At Dusk

by Hwang Sok-Yong

  You should hold that thought until your father is back on his feet.

  I could tell that Byeonggu’s son, who managed his father’s business in Seoul, knew as well as I did that it wasn’t the right time to have that discussion. He kept looking at his phone during dinner and stepped outside at one point with it to raise his voice and shout orders at someone. He said that he was concerned because country towns like Yeongsan were losing people. A lot of places were on their way to becoming ghost towns, places where the majority of the houses either sat empty or were occupied by a single elderly person. He acted like he knew all about life in the countryside, and kept remarking that it’d been that way for a long time now, as if all the young people had just dried up and blown away. The fact of the matter was that he and I were both the type who found ourselves debating once or twice a year at most whether to make a hometown visit, so he wasn’t exactly wrong.

  It was already dark, so I headed for the motel where Byeonggu’s son had reserved a room for me. The motel had all sorts of modern equipment. Security cameras were installed at each end of the hallway, and everything in the room, from the lamps to the TV set, was controlled by a single remote. It was hard to fall asleep in a new place. I fussed with the curtains, trying to block out the light that seeped through, while grumbling about why such a tiny backwater town needed so many streetlights.

  I woke early. The glowing clock face told me it was 7:10 a.m. I’d been a late sleeper ever since my younger years. That was partly the fault of my line of work: unlike most businesses, working in an architecture firm meant that I only had to worry about my own part of the project, and that I didn’t have to trouble myself with the miscellany since I was there to be ‘creative’. While running my own firm, I only had to go into the office a couple of times a week, and even then I would roll in sometime after ten and leave early if there wasn’t much to do. Having always worked as a night owl, I’d long been in the habit of waking and starting my own day long after everyone else had already clocked in at their jobs.

  Though it was still early, I couldn’t just lie there. The road outside the motel took me straight to the bus terminal. Country folk are a hard-working lot. The front of the station was already bustling with people and taxis. This time, as I walked along the main street, I found myself grumbling about why such a small town had so many cars. The low-roofed shops from the old days were all gone; each side of the street was lined with two- and three-storey buildings, and the street itself had been significantly widened. Only the layout of the town remained the same.

  I took a right at the intersection and went down the street next to the county office and past the community centre. When the road led uphill, I paused to look left and right but didn’t see the pine grove that should have been there. The old alleyway was gone, replaced by a paved, two-lane road. Gone, too, were the stone walls that had once lined both sides of the alley. Instead, more rows of perfectly square two- and three-storey buildings led all the way down. I eyeballed the shape of the mountaintop and walked uphill to the left. When I spotted the cement sewer cover, I knew I was going the right way. A small stream used to flow there. My father had fallen in once while walking home drunk, and I’d caught frogs in it.

  I saw a couple of houses between the fields, but I did not see our house. When I’d come fifteen years ago, someone had been living in it despite its dilapidated state; later, it looked abandoned, until finally it was demolished. I still remembered the large tree that had stood in the corner of the yard, overlooking Byeonggu’s house. The tree was gone. Or rather, its stump was still there, but the rest had been chopped down. Mushrooms of all sizes were sprouting from it. A large pepper field, the ridges lined with black vinyl sheeting, stretched from there to where Byeonggu’s house had stood. The trees that blanketed the mountainside looked denser and a darker green than before.

  I couldn’t wrap my brain around how civilised it had become — my hometown, which now had more people who’d left than people who’d stayed. The boxy two- and three-storey cement buildings that occupied downtown from the shopping area all the way to the residential area looked bleaker than ever. There was no smoke from cooking fires curling up from low roofs. Looking down on it from the hillside, it could’ve been any other small city, or worse, the outskirts of Seoul. It was as if me and Tan Goguma, my long-departed parents, and even my hometown itself had never really existed.

  That weekend, I got a long-distance call from my daughter, who coolly recounted everything that had happened in my absence over the past month. She was my only child, and now she was living in the United States. She had graduated from medical school, become a doctor at a major hospital, and married a professor. She’d gone abroad for her education and ended up marrying an American citizen and, of course, becoming an American citizen herself. After our daughter settled down, my wife travelled back and forth between both countries, but now she too seemed intent on staying there. It had been several years since she’d last come home. Nearly all of my wife’s relatives were living in the US by that point, and our own marriage had been showing signs of strain for the past decade or so and was now so out of joint that there was little chance of putting it all straight again. My daughter told me about my wife’s new apartment. She described the housewarming, all the aunts and other relatives who’d come. How’s your health? she asked. Mum said don’t forget to take your blood pressure pills. It was clear my wife had no intention of coming back to me, seeing as how she’d just moved into an apartment close to where our daughter lived.

  For the first time in a long time, I found myself craving a cigarette and searched all over for one. There had to be a pack of Marlboro Reds somewhere. I always reached for one when I got stuck while sketching out an idea. I found my lighter next to the desk lamp and rummaged through the desk drawers, then started checking the pockets of all my suits hanging in the closet. Finally, my fingers traced the outline of a pack. As I fumbled for it, something fell onto the floor. Two business cards and a folded-up note. One of the cards was for a city hall employee, the other was for some magazine reporter, and the note … I set it on top of my desk and lit a cigarette. I stared at the name printed in large letters above the phone number, repeating the syllables over and over in my head. Cha Soona. A name from decades past that I’d long since forgotten. I pictured how the young woman at the lecture hall last week had handed the note to me. I’d had an appointment to give an interview for some architecture magazine immediately after the lecture, and then I’d gone drinking with a group of people. After that, things had been so hectic that I’d forgotten all about the note.

  After a great deal of hesitation, I pulled the phone on the desk towards me and dialled the number. It rang for a long time before going to voicemail. I debated what to say but then hung up and sent a text message over my cell phone instead.

  This is Park Minwoo. Please give me a call when you can.

  When I got to the office, Song, a fellow architect, said, Are you going to the thing for Kim Kiyoung today?

  What thing?

  His doctor said he doesn’t have much time left, Song explained, so a few of us decided to take him on a day trip, to get him some fresh air, change of scenery.

  In that case, sure. Where are you taking him?

  Out to Ganghwa Island.

  I decided to ride with Song instead of taking the chauffeured company car.

  As we drove along Olympic Highway, Song said, I heard President Im of Daedong Construction has been named.

  It was easy enough to guess what rumours he’d heard, but I pretended I knew nothing.

  Named? What’re you talking about?

  They say there’s bad blood between him and the current administration.

  Daedong Construction had hired us for the Hangang Digital Centre project. More than half of the skyscraper was already built. I deliberately kept my voice neutral.

  We don’t need to worry about that. Al
l we have to do is finish the job we were given.

  We still need to watch our backs.

  It sounded like he’d been reading the papers. The story going around was that the construction company was under secret investigation and that the Asia World project Daedong was promoting in the suburbs had hit some funding problems and was on the verge of running aground.

  I kept my voice cheerful as I said, Been a long time since I’ve taken an outing like this. I hope you’re not trying to spoil the fun.

  Song changed the subject.

  This trip won’t cure Kiyoung’s cancer but it should lift his spirits.

  It definitely will. He’s always been an optimist.

  There was no traffic since it was a weekday, so we made quick time along Olympic Highway and soon were crossing Choji Bridge onto Ganghwa Island. We parked in a lot near an intersection and went into a coffee shop. Lee Youngbin, who was now a professor, had arrived first and waved us over. He was the same age as me. Though we’d graduated from different schools, we’d gotten to know each other from competing in the same design contests, always jockeying for number one, and had grown our businesses at the same time as well. We’d competed for some projects, collaborated on others. Like Kiyoung, he’d gotten his architecture degree in Europe. Our firm’s work was much better than his, but he was a native Seoulite from a wealthy family. He’d retired early and gone into teaching, and was now a so-called critic, in name only. He was dressed casually and wearing a baseball cap. He seemed surprised to see me.

  You came all the way here? You’re usually so busy.

  I haven’t seen Kiyoung in a long time.

  A van pulled into the parking lot, and a familiar-looking younger man came running into the coffeeshop. It was the editor from the architecture magazine. He looked around and then came over to us.

  We made a reservation near Dongmak Beach. Let’s go.

  Kiyoung waved from the front passenger seat when he saw us coming. We formed a caravan of three vehicles. It was early in the season, and the beach was quiet except for a handful of families and couples on outings. We sat at a table in a restaurant overlooking the water. Kiyoung had lost a lot of weight since I’d last seen him a few months ago, and he was hiding the hair loss from the chemo under an old fedora. There were around ten of us altogether, including two journalists from the magazine, a gallery curator, Kiyoung’s wife, and his architecture interns. Kiyoung and his wife, and Youngbin and I sat apart from the others. We ordered grilled clams and sushi — all small fish, like pomfret and herring.

  We brought up the idea of hiking Manisan, which was something we’d done together often back in the early days of Hyeonsan Architecture. Back then, we were all young and had just returned from studying abroad in foreign countries, which had made us fearless. Though our definitions of success varied, Kiyoung still ran the same small atelier as he did back then; Youngbin, having never managed to create anything memorable, had retreated into academia and was all talk and no action; while I had once run an entrepreneurial architecture firm that had employed close to a hundred people. I guess we’d all run out of steam as we got older. Luckily, the financial crisis came along, and I had to trim the fat, converting to a more streamlined business with twenty employees.

  Kiyoung seemed to be in an especially good mood; it’d been a long time since he’d gotten out of the city. Each time he smiled, his face, which had shrunken from illness, crumpled into wrinkles. Despite his doctor’s advice to eat a lot of high-protein food in order to overcome the effects of the cancer treatment, he ate only a few bites of the abalone and clams that his wife gave him.

  Let’s be honest, Kiyoung said. We know I don’t have long to live. Have any of you been to England and ridden the London Eye? Youngbin said that he had, and Kiyoung nodded. They say it takes an hour for the wheel to make one full revolution. You know what the Buddha said. The wheel of life takes a hundred years to turn. Which means that none of us make it all the way around before we have to get off.

  After a hundred years, most of the people here would be gone. The world would be full of new people. Everyone thinks it’s good to be an architect, because your buildings will stand long after you’re gone, but for all you know, they could be left looking greedy and ugly. After lunch, the younger folk went for a walk on the beach, strolling along and tossing shrimp chips to the seagulls. We didn’t make it to the Hwado Township side of Manisan until close to dusk. We parked and got out. The sun was setting. It was slipping very slowly, one inch at a time, below the horizon.

  Youngbin mentioned Byeonggu.

  Isn’t President Yoon of Yeongnam Construction an old childhood friend of yours? I met him a few times through you, back in the Hyeonsan days.

  Kiyoung seemed to remember him, too. That was back when you all struck it rich, he said. Wasn’t he elected to the National Assembly a couple of times?

  I heard they’re in trouble now over slush funds? Yoon, and now Daedong Construction? Youngbin asked, looking pointedly at me.

  Just drop it.

  All we did was draw up some designs for them. I heard Yoon had a stroke and is in a coma.

  I told them about my trip to Yeongsan. About how the houses and stone walls and paths were all gone, and how even the site where my childhood home had stood was now bare save for a tree stump.

  Everyone’s hometown is disappearing, I said.

  Kiyoung gazed out at where the sky met the water before turning to look at us.

  And you’re the jerks who tore it all down. Ah, look at that beautiful sunset!

  On our way back to downtown Seoul, everyone parted ways. Youngbin came with me to my office. We hadn’t planned it in advance, but the two of us decided to swing by a nearby wine bar. Over dinner, he suggested the idea of one last event for Kiyoung. A retrospective featuring sketches, scale models, photographs, blueprints, and other materials from Kiyoung’s career. He said he’d already started raising funds for it and urged me to help out as well. I said I would.

  After we were both starting to get a little drunk, Youngbin went to the restroom. When he came back, he said, completely out of the blue, Maybe it’s because of spending time today with someone who’s dying, but … I couldn’t help thinking about those acacia trees.

  Acacias?

  I had no idea what he was talking about.

  You remember, that redevelopment project north of the river.

  As soon as he said it, I pictured those low hills, the slums that had once covered the slopes, the crowded rows of jerry-built shanties.

  What about it? I muttered.

  Nothing. Just thinking of old times. We bulldozed all of it.

  I sat there, not saying anything for a moment, before remarking flatly, Didn’t you know? I grew up in a slum, too.

  Youngbin was just as unmoved.

  You mentioned that to me before, he said. I know I say this all the time, but you’re one of the strong ones.

  We didn’t part ways until close to midnight. When I got home, I changed clothes and took out my cell phone. There were several new text messages, including one from Cha Soona.

  This is Soona. Guess I missed your call. Thank you for remembering me. I can’t answer my phone during the day, but evenings are okay, even if it’s late.

  I hesitated for a moment, then dialled her number. It was late, but she’d sent that text barely an hour ago. I figured if she was sleeping, she would just not pick up or would have her cell turned off. I heard a faint ringtone, then a voice saying, Hello?

  Hello, uh, this is Park Minwoo.

  Oh, Minwoo! Do you remember me? From the noodle house … where we grew up.

  Her voice hadn’t changed much, despite getting older. My own voice perked up, too, as I asked where was she living now, what was she doing, how were her parents. She told me she had a business in Bucheon, that it was enough to get by on, that she’d heard about
my lecture in passing, and demurred when I asked in return why she hadn’t come to it herself. I told her I would have been happy to see her. She said she was old and fat now, and too shy about that to come see me. I said that we should stay in touch now that we had each other’s phone numbers, or better yet, meet in person. Then we hung up.

  The next day, I woke up thirsty, my head pounding. The inside of my head felt like a blank sheet of paper. But then, one by one, the sunset I’d seen from the top of a hill, the sanguine laughter of a man in the final stages of cancer, and the sound of Soona’s voice over the telephone spread like ink blotches across that white paper. They felt like the tangled ends of a dream that continues upon waking, and I shook my head hard and thought, Come on already. I got some water from the fridge and swallowed two glasses in a row, then sat at the table, my mind a blank. The doorbell rang. The cleaning lady was coming today. Though I didn’t feel up to it, I would have to go out.

  2

  Like a rusted locomotive collapsed among unmoving ruins in a field covered in weeds and wildflowers, his burial was not yet over.

  The last line of the script signals the end of another long rehearsal. Tomorrow is the dress rehearsal, and the day after is opening night. The actors all scatter, while I plod upstairs to the office next to the entrance of the small theatre. My boss is on the phone but waves me in when he sees me. He takes his time finishing the call, and then checks his text messages before even speaking to me.

  We got two interview requests for tomorrow, he says. Seeing as you’re the director, Jung Hyung, you should be the one to give the interviews.

  He says that like I’m supposed to be happy to hear it, but I am too exhausted to even respond. And I’m sick of him calling me Hyung all the time, a term of respect normally reserved for men, when I have a perfectly good name of my own: Jung Woohee. He tries to make us sound like equals when really he treats me like a slave.

  I haven’t eaten anything since lunch, but it’s already past nine o’clock and my stomach has long since stopped growling. The work we are staging this time was adapted from a novel, the rights for which we got directly from the author. And while I understood that this meant the company didn’t have to pay anyone for an original script, they still should have paid me for the work I did adapting the novel to the stage. I agreed to direct and then spent several months sweating over the script. And yet I would not even be paid a directing fee, let alone a script-writing fee. Of course, none of the actors would get paid either. But I guess we knew what we were getting into.