I looked at my father’s profile. The bruise on his chin was beginning to turn from red to blue. There were teeth marks etched clearly on his lower lip dotted with lots of tiny scab-spots.
“This country is gradually beginning to change. And will continue to change. Zainichi or Japanese—pretty soon that’s not going to matter anymore. That’s why your generation should set your sights outward.”
“Really?” I asked in earnest. “Do you really think this country will change?”
Whatever his reasoning might’ve been, he gave me a sure nod. A confident smile was spread across his face. Reasoning? There wasn’t any reasoning required. What was important was to believe. Definitely.
“Is everything going to be okay at work?”
“Yeah,” he said spiritedly. “I still have one booth. I never planned to stay in this business for very long or have you take it over, so if I finish with zero in the end, I’ll be all right with that. Your mother and I already have enough saved up to enjoy retirement. But you’re on your own.”
My father let out a hearty laugh. He never got past elementary school, yet taught himself to read Marx and Nietzsche. With his concrete body and a mind as sharp as ice, he’s continued to fight and survive in this tough country. Deep down, I knew why this bastard had suddenly changed his citizenship to South Korean. He didn’t do it so he could go to Hawaii. He did it for me. He was trying to unburden me from one of the shackles chained to my legs. I knew why this beautiful bastard had decorated the foyer with that embarrassing picture of him being kissed on the cheek as he was flashing a peace sign. It was because he knew that by turning his back on Chongryon and Mindan, he would lose most of his friends and acquaintances. No one in this country was going to give this crazy old guy his due for continuing to fight all on his own. That’s why I decided to tell him.
“I’ll erase these national borders someday.”
After staring at me in amazement at these words, my father flashed an invincible smile and said, “You should know our family hails from a long line of bullshit artists dating back to the Joseon Dynasty.”
My father and I looked at each other and laughed. The taxi stopped at a light back near our neighborhood. From outside the rolled-down window of the taxi came the unseasonal sound of a summer wind-bell in the distance.
Chirr-rin chirr-rin, chirr-rin chirr-rin . . .
My father let slip a cherubic smile and said, “The sound brings back memories.” I didn’t know whether there was a custom of hanging wind-bells in Korea. I’m pretty sure my father didn’t know either.
We arrived in front of our house. The taxi driver refused to take my father’s money.
“You’ve shown me something far more special. Please use the money to send your brother some flowers.”
The light was on in the house. This wasn’t good. I steeled myself and went inside. My mother came to the door and took one look at us, and her face changed color in an instant. She ran past my father and me and disappeared out the door. Ten seconds later, she came back with a bamboo broom in her hands. She beat me with the butt end of the broom thirty-eight times. My father stood there, watching, and said, “Now that’ll teach you the power of love,” and let out a belly laugh. My mother beat him three times.
I became so bruised and feverish that I stayed home from school for three days.
Lunch break.
An uncomfortable air filled the classroom.
When I’d opened my mouth and answered the teacher’s question during second-period Japanese class, everyone found out my front tooth was chipped. Challengers were likely to come gunning for me today.
The classroom door rattled open. Everyone’s eyes flew in that direction. With a disappointed sigh, they went back to talking to their friends.
Miyamoto turned the chair around and sat down in front of me, like before.
“So did you give it some thought?” he asked.
“You can keep me out of it,” I answered.
Miyamoto let out a short sigh and said, “If you don’t mind, would you at least tell me why? So I can take notes for next time.”
After I thought about it, I answered, “It’s got nothing to do with what you’re trying to do. I think it’s right, and it’s important. I’m trying to accomplish the same thing but in my own way.”
Miyamoto smiled cynically. “I figured you for a realist.”
I let out a scornful laugh. “I am a realist. I’ve got my eye on something different, that’s all.”
Miyamoto, with the same cynical smile on his face, said, “Go ahead. Try to do it on your own, if you can. Careful that this country doesn’t squash you first.”
I stared quietly at Miyamoto’s face for a while, then said, “Look, I don’t have any beef with you. Like I said, what you’re trying to do is right. I just can’t be a part of it, that’s all. I’m busy.”
The look of cynicism vanished from Miyamoto’s face. “Busy? With what?”
“There’s someone I have to beat. To beat him, I need to study and get myself stronger. There isn’t any going forward until I defeat him. But when I do, I’ll be all but invincible. I can even change the world.”
My fight record since I started high school now sat at 25–1. I was no longer the undefeated king. That one loss was a huge one.
Miyamoto shook his head like he had no clue what I was talking about.
I said, “The reason I don’t change my nationality is because I don’t want to be incorporated or assimilated or strapped down by any country. I’m tired of living feeling like I’m a part of some big system. And that includes your little group.”
Miyamoto opened his mouth to say something, but I cut him off. “But if Kim Basinger ever asked me to change my nationality, I’d go down and fill out the forms right now. That’s all that nationality is to me. But maybe that just makes me a hypocrite.”
Miyamoto, who’d been staring at me with a stern look and his mouth half open, loosened up and smiled. “Now if you’re talking Catherine Deneuve . . .”
“What are you, a hundred?”
“Shut up.”
We gave each other a look and laughed—just as the door at the front of the classroom flew open.
I told Miyamoto, “You should get out of the way.”
Miyamoto got up from the chair and stuck his hand out at me. We exchanged a firm handshake.
I shifted my gaze from Miyamoto retreating to safety in the corner to the challenger coming at me. I thought about what one-liner I should go with today. Maybe that thing my father said would do the trick: No soy coreano, ni japonés, soy un nómada desarraigado.
I’m not Korean or Japanese. I’m a rootless vagabond.
Yeah, that’s what I’ll say.
7
The gloomy rainy days of November gave way to December.
I continued to put in some serious time studying for the entrance exams, while my mother put in some serious time at the driving school, and my father put in some serious time on the golf course.
One Sunday in the beginning of December, I went to Jeong-il’s house to return all the stuff he’d lent me.
“I wish you’d hold on to them for Jeong-il,” his mother said, smiling. “What happened to your tooth?”
She said that after some soul searching, she’d decided to scatter Jeong-il’s ashes in different countries. “I’m planning to go to South Korea for the first time, soon.”
When I offered to tag along as her interpreter, she said, “I’m desperately trying to learn Korean right now,” and laughed cheerfully. “Such fun learning a language I don’t know. I should have started sooner, when he was still alive . . .”
When I was ready to leave, Jeong-il’s mother walked me to the door and said, “Please keep Jeong-il in your memories.”
I answered, “Yes. Always.”
Sometime in the middle of December, my mother told me Naomi-san was getting married. The guy was an American businessman working at a foreign company, who came around the restaura
nt a lot. Taking a break between cram sessions, I went to the restaurant to congratulate her. When I did, Naomi-san smiled happily and said, “It’s like the descendants of the two groups that went their own way somewhere in the Middle East all those years ago found each other in Japan. Isn’t it wonderful?”
I nodded emphatically.
“Your chipped tooth is very cute,” she said, giving my cheek a gentle stroke. “You have to get cuter and get yourself a nice girl and be happier than everyone else, all right?”
I nodded and teased, “You’re using more English in your speech, Naomi-san.”
For some reason Naomi-san’s cheeks became flushed as she gave me a seductive smile.
On the evening of December 23, I accidentally bumped into Won-soo on the train platform at Ikebukuro Station.
I was on the Yamanote Line platform on my way to cram school, while Won-soo stood on the Saikyo Line platform on the opposite side. We spotted each other almost at the same time. He was there with three of his buddies. They noticed me, too. For a while we stood facing each other with the four rails sandwiched between us. Then a train pulled into Won-soo’s side of the platform first, blocking them from view. Then a train pulled into my side of the platform soon after. I didn’t get on the train. The trains departed, clearing my view. Won-soo and his buddies were gone. I moved to the middle of the platform where there was more room and waited. My fight record against Won-soo was 3–2, so I was one up on him.
After about a minute, Won-soo appeared. None of his buddies were with him. I stood where I was and waited for Won-soo to approach me. He stopped opposite me. He cast a piercing look, a deep line creasing his brow. It was a look I’d seen a million times. He wasn’t the least bit intimidating. I couldn’t help but flash a smile. A bemused expression came over his face for an instant at the sight of my tooth, but the severe look returned.
“Who did that to you?”
That was Won-soo. Anytime one of his own got hurt or disrespected, he didn’t think twice. He was the first one out for revenge.
“It was my old man.”
When I said this, his grim look faded. I flashed another smile at Won-soo, and he smiled a bit bashfully.
Won-soo stepped to the side so we were standing shoulder-to-shoulder. We now faced the platform where Won-soo had been only moments ago. After another train came and went, Won-soo, keeping his eyes trained straight ahead, said, “Do you remember the time we stole that moped and got caught riding it three deep?”
I kept looking straight ahead and nodded.
Won-soo said, “I’ll never forget the way your aboji came into the police station and beat the living daylights out of you. I was so freaked he was going to beat me next that I thought about playing dead.”
“What do you think, my old man’s a bear?”
“Not any ordinary bear. A grizzly.”
We laughed, our eyes still looking straight ahead.
Won-soo muttered, “Your aboji is cool . . .”
Won-soo’s father had a habit of saying, “If I were born Japanese, I would’ve been prime minister or president of a company.” Whenever he had a bad day at the factory, he got drunk and hit Won-soo. Won-soo had burn scars on his left shoulder blade, the right side of his belly button, right butt cheek, left thigh, and the top of his right foot, where his aboji had pressed a lit mosquito coil into him.
Won-soo ended up running away from home five times, and I went along with him every time. The first time was in the third grade when we got on the Tokaido line from Tokyo Station and went to Chigasaki. The next time we ran away to Odawara, then Atami, and Shizuoka after that, running farther away every time until finally we reached Nagoya and became pachinko kings. Running away was fun. Which made having to go back home and parting ways all the more difficult, and we resorted to trash talking each other about how the other had stupid-looking eyebrows or how one couldn’t stand the way the other ate with his chopsticks or some such nonsense and got into a knock-down fight. Thus my 3–2 record against him. We went our separate ways, vowing never to go anywhere with each other again, and we were back to hanging out the next day like nothing had ever happened. I adored Won-soo.
Two trains came and went.
Won-soo spoke. “You said at the funeral that I never talked to Jeong-il. You’re wrong about that. Actually, I did talk to him. We never talked about anything serious like you guys did. He talked about you a lot.”
I turned toward him. He was still looking straight ahead. I looked forward again. Two more trains came and went. Countless passengers went past us. Won-soo and I stood absolutely still on the platform.
Won-soo said, “Look, I know what’s up. I know that the North and Chongryon are only thinking about using us and can’t be counted on. But I plan on making a go here on the inside. Believe it or not, I do have some guys depending on me. So long as I can fight for them, I won’t have to be a screwup.”
“Yeah, I know.
Two more trains.
Won-soo asked, “What do you talk about in that Japanese school of yours?”
“I don’t really talk to anyone.”
“Do you have any friends?”
“Nah.”
“Oh . . .”
Two more trains.
Won-soo said, “If we live long enough to become tired old geezers, we should go to the hot springs together.”
“Nah, farther than that. We should go to Hawaii.”
“Hawaii . . . that sounds great.”
Two more trains.
Won-soo said, “That day you did the Test of Courage? You were pretty cool.”
“Yeah.”
Another train.
Won-soo said, “Go, get on the train already.”
“Yeah.”
Another train.
Won-soo said, “Go. I let you off today for that hit at the funeral.”
“Shut up. I’ll go when I want.”
Another train.
Won-soo said, “Go, unless you want to get decked. I can’t stand the way you live your life.”
I felt his eyes on me. I turned toward him. Won-soo was looking at me, smiling like he was about to cry.
Tell me, Won-soo. What does my face look like now? I can’t tell . . .
Another train was coming. After taking a step forward, I managed to squeeze out the words, “Don’t get yourself killed.”
Still smiling back his tears, Won-soo jerked his chin up defiantly, the same chin that must’ve repelled dozens of my punches, and said, “They’re not going to kill me so easily.”
The train slid into the platform and came to a stop. I casually raised a hand and said, “See ya,” and walked forward. I felt Won-soo’s old, familiar gaze on my back. I boarded the train. Even after the doors shut behind me, I could still feel his gaze on me. I didn’t turn around until the train had completely pulled out of the station.
Christmas Eve.
I’d been holed up in my room, studying for the entrance exams since morning, when my father poked his head in and gave a sinister laugh.
“Quiet.”
After he closed the door, I could hear him singing.
The old man must’ve learned lyrics to that Tatsuro Yamashita song about spending Christmas Eve alone just so he could throw dirt in my face. Jackass.
At night, the phone rang. My father shouted, “Phone!” from below. My father and mother never answered the phone when they were playing chess. Reluctantly I put down my pencil and picked up the cordless in my room. It was Sakurai.
“I haven’t seen you for ages,” she said.
I hesitated.
“How have you been?” she asked.
I kept quiet.
Sakurai continued anyway. “I’m doing great.”
After a brief silence, Sakurai seemed to finally work up the courage. “You remember the elementary school, don’t you? Can you meet me there now? I’ll wait for you.”
She hung up the phone. I switched off the phone and lay down on the bed. I thought abou
t this and that for about five minutes, but my decision was obvious from the start. I got up and started to change. I put on a white long-sleeved shirt and jeans and got into a black down jacket. I took out what little was left of the condolence money from the desk drawer and stuffed it into my jeans pocket.
“I’m going out for a while.”
My mother and father looked up from the chess pieces on the board at the same time.
My mother said, “Didn’t I tell you to cap that tooth?”
Telling my mother to be quiet, I went out into the foyer. As I put on my shoes, I could hear my father doing his best rendition of Bing Crosby.
Silent night, holy night
All is calm, all is bright
I thought you were a Marxist, for Christ’s sake.
I left the house.
It took me an hour and a half to arrive in front of the iron gate of the elementary school.
I jumped over the gate and went inside the grounds. I looked around the schoolyard. Sakurai’s white figure sitting on the bench next to the bronze bust of some famous person stood out in the darkness. Slowly I walked toward her. She was wearing a white duffle coat over a blue turtleneck sweater. She looked great. Her hair, which had grown, was parted on the left and pulled back behind her ears. Her intelligent forehead was showing. I adored Sakurai’s forehead.
I stopped and stood in front of Sakurai. Her face was clouded with nervousness. I looked down at her, saying nothing. She smiled awkwardly and said, “Thanks for coming.”
I kept silent.
“I’ve been looking up at the sky, waiting for you. Every time the moon disappeared behind the clouds, I was worried that it might start snowing. The forecast said that it was supposed to rain or snow today. Snow on Christmas Eve—isn’t that just horrible? Meeting a boy like this on a snowy Christmas Eve . . . I’d just die of embarrassment. Unless of course I don’t die from the cold first.”
Sakurai let out a big sigh. Her white breath floated up and disappeared. The smile vanished from her face, and she said, “I’ve been thinking about a lot of things since we stopped seeing each other. And I’ve read a lot of books, a lot of difficult books and—”
I squatted down in front of her. It must have been sudden, as a tiny gasp escaped Sakurai’s mouth. Her face was rigid with nerves. Looking up and giving her a hard look, I said, “Who am I?”
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