The Plotters

by Un-su Kim

  ‘You strike me as far more distinguished,’ Reseng said.

  ‘Me? Not at all. I’m just scraping by one day at a time with my scissors here. But you, on the other hand, seem like a successful man. I’ve been cutting hair for thirty years now, and I can always tell what a person is like just from the back of their head. I have a sixth sense about these things.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ Reseng cocked his head dubiously.

  ‘Absolutely. Trust me. You’ll be an important person one day.’

  The Barber smiled. His was an ordinary face. The face of a friendly neighbourhood uncle you’d see anywhere. He wasn’t especially tall, hovering somewhere around 170 centimetres, and he was extremely lean, almost devoid of muscle except for the bare minimum he needed to cut hair. How could someone who was just skin and bones have killed elite assassins like Trainer and Chu? Reseng was starting to wonder if he’d come to the wrong barbershop.

  The Barber placed a finger below each of Reseng’s ears and examined his face in the mirror. Then he picked up his scissors again and snipped off a tiny bit of hair on the right-hand side.

  ‘You have a long forehead, so you probably don’t want it too short in the front…’

  ‘Do whatever you think is best, as long as it’s nice and neat.’

  ‘Nice and neat,’ the Barber echoed his words. ‘I take it you have an important occasion? Blind date, perhaps?’

  Reseng laughed and said, ‘More like a solemn occasion.’

  The Barber nodded. He combed down the front of Reseng’s hair, scooped the ends up between his fingers and took small snips. Then he combed it again and checked that the hair was straight. He looked satisfied.

  ‘How’s that? Look alright?’ he asked.

  Reseng inspected himself in the mirror. ‘You’re talented.’

  ‘That’s kind of you to say so.’

  The Barber looked pleased. He used a sponge to wipe away the strands of hair from Reseng’s head and the front of the cape, and from his own arms. Then he lathered up the back of Reseng’s neck and shaved off the stray hairs.

  ‘All done!’

  The Barber carefully removed the cape and guided Reseng over to the sink. He placed a showerhead in a plastic basin and filled it with hot water. When it was half-full, he mixed in several scoops of cold water from a barrel and checked the temperature. He added some more cold water and felt it again, repeating the process several times. When the temperature seemed just right, he handed Reseng a plastic dipper instead of the showerhead.

  ‘Sometimes the water turns scalding and startles customers. I know it’s a little awkward, but you’ll be better off using this.’

  Reseng nodded and used the dipper to pour water over his head. Thanks to the Barber’s careful work, the temperature was perfect. The tiny snippets of hair spilling into the white sink looked like ellipses on the blank page of a book. While Reseng shampooed his hair, the Barber put two clean towels on the counter and hummed as he swept the floor.

  Reseng filled the dipper again, this time with cold water to splash his face, and dried his hair with one of the towels. A chest of drawers next to the mirror was piled high with unopened envelopes. Reseng slipped one of the envelopes out of the pile while pretending to towel his hair. It was an urgent reminder of overdue hospital bills.

  ‘You don’t see many barbershops like these nowadays. I’m guessing business is good here?’ Reseng asked as he dried his ears with the towel.

  ‘Hardly. Nowadays young people prefer to get their hair cut in salons by pretty stylists. Why would they come to an old-timer like me? But since we’re on the outskirts of the city and there’s an army base nearby, the officers drop by now and then, and the old guys in the neighbourhood come here to play chess and get a shave. So I manage to make ends meet.’

  He discarded the hair he’d swept up into a blue plastic garbage bin. Reseng sat back down, while the Barber brought out a hairdryer and began to dry his hair for him.

  ‘Would you like a shave today?’

  Reseng stroked his chin. Three freshly sharpened cut-throat razors sat side-by-side on the counter, as spick and span as the Barber himself.

  ‘I just shaved this morning,’ Reseng said.

  The Barber nodded and handed him a comb. Reseng combed his hair and studied himself in the mirror. The Barber wasn’t lying about his thirty years of experience; it was a flawless haircut.

  ‘Are you from here originally?’ Reseng asked.

  ‘Yes, born and raised. Did my army training here, too.’

  ‘The HID base is here, right? Where they used to train secret agents to send into North Korea?’ Reseng continued to arrange the front of his hair.

  The Barber’s hands skipped a beat in the middle of folding the cape.

  ‘That was a long time ago. Not that I would know anything about it. I was just an ordinary infantryman.’

  ‘It must be hard living way out here.’

  Reseng poured some aftershave into his hands and patted it onto his face. It smelled the same as whatever the Barber had used on his own skin.

  ‘It’s a little boring at times, but it’s not bad. Once a month my wife and I visit a retirement home in the mountains of Gangwon Province and give haircuts to the old people there. It’s a chance for us to enjoy the fresh country air.’

  ‘Do you have any other side jobs?’

  ‘You mean like driving a taxi?’

  ‘No, more like assassinations and contract killings.’

  The Barber’s face hardened.

  ‘You have an odd sense of humour. How could a weak, old barber do those terrible things you only see in movies?’

  ‘You look pretty trim and agile to me.’ Reseng looked the Barber up and down. ‘Not an ounce of flab on you.’

  ‘I wouldn’t call it trim. More like scrawny.’ The Barber lowered his gaze to the floor.

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘That is so.’

  ‘How much for the haircut?’

  ‘Seven thousand won.’

  ‘That’s cheap.’

  ‘Country prices.’

  Reseng walked over to the coat rack and reached into the inside pocket of his leather jacket. He felt the weight of Chu’s knife. The Barber tossed Reseng’s used towel into the laundry bin and started washing his hands in the sink.

  With his back to Reseng, he said, ‘Let’s leave that knife where it is. Take it out and you’re dead.’

  Reseng put the jacket on. The Barber dried his hands on a fresh towel. Reseng walked over to the front door and locked it. Slowly, he pulled Chu’s Henckels from its leather sheath. Chu’s handkerchief was still tied around the top of the handle. The Barber put the towel on a chair and shook his head at Reseng.

  ‘Pretty sure I already fought that knife’s owner. What’s your name?’

  ‘Reseng.’

  ‘Then you’re from the library.’ The Barber’s voice was hollow.

  He placed his left hand on the headrest of the chair. There was no trace of fear in his face, despite the knife in front of him.

  ‘Am I on the library’s list?’ he asked.

  ‘There’s no list. This is personal.’

  ‘Personal…’

  The Barber gazed off into space, his eyes fixed on some distant point. He might have been recalling past events; occasionally his eyes glazed over. A faint shadow appeared over his melancholy upturned face and then vanished. Reseng gauged the distance between them. About four metres. One step, and then another quick step, and then a leap, and he could sink his knife into the Barber’s throat. An antique grandfather clock on the wall ticked loudly. The silence continued. Reseng had been holding the knife up in front of his solar plexus and it was getting heavy. He lowered it. The Barber tore his eyes away from whatever spot he’d been contemplating and looked at Reseng.

  ‘Is this because of the boy I killed a few days ago?’

  ‘It might be. And it might not be.’

  Reseng looked down at the Henckels. A single loose thr
ead was sticking out of the knot in the handkerchief. Reseng plucked it and let the thread drop to the floor. The Barber stared hard at the knot.

  ‘To be honest, I don’t really know why I’m doing this,’ Reseng said with a smile.

  ‘Then you can still walk away.’

  Reseng smirked. ‘I don’t know about that. I’m already here—how can I walk away now?’

  ‘It takes more courage to put a knife back in its sheath and walk away than it does to take a knife out.’

  ‘I guess I’m a coward then. Sorry.’

  The Barber lifted his hand from the chair and started to say something, then stopped himself. He let out a deep sigh. His shoulders drooping, he looked old and frail, like one of those elderly men who sit on park benches in the sun. Bits of black hair were stuck to the front of his white smock.

  ‘I feel bad about the knife’s owner. And bad about the boy. But I had no choice. You and I are both assassins, so you know what I mean.’

  ‘Yes, I do know what you mean.’

  ‘Since I’m not on your list, and you’re not on my list, we have no reason to fight. We’re not the type to settle things this way. We’re just assassins for hire.’

  ‘Yes, we are just assassins for hire.’

  ‘Are you going to put the knife down and walk away?’

  The Barber was staring him straight in the eye.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Boredom. All kinds of boredom. Boredom that slowly eats us up, like rust, on both sides of the knife. Since we’re both assassins, I think you know what I mean?’ Reseng mimicked the Barber’s voice.

  The Barber’s face fell. He looked at the three freshly sharpened razors sitting side by side on a towel. They were not what he’d used on Trainer and Chu, and the others.

  ‘Mind waiting a second?’ the Barber asked.

  Reseng nodded. The Barber took off the white smock and hung it up, then went into another room further inside the shop. Reseng moved the Henckels from his right hand to his left and wiped the sweat from his palm onto his jeans. The checkerboard pattern on the floor that would soon be slick with someone’s blood made him dizzy. The ticking of the grandfather clock paused for a moment, and a chime rang out, signalling that it was three p.m. The Barber came back in. He opened a black bag and peered inside before pulling out a knife. It was a Mad Dog SEAL A.T.A.K., the kind Trainer had used. It had a serrated back, and was the same brand that Reseng had used when Trainer first taught him how to use a knife. Mercenaries from the special forces loved those knives. Simple design, excellent cutting power and a superior grip that made it easy to grab even in the dark. Sharp and strong. But also very expensive and difficult to find nowadays.

  ‘Nice knife,’ Reseng said.

  ‘Better than yours.’

  The Barber was watching Reseng in the mirror. He looked forlorn. He glanced back and forth between Reseng’s reflection and his own and let out a short sigh, then closed the bag. He walked to the centre of the barbershop and stood in front of Reseng.

  ‘Good timing,’ he said, gesturing at the grandfather clock with his chin. ‘My wife’s not home. She still thinks I’m an ordinary barber.’

  ‘Good for her. For never figuring it out.’

  ‘Is that a good thing?’

  ‘Not knowing is better than pretending not to know. Especially when it comes to people like us.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right,’ he said, lowering his head as he echoed Reseng. ‘It’s much better not to know people like us.’

  The Barber raised his head and locked eyes with Reseng. It seemed there was nothing left for them to say. Reseng switched to a reverse grip and dropped into a fighting stance. The Barber didn’t move. He just stood there, relaxed, his arms behind his back and the knife hidden. Reseng gauged the distance between them again. Two metres? If he took a step forward and swung the knife, he might be able to graze the Barber’s throat or chest with the tip of the blade. But the Barber just stood there. There wasn’t an ounce of tension in his shoulders or neck or arms. He was waiting for Reseng, inviting him in, all stance and no strength.

  Reseng realised he was making the wrong move; he straightened up and turned the knife around so the blade was pointing in front of him. Then he very slowly leaned his body forward half a step. The tip of the knife nearly reached the Barber’s throat. But the Barber, apparently unconcerned, did not move at all.

  The ticking of the grandfather clock was unusually loud. The Barber blinked. Reseng used that moment to lunge for his throat. The Barber pivoted his shoulders a fraction of an inch to dodge the blade, while the knife he’d hidden behind his back darted out and sliced Reseng’s forearm. Then he feinted to the left, slicing Reseng in the side as he went. Before Reseng could turn all the way around to face the Barber, who was now behind him, the Barber stabbed him in the thigh, released the knife with a twist, and stabbed him again in the left armpit. Reseng swung his knife wide, but the Barber skipped backwards a few steps. The distance between them opened to about two and a half metres. The Barber flicked the blood from his knife. Then he put his arms behind his back again and looked at Reseng. He wasn’t the slightest bit winded.

  Blood dripped onto the checkered linoleum. It trailed down Reseng’s forearm and over the back of his hand, soaking Chu’s handkerchief. The blood was warm. Reseng slowly looked down at himself. The blood pouring from his side and under his arm had already soaked his white shirt and was dripping from his belt. He reached inside his leather jacket to feel the wound. It wasn’t as deep as he’d feared. If he hadn’t been wearing the jacket, the blade might have gone much deeper.

  The Barber was keeping his knife hidden behind his back. Now that he’d exposed Reseng’s weaknesses, he looked carefree, even arrogant, inviting Reseng in again. But that would be the wrong move. If Reseng went at him, he’d get cut again. It was hard to tell where the Barber’s weight was centred, and, without seeing his knife, Reseng couldn’t tell where the next slash would come from. The knife wouldn’t move until Reseng did. He couldn’t read anything from the Barber—not from his face, his eyes, or his feet. He wasn’t even completely sure where the Barber’s feet were planted. It struck him then that he was not going to win. He was going to die there.

  Reseng switched the knife to his left hand. The Barber cocked his head at this. Reseng took a step forward, the blade aimed at the Barber’s throat. The Barber didn’t move. Reseng took another half-step forward. The Barber still did not move. His eyes invited him in again. Reseng slid his left foot forward and simultaneously lunged at the Barber’s throat with his left hand. The Barber took the knife out from behind his back and sliced Reseng’s left forearm just as Reseng’s right hand jabbed the Barber hard in the throat. The Barber staggered backwards. Reseng switched the knife to his right hand and lunged at the Barber’s face. The Barber threw his head back to dodge it. But his face wasn’t Reseng’s actual target. The Henckels sunk deep into the Barber’s inner left thigh. Reseng pulled it out and turned the blade so it was facing skyward and aimed for the Barber’s abdomen. The Barber caught his footing and blocked the knife with the back of his hand, simultaneously sticking his own knife into Reseng’s side as Reseng lunged towards him. The blade plunged deep into Reseng’s body then withdrew. Reseng fell to his knees.

  The Barber took several steps back to catch his breath. Blood was gushing out of Reseng’s side. He felt dizzy. He stuck the tip of his knife into the floor and struggled to keep from collapsing. The Barber stood there looking down at the top of Reseng’s head.

  ‘Using your left hand as bait,’ the Barber said as he flicked away the blood dripping down the back of his hand. ‘You learn fast. Much faster than the knife’s owner.’

  Drops of blood fell from the tip of his Mad Dog. Blood was gushing from his thigh and soaking the leg of his pants. But Reseng realized that was as far as it would go. His knife would not reach the Barber’s heart. Reseng leaned on his knife and staggered up to a standing position. The B
arber shook his head. Reseng tried to grip Chu’s knife again, but he had no strength in his right hand.

  ‘The nice thing about this job is that I don’t have to disinfect my knives,’ the Barber said.

  ‘Hilarious,’ Reseng said with a weak laugh.

  ‘I guess I can’t ask you to stop now.’

  ‘I’m nearly there.’

  Reseng swung the knife at him uselessly. The Barber grabbed Reseng’s right wrist with his left hand and twisted it, then sunk the Mad Dog deep into Reseng’s right side. Reseng slumped to his knees again. The Barber knelt in front of him and pulled the knife out. Then he placed his hand on Reseng’s chest. He seemed to be catching his breath, because he paused there for a moment with his head down and his eyes fixed on the floor.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘This old barber is so ashamed of himself.’

  Reseng lost his balance and leaned his head on the Barber’s shoulder. With Reseng’s head resting against him, the Barber pressed the tip of his finger between Reseng’s ribs, looking for the right spot to insert his knife. Then he aimed for Reseng’s heart.

  A soft, pale hand came out of nowhere and wrapped around the blade. The sharp edge sank into the delicate skin. Blood dripped. The Barber did not move or turn his head.

  ‘Honey, you can stop now. Our daughter wouldn’t want this either.’

  Reseng lifted his forehead from the Barber’s shoulder and looked up. A woman, fifty-something, with a gentle-looking face, was standing behind the Barber, crying silently.

  ‘It’s time for us to say goodbye to our daughter and let her go,’ she said. ‘We’ve lived long enough too.’

  The Barber’s hand shook violently on the knife’s grip. Reseng was dizzy; he had lost too much blood. He rested his forehead on the Barber’s shoulder again. Blood continued to drip from the Barber’s wife’s lovely, pale hand, which was still squeezing the blade. The sound of the Barber’s wife’s stifled tears was as cold as the winter wind seeping in through a crack in the door. His head resting on the Barber’s shoulder, Reseng passed out.