games or reads. Isn't that crazy?"
"Yeah, totally."
"Sometimes he'll like, take it out of the holster and shoot it and put it back in."
"What does he shoot at?"
"Just the ceiling or something. I don't know. He's just really into guns."
"What's his name again?" Hyon-mi asks.
"Chol."
"Why doesn't he go to school?"
"He doesn't need to."
"Huh?"
"He knows everything. He just goes to the library if he needs to look something up, or he goes online."
"His parents seem kinda crazy," Hyon-mi remarks. "A-yong's parents are sorta weird, too."
"They are?"
"Yeah, they believe in some weird religion. Like, they think they can live forever or something."
"Huh."
There's a short silence.
Hyon-mi speaks first. "Jin-guk, do you think people can live forever?"
"I dunno, what do you think?"
"I think there has to be an afterlife of some sort. Otherwise life's meaningless. Oh, did you see that article in the paper yesterday?"
"What article?" Jin-guk tilts his head, curious.
"Some guy who owns a video store killed an eight-year-old girl, and like, threw the body into a field and burned it, and his son helped him do it. You didn't see it?"
"Oh, that."
"It'd be so unfair if there's no afterlife for a kid like that, you know? All she was doing was returning a video for her mom, and it's like, so pointless if your life is over, just like that."
"Maybe."
"Do you think that's why there are ghosts?"
Jin-guk laughs. "Hey, there's no such thing as ghosts!" He picks up his empty plate and gets up, taking hers in hand.
Hyon-mi says, "Y'know, I think that there's more out there than what we can see."
Jin-guk puts the dishes in the sink and turns on the water. "What's that supposed to mean?" he asks, turning around.
Hyon-mi wiggles her toes. "When you're playing Go—remember I used to play? Anyway, when you do, the empty points are like, way more important. It's called a liberty, when there's nothing on the point. So you win when you have a lot of liberties, when there are a lot of empty points. So maybe it's important for there to be more unseen stuff in our lives. I don't know. What the hell am I trying to say?"
Jin-guk wipes down the table. "Yeah, I have no idea what you're talking about. Wanna go hang out on the couch? The chairs in here are so uncomfortable."
She gets up and the chair makes a screeching noise.
"Oops," Jin-guk says, shrinking a little.
"What?"
"The lady who lives downstairs is a total psycho. All she does is like, listen to see if we're making any noise. She's like glued to the ceiling. She probably heard that."
The intercom starts ringing—the ring tone is Dvorak's "Humoresque." Jin-guk picks up the handset in the living room, rolling his eyes. The music stops. "Yes, yes, yes, okay. Sorry. Oh, my mom? She's not home. Okay. Sorry."
He hangs up, shaking his head, and rotates his finger next to his ear. Hyon-mi giggles.
Jin-guk raises his finger to his lips and whispers, "The family downstairs had a daughter in high school, and she jumped off the eighteenth floor."
"Oh my God, when?"
"She was crazy good in school, too. She was like, at the top of her class."
She widens her eyes. "So is that lady her mom?"
"No, after that they sold it and left. But the real estate people didn't tell the lady downstairs about it, so she bought it without knowing about that girl. It's not really their fault either, I guess. It's not like it happened in the apartment. Anyway, so she found out afterwards, and like, went crazy or something. That's what my mom says, anyway."
"Oh."
"Anyway, sit down. I'll go bring the cake. My mom bought it for my birthday."
"Want me to help?"
"Nah, I got it."
Shortly, he brings back two slices of cake. Cheesecake. It isn't half bad. If she weren't so full, she would enjoy it more. They eat quietly, licking their forks.
"So where's Chol?" She looks at her watch. It's already 7:40.
"Oh, I dunno. He'll be here soon," he replies nonchalantly. He gets up and goes into his room and comes out with a photo album.
"So where does he live?" she asks.
"Huh? Why do you ask?" He rubs the album cover with his hand.
"Oh, sorry. I was just curious."
"No, it's okay," he says, shaking his head. "It's just ... well, he lives here."
"Here? With you?"
"Yeah."
She looks around again. It's a typical three-room apartment. It isn't so tiny that another kid couldn't live there. She points to the room next to the bathroom. "So is that his room?"
"No." He looks a little deflated. It's clear that he doesn't like to talk about it.
She wonders if she should stop asking questions, but thinks it would be awkward if she suddenly changes the subject. "So do you guys share a room?"
"Yeah." He keeps fingering the album.
Hyon-mi is more interested in this kid Chol, who shares a room with Jin-guk, than flipping through some photo album. But she figures she will meet him soon enough, since he's bound to come home. Maybe he is a relative of Jin-guk's, which makes her feel more at ease. Until she got here, she was a little wary at the prospect of meeting his friends who don't go to school. What do they do all day? Are they delinquent pickpockets? She worries even though she figures she doesn't need to if Jin-guk is friends with them, but she also knows that you can never really know.
"So does Chol work at your parents' karaoke bar? Is that why he doesn't go to school?"
His face freezes. "My parents don't know about him."
She frowns. "What? How's that possible?" She looks around again. The apartment is small enough that it would be impossible for anyone to live there without the rest of the family finding out. Even if his parents run a karaoke club and come back dead tired at dawn, how can they not notice another boy living in their home? It doesn't make any sense, even if they don't pay any attention to their son.
"I've never told anyone about him. You can't tell anyone, okay?"
"Okay, sure."
He looks at her, gauging her reaction. "He's a good guy. His parents died when he was really young. He was in an orphanage but he was only there for a little bit, and he's been living here ever since."
"Without your parents knowing?"
"Yeah. They wouldn't have allowed it."
She opens the album. "Is he in this album too?"
He closes it. "No, he doesn't like to get his picture taken."
"Why not?"
"He doesn't like to be in front of people."
"So you're like his only friend?"
"I guess so. He likes the Internet and guns. He's crazy good with computers; he's a hacker, too."
"Really?"
"Yeah. If he wants to he can even hack into the site of the Office of the President. But if he did, they might be able to trace it and he would be investigated. Then they would find out he's living here, and he doesn't want to do that to me. He uses other people's citizen ID numbers and can even download porn. He can do anything."
"Wow."
Jin-guk keeps talking, getting excited. "He reads a lot, too, so he scores with girls when he's chatting online."
"What does that have to do with chatting?"
"Doesn't it make sense? Girls love that stuff. He even chats with college girls."
"Seriou
sly?"
"Yeah, and he makes money selling in-game items. He hacks into the games and sells 'em to other players. He's really busy when I'm in school."
"Are you guys friends from elementary school?"
He shakes his head. "No, from before. We met at the playground in front of the apartment complex. We played together all the time and became best friends. We used to go play computer games at Internet cafés and go to baseball games."
"So you guys have known each other for a long time, huh?"
"Yeah. But why do we keep talking about him?"
"Oh, yeah, that's true. It's your birthday! Happy birthday, by the way."
"Thanks."
They sit there silently. The TV isn't on and the album is still unopened. Jin-guk jiggles his leg a little. Hyon-mi places her hand lightly on his knee, as gently as if a pair of butterflies landed on it. "My dad says it's unlucky if you do that."
It's the first time they've touched. He puts his arms around her. His lips touch hers. She's surprised, but doesn't make a big deal out of it. Her hands are raised in the air, floundering, not holding him but not pushing him away either. He rubs his lips against hers a little awkwardly, then cautiously slips in his tongue. His tongue flicks her front teeth, then pushes through. Her tongue comes forward to meet his, slowly, and slips around his. Like snails who crawled a long way and were checking each other out with their antennae, their tongues greet each other carefully. Each time their tongues touch, they automatically retreat a little, shyly. Finally, their tongues are intertwined passionately and fill their mouths, and she opens a little wider to enable his tongue to move a little freely. Spit pools in her mouth and drips down to her thigh.
Her hand now on his back, she pulls him to her. His hand fumbles near her waist, burrowing into her shirt. Shocked, she pushes him away. Their eyes meet. He looks down. She gets up and goes into the bathroom. She sits on the toilet and retraces what has happened. Her heart is pounding. It isn't her first kiss—in elementary school, she once French kissed a boy in the hallway of their apartment complex, but that was child's play. This time it felt different. She feels like her whole body is damp, almost as if she's angry at someone. She feels hot. Her face is flushed. She doesn't know what to say, and she can't begin to forgive herself for what just happened. But she also wants to call a friend and tell her about what she's feeling. She wants to read a book that really understands and addresses this feeling she has, and she wants to listen to music that makes her feel this way.