The Vegetarian

by Han Kang

  After painting the rest of the flowers on J’s torso he took a quick breather, then stood up and replaced the tape in the camcorder with a new one, wanting to make sure there would be plenty of running time. He turned to her and asked her to take her clothes off.

  She did as he asked. The light wasn’t as strong as it had been the last time, but the golden cluster of flowers that he’d painted right in the center of her chest still sparkled brilliantly. In contrast to J, she was perfectly composed, as if declaring how much more natural it was to not wear clothes. When she knelt down on the sheet, the entranced look on J’s face didn’t escape him.

  Without his giving her any directions, she moved closer to J, and he, as though mirroring her, got into a kneeling position. There was something desolate in the contrast between her still, silent face and her radiant body.

  “What should we do now?” J asked, his face red. He was probably nervous at the prospect of having to take the lead; all the same, his penis had stiffened again.

  “Sit her on your knees.” He thought it best to refer to her as simply “her.” Now he picked up the camcorder and approached them. “Pull her close. Damn it, haven’t you ever done this before? You’re supposed to be acting. Try touching her breasts or something.”

  J wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. But before he could do anything she slowly maneuvered around to face and then straddle him. She slid her hand behind J’s neck and drew him toward her, while her other hand began to stroke the red flower on his chest. Marked with nothing but the breathing of the three people, an amount of time passed that would be impossible to measure. J’s nipples quietly hardened and his penis became erect. She rubbed her neck against J’s like they were two birds caressing, almost as if she’d seen his sketches and knew exactly what he wanted her to do.

  “Good. Really good.” He filmed the scene from several angles, eventually finding the best one. “Good…keep going. Lie down like that, on top of each other.”

  She put her hand on J’s chest and gently pushed him down onto the sheet, then reached out and began to stroke the red flowers that led down over J’s torso, taking them one by one and slowly making her way toward his crotch. He moved behind her with the camcorder, making sure to capture the dark purple flowers scattered over her back, the Mongolian mark rippling in time with her movements. He clenched his teeth and thought to himself, this is it. Now if only it could be even better.

  J’s penis was already fully erect, and he was grimacing as though he couldn’t bear the pressure any longer. She slowly lay down on her stomach, her breasts resting on J’s chest and her buttocks lifting up into the space above them. He filmed the two of them side-on. There was something obscene about the way her back was arched like a cat’s, about the unpainted space around J’s belly button, about his rigid penis. They were almost like two huge, abstracted plants. When she slowly sat up straight, straddling J’s hips, he stammered:

  “Perhaps…I mean, I was just thinking.” He looked at her and J in turn. “Could you maybe do it, you know, for real?”

  There was no flicker of shock or revulsion in her face, but J suddenly pushed her away as though her skin were burning him. He got to his knees, awkwardly trying to conceal his penis.

  “What? You want to make some kind of a porno?”

  “If you don’t feel like it, that’s fine. But if it were possible for you to just naturally…”

  “That’s it, I’m done.” J stood up.

  “Just a minute, wait. I won’t ask you to do anything more. Just what you’ve been doing so far.” He grabbed J by the shoulder. Perhaps he’d used more force than he’d intended, because J grunted and pushed his hand away.

  “Hey, come on…there’s no need for that.”

  A silent pause. J seemed to soften a little.

  “I understand…I’m an artist too, after all. But this kind of thing just…no. Who is this woman, anyway? She doesn’t seem like a prostitute. And even if she were, it still wouldn’t be okay, you know?”

  “I understand. Really, I do. I’m sorry.”

  J got back onto the sheet, but the sexually charged atmosphere of a few minutes ago had completely fizzled out. He put his arms around her and laid her down, his face set hard as though this were all some form of punishment. Their bodies overlapped like two petals, and she closed her eyes. If J had agreed, she would have gone along without a murmur of protest. He felt sure of that.

  “Try moving a bit.”

  Slowly, J moved his body back and forth in a pained, stilted mimicry of sex. He watched as the soles of her feet curled up and her hands clasped J’s waist. Her body was sufficiently animated, flushed with desire, to make up for J’s passivity. They spent ten minutes or so in that position, every second of which was clearly repulsive to J, though to him it felt all too short. Still, he managed to get the angles he’d wanted, and some decent images for the tape.

  “Are we all done now?” J asked. His skin was flushed red right up to his hair, but it wasn’t from arousal.

  “Just once more…this is the last time.” He swallowed. “From behind. Make her lie on her stomach. This really is the last time. It’s the most important scene. Don’t say you can’t.” J burst into a laughter that sounded more like sobbing.

  “That’s it. That’s really it. I’m going to stop now before this gets any worse. You’ve got plenty of inspiration. Now I know what it feels like for porno actors. It’s miserable!”

  He put a restraining hand on J’s shoulder, but J shook him off and began to get dressed. He gritted his teeth and watched as his work, the still-intact whirl of flowers, disappeared beneath J’s plain-colored shirt. “It’s not that I don’t understand, okay? Don’t think I’m some kind of prude. I guess I’m just more…more restrained than I thought I was. I agreed to do it because I was curious, but I just can’t go through with it. I guess there are just parts of myself that I need to, to awaken, but…I need some time first, I’m sorry.”

  J was evidently sincere, and seemed hurt more than anything else. The young man bowed to him, giving only a cursory glance over in her direction, then walked briskly to the door.

  —

  “I’m sorry,” he said as J’s car roared out of the front yard. She didn’t reply, just put on her sweater and stepped into her jeans. But then, instead of zipping them up, she just giggled into the air.

  “Why are you laughing?”

  “Because I’m all wet…”

  He looked over at her, feeling as dazed as though he’d just received a blow to the head. She had her hand on the half-up zipper and was hesitating, looking as though she couldn’t bring herself to pull it either up or down. Only then did he realize that he was still holding the camcorder. He set it down, strode over to the door, which J had left open, and locked it. Just in case, he put the upper security chain on too. Walking over almost at a run, he clutched her to him and the two of them tumbled down onto the sheet. When he tugged her jeans down to her knees she said, “No.”

  It wasn’t just verbally that she rejected him—she shoved him away roughly, stood up and pulled her jeans back up. He watched as she did up the zipper and fastened the button. He stood up, stepped close to her and pushed her still-fevered body up against the wall. But when he pressed his lips firmly against hers, probing with his tongue, she shoved him away again.

  “Why shouldn’t we? Because I’m your brother-in-law?”

  “No, it’s nothing to do with that.”

  “Then why not? Come on, you said you were all wet!” She was silent. “Did you fancy that kid?”

  “It wasn’t him, it was the flowers…”

  “The flowers?”

  Her face instantly blanched, as if in fear. Her lower lip, red and swollen from worrying it with her teeth, trembled imperceptibly.

  “I really wanted to do it,” she said carefully. “I’ve never wanted it so much before. It was the flowers on his body…I couldn’t help myself. That’s all.”

  He watched as she
turned her back on him and walked decisively over to the door. As she scrunched her feet into her trainers he shouted over to her: “If…” He couldn’t keep a shrill note from his voice. “If I painted flowers on myself, would you do it then?”

  She turned around and stared back at him, and he understood her gaze to be one of complicity.

  “And…I could film it?”

  She laughed. Faintly, as if there were nothing she wouldn’t do, as if limits and boundaries no longer held any meaning for her. Or else, as if in quiet mockery.

  —

  I wish I were dead.

  I wish I were dead.

  So die.

  Unable to understand why the tears were streaming down his face, he clutched the steering wheel and set the wipers to frequent, only to realize that it wasn’t the windshield that was blurred but his own vision. He couldn’t understand why the words “I wish I were dead” were ceaselessly being hammered out inside his head like an incantation. Nor could he understand why the words “so die” would inevitably follow, as though the response were coming from someone inside him, and yet not him. And he couldn’t understand how that simple mantra, like a conversation between two strangers, could be sufficient to calm his shuddering body.

  He lowered the windows all the way down, on both the driver’s side and the passenger’s. The car raced along the dark highway amid the roar of the wind and the nighttime traffic. The trembling started in his hands and then spread through his whole body, so he gritted his teeth and pressed down on the accelerator. Every time he glanced at the speedometer he was shocked by how fast he was going, and rubbed his eyes with shaking fingers.

  —

  Wearing a white cardigan over a black dress, P walked up to the main gate of the apartment building. The two of them had dated for four years, until she broke up with him. Later, she’d married one of her primary school classmates, who’d passed the bar examinations. Her husband was the main breadwinner, but she’d managed to successfully combine married life with her own work. She’d held several private exhibitions, becoming something of a name among the Gangnam collectors, which had of course provoked a flurry of jealous slander from those who knew her.

  P soon noticed the car, as he’d left the front and back emergency lights on. He drove down toward the gate and shouted, “Get in!”

  “Anyone might recognize me here—hell, even the porter knows my face. What on earth do you want at this time of night?”

  “Just get in. I’ve something to tell you.” P reluctantly did as he asked. “It’s been a while, I know. Sorry for calling you up out of the blue like that.”

  “You’re right, it has been a while. And this isn’t like you. I don’t believe you just had a sudden urge to see me again.”

  He rubbed his forehead impatiently. “I have a favor to ask.”

  “Go on.”

  “It’s a long story. Let’s go to your studio. Is it nearby?”

  “Just a five-minute walk…but won’t you tell me what’s going on?” P shouted at him, her strident tone demanding that he hurry up and give her a straight answer. She’d always been hot tempered. He was suddenly glad of her vitality, of her strong character, which he had at one time found somewhat wearying. A sudden impulse to embrace her gripped him, then faded away as abruptly as it had come. Just the vague memory of an old emotion.

  —

  “It’s a good thing my husband’s working tonight,” said P, switching on the studio lights. “Otherwise there might’ve been one hell of a misunderstanding.”

  “Take a look at the sketches I mentioned.” He held them out to her and she gave them her full attention, an earnest expression on her face.

  “Interesting. You know, I’m surprised. I didn’t know you knew how to use color like this. So.” She rubbed her sagging jawline. “This is quite an about-turn. Could you really exhibit something like this? Your nickname used to be ‘the May priest,’ you know. After Gwangju, your art was so engagé, almost as though you were atoning for surviving the May massacre. You seemed so serious, so ascetic…all very romantic, I have to admit.” P peered at him closely over her glasses. “I can see you’re aiming to transform your image, but…isn’t this a little extreme? Of course, it isn’t for me to argue the pros and cons.”

  Not wanting to get into a debate with P, he kept quiet and began to take off his clothes.

  P seemed a little surprised but nevertheless resigned as she mixed the paints in the palette and selected a brush. “Well,” she murmured, “it’s certainly been a long time since I last saw you naked.”

  Slowly, painstakingly, P began to paint. The brush was cold, and the sensation was ticklish yet numbing, a persistent, effectual caress.

  “I’ll make sure my personal style doesn’t come through. I mean, I like flowers too, so I’ve drawn plenty in my time, but yours have a distinctive energy about them. I’ll bring your drawings to life.”

  It was well past midnight when P finally announced that she was finished.

  “Thanks,” he said, shivering from the cold.

  “If there was a mirror I’d show it to you.”

  He looked down at his chest, stomach and legs, all covered with goose pimples, and at the huge red flowers painted there.

  “I like it. You’re better at it than me.”

  “I’m not quite sure about how the back’s turned out. In your sketches it seemed like you’d put more emphasis on the back.”

  “I’m sure it’s great. Given your reputation, that is.”

  “I tried to paint them the way you drew them, not how I’d choose to do it myself, but I guess I couldn’t stop a little bit of myself coming through.”

  “I’m really grateful.”

  Only then did P laugh. “Actually, when you took your clothes off I got kind of turned on…”

  “Oh?” he remarked absentmindedly, hurriedly slipping his clothes on. He felt a little warmer with his sweater on, but his limbs were still stiff.

  “Now, for some reason…”

  “What?”

  “It looks wrong. Seeing you with your whole body covered in flowers, it feels kind of…pitiful. I never felt that way about you before…” P came over and finished buttoning up his shirt for him. “I should at least get a kiss, seeing as you called me up in the middle of the night.”

  Before he’d had the chance to respond, P pressed her lips to his. The kiss was a palimpsest of memories, of all the countless kisses they’d shared in the past. He felt as though he were about to cry, but he couldn’t tell whether it was because of happy memories, or friendship, or fear of the boundary he was intending soon to cross.

  —

  It was late, so he knocked softly on the door rather than press the buzzer. Instead of waiting for an answer, he tried the handle. As he’d expected, the door opened.

  He stepped into the pitch-black living room. The glass door to the veranda let in the pale gleam from the streetlights, but it wasn’t bright enough for him to be able to make out anything. His foot bumped against the shoe cupboard.

  “Are you asleep?”

  He set the filming equipment down by the front door; it was heavy, and he’d had to carry some of it slung over his shoulders as well as what he could carry in his hands. When he took off his shoes and moved over in the direction of the mattress, he could make out the faint outline of a person sitting there. Even in the darkness, he could still tell that she was naked. She got up and came toward him.

  “Shall I turn on the light?” His voice was hoarse with desire.

  “You smell…,” she said in a low voice, “…of paint.”

  He groaned and reached out for her, forgetting about the lighting, the camcorder, everything. None of that existed now.

  He laid her down with a snarl, clutching at her breasts with one hand and haphazardly sucking her lips and nose as he hurriedly unbuttoned his shirt. He tugged at the lower buttons, tearing them off in his haste.

  As soon as he was naked he pushed her legs wide apart an
d entered her. A constant panting sound, as if from a wild animal, was coming from somewhere, interspersed with a moaning that rose into an eerie shriek. When he realized that these noises were coming from him, he shuddered; he’d never made a sound during sex, had always thought of it as the preserve of flirtatious young women. Into her already soaking wet vagina, which was contracting alarmingly, he released a jet of semen with a gasp of pain, falling forward as though swooning.

  —

  “I’m sorry,” he said, reaching out for her face in the darkness.

  “Can I turn on the light?” she asked. She sounded perfectly composed.

  “What for?”

  “I want to be able to see you properly.” She stood up and walked over to the switch. Their sex had been fairly one-sided, and hadn’t even lasted five minutes, so it was no wonder she didn’t seem tired.

  When she flicked the lights on he shaded his eyes from the sudden glare. He waited, blinking, until he was able to lower his hands. She was leaning against the wall. The flowers scattered over her body were as beautiful as ever.

  Suddenly self-conscious, he put his hands over his paunch and tried to suck it in.

  “Don’t cover it…I like it. The petals look like they’re wrinkled.” She slowly came toward him. She bent over and, as she’d done with J, reached out and began to stroke the flowers on his chest.

  “Just a minute.” Still naked, he stood up and went over to the front door, where he’d left the equipment. He set the tripod up, quite low, and fixed the camcorder in place, then pushed the mattress out onto the veranda, and spread the white sheet, which he’d brought with him, out on the floor. He set up the lighting just as it had been in M’s studio.

  “Can you lie down?”

  Once she was lying down he estimated where their entwined bodies would end up, and adjusted the camcorder accordingly.

  She lay stretched out under the blinding spotlight. He carefully lowered himself on top of her. Would their bodies look like overlapping petals, as they had with her and J? Would they seem like one body, a hybrid of plant, animal and human?