One Hundred Shadows

by Hwang Jungeun

  Even if it does, Mujae told me, you mustn’t follow it, Eungyo.

  I won’t, I said, and was just bringing my cup to my mouth when my eyes met those of Yugon, who was gazing blankly in my direction.

  Your shadow rose?

  Yeah, it did.

  It did, huh. Yugon pushed his cup slightly forward. Mine rises too, from time to time.

  Is he suggesting a toast? I wondered, and touched my cup to his, but this seemed to startle him, so I must have been mistaken. He fiddled with his cup, frowning slightly, then pulled it back as if to hide it with his hands.

  —

  But anyway, Yugon said. Do you really think woodlice don’t bite? They have mouths, don’t they? What else would their mouths be for? If something has a mouth, it stands to reason that it bites.

  —

  I was twelve when my father died. He was working on the construction site of an apartment building. The anchor of a tower crane fell on him from a height of thirty metres. His death was such a certainty that the anchor wasn’t removed until three full hours later. My mother still insisted on seeing the body, on taking a last look at his mangled remains while the rest of us were sitting in the funeral hall. I sat with my father’s sisters, who were all dressed in mourning clothes. This was over ten years ago, but certain details are still vivid in my mind. How the hall’s wooden floor was so cold that I shivered when I first stepped onto it; how my mother later reappeared and sat down beside us, strangely calm, then gently tugged at my clothes; that there were small beads of sweat on the nape of her neck, which I saw when she leaned in to talk to me; that her mourning clothes smelled of burnt almonds; that a string fastening her skirt had come undone and was dangling below her breasts; her voice as she said, That’s not your father, they’ve hidden him away somewhere and put a pig in his place; how I instantly pictured a bloodied pig lying on a cold metal bed.

  I’d never seen one of those beds before, worn and scuffed from all the corpses it had borne, polished to a shine by the cloth used to wrap them. I still wonder how I could have pictured it so clearly without ever having seen one, its planes and curves, the way it would feel to touch.

  A lot of people came to pay their respects, including a steady stream of Catholics. I remember how the prayers they recited continued like a round, almost like a Buddhist chant. On the day of the coffin rites, people carried lit candles as they filed into the room where my father lay. He’d already been clothed in hemp, his hands and face so thickly swaddled they were merely featureless balls. There were so many people squeezing into the room that I couldn’t get close enough to see my father. I couldn’t tell how many of them had actually known him, but most of their faces were unfamiliar to me, and I thought that many must be seeking some kind of inspiration from an unfortunate corpse whom they’d never known in life. All I could see from where I was standing was my mother’s profile, hovering above the arm of a woman’s black jacket that gave off a sharp smell of sweat. My mother’s relatives were propping her up, and the candle she was clutching with both hands was tilted at such an angle that I couldn’t take my eyes off it, worried that the flame would set fire to the coffin, though they were far too far apart for that to be a genuine possibility.

  After the funeral my mother spent some time in the hospital, and when she came home she was carrying a shadow on her back. The shadow was quite large by then, and was so dark it defied description. It was so tightly attached to her back that you couldn’t tell who was clinging to who. My aunt had looked after me while my mother was in hospital, and when she saw my mother’s shadow she decided she ought to stay on. The two of us tried everything we could think of, throwing handfuls of red beans at the shadow, shouting, trying to sweep it off with a broom, but it was no use, and though the shadow repeated, I’m scared, I’m scared, its voice was empty of any fear. My mother stayed cooped up in her room with the shadow, refusing to wash or eat properly.

  My aunt and I decided to give the house a good clean-out, thinking that it might do us all some good to get some fresh air circulating. Right at the back of the fridge, behind the tubs of kimchi and other side dishes, I found a metal container the size of a lunchbox. I didn’t know how long it had been there, but it was incredibly cold. Inside, I found several lipsticks. They were pink, red, and orange, each covered with beads of water or a mould-like film. I showed the box to my aunt, she told me to throw it away and I did. After that, I promptly forgot that there had ever been such a box.

  So when, out of the blue, my mother asked for her metal box, my aunt and I couldn’t immediately recall what she was talking about. When my mother began to describe the lipsticks inside, I was sure that it was that box, and told her that I’d thrown it away a few days ago. Bring it back, my mother said. My aunt explained that she was the one who’d told me to throw it away, but my mother’s gaze continued to bore into me. Bring it back, she said, still with the shadow clinging to her, and her eyes glinted.

  Bring it back, my mother said, and her shadow said Bring it back

  Bring it back, her shadow said, and my mother said Bring it back.

  As she and her shadow took turns to speak the words, my mother’s voice grew gradually weaker until only her shadow was audible, a round shape looming over her shoulder that could almost have been a head. The shadow was opening and closing something that might be called a mouth, a little hole set into its darkness, and soon it was merely producing strange sounds, like mimi or gaga, as if vocalisation itself was the aim. My aunt and I apologised profusely, explaining that the box would have been taken away several days ago and therefore could not be brought back. In the end we prostrated ourselves in front of my mother, begging for forgiveness, but no forgiveness came. Her shadow was darker than ever, now covering every part of her body, but she didn’t try to shrug it off, as if she wasn’t aware of it or simply didn’t care. Now and then she opened her mouth and repeated after the shadow, Mimi, Gaga. I watched her mouth hanging slack, saw her shadow slipping furtively in and out, turning her tongue black. I don’t know how long I stood there watching it. In the end, my aunt snapped me out of it. Your shadow, she said, her voice wavering, and I turned my head and saw it: stretched out towards the front door, curling at the edges like peeling wallpaper and fluttering in the still air.

  —

  That was the first time, Yugon said, those last words drowned out by the party of businessmen beginning to pound their fists on their tabletop. One of the five got to his feet, holding a large glass of beer. The loosened knot of his tie had slid down to his shirt’s third button, and the veins on his wrist were bulging from the weight of the glass. He hefted the glass to his mouth and downed the beer in great gulps, with his left hand pressed to his stomach. The rest of his party beat the table with their eight fists, slowly at first, then faster and faster, until at last he had drained the glass, or near enough, and thudded it down onto the table. Mujae, Yugon, and I watched in silence.

  The restaurant’s employees were watching as well, looking bored, their elbows on the counter.

  I should head back.

  I turned back to our table and saw Yugon stand up from his seat, clutching his paper bag.

  Have another drink, Mujae encouraged him, but Yugon shook his head.

  I shouldn’t have told that story, he said, I feel like this place is swarming with shadows now. He stepped out into the rain, refusing our proffered umbrellas, and once we’d seen him off the two of us went back inside. There was a blowfish fin, still wet, in Yugon’s abandoned cup.

  Mujae didn’t finish the last bit of his wine, saying it tasted fishy now it had gone cold. The rain had turned into a light drizzle, so thin that you could only make it out in the haloes of light around the streetlamps. We stood under the restaurant awning to put our umbrellas up, then set off towards the subway station. I trudged along the puddle-pocked road, trying to hold my umbrella up properly with my limp hands, feeling the alcohol taking effe
ct. My shadow spread out under the light of the streetlamps, from those shopfronts that stayed open into the small hours. Though overlapped, my shadow and the shadow of the umbrella slightly differed in their density. I looked down at my feet as I walked, thinking, Shadows don’t disappear easily even at night. Mujae offered a penny for my thoughts.

  It’s nothing, I said. I’m just feeling a bit down, because I can’t really think of anything fun to do.

  How about we sit there for a bit, Mujae said, pointing to a wisteria gazebo in front of a large building, probably intended for its employees to eat their lunch on fine days, or take a cigarette break.

  Won’t the benches be too wet to sit on? To myself, I thought, But more importantly, will it be fun to sit there? Mujae walked over to check, then called me over.

  This one is okay, he said, and when I sat down it wasn’t as damp as I’d expected. Mujae sat down next to me, though he left a little space between us. We were side by side under the wisteria, holding our umbrellas. Wet flowers were scattered here and there over the brick-paved ground where the rain could not soak away. Every now and then, a raindrop would fall from the wisteria roof and plunk onto the taut umbrella material. As I sat there under my umbrella and listened to that sound, my mood did seem to lift a little, though I still wasn’t exactly having fun.

  Should we sing? Mujae suggested. Which song do you like, Eungyo?

  I like Chilgapsan.

  I can’t sing that one.

  You don’t know it?

  I do, but I can’t sing it.

  How come?

  I get choked up at “a patch of beans.”

  Really?

  It says that a woman weeding a patch of beans is weeping so hard the tears soak her hemp sleeves, that she plants a tear in each beanstalk as she moves through the patch, that she gets married and moves far away, leaving her mother all alone on a mountain ridge, with only the birdsong for company…

  I see. We gazed wordlessly out at the nighttime street. Each time a car drove by, its headlamps shed yellow light onto the falling rain.

  I heard, said Mujae, that if a couple boil wisteria leaves and drink the water together, their relationship will be healed.

  Oh?

  If our relationship ever gets damaged, shall we boil some wisteria leaves?

  Well, I said, flustered, but we’re not a couple. Mujae smiled from ear to ear. I cleared my throat. I don’t know about relationships, Mujae, but it’s nice sitting here like this, warm inside from the rice wine.

  Yeah.

  It’s just, you know. Nice.

  We lapsed into silence and sat there, watching the night.

  —

  For several weeks after that, Mujae and I didn’t spend any time together. At least, not just the two of us, like we had that day. Appliances always came flooding into the repair shop around the end of the rainy season. I had no call to go down to Mr Gong’s workshop, as only a handful of cases had a problem with the transformer. Mujae did visit the repair shop a couple of times, but he, too, must have been busy with work, as he rushed back down each time as soon as his errand was over. When, on occasion, I happened to be passing by the workshop, there was only Mr. Gong, spinning the wheel or smoking a cigarette.

  One day Yugon came by and announced that he had a cold, then, after rambling on about this and that, gave me five chocolate bars in return for the rice wine.

  Blackout

  The rains stopped, but the heat wave continued. The thick white clouds against the sky’s clear blue were pleasing to the eye, but the sweltering heat was unbearable. Even the briefest venture out into the sun made me break into a sweat, and when the sweat dried my forehead felt unpleasantly chilled. On Sunday, I took my bicycle out for the first time in a while, down to the river to get some fresh air, then headed to the house where my father lived. I cycled slowly at first, muscles relaxed, but then began to push down hard on the pedals. After cycling the distance of three bus stops, I arrived at the house. The outer wall had been recently demolished, so the heap of broken bricks hadn’t yet been cleared away, and the cluttered yard was open to view. I secured my bicycle to the water pipe and unlocked the front door. It’s me, I called out, but there was no answer. My father wasn’t home. I couldn’t spot his fishing gear, so I guessed that was where he’d gone.

  I flung open all the windows and cleaned the house from top to bottom, though there wasn’t really much that needed doing. Light streamed through the south-facing windows and puddled onto the hall’s wooden floor. Dust motes swirled up as I plied the broom, and dust flew up in a swirl. In the bathroom I discovered three large rubber tubs, each full of fish. One held carp, another held loach, and in the third, much less densely packed than the others, were several catfish. The sight was a familiar one to me, and had been since early childhood. I crouched down and peered into the tubs. Some of the carp were already floating on the water, pale silvery bellies exposed. One small fish was lying on the tile floor. Out of the water, its glassy eyes had filmed over and its scales had lost their sheen. I jiggled on my haunches so my legs wouldn’t get numb, then cautiously shifted the tub of loach. I watched quietly as a thin stream of bubbles appeared, then slipped my hand just below the surface. The water felt oddly slippery, clinging to my skin.

  I’d never really let on, but I’d always hated that my father kept the catch from his fishing trips in our bathroom, a stock that was replenished every few days. The smell that permeated the house, the scales that stuck to my skin whenever I had to use the sink, the sound of the fish slowly suffocating, which frequently kept me awake at night.

  A few times I’d hinted at my discomfort by asking who was going to eat all this fish, but I never did get any answer.

  That was the father I grew up under.

  You could say he made an indifferent parent, or simply that he was taciturn by nature – he always packed my lunch for school, for instance, but the only side dish I ever got was pickled radish from the store. We never talked much. When I was little, every time the holiday season came around and the family got together his sisters would be on at him to remarry, but my father never let himself be drawn into these discussions, and nothing ever came of their efforts. My mother left home when I was very young, so I never knew much about her. That she used to work at a high-end Korean restaurant; that my father’s family got the shock of their lives when he showed up with her one day; that they lived together without a wedding ceremony; that she was much too pretty, much too young, with breasts that were much too large; that she came to a bad end just as my aunts had predicted, running away with another man; this was all gleaned from their hushed conversations, or read between the lines of pointed remarks. My own memories were nothing more than a handful of vague fragments. The texture of a calico skirt, its hem balled in my tiny fist; the scent of chewing gum; slender arms that lifted me up onto the bus, a grip that was surprisingly firm. Before she left, my mother emptied out a cardboard case of face powder and filled it with bright hair bands. Their elastic was decorated with plastic strawberries, carrots and watermelons, purple flowers, all of which I lost long ago, along with the case itself.

  When I’d finished sweeping and went to close the front door, I noticed something black lying on the porch steps.

  It was a cicada. It was a thick, stumpy thing, and one of its wings was torn at the tip. I leaned closer, wondering if it was dead, and it lifted its square head as if daring me to touch it.

  —

  It was my father who got me the job at Mr. Yeo’s repair shop, through a loose thread of acquaintances. I left school when I was seventeen. I went through some things – bullying – that couldn’t simply be dismissed as the usual kid’s stuff. For a while I tried to bear up under it, thinking that the bullies would have to get bored someday, but everything changed when I ran into a classmate outside of school. We were walking down the same side of the street, heading in opposite dire
ctions. She’d always been one of the most aggressive, so I was sure she wouldn’t let this opportunity slide. I kept walking, sick with nerves but holding my head up, but she passed by me without so much as slowing her step, head down as though embarrassed. I was confused, but simply took it as a stroke of luck and carried on down the street. The next day, though, seeing her back to her usual tricks, surrounded by her usual gang, something inside me just broke. I could no longer see the point of affecting indifference in the face of such a strange, meaningless malice, or of trying to fit in with the group. I picked up my bag and walked out of the school. Idiots, idiots, all the way home the word ran through my head, and all evening I carried on repeating it to myself, and that was the last day I attended school. My father saw, of course, that I didn’t go off to school when it was time, but he never said anything about it. Roughly a month went by in this way, and in the end it was me who broke the silence, announcing that I’d quit school, to which all he said was, All right.

  All right, was all he said when I told him I wanted to work, and again when I walked out of our house a month later, having already rented a room nearby and had my belongings sent ahead of me.

  From somewhere in the middle distance a group of cicadas broke into a high chorus, and a few moments later a low buzz could be heard from the stairs, a feeble attempt at emulation.

  I found a squash in the fridge and made a batch of soup, enough for three or four meals. I ate a bowlful myself, with rice and kimchi on the side, there at my father’s house, though without my father there. Through the window I’d flung open I could see a middle-aged woman with a cloth tied around her head, labouring up a slope that led to the nearest mineral spring, empty plastic bottles bumping together in her handcart. The shrill cry of the cicadas fell from somewhere high up and far away. The cicada on the stairs, meanwhile, only had the energy for a low, fitful buzzing, that petered out after a minute or so.