by Un-su Kim
“You died?”
“Yes, literally. So each weekend, I would go to Namhae to dispose of my dead body. At first I just buried it in the mountains out of fear. But now I go to the hermitage of a Buddhist monk to have it secretly cremated.”
“You mean to say this is a recurring happening?”
“Yes.”
“How many times has this happened to you?”
“I’ve died a total of seven times. And each time I’ve had to dispose of my dead body. The Buddhist monk lays a pile of firewood to burn me, just like a Buddhist cremation. As the body catches fire and the smoke rises, you can smell the scent of burning flesh. I can see the sight of my body shriveling in the flames. And once the flames have subsided, white bones emerge from the ashes. The monk grinds my bones into a fine powder with a mortar and gives it to me. They’re still hot to the touch. Feeling the hot bones, I think to myself, ‘So many beautiful and happy selves have died, but that self which turns 2mm screws all day survives in utter monotony.’”
Seeing her cry as she finished talking, I quietly hugged her. She had a slight frame, no taller than 4’11”, no heavier than 90 lbs. She cried for a long time, so I held her for a long time – that small-handed girl who looked like baby’s breath.
People who see their own grave are rare. But I think that, before people build their houses, they should first make their graves. That’s because people who have seen their grave know how to cherish life.
BLUFFER
There was once a patient who swore a crocodile was hiding under his bed. The doctor convinced the patient the crocodile was nothing more than a manufactured fabrication and sent the patient home. But, after going home, the patient never returned to see the doctor. The doctor called the patient’s friend and asked if the patient’s condition had improved. The friend responded, “Oh! You mean the guy who was eaten by a crocodile under the bed? That friend?” This is Jacques Lacan’s famous tale of the crocodile.
There is a similar tale contained in the French short story “Bella B.’s Fantasy.”
There once was a woman named Bella B who believed a spider was living inside her ear. A doctor and a professor told her that sexual repression and neurosis had caused her to develop arachnophobia. They also told her not to worry, as arachnophobia was a common phobia. At the advice of the professor, the woman went to a salon to have her hair cut. The doctor was hoping a change in physical appearance might be a nice distraction for the woman. However, while cutting Bella B’s hair, the hairstylist accidently cut her ear with a razor blade. And from the cut crawled hundreds of baby spiders.
So I want you to ask yourself this. Did the patient really see a crocodile? Did spiders really come out of the girl’s ear? Obviously, people will laugh at you if you answer yes. “Don’t be ridiculous,” they’ll say. “It’s just a made-up story.” And yet there are twenty thousand people around the world who claim to have a crocodile hiding under their bed or in their closet, and forty people die every year from krokodeilophobia. Sometimes they even have bite marks and wounds on them that resemble those from a crocodile attack. Crocodiles have a bite force of nearly a ton, and tear at their food; there’s no way another human could produce a wound like that. And there’s also no way someone could commit suicide and make it look like that. Now, ask yourself again: Was the crocodile hiding under their bed really fake?
Doctors Canes and Musta, experts in reptiles and psychiatry, respectively, work together researching krokodeilophobia at Cambridge University.
“We still don’t know why this phenomenon occurs, but stories about people seeing crocodiles under their bed are common and should not be a surprise. These stories are not unlike those about monsters in wells and bathrooms. Obviously, there is no way a swamp crocodile could end up in a person’s apartment. Most doctors send their patients home after convincing them that there is no crocodile under their bed and that the crocodile will disappear if only they believe it is not real. It’s common practice. But every once in a while, something dreadful happens. One patient I went to see was lucky just to keep his leg. The police and firemen searched every inch of a 10-kilometer radius, but there was not a crocodile or snake to be found. Mind you, it was Moscow in December.”
Angela, a woman from Venezuela who has extreme acrophobia, always walks by shuffling her shoes so that she won’t fall through the ground. If even one foot leaves the safety of the ground, she becomes paralyzed by fear. She can’t even be ten centimeters off the ground. Obviously, riding an elevator up a skyscraper is out of the question; she can’t even live in an apartment or two-story house because she’s afraid of the stairs. She can live in a single-story house, but that’s only after all the tall shelves and ledges have been removed or emptied.
“I was once invited to my friend’s place for a birthday party. I didn’t want to go, but I had no other choice; I had known her since elementary school and she had always been good to me. I had to drag my feet all thirty kilometers to her house. But when I arrived there and was about to step onto her lawn, I discovered a fifteen-centimeter ledge. I’d never been able to scale such a tall ledge before. I yelled out toward my friend’s house, but everyone was inside, chatting noisily. Not being able to lift even one foot from the ground, I felt so pathetic and began to cry. I cried for an hour, then went back home. All the while, dragging my feet on the ground.”
The first therapist Angela visited was inexperienced. That therapist told Angela that her phobia was just a figment of her imagination; that phobias could be overcome with a wave of the hand; that they were going to cure her of her phobia in no time. And such nonsense was probably written in the textbook the therapist had studied, too. In an attempt to convince Angela that stairs were completely safe, the therapist took her out to a sandpit with some play stairs for preschoolers and lifted Angela onto the stairs, against her protests.
“See, Angela. Even three-year-olds can play on stairs without any accidents. Stairs are completely safe. Can you imagine a world without stairs? That would be a dreadful place to live. Stairs are one of the safest things there are. Try stepping down; I’ll hold your hand.”
Stricken with fear, Angela yelled in further protest. And yet the therapist stubbornly continued his treatment. The therapist thought that Angela would be cured of her phobia if only she made up her mind to jump down from the step.
“Don’t worry, Angela. Nothing bad will happen.”
Then the therapist gave Angela a slight push from behind. Angela fell from the plastic steps onto the sand below.
When Angela landed, she ruptured her spleen, broke six ribs, and fractured her hip and spine. The ambulance came and took Angela to the emergency room. Her doctors said her injuries looked as though she had been struck by a car going at forty miles per hour. But the step she had jumped from was only a playground toy, no taller than thirty centimeters.
There are some people for whom the border between reality and fiction has dissolved. These people meet their fears, or perhaps the illusion of their fears, in the physical world. These people are killed by illusory crocodiles, break bones in falls from thirty-centimeter-high steps. These people shouldn’t imagine crocodiles. Because when they do, the imaginary crocodile will turn into a real crocodile and attack them. And once this happens, these people become locked in a vicious feedback loop. Having finally met the crocodile from their hallucinations, these patients begin to imagine even scarier crocodiles. When this happens, their next attacker is an even larger crocodile with sharper teeth. The first crocodile laps at the patient’s flesh; the second gnaws at the feet; the third takes the entire foot; and finally, the crocodile becomes so large, it swallows the person whole.
Now, let me ask you the same question again. Do you still think the crocodile hiding under their bed was fake?
“Of course it’s there. It’s a crocodile. The thing under my bed is most certainly a crocodile. I have to be careful of crocodiles. Of course I have to be careful. Each night as I wait to fall asleep, I see a cro
codile that has slowly ballooned into a giant monster, crawling up my bed toward me. It has taken its time maturing, feeding on the prey in my imagination. With sharp teeth and thick leather armor, it slowly crawls toward me, swaying its gigantic tail back and forth with immense power. He’s there, all right. I see the bastard every night.”
“How can I tell whether this is real or not?”
“Try smelling it. Dreams don’t have scent.”
HAVING DINNER WITH HER
Jeong-eun and I met at a sushi restaurant. At the center of the restaurant was a large horseshoe-shaped bar, inside which were eight chefs busily making sushi. Most of them seemed quite old. I had thought the place was going to be a bit pricey, but nothing could have prepared me for the moment I saw the menu. 80,000 won for a regular. 120,000 won for a large. And 250,000 won for the special king size.
Yes, this was the restaurant she had brought me to. There were things we needed to meet about, and things we needed to discuss. But to be honest, I didn’t know what to talk about. Surely not the future of Cabinet 13? That’d be ridiculous. But whatever it was, we needed to speak. The problem was, however, she felt uncomfortable talking with people. And likewise, I felt uncomfortable sitting in silence. I had tried to hint that if she wasn’t going to talk today like last time, it would be better if we didn’t get dinner together. On the other hand, if she was sincerely ready to talk, I said I would buy her a nice dinner. In a weak voice, she told me she would try. But had I known she would pick a restaurant like this… A place that sold sushi at 250,000 a plate. My mother once told me, “You never really know a woman until you’ve had a meal with her.” My mother was always right.
Apparently Jeong-eun was a regular here. A paunchy chef came over to greet her, asking why she hadn’t been in lately. She responded by saying “Oh, this and that.” She must have been crazy to visit a restaurant like this on a regular basis. Despite looking over sixty, the chef looked like he could make easy work of a couple of younger men.
“Today’s eel is delicious. So is the red snapper. Have a taste and tell me what you think.”
The chef wiped his hands with a towel as he spoke. His pronunciation had a bit of a foreign hint to it. When he left to go prepare sushi, I turned to Jeong-eun.
“He’s a big man, isn’t he?”
“Apparently he used to be a sumo wrestler.”
“A sumo wrestler? Is he Japanese?”
“Zainichi. People say he would have become a yokozuna if it weren’t for his injuries.”
“Wow, I never would have guessed.”
It wasn’t that I didn’t believe what she was saying. Rather, I couldn’t believe that a sumo wrestler would become a sushi chef. To show me, she pointed to a picture hanging on the wall of a sumo wrestler shouting with both hands held high. The picture was in black and white, but the face of the handsome, strong man was clear as day. In that moment of victory with both hands held high, the man’s face looked full of confidence, as though he feared nothing.
“All sumo wrestlers who started from a young age are said to be good cooks. They had to make meals for their senpai. People tend to think that sumo wrestlers can eat anything just because they’re fat, but they’re actually snobby food connoisseurs.” Jeong-eun let out a small sigh as she finished. This was probably the longest sentence I had heard from her up till that point.
“Interesting,” I said.
The assistant chef placed in front of us dainty plates with two pieces of eel and red snapper each. Not long after that, the almost-yokozuna-sumo-wrestler-turned-chef came out with a bottle of sake he had warmed up for us.
“This sake is made in-house. The first two bottles are on us, anything more and you’ll have to pay. It’s high proof, so it doesn’t take much to get tipsy.”
The chef let out a jolly laugh. Jeong-eun bowed her head slightly as she accepted the bottle. After handing over the bottle, the chef stared at me like a father meeting his daughter’s boyfriend for the first time. Feeling awkward, I followed Jeongeun by bowing my head slightly. We poured ourselves a cup of sake and drank it. The taste was deep and smooth.
“Not bad,” I said.
“Right? Most of the food and drink at this restaurant is good.”
I tried the sushi on my plate, but Jeong-eun didn’t touch her sushi and only stared at it. The chef came over to Jeong-eun and asked, “So what’ll it be tonight?” He looked as though he didn’t give a rat’s ass about what I wanted. Jeong-eun then turned to me.
“Mr Kong, what do you like?” she asked.
“You should order. Order what you usually like,” I said.
I was secretly hoping she would order the (relatively) frugal 80,000-won sushi. After explaining the type of sushi she wanted in exquisite detail, she ended by saying, “And make it special king-sized.” Special king-sized! In other words, she was ordering not the 80,000-won sushi, not the 120,000-won sushi, but the 250,000-won sushi.
“Are you fine with the menu, sir?” the chef asked me.
“250,000 won for a single plate of sushi? No, that’s not fine with me!” I wanted to scream. The chef’s tone of voice also bothered me. I couldn’t tell if he was really asking me if the menu was to my liking, or if he was implying that a poor man like me wouldn’t have money to cover such an order. I wanted to cry thinking about my soon-to-be empty wallet, but, with no way out of the situation, I turned to the chef and pretended to be cheery.
“Absolutely. It’s Ms Son’s day, after all.”
The chef gave me a satisfied look, and Jeong-eun betrayed a bit of happiness by smiling slightly. I thought to myself that it was the first time I had seen her make even a suggestion of a smile.
The plate of sushi that came out next was not becoming of the title “special king size.” Placed atop the square piece of china were a mere 10 pieces of sushi. How could they call this special king-sized? Not only did it not have any decorations, but it was also exceedingly average-looking. It was just ten pieces of sushi, some ginger, and rakkyo arranged on a square plate. Even if they sprinkled gold dust on the thing, I doubted it would be worth anywhere close to 250,000 won. But I soon realized why it was called special king size. Special king size meant they would refill your sushi as you ate. It was like a bottomless pot of gold.
I took a bite of the sushi. I couldn’t tell what fish it was, but it was awfully good. Well, for 250,000 won, it had better be good. I took a shot of sake. Jeong-eun, on the other hand, still hadn’t touched her sushi and was only staring at the plate.
“Are you not going to eat?” I asked.
“I’m taking my time,” she said.
With her gaze fixed downward, she stared blankly at the plate of sushi for some time. As always, her silence made me feel awkward. It was awkward sitting with her, too. I thought it fortunate that we weren’t sitting facing each other.
After about an hour had passed, I had eaten roughly thirty pieces of sushi, and drunk fourteen shots of sake. Jeong-eun had only eaten three pieces of sushi. On the other hand, she had taken ten shots of sake. I was full. Despite the quality of the sushi, at 250,000 won I still felt it left a lot to be desired, and each time I was reminded of this, my mood turned sour. Jeong-eun’s cheeks were somewhat flushed from the sake.
“Did you find the contents of Cabinet 13 interesting?” I asked out of nowhere.
“I would say they were more comforting than interesting.”
“Comforting? Have you had a hard life?”
“Yes, I have. Very hard, in fact. I wish I were something else. And I don’t mean that I want to change or become a better person. No, I wish I were something else completely. I don’t care if it’s a blade of grass or a butterfly or a…” Before finishing, she bit her lip.
“You wouldn’t mind if it’s a cat?”
“You act like that’s a bad thing. I’d love to become a cat.”
Odd. Why do I know so many people who want to become cats?
“Why are you doing this work, Mr Kong?” she asked.
>
“Well, long story short, it wasn’t my choice. I fell for that old man’s trap.”
While talking, the sumo-wrestler-turned-chef took our plates without asking and threw the remaining six pieces of sushi in the trash. I looked at him with a confused expression. He looked back at my confused face and gave me a smile.
“I know it’s a waste, but I had to throw them away. Cooking is all about temperature, especially so with sushi. But I don’t recognize you today, Ms Son. You haven’t even touched your sushi. If there’s something else I can get you, just let me know.”
Jeong-eun’s face flushed.
“Yeah, you barely ate anything. Order something you’ll eat,” I chimed in.
She hesitated for a moment before saying she would like some salmon. It didn’t take long for the chef to come back out with a new plate stacked with salmon. She seemed to like salmon. Putting a piece of salmon into her mouth, she made a satisfied look and slowly began to chew. She took another shot of sake.
“Why do symptomers exist?” she asked.
“I’m not sure. It’s probably because this city is no longer able to maintain our humanity. After all, species don’t evolve when their environment is safe. If in fact the city isn’t an environment where humans can maintain their humanity, and if that will continue to be the case in the future, then humans have no choice but to change. I guess it’s less an issue of evolution and more an issue of survival.”