Winter in Sokcho

by Elisa Shua Dusapin

  ‘What matters is the light. It shapes what you see.’

  Looking again, I realised I didn’t see the ink. All I saw was the white space between the lines, the light absorbed by the paper, the snow bursting off the page, real enough to touch. Like a Chinese ideogram. I scanned other panels. The frames seemed to distort and blur, as though the main character was struggling to break free of their confines. Time expanded.

  ‘How do you know when a story is done?’

  Kerrand came closer to the desk.

  ‘My character reaches a point when I know he has a life of his own. I can let him go.’

  The room was so small, he had to stand close to me. I could feel the heat of his body. I asked him why his hero was an archaeologist. He seemed to find this amusing.

  ‘People must ask you that all the time.’

  He smiled, no they didn’t. Then he started to talk about the history of comic books, the rise of European artists after the two world wars, the appearance of characters that had influenced him, Philéomon, Jonathan, Corto Maltese. Travellers. Loners.

  ‘I would have preferred my character to be a sailor. But that was impossible, what with Corto Maltese.’

  I shrugged.

  ‘I’ve never heard of him. I don’t see why there couldn’t be more than one seafaring hero.’

  Kerrand looked out of the window and said maybe. Basically, it was the term ‘hero’ that was the problem. His character was simply an individual, like anyone else, having experiences we can all relate to, in search of his own story. He didn’t have to be an archaeologist. He could have been anything.

  ‘There aren’t many other characters in your drawings,’ I said.

  I hesitated.

  ‘No women.’

  Kerrand looked straight at me. He sat down on the edge of the bed. I joined him, making sure I kept a good distance between us.

  ‘Doesn’t he miss having women around?’

  ‘Yes, he does.’

  He laughed.

  ‘Obviously. But it’s complicated.’

  He walked over to the desk, ran his finger along the edge of a page distractedly, and then sat down again, lost in thought.

  ‘Once something is drawn in ink, it’s fixed. I want to be sure it’s perfect.’

  His hand brushed mine. I thought of the times he’d taken my hand, in the kitchen, at the museum. A feeling of weariness flooded through me. Was that what a woman had to be to earn the right to appear alongside Kerrand’s character? She had to be perfect?

  ‘If I can’t convey it all with a single stroke …’ he muttered, gathering up his drawing boards.

  He tore off the top sheet, threw it in the bin. Wished me a happy Seollal.

  MY MOTHER HAD sent me to look for her rubber gloves in her room. I found them between the shower and the bed, in a box filled with nail polish. Bits of dried omelette were stuck to the rubber. I scratched at it. Still stuck. I had to get the egg wet to soften it up and make it come off.

  In the kitchen, my mother was preparing to gut the fugu. Before I sliced the tteok, I threw some leeks into the beef stock. My glasses steamed up and I couldn’t see.

  ‘I’m going to get myself some contacts.’

  ‘You look nice in your glasses.’

  ‘The other day you were suggesting I have surgery.’

  ‘I never said that.’

  ‘Anyway, I don’t need your advice.’

  My mother grimaced. She passed me an octopus to purée. I cut off the tentacles and dug my hand inside the head to pull out the ink sac. Beef and raw fish smells were wafting together, heavy and pungent. I pictured Kerrand at his desk. Lips pursed, hand drifting through the air before coming to land at exactly the right spot on the paper. I always had the finished dish in mind when I cooked. Appearance, taste, nutritional balance. When he drew, he gave the impression of thinking only of the movements he made with his wrist and hand, that was how the image seemed to take life, with no prior conception.

  My mother delivered a blow to her wriggling fish. Pink fluid oozed from its head. She cut off the fins, peeled away the skin with one brisk movement and noticed that the pink, skinned mass was still struggling. She slit its throat. Then came the delicate part: removing the poison-laden intestines, ovaries and liver without piercing them. I watched her work. She never gave me permission to handle fugu.

  ‘Do you like your job?’

  ‘Why?’ she asked as she made a gash in the belly.

  ‘I’m curious.’

  Holding open the abdomen with the tip of her knife, she pulled out the guts, setting the toxic organs to one side and placing them carefully in a bag before she put them in the bin. She glanced over at the counter where I was working and suddenly cried:

  ‘The ink!’

  MY AUNT WAS heavily made-up and dressed in a smart tailored suit. She laughed when she saw my mother and me in our traditional outfits. How could anyone dress like that in this day and age! Chastened, my mother forced a laugh. We set the table in the kitchen, arranging the cushions carefully on the tiled floor.

  My aunt went into raptures over the fugu sashimi. She never ate it in Seoul, the chefs claiming to have a licence to prepare it were all Japanese, she didn’t trust them. Twenty grams of toxic flesh was enough to asphyxiate a man, those Japanese chefs would be only too happy to kill off a few Koreans. She wrinkled her nose. But what was that greyish colour in the octopus dish?

  ‘Your niece pierced the ink sac,’ my mother complained. ‘She’s not to be trusted with a knife.’

  She filled the bowls with tteokguk, poured soju into the glasses.

  ‘That job at the guest house is making her look pale, don’t you think?’

  My aunt said that she’d always thought me sickly-looking. It was probably because of the air in Sokcho, she added, sweeping the dirty kitchen walls with her eyes. I concentrated on eating my soup, studying the reflection of my face in its surface. My spoon created ripples, smudging my nose, making my forehead undulate and my cheeks bleed into my chin. My aunt thought the tteokguk was bland. I was too intent on ladling it into my mouth to actually taste it. My mother added soy sauce to it, splashing her sister, who cried out, saying she’d paid a lot of money for the silk she was wearing. My mother turned to me, trying to avoid an argument:

  ‘You’re not saying anything. Speak to your aunt.’

  I said something about Kerrand.

  ‘Him again!’

  ‘He’s French.’

  My mother sat up. My aunt sneered that Frenchmen were all talk, only a fool would fall for their slick charm.

  ‘What do you know about France?’ I said under my breath.

  My mother said we should change the subject. We didn’t know what we were talking about. And we certainly knew nothing about comics. I helped myself to more soup and fugu.

  ‘His drawings are really good. They remind me of European impressionist art, but they’re lifelike too. Full of detail.’

  My mother shifted on her cushion and turned to her sister who was leaning back against the wall, her belly full.

  ‘She’s going to marry Jun-oh soon.’

  My aunt squeezed my buttocks and thighs. I moved away before she could get to my breasts. She said it was a good thing we were getting married. She’d take charge of my outfit and make-up. She looked me in the eye. And the glasses. My mother said I was thinking about getting contact lenses, I was such a spoiled, fickle creature. My aunt disagreed, she’d always thought my glasses were hideous. As a matter of fact, why not have me operated on? Operations were cheaper now in Gangnam. She’d be happy to pay for it if my mother didn’t have the money.

  ‘It’s not a question of being able to afford it,’ my mother said as she served me more soup. ‘She’s lovely as she is, glasses included, she doesn’t need altering.’

  I couldn’t get the spoon from the bowl to my mouth any more. My aunt was breathing heavily, the soju taking effect, her chin gleaming. She looked at me again, asked me why I was stuffing myse
lf. My mother panicked and told her she shouldn’t make that kind of remark to me when, for once, I was eating. I tightened my fingers on the spoon. My aunt helped herself to more kimchi and chewed it, open-mouthed. Bits of pickled cabbage spurted out from between her lips and landed among the dishes, coated in a film of reddish saliva. I stared at the bits and looked up at my aunt. She gave me a dirty look and picked up the scraps of kimchi with the tips of her chopsticks. I stood up and put on my coat, told them I was heading back to the guest house. My aunt raised an eyebrow at my mother. I wasn’t going to the cemetery then? My mother gave me a pleading look. Then she turned to her sister, gave a shrug of resignation, and watched me as I left.

  There were no more buses at that hour. I walked with my arms wrapped around my abdomen. I’d stuffed myself again. My stomach hurt from all the food I’d crammed into it.

  I tried not to make a noise when I got back, but Kerrand had left his door half open and poked his head out when I walked past. I didn’t stop, and shut myself in my room. I caught sight of myself in the mirror, my hair messed up by the wind, straggling worm-like around my face, my skirt splattered with sand and mud. If only Kerrand hadn’t seen me like this. Not with this misshapen body, my stomach bloated from all that soup. I wanted this image of me erased from his mind.

  Sleep. I needed to sleep.

  I WOKE UP with a dry mouth, my limbs numb. It was dark, the clock said 4 a.m. My stomach weighed heavily on me. I closed my eyes. When I opened them again it was ten o’clock. I dragged myself painfully from my bed and let some air into the room. My face felt puffy and I took some ice from the windowsill to relieve the swelling.

  Old Park didn’t comment when I arrived late at reception. He’d taken care of breakfast. Without looking up from his newspaper, he said the girl and her boyfriend had spent the evening in their room, he’d eaten his Seollal meal alone in front of the television, which was just as well, my overcooked tteokguk would have damaged the guest house’s reputation. The programme on television was interesting, he said, a pop song competition.

  Kerrand came into the kitchen with some muffins from the convenience store. I got to work on the dishes. Tried to look busy. He ate standing up, gazing out of the window. With the light behind him, his nose made him look like a seagull in profile. I had to make an effort not to stare. Park turned on the radio. A K-pop band who were suddenly everywhere, their latest hit. Kerrand frowned.

  ‘You can’t stand it either?’ I asked.

  ‘I didn’t dare say anything.’

  We laughed. I turned off the radio. I should have left it alone. The silence cast an icy chill. The girl’s boyfriend came into the kitchen. He made himself a coffee, scratched his nose and left. I caught Kerrand watching me, taking him by surprise. He held my gaze, I looked away. He probably thought I was pathetic. Jun-oh called and I answered. I tried to sound happy to hear from him. He’d got the modelling contract. He was coming home in two days to pick up his things. Could he see me? Of course. He’d have to call me first. Let me know he was coming, not just show up.

  When I hung up, Kerrand was at the table, his sketchpad open. He leaned over, pushed back his hair, placed the tip of the pencil on the paper. One line, then another, I saw a roof emerge. A tree. A low wall. Seagulls. A building. It didn’t look like the houses in Sokcho, it was all brick. He put grass around it. Lush grass, not like the grass here, burned by summer sun and winter frosts. Then a leg. Thick legs, cows’ legs, then whole cows. A port in the distance, flat land, windswept valleys. He created some shadow to finish it, rubbing with the pencil lead. He tore off the sheet from the sketchbook and handed it to me. Normandy.

  ‘Keep it,’ he said. ‘You can have it.’

  STRAPPED TIGHTLY into her work apron, my mother was shucking shellfish. Not speaking. Her tools were strictly off-limits to me so I stood beside her and gazed into the fish tanks. I was still in her bad books. After a while, she peeled an apple, handed it to me.

  ‘Here. The doctor said I should eat them.’

  I took a bite of the apple, my attention distracted by a sudden commotion in the market. I craned my neck to get a better look. Kerrand, down the end of the row. The fishmonger women were trying to outdo one another with smiles, waving raw octopus at him. My mother saw him too. She checked to see if her stand was clean, smoothed down her hair, reapplied her lipstick. I tried to get away but it was too late, he walked over to us.

  ‘I wasn’t expecting to see you here,’ he said, looking pleasantly surprised.

  He wanted to know if I had a free moment, he’d made progress with his story, was hoping to talk to me about it. My mother patted me on the behind.

  ‘What’s he saying?’

  Humiliated, I asked Kerrand to meet me at seven in the small café opposite the market, near the tsunami shelter. My mother scrutinised him, he smiled politely back at her. After he had left, I turned to face her.

  ‘That’s him.’

  ‘What does he want from you?’

  ‘I’m seeing him later.’

  ‘Sundays you sleep with me. Have you told him that?’

  I didn’t answer.

  ‘I saw the way you were looking at him.’

  ‘It’s for his work!’

  My mother picked up her fishhook. She flinched and knocked over the container. The shellfish spilled out all the way to the other women’s feet. They jeered openly at her. My mother flung herself to the ground, I tried to help her, she pushed me away. So I stood there until she got up and the women’s gibes ceased. Then I left.

  The Polaroid snapshot was still lying there in the unmade bed at Jun-oh’s place. There were more, pinned to the wall. I took one down at random. Jun-oh, lifting me up by the waist. I was laughing. We were in Seoul, celebrating my graduation, just before he had followed me to Sokcho. I looked at the image and began mouthing words under my breath in French. Half a sentence. A sound came out of my mouth. I stopped it immediately. I put the photo back, gathered up my belongings. A book of quotes about cats, a sweater, a fancy suspender belt. I’d already taken most of my stuff to the guest house, the rest was at my mother’s.

  A milder breeze was blowing at the beach. The waves broke unevenly, hiccoughing. Seagulls poked their beaks in the sand, prancing about to avoid me. Except for one with a limp. I chased after it until it flew off. I thought they looked undignified when they weren’t in flight.

  In the Lotte Mart, the only silicone hydrogel contact lenses with my prescription made my pupils look dilated. I bought them anyway.

  Back at the guest house I did a load of washing. Park’s beige cardigan, my other sweater dress, the girl’s pyjamas. I had to do it by hand, the washing machine pipes had frozen and cracked. I put on a pair of thicker tights. My scar was an eyesore. I felt like putting in my lenses. The first one made my vision hazy, I’d bought the wrong strength. The second one wouldn’t stick to my eye. I was late, Kerrand was probably waiting for me. Flustered, I made a face in the mirror, opened my eyes wide, started again. The lens dropped from my finger. I groped around for it. In the end I put them away in their case and set my glasses on my nose.

  WE WERE the only customers in the café. Next to the radiator, to dry out our shoes. Miniature pieces of furniture were set out on the windowsill, as if in a doll’s house. It was dark. Near the counter, in a refrigerated display window, two pies at fifteen thousand won, a jar of foundation containing snail serum, also at fifteen thousand won. The waitress offered us a bowl of dried calamari. I recognised her as the girl I’d seen at the jjimjilbang, my age with sagging breasts. She’d drawn a heart on my cappuccino in caramel. Kerrand’s had a chicken.

  Kerrand picked up a tentacle, turned it round in his fingers.

  ‘When I was little,’ I said, ‘my mother used to tell me that if you ate squid and drank milk with it, you’d grow tentacles in your veins. Or worms, I don’t remember.’

  I laughed.

  ‘I think it was a ploy to stop me drinking milk. I can’t digest it. Do you like it
?’

  ‘I prefer wine.’

  ‘You won’t find much of that in Sokcho.’

  He didn’t answer, his attention focused on the squid. I wished I hadn’t said anything. My phone started to vibrate on the table. Jun-oh flashed up on the screen. I put it away in my bag.

  ‘There don’t seem to be many young people here,’ said Kerrand.

  ‘They all leave.’

  ‘Aren’t you bored?’

  I shrugged.

  ‘Don’t you have a boyfriend?’

  I hesitated and then said I didn’t. Boyfriend. I never quite understood that word, nor the French version either, petit ami. Why did a lover have to be ‘little’?

  ‘What about you?’

  He’d been married. There was a moment of silence.

  ‘So,’ I asked him, ‘how do things stand?’

  ‘With my wife?’

  ‘No, your hero.’

  He gave a short laugh, almost a sigh. He had some sketches, nothing final. All the other books had followed on quite naturally from one another. With this being the last book in the series, he wasn’t sure how the story should develop.

  ‘I think I’m afraid of losing it. This world, I’ll have no control over it once it’s finished.’

  ‘Don’t you trust your readers?’

  ‘That’s not the point.’

  He started tugging at the tentacle.

  ‘The story I’m creating moves away from me all the time, it tells itself in the end. So I start to dream up another one, but the one I’m working on is still there, drawing itself. I don’t know how, but I have to finish it. And then when I can finally get to work on the new one, the whole process starts again.’

  His fingers clawed at the tentacle.

  ‘Sometimes I think I’ll never be able to convey what I really want to say.’