Hmm, Mujae frowned, his knees pumping lower each time like a mechanical toy winding down. When he was standing still, he shook his head. You’re wrong, Eungyo. If they orbit, they must be planets.
Planets?
Stars are stationary, planets orbit stars, and satellites orbit planets.
But they do both orbit something.
Oh.
Planets orbit, and satellites orbit, right?
That’s true, Mujae said. Planets, satellites, hang it, they all orbit. We set off walking, slowly, side by side. Whenever a bicycle needed to pass us either I would duck in behind Mujae or he would move behind me. We were passed by a man and woman who looked like husband and wife, neatly dressed in matching sportswear, then by a woman in a yellow hat who was walking backwards, and then by a man in lycra shorts, who threaded between us with terse concentration as though involved in a race. I spotted the couple who’d passed us earlier heading toward us again.
We’re orbiting, too, Eungyo.
We’re walking.
We’re orbiting as we walk.
Seems like just walking to me.
But even if we are just walking, when it comes down to it, the fact that the earth is round means we’re also orbiting.
That makes the scale too big, Mujae.
And could be either planets or satellites, like you said.
What could?
We could.
We walked in silence for a while. Even though it was getting late, a fair number of people were out exercising. Some were doing free-hand exercises like squats or push-ups, some were using the equipment provided or a skipping rope they’d brought with them, or running along the track in the light of the streetlamps. I’d thought we’d left our earlier conversation pretty much wrapped up, so Mujae’s next remark struck me as somewhat out of the blue.
What would you rather be, Eungyo, a planet or a satellite?
I don’t want to be something that orbits.
How about a comet, then?
Don’t comets have orbits too? Halley’s comet does.
Halley’s comet, Mujae repeated quietly, seeming to mull it over for a while. He perked up. How about a meteor? Wouldn’t it be good to be meteor?
But meteors burn up and disappear. It seems so futile.
That’s because it is so futile.
We made a few more circuits of the track, then stopped at the park’s eastern entrance where Mujae had tied up his bike. Do you think you’ll be able to fall asleep now? I asked, and he said he thought he might. We said goodbye and Mujae pedaled forwards a couple of metres before putting his left foot down and looking back over his shoulder. Actually, Eungyo, I was wrong earlier.
About what?
Stars aren’t stationary. They move. At that, Mujae set off again, wobbling away into the distance.
The next day, at the electronics market, I asked Mujae if he’d slept well.
His only answer was a vague smile.
—
Each week a fair was held in the park that had replaced Building A.
The preparations began on Friday mornings, with the arrival of vans loaded with iron beams, lighting equipment, and so on. By noon, the stage was set up on the grass. Wooden boards, skillfully crafted so as not to damage the grass, formed a floor for the audience to sit on. A little past noon, the speakers would be tested a couple of times before the music began to play. And then there was the fair’s host shouting into the microphone against the background of the audience’s growing din, so loud it made your head ring. As Building B faced directly onto the park, even closing the repair shop windows couldn’t shut out the noise, so we simply had to grit our teeth and bear it, counting down the hours until the event was finally over. Once the music started up Mr. Yeo lost his ability to concentrate, eventually giving up and heading down to the pool hall to wait it out, swearing under his breath. It was too stiflingly hot to keep the windows closed for long, but with them open it was too loud for me to do anything but sit there in a daze, gazing dumbly at Mujae’s seed leaves dancing about on top of the cabinet.
Ostensibly as part of the fair, tents were set up outside Building B’s northern wall, blocking the main access road to the market. On the other side of the tents the music continued to be pumped out, as though reassuring everyone that there was nothing to worry about. The louder it grew on the other side of the tents, the darker and quieter it grew in Building B, as if the very existence of the latter was slowly being effaced. Banners were hung on the building’s southern wall and notices put up inside next to the lifts, all for some reason looking rather slapdash, stating that Building B had been in business for forty years and would continue to be so for at least another twenty.
The negotiations over Building B seemed to be progressing at a snail’s pace. Some said that this was because, unlike Building A, Building B had no majority owner, with each of its numerous tenants having an equal stake. Word went around that they were reluctant to sell at the prices being offered by public enterprises, which had been hit hard by the downturn in the real estate business, and therefore Building B would be divided into various sections, with public enterprises occupying just a few units at the back and private enterprises entrusted with the rest. Hearing how each unit could be expected to fetch two or three hundred million won, I felt like I was listening to a fairytale in a foreign language.
What do they mean by private enterprises? I asked Mr. Yeo.
Private means money.
Money?
Money is a powerful thing. Mr. Yeo said that the government had made a show of digging up the first shovelful themselves, then quietly handed over the shovel; that that was how they’d always been, and that nothing ever changes. Then he swore a couple of times. Lately, he said, the shadows have been starting to dominate.
Some days when he came to work it was his shadow that went ahead of him.
—
Do you want some chicken?
Mujae came by the repair shop on Saturday with some fried chicken. Mr. Yeo had told me to lock up, and gone down to the pool hall. We arranged the food on top of an upturned speaker. A song was being pumped out from the direction of the park, an innocent refrain about tomatoes being good for your health. We had to raise our voices if we wanted to be heard properly, which was embarrassing, so we soon gave up and applied ourselves to the chicken. It was hot and crispy and had soaked up just the right amount of soy sauce. Each time I picked up a piece Mujae chimed in with ‘That’s a wing’, or ‘that’s a breast’, or ‘that’s a breast, too’.
Help yourself, Eungyo, he said.
I am.
Who wants the neck?
I don’t eat necks.
Shall I?
The neck was about the size of Mujae’s index finger, which he used to pinch it with his thumb. He sucked on it first, then put it in his mouth and crunched it with his teeth, spitting out tiny discs of bone one by one into his hand.
What does it taste like?
It tastes like chicken.
Not like neck?
What does neck taste like, Eungyo? Mujae asked with his mouth full.
Never mind. I’m sorry.
No, I’m curious.
It tastes like lead.
Lead?
Because the neck is the part of the body where all our exhaustion gathers, like a lead weight dragging it down. So that’s why I thought it must taste like lead.
I see.
I’m sorry, you’re eating.
It’s not a problem, Mujae said, but he was frowning as he munched on his chicken and seemed to have a lot on his mind, so I genuinely regretted what I’d said. Now that I think about it, Mujae said, chickens must have the highest stress levels of all the living things that humans consume. And there are so many of them.
Mujae carefully extracted a thin bone from his mouth and ex
amined it closely before placing it on a napkin. The song about tomatoes being healthy vegetables had come to an end, so we were able to speak in our normal voices.
Last night, Mujae said, I stumbled on a shadow.
What?
I stumbled, Mujae said. And I fell.
—
I went home late last night. I didn’t realise how late it was until I got home and looked at the clock, wondering why my feet were aching so badly, even more than they usually do. I slumped down by the front door for a while, gathering the energy to go and wash myself, then hauled myself up. I took a couple of steps towards the bathroom, stumbled and fell. I’d tripped over something, only there was nothing to trip over. But then I looked and saw the edge of my shadow, risen about half a hand’s span up off the floor. There was still a faint swatch on the floor – a shadow of a shadow – but the blackness that had peeled up from it was slightly more vivid. So that’s how a shadow looks when it rises, I thought to myself.
I touched it.
I thought it’d be thin and flimsy like paper, but it wasn’t. I can’t describe exactly what it did feel like, Eungyo, not to you now and not to myself even at the time. No matter how many times I touched it, it just felt vague. Maybe a newly-risen shadow is a very vague thing. I thought that my shadow had risen a little higher while I’d been examining it, but I was tired, so I just got on with the various things I needed to do and left it to its own devices. I moved here and there about the house, but my shadow didn’t accompany my body. Instead, it remained fixed in place, so it felt as though my centre had naturally shifted to the risen shadow, meaning I couldn’t help but be conscious of it, like an ankle shackled by a chain, or a dog tied to a leash, or a compass that can’t not know where north is. And all the while my shadow was rising slightly higher. When I took a last look before going to bed it was raised up from the floor at an acute angle. I could clearly make out a head and shoulders, and the beginnings of a left arm.
And did you sleep? I asked.
I did, Mujae said. I finally felt sleep come over me last night, so I thought it’d be a waste not to give in.
So that was that? Mujae shook his head.
Not quite, he said. I woke up in the middle of the night, I was thirsty and my chest felt tight; I’d been dreaming, though I couldn’t remember what about; pain radiated from the crown of my head, as if I’d been napping in a stifling room; I lay there for a while, having completely forgotten about the shadow; the floor was cold and it felt as if some heavy thing was tugging at my back, so I rolled onto my side, but as I did so something attached itself to me, clinging so tightly I could barely even twitch my limbs; it was incredibly strong, too strong for me to shuck it off by rolling over or pin it beneath me by lying flat; I struggled, feeling it push back more violently, and then I heard it whispering something and when I strained to listen I could make out the words, Anyway, anyway; the hairs stood up on the back of my neck and I struggled with all my might, thinking I’d be done for if I let my guard down for even a moment; I struggled not to lie down under its violent force, and took the first chance I got to roll over onto my back. Suddenly it was all over, there was no force pushing or pulling at me any more and no sign of what had caused it; I couldn’t tell if I’d had a nightmare or if I’d been wrestling with my shadow.
Anyway, I couldn’t get back to sleep after that, Mujae said.
—
That night, I had trouble falling asleep too.
The sun was almost up when I finally managed it, sleeping until past noon. It was a fine day, so I went for a cycle to try and shake my feelings of frustration and claustrophobia. I went slowly at first, pedaling leisurely down the same road I often took, then, deciding that it would be a shame to waste the weather, I set out for Mujae’s house. I whizzed past a dozen bus stops, noticing several junctions and busy streets that would be tricky to navigate on a bike. A strange nostalgia swept over me as I realised that Mujae must pass these same places every night. I could see him in my mind’s eye, cycling away that night we went to the park. I pedaled diligently. I pulled up in front of a pharmacy, leant the bike against the wall and called Mujae’s home; after a brief, desultory exchange, I mentioned that I happened to be in the area, and a couple of minutes later there was Mujae in the street, walking towards me in a loose T-shirt and shorts.
I couldn’t help but stare at the squat noon shadow that dogged his steps, lengthening and contracting in a flexible rhythm. Up close, he looked disheveled and exhausted. I stared at him, hesitating whether to ask him how he’d slept, and he stared back at me.
Have you had lunch? Mujae asked after a while.
I told him I hadn’t.
Let’s make some cold noodles, Mujae said, and I followed him off the main road into a small, quiet market.
There were so many things I wanted to say, but I didn’t know how to put them into words, so I was flustered, constantly fidgeting with the handlebars of my bike, whereas Mujae calmly picked out a radish then asked if we should get chives or spring onions.
Well, I said, still flustered, does it matter? They’re both green, aren’t they? And they’re both brassicas.
Mujae frowned, saying that they were different shapes and that the taste of each was quite distinct, mulled it over a little more, then picked up a bunch of chives.
It’s this way, he said.
He led us through the market to a narrow building sandwiched between two others. On the ground floor was a shabby restaurant specialising in wheat noodle soup. A shallow pond had been carved out by the entrance; its three goldfish were motionless at the bottom, save for the occasional twitch of a fin. We found some railings to tie up my bicycle, then climbed the narrow staircase to the fourth floor, opened a small door and walked out onto the rooftop. An enclosed space had been constructed using orange bricks, where a washing line had been strung up and a small drum machine was humming quietly. I went over to the railing and looked down onto the market we’d just passed through. People were coming and going beneath the faded flags of various countries. The midday sun seemed to bore into my eyes, making it hard to think straight. This is a good place for drying laundry, I thought, then shook my head as though it had water in it when Mujae came out with the exact same words. I took off my shoes and lined them up on the purple tiles by the door, then stepped up onto the raised wooden floor. Mujae’s home was mainly empty space, with no real furniture to speak of. There was a radio and a telephone, a chest of drawers stacked with folded blankets, a plate bearing the remains of a mosquito coil, and, by the door, a flowerpot planted with electronic chips and copper wires. I asked him why he hadn’t planted flowers instead, and he said they weren’t planted, it was just that he sometimes came home to find that such things had ended up in his pockets, so he stuck them in the flowerpot to stop himself from treading on them. This was exactly what happened whenever I left similar things lying around. I examined the flowerpot carefully, wondering if I ought to get one for myself. Mujae rummaged in the cupboard for something while I looked around the space. There was a large, west-facing window, which made the room light and airy, its yellow curtain somewhat frayed at the bottom. Plates and bowls were stacked upside down in the small sink, and a strange gleam next to this caught my eye.
—
Is that one of those self-righting dolls? I asked, but Mujae said no, it’s a matryoshka. It was the size of a rice jar, and had a girl with a red kerchief painted onto it. Mujae said that one of his sisters had been given it as a gift, but when she got married her husband said it freaked him out, so she’d given it to Mujae for safekeeping. I’d never seen a matryoshka before, and gaped in wonder as Mujae put his hand on its round head.
Shall we open it?
Can we?
Why not?
Ensconced in the shadow of the first matryoshka was a second, slightly smaller copy. Mujae twisted the second matryoshka’s head off with a click, and there ins
ide was another shadow, cradling a third matryoshka. As Mujae worked his way through the matryoshkas I took their upper halves from him one at a time and arranged them on the floor around us. The girls’ round faces shone in the sun, some wreathed in smiles and some in tears, some wearing expressions of blank incomprehension and some whose mouths formed a small o of surprise. The kinds of clothes they wore, the patterns on their headscarves, their hair and eye colour was each slightly different from that of the others. I asked Mujae how many there were altogether, and he handed me the upper half of the twelfth matryoshka while peering down at the newly-revealed thirteenth.
About twenty nine, I think.
That’s a lot.
Should we go on opening them?
We agreed that we might as well, now we’d started. Click, click, click, click, click. When twenty-eight upper halves dotted the floor, only the final matryoshka remained. It had the rich brown gloss of an acorn, but was smaller than a pea. The barest suggestion of a mouth and eyebrows had been painted onto its face, which could equally have been that of a newborn baby or of an ancient woman. Mujae held it out to me. It dropped onto my palm light as a rice puff, indescribably light, just a thin shell enclosing an empty space. I tilted my palm like a pinball table and watched the matryoshka roll along the creases, but I was a little too reckless with the angle – the matryoshka skimmed off the edge of my hand, and I stepped forward to catch it but ended up stepping on it instead.
I froze, a brief sound escaping before I clamped my lips together, and Mujae bent to gather the shattered pieces, pressing his fingertip down on the tiniest ones like picking up candy crumbs. The fragments could no longer be called a matryoshka, or even a simple nut. The damage was irreparable.
It’s broken.
Mujae, I’m sorry.
It’s all right.
I’m sorry.
He shook the bits into a bin like so many crumbs and set to work closing up the matryoshkas, each click a little louder, a little more emphatic, than when he’d opened them.
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