The Good Son

by You-Jeong Jeong

  When I came to, I was lying down. My vision was still fuzzy but I knew right away that the brown eyes that met mine were Hae-jin’s. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I croaked, and a headache gripped me. It wasn’t the usual sharp stabbing from behind my eyes but a heavy pain pressing on my head.

  ‘Can you see me?’

  I saw the beach umbrella above his head. Something soft was under mine. My trousers were damp. I must have pissed myself during the seizure. A black jacket was draped over me.

  ‘Are you hurt?’

  Everything hurt, even my jaw; maybe I’d been grinding my teeth. It must have been a bad one. I could hear people on the other side of the umbrella. I could see myself collapsing in front of them, Hae-jin running over, grabbing the umbrella to give me privacy, a cushion to prop my head up, and clothes to conceal my lack of bladder control. I wanted to go home.

  ‘Can you get up?’

  I sat up. We went to Hae-jin’s place, which was near the docks. I showered and changed, while Hae-jin packed his things and called a cab. I had arrived just as they were finishing the shoot, and the only thing left was the wrap party.

  I knew what films meant to Hae-jin – this was what he’d dreamed of since he was twelve, maybe even younger. It had kept his spirits up while his alcoholic grandfather was raising him, and had given him something to live for when he’d lost his grandfather and become an orphan. These three months at Imja Island were the first step toward his dreams; he must have wanted to stay and celebrate.

  I knew all of this, but I didn’t stop him. I didn’t want to go home by myself; I didn’t even think I could go back outside. A strange chill settled under my ribs. I sat curled up in the corner of his room, wrapped in his jacket, until the cab came. The jacket smelled like something I hadn’t smelled in a long time – the grass on the waste ground near Sinchon station, from back when I used to wet my bed.

  An hour later, we were sitting on the deck of the old ferry, heading back to Jeomam Quay. We didn’t talk much. When Hae-jin asked, ‘Are you hungry?’ I shook my head, and when he asked, ‘Are you feeling better now?’ I nodded. The evening sun hung between the rocky islands that flanked our passage home. Red waves blazed and bobbed under the orange sky. The spray of water behind us and the strong sea breeze were red, too. The ferry sliced through the flames like a speedboat.

  ‘That sunset’s killer, isn’t it?’ Hae-jin said.

  I got up to look out over the ocean. I unzipped the jacket and breathed the hot wind deep into my lungs. The chill in my chest seemed to melt away.

  Hae-jin came and stood beside me. ‘Remember when I said I wanted to show you something? This is it.’

  I turned and faced him. His eyes were smiling kindly. Hae-jin’s smile was like a gift to me. While Mother poured endless fear into my bloodstream, Hae-jin warmed me like the sun, always on my side.

  I wanted to believe Hae-jin would be on my side today, too. In fact, I believed he would be. I stood, picked up the home phone from my bedside table and dialled his number. It began to ring. Something that had fallen between my bed and the bedside table caught my eye. I bent down to pull it out – a straight razor with its blade open. Dark blood was crusted on the long wooden handle and the sleek blade.

  ‘Hello? Mother?’

  Hae-jin’s voice receded. I stared at the blade, stunned.

  ‘Yu-jin?’

  With my fingernail, I scraped off the blood at the end of the handle. Familiar initials appeared.

  H. M. S.

  Han Min-seok. Father’s razor. I had found it years ago in a box in the study and brought it up to my room. I had hardly any memories of him. I didn’t remember his mannerisms or his voice, and even his face was fuzzy in my mind. I remembered only that his cheeks and chin were covered in dark stubble, and that every morning he shaved with this very razor in front of the bathroom mirror. A frequently constipated child, I would be on the toilet, straining, my chin in my hands, watching his stubble disappear with the suds. I liked the sound of the razor scraping and sliding along his flesh. Once, I asked him what shaving felt like. I wasn’t positive but I thought he said something to the effect of: It feels like you’re pulling up the hair embedded deep in the skin, and it makes you feel clean and fresh. He said you needed to learn how to use a straight razor properly – your chin wouldn’t emerge unscathed until you figured it out – but that the feeling it gave didn’t compare with any other razor, annoying as it was to keep the blade sharp.

  I remembered what I said after that. I asked if I could have it after he was dead. I recalled his foamy reaction: a soap bubble flaring from one of his nostrils, his eyes turning round and big like full moons. He was laughing. Emboldened, I asked him to promise me. Father said: Sure, I don’t know when I’ll die, but when I do, I’ll definitely leave it to you. We did pinky swears and even pressed our thumbs together to seal the promise. Mother couldn’t have known about that, and when Father died, I didn’t feel like explaining it. I just took the razor without telling anyone.

  ‘Hello? Hello?’ Hae-jin was getting louder on the other end of the phone.

  ‘It’s me,’ I managed to croak.

  ‘What…’ Hae-jin grew quiet, then annoyed. ‘Why didn’t you say anything? You nearly gave me a heart attack.’

  ‘I’m listening. Go on.’

  He snorted. ‘Go on? You’re the one who called me.’

  Right. I’d called him. I was going to say I needed help, that I thought I was in serious trouble. I pointed the razor up so the blade stood vertically under my chin. I’d never once used it to shave. After all, I wasn’t as hairy as Father, and I could make do with an electric shaver. In fact I only started growing light facial hair when I was twenty-one. It wasn’t that I was saving the razor for a special occasion, either; I just kept it hidden in a panel in my bathroom ceiling, out of Mother’s sight. I’d never taken it with me anywhere until last night, when I went out of the roof door with it in the pocket of my sweatpants.

  ‘Yu-jin?’ Hae-jin prompted.

  I found myself at a loss for words. Before I’d found this razor, there had been so many possible explanations. But now…

  ‘Where are you?’ I managed to ask.

  ‘I just got to the train station. I’m not feeling that great, so I made myself some ramen before I left.’

  He’d probably had two. He always had two ramen when he was hung-over, a habit he’d inherited from his grandfather, who was drunk seven days a week. So Hae-jin was still in Sangam-dong.

  ‘Why, is something up?’ he asked.

  ‘No.’ I changed my mind. ‘Yes.’ It couldn’t hurt to buy some time. ‘I have a favour to ask.’

  Hae-jin was silent, waiting.

  ‘Do you remember the raw fish restaurant in Yeongjong Island? The one we went to for Mother’s birthday?’

  ‘Oh yeah. Léon or something, right?’

  ‘No, Léon was where we had coffee after. It’s Kkosil’s, about fifty metres further in. At the end of the beach.’

  ‘Oh yeah.’

  ‘So last night, after the drinks party, we went there for another round.’ They say that a normal person lies on average eighteen times an hour. I probably come in a little higher than average, what with my difficulty with honesty. My extra output makes me very good at it, able to spin any kind of story in a believable way. ‘I left my mobile there, but I can’t go and pick it up right now. I have to send some documents to the dean this morning, and today’s the day they announce the law school entrance exam results. I have to be home to check online.’

  ‘Today’s the day already?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Hae-jin gave me the answer I wanted. ‘No problem. I’ll swing by on my way home.’

  ‘They won’t be open until after ten, though.’

  ‘I’ll just wait at Léon and get some coffee.’

  ‘I’m happy to pay for a cab,’ I said, in the hope of finding out how Hae-jin would return.

  ‘Are you insane? A cab
from Yeongjong Island?’

  Good. He would rather get the bus. Just as I thanked him and was about to hang up, Hae-jin asked, ‘So, is Mother up yet?’

  I pressed the end button, pretending not to have heard. I thought about Mother lying in the living room. The blood could be explained in different ways, but the discovery of the razor was proof of a singular truth. It had been in my jacket last night, and now it was under my bed. How would Hae-jin take this? How would he take Mother’s death? Would he be shocked or sad or enraged? Would he believe me? Would he still be on my side?

  Eleven years ago, I was fourteen and Hae-jin was fifteen. We were about to graduate from middle school. Following Mother’s wishes, I had selected a humanities high school where I could continue swimming alongside my studies. Hae-jin, whose grades were good enough to get him into an exclusive high school, instead selected an arts and culture vocational school. He’d decided on that path on his own, refusing to listen to his teacher, who tried to persuade him to aim higher. He was swayed by the fact that he would receive a full scholarship from the vocational school in addition to a living stipend, and that going there would help him achieve his dream of working in film. He didn’t have much choice: at the time, he was basically on his own. His parents had died in a car accident when he was three, and his grandfather, who had taken him in and brought him up, had been in the hospital for several months with cirrhosis and renal failure; nobody knew if he would ever get better. Hae-jin was the busiest student in the world: he went to school every day, worked in the evenings at a petrol station for 2,900 won an hour, and slept in the hospital by his grandfather’s side.

  Hae-jin and his grandfather weren’t well off even before the illness. They had been making ends meet with the government aid his grandfather received, and the little he earned collecting paper for recycling. Until recently, Hae-jin hadn’t needed to get a job: though his grandfather was an infamous drunk, he wasn’t so unconscionable as to rely on his young grandson to support them. In fact, he insisted, ‘You focus on school, I’ll take care of everything else.’ But then he’d collapsed.

  I was busy at that time, too. Having been selected as a member of the national swimming team, I was in a special winter training camp to prepare for the junior world championships in New Zealand, and because of my schedule, Hae-jin and I couldn’t hang out much. Mother updated me on how he and his grandfather were doing each day when she came to the pool. It seemed that she was going to the hospital regularly with food.

  On the last day of 2005, the coach cut the training session short and gave everyone the afternoon off. He told us to go home and get pampered by our mothers, and come back refreshed the next day at 9 a.m. I don’t know how she’d heard, but Mother was already waiting for me outside. She looked happy and excited. Her straight hair was grazing the shoulders of a white overcoat I’d never seen before, and she was even wearing make-up.

  I fastened my seat belt. ‘Are you going somewhere?’

  ‘Dongsung-dong,’ she said, which didn’t explain anything.

  We arrived in front of the hospital where Hae-jin’s grandfather was being treated. I was confused. Hae-jin ran out. I unbuckled my seat belt. I had read the situation to mean that Mother was going somewhere in Dongsung-dong, so I was to hang out with Hae-jin.

  ‘No, don’t get out,’ Mother said.

  Hae-jin grinned at me and got in the back seat.

  ‘Happy New Year,’ Mother said to him, a day early.

  ‘You too, Mother.’ Hae-jin pulled something out from behind his back and handed it to her. A heart-shaped red lollipop as big as her face, with a message written in white: The apple of my eye.

  A smile spread across Mother’s face as she took it, her cheeks flushing and her eyes downcast. As far as I knew, that was the first time Hae-jin had called her Mother. Maybe she was moved by that, or maybe she liked that she was the apple of his eye. In any case, I’d never seen that expression on her face.

  ‘Did your grandfather give you permission to come?’ Mother asked, carefully laying the lollipop on the dashboard.

  Hae-jin grinned. ‘He thinks I’ve gone to work.’

  Mother smiled back, meeting his eyes in the rear-view mirror. There was still no explanation of where we were going, and why. I didn’t ask; since she’d said Dongsung-dong earlier, I figured that was it. Hae-jin asked me about training camp and practice, but I was consistent with my monosyllabic answers: good, no, yeah. Then Mother took over the conversation, asking about his grandfather’s illness and discussing books or movies that only the two of them knew about. The car weaved through hellish traffic before arriving at Daehangno. Mother circled a car park a few times before finally landing a spot.

  ‘Let’s go,’ she said.

  We got out and walked the streets, which were adorned with twinkling fairy lights. There were so many people on the footpath that it was difficult to walk side by side. Mother was jostled and almost fell. I reached out to help, but Hae-jin was already by her side, holding her up. When she was knocked back again a few steps later, he wrapped an arm around her shoulders and walked alongside her. I had no choice but to fall behind.

  A little later, we arrived at a quiet Italian restaurant. I still didn’t know why we were in Dongsung-dong, but I didn’t ask. Mother raised her glass of juice and said it was bittersweet: she was one year older now, and Hae-jin and I were also growing older. I assumed we were just celebrating the new year. I don’t remember what the food was like. It must have been mediocre. Or maybe it was my mood that was mediocre.

  Hae-jin and I had met two years before, and ever since then, Mother had seemed to think of him as more than just her son’s friend. She was always looking at him in moments that should have revolved around me – whether it was at my birthday party or a school event – watching him with soft, gentle eyes, the same eyes I’d seen every day of my childhood, aimed at my brother.

  When it was just Hae-jin and me together, we were the best of friends. It was like that when it was just Mother and me, too. Like they both lived to be with me. But now that we were all together, I felt like the third wheel. I didn’t like how this atmosphere had formed so naturally. I felt like a dick for resenting their bond, which only made me feel worse.

  We left the restaurant about an hour later. The two of them led the way through the crowd, which seemed to have doubled since we’d gone inside. We stopped at a shop. Mother bought us each a checked scarf and slung them around our necks. Mine was green and Hae-jin’s was yellow. She said they were New Year gifts. She said we looked great in them, but her gaze was fixed on Hae-jin.

  Next, they stopped in front of the art-film cinema Hypertech Nada, which had a sign over the entrance: Nada’s Final Proposal. Mother went to the ticket booth.

  ‘What are we doing here?’ I asked Hae-jin.

  ‘What?’ Hae-jin laughed. ‘You came all the way here without knowing why?’

  The air had turned warmer. My scarf felt tight. I took it off and sat down. How was I supposed to know what we were doing if nobody said anything? Did they think I was a mind-reader?

  Nada’s Final Proposal was a film festival that played all of the year’s best films that hadn’t done well at the box office. That day it was showing a Brazilian movie called City of God. It turned out that Hae-jin had suggested coming here; he’d wanted to see the film when it opened, but had given up when he realised it was adult-rated. When he’d heard that it was being screened again at Nada, he said, he’d thought of Mother, who could accompany him as a guardian.

  He was right about that: we settled in our seats without anyone stopping us. The movie was hilarious and effervescent; I soon forgot my gloominess. Set against the backdrop of Rio de Janeiro’s favelas, which teemed with poverty, drugs and crime, the story followed a group of young gang members. It was also a coming-of-age story about two boys who went down different paths, one becoming a photographer and the other ruling the streets.

  I started laughing from the opening scene, when a chicken
escaped its certain death. I giggled throughout the film. When Li’l Zé ran into the motel and gunned everyone down, I even chortled out loud. That was when I noticed I was the only person in the cinema who was laughing. I realised that Mother was staring at me. Her eyes, glistening like water, were asking, What’s so funny?

  After the movie, she was quiet as we walked back to the car. Hae-jin also looked straight ahead without talking. I followed behind. I didn’t know what their problem was.

  ‘That was disturbing,’ Mother said once she started the car. ‘I can’t believe that’s based on a true story. Life can be so sad.’

  So that was why she had been looking at me oddly in the cinema. It had been fun and exciting for me, but it must have been an unsettling and depressing movie. Which part was supposed to be unsettling or depressing? I wondered.

  ‘Happy stories aren’t usually based in reality,’ Hae-jin replied after a moment.

  I turned to look at him.

  ‘Having hope doesn’t make things less awful,’ he continued. ‘Things aren’t so clear-cut. People are complicated.’ He met my gaze. His eyes were asking, Right?

  I didn’t understand what he was talking about. He was a few months older than me, but he seemed ten years older and a foot or two taller at that. It was almost as though he was Mother’s peer.

  ‘Do you think the world is unfair?’ Mother asked.

  Hae-jin paused again. ‘I have to believe that it will become more equal at some point. I mean, if we work towards it.’ He looked out of the window.

  Mother watched him through the rear-view mirror. I turned back to the front.

  ‘How did you like the movie?’ she finally asked him, when we were waiting at a red light near Gwanghwamun.

  ‘I read a review saying that if Tarantino had done the Godfather, it would have been something like that. I think I know what they meant,’ Hae-jin said.