One Hundred Shadows

by Hwang Jungeun

  What will happen to all the bulbs when the old man dies? Without him, who will possibly manage to fathom out which bulbs are where? Won’t whoever takes over end up chucking out rare bulbs just because they’re old? Each time I visited Omusa such thoughts would leave me feeling at a loss, but some of our own customers voiced similar thoughts about the repair shop and Mr. Yeo, and every time they did I was reminded of the repair shop’s own history.

  One day I went down to buy some bulbs and both the old man and the shelves were gone.

  Only the dark walls remained, enclosing an empty space.

  He’s passed away, I thought.

  I came back to the repair shop and broke the news, which left Mr. Yeo looking troubled for some time after. The bulb I’d wanted to buy was no longer being manufactured, so the appliance that required it had to be sent back as it was, without being repaired. After those bulbs stopped being made, there was a notable increase in the number of repairs that required them, and Mr. Yeo and I often remarked how strange it was that you always notice something more when it’s gone, how sad it all was.

  —

  Summer was sliding into autumn when I found Omusa again.

  One of our regulars at the repair shop was a Mr. Kwak. He was about the same age as Mr. Yeo, and his passion for audio equipment meant he had long been a customer of ours. He’d used to be a fireman, but after retirement he said he felt as though he no longer belonged anywhere, and it was around that time that his visits increased in frequency.

  Will you take a look at this? Mr. Kwak asked, entering the shop with an old German amp clutched to his chest.

  What’s the use of looking at that old thing? Mr. Yeo said, but he hunkered down next to Mr. Kwak and proceeded to examine the amp, the two men puffing on their cigarettes companionably.

  What’s the matter with it? Mr Yeo asked.

  The sound on the left is dead.

  How’d you kill it?

  I don’t know if I killed it, but whatever happened, it’s kaput.

  It’s a solid piece of equipment, though.

  Remember that lightning storm we had? I think that’s when the problem started.

  That’s a smart guess.

  I’m a smart guy.

  All right.

  I’ll leave it here.

  It’ll take a while.

  The pilot light needs replacing too.

  There’s no bulb.

  I brought one with me.

  The bag Mr. Kwak finally fished out of his pocket looked familiar. Mr. Yeo asked him where he’d managed to get his hands on such rare bulbs, and Mr. Kwak said he’d stopped by Omusa on his way. Mr. Yeo and I both goggled at him. Frowning at our evident surprise, Mr. Kwak held the bag of bulbs out to me.

  Didn’t you know they’d moved? He gave me directions to the new location, a little further down the alley from the original site. The shop itself was identical except that it had a higher ceiling fitted with a tube light, a small sign out front with ‘Omusa’ done in calligraphy, and was, if anything, even more jam-packed than before. The old man was sitting behind his desk, with his back to the shelf of boxes.

  Twenty fuse lamps, please, I said, and waited patiently for the familiar slow scrape of the chair as the old man got to his feet.

  —

  Just before winter arrived, it was decided that the first of the five buildings would be torn down.

  There was a ribbon-cutting ceremony, attended by reporters and public officials who I’d only ever seen on television or in newspaper photographs. Tucked away to the side of the ceremony itself were the demolition vehicles, draped in banners like baby’s bibs, quietly biding their time. I stared at them, at the word ‘Celebration’ emblazoned on the banners. Nothing else was mentioned. I hung around at the back of the crowd for a while, then slipped away and took the lift up to Building B. The next day I stopped at a newsstand on my way to work and saw that all the papers had similar headlines: ‘Electronics Market Demolished’, ‘Into History’, that kind of thing. The one we got delivered to the repair shop was no different. Mr. Yeo spread the paper open on the speaker he used as a table when he ate his meals and read through the article with care, listlessly poking the side dishes with his chopsticks. I asked him why Building B had agreed to the demolition so quickly, and he said that the businesses there were too small-scale. All the traders had been living from hand to mouth, struggling to get by in a building already semi-gutted, with virtually no passing trade; no wonder they didn’t bother to quibble when offered a lump sum to move elsewhere.

  As for the way the headlines were making it seem as though the entire market had been demolished rather than just one of the five buildings, Mr. Yeo claimed that the intention was to ensure a smooth passage for the final demolition by killing off business in advance. They keep saying Die, die, to those who are already dying, he said, pushing his bowl of jjigae away untouched. Sure enough, in the week following the demolition of building B, we received several phone calls every day from people saying that they’d read about the market being torn down, and asking if the repair shop had closed or moved.

  Unlike the fanfare that had surrounded building B, building A was dismantled under cover of night, with tents concealing the machinery. I saw an article stating that the work would be done using cutting-edge technology, and therefore would be accomplished almost silently. It seemed strange and somewhat suspicious to me that a thirteen-storey building could be dismantled so quietly, but when I questioned Mr. Yeo, who worked at the shop until the crack of dawn, he said there’d been no more noise than usual. Each morning I would see that another storey had disappeared overnight, the tent had been lowered another level. Once Building A had been fully removed, a park was promptly set up in its place.

  In the process, Omusa vanished once more.

  It disappeared along with many shops in the area, as the district realigned itself around the park. A faint, scrawny shadow, which may or may not have belonged to the old man, was seen hovering around for several days, still bound by some attachment, but eventually it too was gone. When, feeling sad, I made an excuse to pass by the old Omusa site, I saw abandoned shops with their signs still up, and a now deserted alley with large white Xs daubed on its walls, waiting its turn.

  Mr. Yeo and I waited to hear that Omusa had re-opened somewhere else, but no such news ever came.

  In spring, the landscaping was completed.

  The tent was taken down and the park unveiled.

  The young grass shoots were green and fresh.

  The park was as pretty as a tennis court.

  —

  Mujae and I stayed late at the market, then went down to the park.

  We crept over to one of the benches that had been placed around the park’s edge, feeling as though we were doing something forbidden. The bench was long enough to accommodate four people, and in the middle it had a solid horizontal bar that would be taken for an armrest. Why do you think they divided it like this? I asked. They’re telling you not to lie down, Mujae said, smiling mysteriously. I smiled back at him. The night was shrouded in fog, but there were tall electric lights only four or five metres apart, so it wasn’t too dark. The lights each had a little cap at the top that made them look like mushrooms, though they also resembled warriors standing guard. Beads of fog clinging to the grass sparkled in the light. I breathed in deeply, and the air felt heavy in my lungs.

  Mujae had brought a bag with some food and drink. I picked out a sandwich and a carton of milk. As I ate and drank, my glance fell on the off-limits signs placed here and there on the grass. When I looked left I saw a wide street slicing through the heart of the city, horizontally from east to west, and when I looked right I saw the red outer wall of Building B, newly exposed now that Building A was gone. This wall formed the northern boundary of the park, making it seem as though the park was encroaching on Building B’s territory.
Having once got lost in Building A, I’d expected a park built in its place to be enormous, but now that I was actually sitting in it, it was smaller than I’d thought. It’s not very big, I said, apropos of nothing. Folding his empty milk carton in half, Mujae said that he was surprised, that it was smaller than he’d expected.

  All those people, all those shops, were in such a small space.

  I wonder where they all went, I said, looking beyond the grass.

  Sitting side by side, Mujae and I looked over at the shadow of a newly planted maple tree. It was a night shadow, its edges overlapping with those of the outer dark, and it occurred to me that the old woman with the grey bob must have had her cardboard box lean-to on the patch of ground it covered, or thereabouts. I mentioned her, and Mujae said he’d often seen her. Did you? I said, and then we both fell silent for a time. An insect that looked a bit like a dragonfly only smaller, though it was bigger than a mosquito, described a wobbly ellipse above my knee before landing on the back of my hand. The fog seemed to be weighing heavy on its wings, preventing it from flying properly. I held myself still, watching as it walked up to my wrist then back down to my knuckles, where it hunkered down as though waiting for something with bated breath. Mujae spoke.

  Do you know what a slum is, Eungyo?

  Something to do with being poor?

  I looked it up in a dictionary.

  What did it say?

  An area in a city where poor people live. Mujae looked at me. They say the area around here is a slum.

  Who?

  The papers, and people.

  Slum?

  It’s a little odd, isn’t it?

  It is odd.

  Slum.

  Slum.

  We sat there repeating the word for a while, and then I said, I’ve heard the word, of course, but I’d never thought of this place as a slum.

  I know, right? Mujae sat up a little straighter. My father used to sell stoves here. When I was little, my mother or one of my sisters would bring me with them to visit him, and from a distance, I’d see him sitting in a chair in front of his shop. When we came, he’d disappear off somewhere and come back a little later with steamed blood sausage for us to share. And I’d stand at his side, popping slices of sausage into my mouth and watching the people pass by. I can still see it, as if it were yesterday; him wrapping newspaper around the sausage before he handed it to me, warning that my hands would get greasy, or slipping a few coins into my palm when it was time for me to go home. Thinking back on it now, he was so clumsy, even down to the way he spoke, that it’s a wonder he could hold down a business, but I remember that even when we sat there eating sausage he’d stand up whenever someone walked by and ask what they were looking for, if there was anything he could help them with. Sometimes I couldn’t hold back the tears; even at that age, I knew enough to feel embarrassed when I saw my father touting, and I hated seeing people walk on by, pretending they couldn’t hear him. My father would see my tears and scold me for refusing to explain myself, but I was just upset. He couldn’t understand it, and the more he harassed me the harder I’d cry, working myself up into such a state that in the end he just sat there in silence, his head turned away from me. Then the tears would dry up and be replaced by exhaustion. He passed away a long time ago, so you’d think these memories would have faded by now, but they’re stubborn as ever, and for me this whole area is inextricably tangled up with those memories and the way they make me feel, and when I hear people call this place a slum, well, it just doesn’t seem right to me. Calling a person poor is one thing, that’s an objective fact in a way, but ‘slum’ … Mujae trailed off.

  I wonder if they call this kind of place a slum, because if you called it someone’s home or their livelihood that would make things awkward when it comes to tearing it down.

  I wonder.

  Slum, they say.

  Slum.

  Slum.

  Slum.

  Strange, isn’t it?

  Yeah, it is.

  Strange, and a little scary, I said. There was something odd, almost uncanny, about the stark, flat expanse of Building B’s newly exposed wall. I stared at it, as if this was the first time I’d realised what a wall was supposed to look like. Even if B disappears, Mujae said, I don’t want to move to C. A, B, C, D, E – even if you did move to C, you’d have to pack up again soon enough, down to D and then to E, and after that who knows? Mujae held out the bag. Want some more?

  I didn’t, so I hesitated, but then reached in and took an orange. Mujae put the bag down and took the orange from me. He peeled it so deftly that the skin splayed out like petals around the navel, then handed it back to me and went on with what he’d been saying.

  So I’ve been looking for somewhere suitable. If we have to move, we might as well make sure there’s at least some benefit to it. It was Mr. Gong’s idea; he said it was too complicated for him, so he asked me to look into it, and I have, but whenever the place itself seems reasonable the price really isn’t, or else it’s the other way round. It’s not easy.

  I handed Mujae two orange segments, which he took and ate.

  I’d settle for something like what we have now, but even that’s hard to find. When I think about actually having to leave this place and find somewhere else in the area, I feel like what we have now is about the best there is. We’re dealing with big lumps of metal at the workshop, so moving further out just isn’t an option.

  You’ll find somewhere.

  You think so?

  Everybody does.

  Where should we go?

  It’s quiet.

  Yeah.

  It’s pretty, too.

  It’s pretty, Mujae said, but it feels strange.

  Stars and Matryoshkas

  Would badminton work?

  Sure, let’s do it. I’ll bring the rackets.

  I didn’t mean right now, I said, but Mujae wasn’t to be deterred.

  I’ve been having trouble getting to sleep. Do you think exercise might help? It does for me, we’d been saying to each other. Now Mujae told me he was on his way, and hung up. Bewildered, I looked at the clock and saw that it was already gone nine o’clock. Did he really mean it? I wondered, but sure enough, half an hour later Mujae cycled up to my house with a water bottle and a pair of badminton rackets.

  Let’s play.

  After hearing that he’d cycled past a dozen bus stops, I thought, never mind badminton, wasn’t it enough of a workout just to come all the way here? I kept that thought to myself, and led Mujae to a small park nearby. Full of enthusiasm, he pronounced it the perfect spot.

  Have you played badminton before, Eungyo?

  I have, I said, but only during P.E. back at primary school, and he told me not to worry, that once you master badminton you never forget it, then handed me a racket and moved away.

  Isn’t that riding a bike?

  I was confused, thinking to myself that Mujae was somehow different today, saying words like ‘master’ and sounding so happy, it was very odd, and then my thoughts were interrupted by Mujae saying, Here goes, and launching the shuttlecock up into the air. I stared blankly as it soared up into the night sky then seemed to hang there, suspended, before dropping down, as though it had needed a moment to make up its mind. I judged that it was about time to hit it, and swung the racket as hard as I could, but it whistled through the empty air and the shuttlecock dropped silently to the ground.

  You should keep watching the shuttlecock, Mujae said. You need to watch it till it stops climbing, then after it begins to drop and it feels like you’ve left it just half a beat late, that’s when you swing.

  Okay, I said, and served the shuttlecock back to Mujae. The feathers whirled around as it flew through the air. Several times, I sent the shuttlecock over to Mujae only for him to serve it back so high that it whispered straight over my head, no matte
r how hard I strained to reach. When I complained, Mujae said, It’ll drop if you just wait patiently, that’s what you need to aim for, almost as if he were teasing me.

  We carried on with badminton for a while, taking it in turns to serve with an obligatory ‘here goes’, and then we moved over to the running track. We lined up next to a round sandpit which doubled as a wrestling ring. Let’s go, Mujae shouted, and we set off. His long, fluid stride soon carried him out of my sight. The track encircled the park at its outer edge, two hundred and ninety eight metres in diameter. It had recently been resurfaced, giving it just the right amount of bounce. Running around the track so late at night, lined by still-green maples and gingko trees, I wondered what I was doing, out there all by myself. I’d been running for a good while before I heard the soft swish of breath and the thud of shod feet, followed by Mujae calling out my name as he came up behind me. He whisked past before I had time to reply, disappearing around the next corner.

  Eungyo!

  Eungyo!

  After the same thing had happened three times, I decided this wasn’t working, turned around and started running the other way. This time, Mujae and I approached each other from opposite ends of the track. Mujae looked baffled when he spotted me. He pulled up and continued to run on the spot.

  Why are you coming from that way, Eungyo?

  Let’s run together.

  We are running together.

  No we’re not, we keep missing each other. This way, we’re like satellites with different orbit periods.