Mina

by Kim Sagwa

  Basically, Crystal and Minho are cut from the same cloth. They don’t understand why people behave the way they do, and they don’t try to find out. She has no clue what he thinks, but is fine with that since she’s not interested in the first place. She thinks it’s good if he smiles and bad if he frowns. But he always smiles, so there’s no problem there. They say nothing of substance and ask nothing of each other; Crystal cares about no one but Crystal, and Minho cares about no one but Minho. They expect nothing. The only thing that surprises them is the numbness and frigidity they read in each other’s eyes. Nothing else. Even though they don’t really talk, they somehow believe they know each other. From childhood on, they’ve observed that kids behave exactly how they’d expect them to act, and that knowledge feels like the tedious pleasure that comes at the end of a chess game. They are creatures of habit. Habitually silent. Like animals who, lacking language, are at peace in silence while cradling each other’s head. Watching them you might think that theirs is the most platonic of relationships, noble and innocent. Because they look so beautiful listening attentively to each other’s breathing, an arm draped over the other’s bare neck. A pair of unripe bodies and souls left defenseless in the pale shroud of dusk, they’re more radiant and beautiful than the brilliant sunlight of May. Their youth itself is lovely, their immaturity enticing. But at the same time, their brains are still contaminated by language and so their relationship is limited to a game of tempting and being tempted. They are animals who possess language and can’t live without it. They only pretend to ignore and exclude it. They’re far removed from the type of primal relationship that preceded language—a genuine, idealized relationship. For them it’s still all about the social graces and sterilizing their environment to avoid contamination, like spreading a white napkin over your lap in a restaurant. Minho doesn’t ask Crystal questions, and Crystal doesn’t ask Minho questions about not questioning her. And thus nothing happens. The hours draw out silently. Not the sort of life to inspire a soul. Can you save a soul only by leaning a body against a body and repeatedly embracing? Can the mind expand in such hours? More likely they will stubbornly stay the same, in the same pose with the same expression. They’ll spend as long as they can leaning against each other in silence, then simply wave goodbye once it’s time for cram school.

  These empty hours are of no comfort to Crystal at a moment like this. Instead of saying she’s angry she kicks the balcony railing instead, as an indirect expression of her anger. And Minho would consider it an invasion of privacy if he asked her why she kicked the railing, choosing to assume it was to test its strength. It’s a tradition in his family not to criticize people’s behavior, whatever they might do, but to accept it graciously as a mark of individuality. It’s a point of pride in Minho’s family. These values are held not just by his parents but by the entire extended family and even his parents’ friends. Accepting another person’s behavior no matter what. Accepting. Accepting. They’ve always thought of it as accepting. His parents smile, proud and satisfied at having created an atmosphere of respect for everyone, but all it has really amounted to is their children being insensitive to others.

  Crystal is still fuming. Minho finds her cute and charming when she’s like this.

  “Bye—you don’t need to walk me out.”

  “I wasn’t planning on it.”

  He grins. She thinks his leather messenger bag looks good on him. He gives an exaggerated wave, and the door closes. Her smile quickly vanishes and she gazes desperately at the door. Come back, come back, open the door and give me a nice big smile. But the door doesn’t open. Her cellphone vibrates with a new text. She takes it from her pocket and drops it on the floor as if flicking away a speck of dust. The sturdy phone withstands the impact. She picks it up and throws it to the floor. It breaks in two. She repeats the process, then finds her father’s hiking boots, puts them on, and proceeds to stomp on what’s left. Hand against the wall, trying to steady her breathing, she keeps stomping on the shattered phone. I can’t help it.

  A moment later she looks down at the fragments. Heaving a sigh, she makes a circuit of the living room, retrieving the sofa cushions from the floor and tidying the magazines on the coffee table, then she stretches before heading to the kitchen. For a while there’s only the sound of her busy footsteps. Then she reappears holding a large plastic bag. Kneeling on the floor, she gathers what’s left of the phone and puts it into the bag. Suddenly she cries out and sticks her thumb in her mouth. She scurries into her parents’ room. There’s the sound of drawers opening and shutting. She returns to the living room with a Band-Aid. Carefully she wraps it around her thumb. She ties the bag securely and tosses it in the trash. Then she sits down on the sofa and turns on the TV. The image of a folksy comedian fills the screen. From time to time she breaks out giggling and rubs her bandaged thumb. She suddenly gets up, puts the ashtray full of cigarette butts on the balcony, then sits back on the sofa and makes a call on the landline.

  “Hi Mom, it’s me. Mmm. Know what? I lost my phone… I was out by the river with a friend and thought it’d be cool to take a boat ride. No, with Mina. Yes, I finished my homework. Yes, I ate. Stuffed. Totally. It fell into the ocean—I mean the river. What? Yes, of course I’m telling you the truth. How am I supposed to find it? You know it wouldn’t work anymore, don’t you? What can I do? I’m sorry, Mom. What—we still owe on it? How can that be? Oh, no. What am I going to do? Mom, I’m totally sorry. Mm-hmm. Could I possibly use your old one? I know. Okay, tomorrow then?… I’m leaving for cram school twenty…eight minutes from now. Mmhmm. Mom, I’m so, so sorry. Mom? One more thing. I’d really love some sweet-and-sour pork. Mm-hmm. I know. Love you too.”

  Putting the phone on the floor, she lies down on the sofa. Raising her right hand high, she works her thumb as if texting. Just then the doorbell rings.

  “Who is it?”

  “Hey, it’s me. Can you come out?” Pyŏl’s low-pitched, fretful voice over the intercom sounds louder than it actually is in the tranquility of the living room.

  “What are you doing here? Go home. I’m about to go to cram…”

  “Get out here, now!” he growls, his voice still low-pitched but menacing now.

  Chewing on her thumbnail, she stares at the intercom’s screen. Against the gloom of the background Pyŏl looks dark green. He’s facing away from the screen. His stubborn jawline catches her eye. She wonders what he’s looking at.

  “Wait there.”

  Outside on the steps to the building she finds him smoking a cigarette. Two middle-aged women with grocery baskets pass by with disapproving but slightly fearful expressions, then cut through the complex.

  “If they catch you smoking in your school uniform, they’ll kick you out.”

  “Why should I be worried? I don’t live around here.”

  “They’ll report you to the police.”

  “Let them.”

  “What were you looking at when you rang the doorbell?” Crystal looks around. “The playground? That’s the only possibility. Is that where you were looking instead of at me?”

  Pyŏl gets to his feet and crushes out his cigarette, and the next thing Crystal knows he’s snatched her by the wrist and is dragging her. She struggles to free herself but her arm feels like a log. With her eyes wide and her mouth gaping she’s pulled toward the entrance of the complex.

  “You’re hurting me!” she manages to scream. He stops and lets go of her. Holding her wrist close, she plops down, squatting just above the ground.

  “You okay? Did I hurt your arm?”

  She glares at him. “Fuck you!”

  Stunned by the obscenity, he’s momentarily speechless. And then he says, “Sorry, Crystal. I’m sorry. Sorry.”

  “Where are you trying to take me? Tell me.”

  “I just want to go somewhere and talk.”

  “There’s nothing to talk about.”

  “There is for me.”

  “Well what do you know. I guess the
re is—for you.” She raises the wrist Pyŏl was holding and shakes it to get the circulation going again, while considering her options.

  “What happened to your thumb?”

  “What about it?”

  He takes her hand and examines it, rubbing the bandaged thumb.

  “Don’t do that.”

  “Sorry. Does it hurt? How did it happen?”

  “A knife.” The look she gives him is blank.

  “You cut yourself?”

  “An accident. A stupid mistake.” Again she shakes her wrist.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Thinking.”

  “About what?”

  Okay… she mumbles, I guess I can skip first period. Then she looks at him. “This is when I should be going to cram school, right? But I’ve decided to skip first period—because of you. How about that? Going to thank me or what?” Pyŏl is about to say something but she makes a hushing gesture. “Never mind. It’s okay. Let’s get a cab. I’m beat. Oh, here comes one now. Good timing.”

  He flags down the cab and hustles to open the door for her. She takes off her backpack and holds it to her chest as she climbs in.

  “H Department Store, please.”

  Neither of them speak. She’s busy massaging her wrist. He grips his wallet with both hands, looking down at it. She sags against the window and gnaws at her thumb. The taxi keeps hitting red lights. Pyŏl sighs. Crystal sighs. The driver glances at them in the rearview mirror and sighs too. From the radio comes Sim Soo-bong singing “Quizas, Quizas, Quizas.” The very moment it ends, the DJ comes on with a breaking story: “The North has just conducted another nuclear test in Hamgyŏng Province. The precise location, type, and scale of the test have yet to be confirmed, and…” The DJ’s voice trails off. Her bright, breezy tone seems out of place. Another song comes on, and this time is interrupted mid-play. A newscaster comes on and repeats the same breaking story in a stiff tone.

  The next light turns red and the cab slows to a stop. “Traffic!” The driver beats the steering wheel lightly. The newscaster goes on to report that the U.S. has decided to step up its economic sanctions against the North, South Korea has decided to suspend humanitarian food aid, and the U.N. has unanimously adopted a strongly worded resolution condemning the North’s action. During the commercials that follow, the three occupants remain silent. Crystal tells the driver to stop. Pyŏl takes some money from his wallet. Crystal gets out and walks off while Pyŏl is getting change, nodding to the driver, and closing the door. He runs after her. She’s already inside a small cake shop in an alley.

  “No smoking in here,” she reminds him when they’re both seated.

  The waitress brings Crystal a banana smoothie and cheesecake and Pyŏl gets a sumptuous cappuccino.

  Spooning the foam into his mouth, Pyŏl says, “This is my dinner.”

  “I’ve got to be in class in fifty minutes. So talk.”

  Pyŏl continues spooning foam.

  “You like the cappuccino? I bet. They use fair-trade organic beans from Jamaica, you know. But give it a rest and tell me what you want to say.”

  “It’s all my fault. I won’t do it again.” His voice is artificially buoyant, as if he knows how awkward the words sound.

  “Who told you to apologize? I sure didn’t.”

  “Chŏngu—”

  “Oh, so this was Chŏngu’s idea? Okay. Wrong move. I never would have figured him to suggest something like that. From now on I don’t think you should hang out with him.”

  “What the hell! Why are you doing this to me? It’s all just a game, isn’t it? And all that business about a new lover… that’s a big fat lie, too, right?”

  “Did Chŏngu feed you these questions too? Come on, spill it.”

  “Spill what?”

  “Let me see the script he wrote for you.”

  “No such thing!”

  “C’mon…you’ve got to have it somewhere…. Let’s just stop. This is a pain.”

  “A pain, huh? Do I sound like I’m bullshitting you?”

  “There you go again with your dirty mouth.”

  “All right. Sorry. No swearing. I won’t do it again.”

  “Why not? You can swear all you want, for all I care.”

  She cocks her head and smiles. He heaves a sigh, then glares at her. She feels a tinge of fear but forces herself to sit ramrod straight as she sips her smoothie.

  “Let’s be honest.”

  “I am.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Who is what?”

  “Who’s the guy you say you’re in love with?”

  “You don’t need to know.”

  “Why not?”

  “Why should I tell you?”

  “Did he say he loves you too?”

  “Nope. It’s just me and my big crush on him.”

  “Crazy bitch. Just fucking listen to you.”

  Unfazed, she leans in close to him. “You want to die? I told you not to swear.”

  “Okay. Sorry.” He looks at her wide-eyed.

  Crystal cuts her cheesecake into small pieces with her fork. “Think about it. You and I have known each other for less than a month. You really think that’s long enough for things to get serious?”

  “Hey…”

  “He’s different than you. He doesn’t like me, see? But you do. You messaged me: ‘I loving you more and more.’ It was ungrammatical, like a bad translation, don’t you remember? But I’m sorry to say, I don’t like you. Let me say it again: I don’t like you. I like him, but he doesn’t like me. Well, maybe I don’t like him. What does it even mean to like someone? It’s stupid. At least I’ve made up my mind to like him. But I could never make up my mind to like you. I’ve made up my mind to like him, even if he hasn’t made up his mind about me yet. But he smiles when he looks at me. He’s a good guy, he walks the line. He doesn’t let himself like anyone who doesn’t fit the same profile—and I sure don’t. But he looks at me and smiles anyway. He never frowns. Even when I do something he doesn’t like. But I know why he’s the way he is. I do. Excuse me…could I have a latte, please? No syrup, and could you make it soy? Not too much, please. I find him amazing. That’s where it stands now, and we’ve only just begun, things are going to pick up.”

  Pyŏl drops his spoon. He bends over to pick it up from the floor.

  “Hey, don’t do that. It’s dirty. Could we have another spoon, please? I’m dizzy. I’m talking too much and being way too nice, which I’m not really crazy about. So, your turn. Go ahead. Oh…I’m getting dizzy again.”

  “Frankly…” He looks hesitantly at Crystal.

  “Say it, I’m all ears… So dizzy.”

  “Frankly…I don’t understand a thing you just said. So, what are…so you think I’m…”

  “That is why I can’t love you. When you don’t understand something, you should just smile. Why do you need to ask all these questions? How can I remember everything I said—I’m already done saying it. You should have listened more carefully, you know?”

  “It’s no fun listening to you, since you’re always talking shit.”

  “Hey, lower your voice. And keep it low.”

  Pyŏl lowers his voice to a whisper. “It’s no fun listening to you always talk shit.”

  She bursts into laughter.

  “What’s so funny?’

  “I didn’t mean for you to whisper.”

  The server sets a slender mug of latte in front of her. Crystal gives her a sweet smile of thanks then quickly erases it from her face. Expressionless, with her chin cupped in her palm, she looks at Pyŏl. This entire sequence is going off without a hitch—she’s skilled enough that she should be drawing sighs from onlookers.

  Her irises are unusually dark and large. In those serene and impassive eyes it would be hard to find any trace of feeling or meaning. Pyŏl doesn’t like it when she looks at him with her eyes like this. It puts him in a bad mood. No, it’s more than just a bad mood, he tells himself. He focuses in an eff
ort to find the words to describe this delicate, elusive feeling, but nothing comes. But he’s sure that if it was a boy who was stupid enough to look at him like she is, he’d spit in the kid’s face and then hit him as hard as he could. Until this moment he’s never had to agonize over what to do in a situation like this. The other girls he’s gone out with weren’t like this. That’s why he likes Crystal. But the Crystal sitting before him now seems more risky than attractive—too much of a risk, really. But she is very pretty, he has to admit as she savors her latte. He tries to think of what to say, but it’s not easy.

  “You don’t look too good.” The next moment he wishes he hadn’t said it.

  “Really? I’m fine.”

  “Well, to me you seem a little…off.”

  “It’s because I’m lovesick.” She cocks her head again, looking up in the air dreamily. Pyŏl is just about to be sucked into the blinding, lustrous mood she’s created, but jumps free at the last instant. He’s seriously conflicted: Should he slap her? His eyes meet hers and his face burns. She’s grinning from ear to ear. He imagines himself slowly raising his fist and sending it flying into her cheek. She’s knocked to the other side of the booth. Buries her head in her arms and moans. Her cheek turning whiter around the darkening impression of his fist. Tears dangling from her eyes then raining to the table.