by Han Yujoo
Kim Injung wipes the dirty key on the front of his jacket. The Child takes a deep breath. I’ve got it, it hasn’t disappeared, she thinks. Good thing I didn’t throw it down the sewer or in the trash. She takes the key from Kim Injung and looks around. Ordinary people are walking past an ordinary scene. An ordinary afternoon, ordinary sunlight, an ordinary time, the Child and Kim Injung draw no one’s attention. She takes a deep breath. Does it hurt? he asks in a whisper. Avoiding his eyes, she doesn’t nod. What should I do now? she wonders. The pain that she had forgotten about, the pains pulse again. (It hurts.) Kim Injung strokes her cheek. She twists her head away. Gripped tightly in her hand is the Grade 5, Section 3, classroom key. I’ll blow on it for you, he tells her. Come to my house, I’ll blow on it for you. One, two, three, four, she counts. Five, six, seven. There is still time before seven o’clock. That’s about when the sun will set. The Child grips the key that has already grown warm. She smells faintly of metal. No trace must be left. She steps out of the ruined flower bed full of crushed flowers.
Three hours later, before the sun sinks below the top of the apartment buildings, two girls fall into the ruined flower bed that is full of crushed flowers. The flowers lose the sensation of pain. The Child’s key doesn’t become dyed with blood.
The Child narrowly misses witnessing that afternoon’s dreary sight. Witnessing that scene is not her lot. Because a different scene will soon be prepared for her.
14
Mia steps into Inju’s house. You’re lucky you have a yard. Mia thinks Inju is lucky. Although Mia owns a set of German-made watercolor pencils, a sweater with a deer knitted on it, two journals, and two fathers, she could not own the flowering trees in Inju’s yard or the dog that would sometimes bound out into the yard and trample on the flowers. Perhaps ten or even twenty years from now, Mia might somehow have a yard, a dog, and several flowering trees. But for that to happen, the fence must never become any taller than it is, the view beyond the yard must never disappear. Nothing must change.
Inju’s mother greets Mia. She finds Mia’s pretty face and childish demeanor pleasant. Inju’s mother has forgotten about the incident from last March. Mia is friendly, and the gossip about Mia’s mother has not spread. Not yet. Do you girls want a snack? Inju’s mother goes to the kitchen. Inju and Mia, who has picked up the dog, go to Inju’s room. Mia puts him down on the bed and uses the bathroom while Inju hurriedly puts away an object from the top of the desk. The picture of the woman who had been England’s princess gets hidden between books on the bookshelf. Inju had ripped it out from the book in Mia’s living room. Inju’s face turns red. Deep inside Inju’s desk drawer is a pearl brooch. Inju had taken it from the bedroom of Mia’s mother. Inju’s face turns a deeper red. Mia washes her hands and comes back to the room. Inju hugs Mia awkwardly. What are you doing? It tickles, Mia says, giggling. I’m just happy to see you, that’s all, Inju says. Inju opens her wardrobe and takes out a once-treasured satin dress. Do you want to try it on? Inju asks. It’s pretty, says Mia, but inside, she thinks the dress is childish and unsophisticated. Mia removes her thick cream-colored cardigan and beige T-shirt, and neatly places them on top of Inju’s desk. Mia’s smooth, slender prepubescent body is revealed. Inju, whose color has returned to normal, hands Mia the dress. The white lacy dress fits Mia loosely. Inju winds her arms around Mia’s waist to tie the red ribbon. Oh, that looks so pretty on you, she says. She guides Mia to the mirror on the door of the wardrobe. They both gaze into it. You want it? Inju asks. It’s too small for me now. I grew this much last year. She puts one hand above the other, forming a height of about a single hand span. It’s a little big on me, Mia mumbles, tugging on the collar where the lace is flattened. Big. Mia wants to be bigger.
Inju’s mother steps into the room with a plate of spicy rice cakes. Smelling the food, the dog jumps down from the bed and looks up at her, wagging his tail. Busan, stop it, she says. Didn’t Mommy tell you not to beg? Inju’s mother looks at Mia. Mia is wearing the dress that Inju had worn when she was younger, something she had pleaded for when they’d had to attend a relative’s wedding. It fits you perfectly, says Inju’s mother with a smile. I guess you have some growing to do. The dog jumps up and down, begging for food. He was born in Busan, that’s why his name is Busan, Inju had once said to Mia. Thank you, Inju and Mia say simultaneously to Inju’s mother. Busan begs, scratching Mia’s legs with his front paws. With a fork in one hand, Mia tickles his scruff with the other. Make sure you don’t give him anything spicy. Girls, I have to step out for a bit. Inju’s mother leaves the room. Don’t you have to call your mom? asks Inju. It’s okay, she’s not home anyway, Mia says, being careful not to get the sauce on Inju’s white dress. After we eat, let’s finish our homework quickly and play, says Inju. Sure, Mia says, nibbling on a piece of onion. Your mom’s a good cook. Inju looks blankly at Mia. And suddenly, Mia’s milky skin, her long hair, and slim body irritate Inju. (I hate you.) Inju’s face turns red once more. Mia, wearing the dress that no longer fits Inju, wields the fork with a prim expression. Inju recalls the sentence in her journal, written in an unfamiliar hand. (I hate you, I hate you. I hate you so much I can’t bear it.) Inju puts her fork down and shakes her head furiously. They said that hating someone, being jealous of someone, being prejudiced against someone, without reason, was bad. But the older Inju grows, the worse her thoughts become. Bad thoughts generate bad behavior. Inju has no reason to hate Mia. There is no room in Inju’s heart for bad thoughts. Not yet. Much later, when she is a grown-up, she will suddenly recall this afternoon. While wearing the white dress, Mia nibbles at a rice cake. The dog sits at Mia’s and Inju’s feet like a sculpture. Inside Inju’s desk drawer is a pearl brooch with a broken clasp, and hidden on her bookshelf is a picture of Princess Diana, as beautiful as a movie star. In a corner of her mind, the older Inju will think about the memories formed on this day, stored layer upon layer. Ten years from now, she will possess even more memories, memories that are both sinister and dangerous. Memories come to life once again. When that happens, there is nothing she can do. Everything collapses. Everything is collapsing. Inju is secretly jealous of Mia. However, Inju doesn’t yet know the word jealous, or even if she did, she doesn’t know how to use it properly. And so, Inju has no way to describe her own feelings. And even if she could express her feelings in words, Inju can’t speak them. To anyone. Because it would be embarrassing.
Inju takes Mia to the living room. Hidden inside Inju’s room are objects that the young, softhearted Inju has difficulty handling. Mia looks around the living room. Clear sunlight spills in through the window facing the yard. Many objects, a wall clock, a large family portrait, house plants. Happy home, happy life. Mia and Inju forget they’re supposed to be doing their homework. Isn’t your grandmother home? asks Mia. She’s probably sleeping, Inju answers. The phone on the coffee table in front of the sofa catches Inju’s eye. Hey, do you want to make a prank call? Inju pokes Mia in the side. Really? asks Mia. Let’s call someone in America, says Inju. In America? Mia snickers.
Inju picks up the receiver and dials 1. Several more numbers are pressed at random. Mia holds her breath. There’s a disconnected tone, followed by words in a language that Inju can’t understand. After that, the line goes dead. No one’s picking up? Mia asks. I don’t think the number is in service. Again, Inju presses random numbers. A phone starts to ring. Inju nods gravely at Mia. Mia nods back. After five or six rings, someone picks up on the other end. Inju brightens immediately. Was it America? Was it an American? At the other end of the line, a person is saying something that Inju can’t understand. Inju coughs and hands Mia the receiver. Shocked, Mia takes it. Hello, hello? It’s the first time Mia has been on an international call. It’s also the first time she’s spoken to a foreigner. I can barely hear, Mia whispers to Inju. Say something! Anything! Inju says anxiously. Come on, what if they hang up? A smile spreads over Mia’s face. Looking as though she found the situation funny, Mia says, Doo yoo speek ing-gli-shi? A
s soon as the words are out of her mouth, she bursts into laughter. She laughs hysterically. Inju snatches the receiver from Mia, but the foreigner has already hung up. Inju starts laughing as well. The two children can’t stop. Why is it so funny? Inju finally says, exhausted. I don’t know. It’s just funny, Mia gasps, just barely managing to stop. And then the two children are sent into a fit of laughter all over again.
You idiots! someone shouts. Mia and Inju stop laughing at once. The dog that had been running around Inju’s feet in circles freezes. Inju’s grandmother is glaring at the two children. Couldn’t you let me sleep? Inju’s grandmother, as scrawny as a bird, hunches her shoulders. Mia wonders who it was that picked up the phone. Inju’s grandmother comes closer. Inju takes half a step back. I’m sorry, Mia says. It was just so funny. We’ll be quiet now. Inju’s grandmother, moles protruding from her face, glares at Mia. Doo yoo speek ing-gli-shi? Why did I say that? Mia thinks. As soon she has this thought, laughter spews from her mouth again.
Mia twists her body, struggling to stop, but it’s as though an electric current were running through her entire body, tickling her. Mia covers her mouth with both hands. Inju pokes Mia in the side. (I hate you.) What’s the matter with you? Are you crazy? But Mia can’t answer. Snickers escape between her fingers. Doo yoo speek ing-gli-shi? Doo yoo speek ing-gli-shi? Mia can’t hold back any longer. She guffaws uncontrollably. The dog licks Mia’s toes. Why is it so funny? Mia wonders, even while she’s laughing so hard that she can hardly breathe. It’s so funny she can’t bear it. Inju grabs Mia’s shoulder and shakes it. What’s wrong with you? All mirth has now disappeared from Inju’s voice. It’s just so funny, Mia gasps. The lace edging on the white satin dress flaps in the air. Inju, watching Mia with a baffled expression, discovers a small, red stain on the bottom hem of the dress. (I hate you.) Louder and louder.
Someone strikes Mia in the head. Ah! Mia screams and lifts up her face. From behind the latticework of black moles, the eyes of Inju’s grandmother bore into Mia. Mia’s eyes fill with tears. Inju looks in shock from her grandmother to Mia. Mia has stopped laughing. With eyes full of tears, Mia looks at Inju. (I hate you.) Inju’s grandmother will die before long. Death is in her every wrinkle. The black dots on her face mark the hour of her death. You little idiot! Inju’s grandmother shrieks. Mia trembles. One day, Inju will recall this incident. By then Inju’s grandmother will be dead and gone. Perhaps even Inju’s dog, perhaps even Inju’s friends. And so one day Inju must recall this day. Such is Inju’s lot.
15
The Child steps into Kim Injung’s building. On the stair landing, Kim Injung rummages through his pocket and takes out a bunch of keys. Keys that don’t belong to the Child. He unlocks the door with one of them. She doesn’t ask, Are you sure no one’s home? After removing her shoes in the entryway, she follows Kim Injung into the living room. No one is there. A cross hangs in the short, narrow hallway leading to the small kitchen. Above the cross is a wall clock. It’s 4:27. Mechanically, she calculates how much time is left. There is time. No, there is no time. Kim Injung leads her to his room. Two desks are placed side by side and on the wall is a picture of a woman with her hair covered by a veil. It’s the Virgin Mary. She glances at the books on the shelf. Math, ethics, and music textbooks. And spiral-bound notebooks. Do you have a brother? she asks. Kim Injung nods. He comes home later, he says. She is a little surprised that he knows how to answer properly. Before she has another thought, Kim Injung thrusts a notebook at her. This, he says, his finger on a spot in the open book. What is it? he asks.
The Child peers at the page. But the letters are not legible. The jumbled letters of the alphabet disturb her eyes. I don’t know, she answers dryly. Kim Injung looks at her with dark eyes. Tell me. Gieok, niun, digu. My brother gets angry. Then it’s scary, he says. Riul, mium, he says.i The Child’s face crumples. Do you know how to talk? she asks him. This. Tell me. Stubbornly, Kim Injung shoves the notebook in front of her face. She’s starting to get anxious. Hey, do you remember the key from earlier? she asks. Kim Injung’s face briefly clouds over. He nods. Do you know what that key was? Kim Injung nods, wearing a blank expression. Her thoughts become snarled. Inside her pencil case is a stationery knife. It cuts up her tangled nerves. No trace must be left. She glares at him. He blinks. Key, home, I need the key, he says. If I don’t have the key, I can’t go home. If I can’t go home, I’ll be in trouble with Mom, Kim Injung says. The Child exhales softly.
Kim Injung opens a desk drawer, rummages through it, and takes something out. A half-eaten bag of chips. Kim Injung thrusts the bag at her. Without thinking, she takes it. Crumbs fall by her feet. I shouldn’t leave any footprints, she thinks absently. But it’s okay. It might be okay, because I’m wearing socks. She gets Kim Injung to sit in a chair and she sits in another one. There is still time. She’s starving. Actually she can’t tell if she’s hungry or if she has a stomachache. Pencil, she says. Kim Injung grasps a stray pencil that is lying on the desk for himself and hands one to her as well. She opens the notebook to a new page. Giyeok, she says as she writes the letter. The page fills with a checkered pattern.
Giyeok, repeats Kim Injung as he writes. His letter is bigger and more crooked than hers. Nieun, she says as she writes the letter. He draws a similar-looking letter below the Child’s. Digeut, she says as she writes. Rieul, she says as she writes. Mieum, she says as she writes. A tear falls onto the page. She flinches and jerks her head up.
She brings her hand to her eyes and finds it comes away wet. Kim Injung stops writing and raises his dark eyes toward her. Does it hurt? he asks. She shakes her head. Again, she says. Write your name. As though that were the only thing he knew how to do, he hunches confidently over his notebook. Giyeok, ieung, jieut, i, i, u, mieum, nieun, ieung. Kim Injung has the habit of writing the first consonant letter of each block, instead of completing one block at a time. The Child watches. His name appears on the page. But the letters that form his name are so mixed up that she can’t decipher them. Again. Try again, she says, wiping off her wet fingertips on her pants. You need to write one block at a time. You need to write mieum under gi. Kim Injung, clenching rather than just holding the pencil, carefully writes his name. He then shows it to her with pride. So you do know how to write your name, she says. She struggles to remember when she first learned the alphabet. But she can’t remember anything. She struggles to remember the first sentence she wrote. But she can’t remember anything. She struggles to remember the first sentence she erased. But she can’t remember anything.
Kim Injung starts to write something else. Hieut, digeut … Although he’s writing in the wrong order as usual, the Child realizes what he’s trying to do. She snatches away the notebook before he can finish writing her name. He drops his pencil. As it falls on the notebook, it leaves a mark on the page. The short, curved segment doesn’t connect Kim Injung and the Child. If you’re going to write about love, write it in pencil. Pencils are good. Words written in pencil can be easily erased. If you have an eraser. But when you write in pencil, you must not press too hard. An eraser can erase lead, but it can’t erase imprinted writing. Kim Injung looks blankly at the Child.
Stop it. The Child’s voice is threatening. Kim Injung’s eyes grow wet. Stupid retard, she mutters. She rummages through her bag that had been thrown carelessly on the floor and takes out her pencil case. Inside the pencil case is a stationery knife. The pencil case clatters open. She takes out the knife and slides out the blade. No, I shouldn’t. The Child hesitates. An incident that she cannot and will not understand has not yet begun. Not yet. A tragedy must not be explained. It is bound to become infinitely trivial the instant an explanation is offered. Kim Injung’s eyes are ruthlessly clear and quiet. The Child can’t stop thinking that he’s hiding something behind those eyes. She thinks he might have followed her, and so might know what she had done at school, what she had done on the apartment rooftop, what she had done even at home. No trace must be left. And so, she must commit another act. Sh
e brings the knife to his throat. He winces.