The Impossible Fairy Tale

by Han Yujoo

  34

  The doorbell rings. I open the door and let you in. Your expression is chilly. With frozen red cheeks, you remove your running shoes and unbutton your coat. The coat is mine. I don’t ask, Where have you been? Your running shoes are wet. The pattern on the soles of your shoes becomes stamped on the tiled floor of the shoe closet. I open the window and look down. Everything is white with snow. I don’t ask, Did you go to the power plant? I don’t ask, Did you go to the stadium? You wait for me to close the window. You spread open the folded blanket and sit down with it wrapped around yourself as you begin to read the book you’d been reading earlier. I quietly withdraw into my room. I watch you through a crack in the door the width of a fingernail. Your face is hidden behind the book. As far as I know, the top corners of most of your books and notebooks are torn. You habitually eat paper. Without being aware of it, you tore the paper into little pieces and put them in your mouth. Paper tastes like paper. You couldn’t sense the taste of paper. You don’t know how much of the paper scraps you’ve swallowed, and you don’t know how much you’ve grown up on paper. As far as I know, you finished growing a long time ago. But you still look like you’re twelve, and sometimes you look like you’re twenty. Although you were half-plant and half-animal, you now look 100 percent plant or 100 percent animal. All your fingernails are cut short, but I notice that the nail on your left pinky is somewhat long. But it’s so thin and transparent that I wouldn’t have noticed at all if I hadn’t looked closely. At one time, your fingernails and toenails grew very slowly, but even before these slow-growing nails had a chance to grow out, they were cut short, so short that the flesh underneath became exposed. You turn the page. I observe the corner of the page. The page grazes your hair. You lift your head and stare in my direction for a moment. Where have all your nail clippings gone? Have the mice or ants eaten them up? And just as you had wished as a child, have the mice or ants transformed into your image to appear before me? You resume reading. I watch you.

  Without warning, you shut the book and stand. The blanket drops heavily from your shoulders. You walk toward my room. I straighten up from the door and stand motionless. You swing the door open. The door bangs into my cheek. You stare straight up at me. I step back.

  I went there again, you say.

  Where? I ask.

  The rooftop.

  I take another step back.

  The rooftop of Building 101. Where the cat was killed. No, where I killed it.

  You glare at me.

  That place is two hundred kilometers from here. It’s not some place you can just get to and back from in a few hours. Especially on foot.

  No, it’s close. It didn’t take even fifteen minutes to walk there.

  Don’t lie.

  You’re the one who’s lying. The bloodstains were still there. I didn’t see the cat, but I’m positive it was never removed. It’s still there somewhere.

  You don’t know where that place is. So you can’t go there. That’s impossible.

  It’s impossible or not impossible, you say.

  Your face twists into a sneer. I can’t stop you. You start attacking me again.

  You killed it, you say.

  I don’t respond.

  I didn’t kill it, you say firmly.

  Didn’t you go to the stadium? Didn’t you go to the power plant? I ask.

  No, I didn’t go there. I couldn’t care less about places like that. I was interested in going to only two places. The rooftop of 101 and …

  I don’t say anything.

  You killed her, you say.

  You leave the room. The door is still open. You wrap yourself again in the blanket you had flung off and go back to reading. I approach you. You don’t take your eyes off the book.

  I didn’t kill anyone, I say. No one died.

  I sit down next to you. You draw your knees to your chest. Your movements are stiff with disgust. On the back of your hand is a small drop of dried blood. It looks like it’s from yesterday, or perhaps twelve years ago, or perhaps a million years ago. No, it might not be real. It could be fake blood you’ve contrived to taunt me. You are about to tear the corner of the book without thinking, but then you stop yourself. Every time I see you enact the habits I’ve designed, I feel both an unnameable sense of happiness and unease. Every time you speak in a tone that isn’t my own, I am both confused and relieved. You brush your hair back over your shoulders. You need a hair tie. I remove the hair tie from around my wrist and hold it out to you. You shake your head. You open your fist. In the center of your palm is a green hair tie. It’s a distinct, vivid green. You use it to tie your hair while calmly watching me. Your neck becomes exposed. Your neck is smooth and unblemished. There are no scars, scratches, or marks. I don’t know if I should be happy or sad. Even if I knew, I wouldn’t be happy or sad. Your ponytail shakes like the tail of a nag. Brick nag and brick mane. Brick buttercups and brick lilacs. Brick bed and brick blanket. I gaze at the green of the green hair tie. Green is green. The green of the hair tie can’t be designated as another color. I think about why the hair tie that is securing your hair so firmly must be green. You whistle. It’s a melody I’ve never heard before.

  There was no key, you say.

  Are you going to go back? I ask.

  You nod.

  There’s someone I must meet, you say. Even if I can’t, we’ll end up meeting somehow.

  Of course there’s no key, I say. Because it fell into the drain. Even I won’t be able to find it again.

  The key isn’t important. I’m going to find something else, you say.

  What’s that?

  You don’t answer. For a long time, you say nothing.

  Even if I can’t find it, I’ll end up finding it, you say.

  I have no idea who you must meet and what you must find. Even if I knew, it would be better to pretend I didn’t know. I gaze down at you, at your hair, at your green hair tie. There is a small mole at the corner of your left eye. I’ve never noticed it before. You tear off the corner of the page without thinking. One blank page, two black cages. I peer at the book you’re reading. The book is blank. No words. No commas. Instead of asking, What are you reading? I clutch your hand and lift the cover. The cover is blank. No title, no name. You grip the book. I let go of your hand and stand up. There is a pen in a penholder on a nearby table. I take out a pen and thrust it at you. You shake your head.

  Give me a pencil instead, you say. Or a fountain pen.

  There are no pencils or fountain pens in the holder. I give you a look that says wait and I walk toward my room. Use a pencil to write what you can’t erase and use a fountain pen to write what you don’t want to erase, you whisper from behind. I think about the under-lying meaning of your words. You talked like me, more than anybody else. I don’t know whether I should laugh or cry. Even if I knew, I wouldn’t be able to laugh or cry. I take out a pencil and fountain pen from my desk and hand them to you. You put the pencil in your left hand and the fountain pen in your right. What are you going to write? But I don’t ask you anything.

  I’m going to write what you’re unable to write, you say.

  I pick up the coat you’ve removed. A pack of cigarettes falls from a pocket. I open the pack and count how many cigarettes are left. Five are missing. You let out a low breath. There are many questions I want to ask you, but I decide not to ask any. Just like you, I used to have the habit of tearing off the corners of my books and eating them. At some point, I’d started doing this instead of folding the corners down. If I remember correctly, I was around six or seven years old. Dog-eared pages. Gripping the pencil and fountain pen in your two hands, you gaze at me. Is there a name for characters who haven’t yet entered the scene? Or the characters who won’t ever enter the scene? I’ve always wanted to begin a story with a concrete setting. A setting so exquisite that it would go beyond the concrete and overwhelm reality. I’ve wanted to describe you in as concrete a way as possible. But now that you’re here, I see that these desire
s were nothing more than wanting proof about characters. And now you’re rejecting my story. My story is becoming neither truth nor lie, fact nor fiction. I once spilled diluted hydrochloric acid on my thigh during chemistry class. It burned a hole through my black school stockings. Because the acid solution was diluted, I didn’t suffer a serious wound. If your story had not ended in 1998, you—with your bobbed hair, wearing a uniform of necktie, starched shirt, and plaid skirt—might have suffered a minor burn. And then you, with a faint burn wound on your thigh, would have come looking for me. You would have said that you weren’t the one to spill the diluted hydrochloric acid solution, and you would have then accused me of spilling it. My childhood wasn’t beautiful and neither was yours. I had poor penmanship and I persuaded you to have poor penmanship as well. And so I can’t keep making excuses to you. My memories and yours are muddled together. I can’t untangle the tangled-up memories. Memories that were once entangled can’t be untangled; they become disheveled. You’re right. You have the right to accuse me. Things like a hole puncher, cryptic note, and broken clock were supposed to be given to you. But I didn’t use them. Even if I had, you shouldn’t have come looking for me. I should have forgotten you. At last, with a pencil, you begin to write something in the empty book. I turn my head, afraid I would see your sentences. The collar of the coat is wet. It smells of snow. The coat must dry. I force myself to focus on the coat. I hear the scratch of pencil on paper. I hear your hair brush against the nape of your neck. Brick nag and brick stairs. Brick ice and brick fire. The most beautiful snow crystal in the world and the most beautiful word in the world. Brick snow and brick nag. Brick buttercups and brick lilacs.

  You said that cheek was leaf, that bruise was wind, that fingernail was butterfly, that sigh was whistling, that grip was tree branch, you say.

  You said that light breeze was blister, that thigh was cat, you say.

  I close my mouth.

  35

  The night collides. Inside the refrigerator is a full carton of orange juice that I just bought. You drink some. The juice squeezed from California oranges travels down your throat. Your gulps don’t sound realistic. I have never thought of California and you at the same time. The expiration date on the carton is February 2014. A date from the future.

  A dreamless night passes. A sleepless night haunts me. I sit up in bed and make sure that the pillowcase isn’t made of brick. It isn’t. I grope along the wall toward the door. I open the bedroom door I had locked and look at you who have fallen asleep with the light on. Half-covered by the blanket, you’re sleeping on the bare floor. The floor is warm. Near your cheek is a white book. The cover that had once contained the title and author’s name is now completely blank. I dare not open the book. I simply pull up the blanket to cover you and turn off the lamp. You don’t move. You’re asleep like a wooden doll. I once compared you to a paper doll. Once a paper doll, now a wooden doll. I’m not using the words paper, wood, and doll in a derogatory way. You’re now a three-dimensional figure. You don’t talk in your sleep. A doll doesn’t speak. Speaking dolls appear only in fairy tales. You sleep, covered by darkness. I go back to my room.

  I drift into a light sleep before waking again. Something is touching me. A cold hand grazes my cheek. It’s yours. For a long time, you stroke my cheek. Your hand is cold, so cold I can’t bear it. I pretend to be asleep. But you know that I’m awake. You clutch my throat. I don’t scream. Screaming is someone else’s lot, not yours or mine. You squeeze my throat. I gasp. The darkness bleaches out. You don’t speak. You don’t whisper. You don’t scream. You let go. I sink into darkness. You disappear and when I open my eyes, I’m lying once again in the brick room on a brick bed, covered by a brick blanket. Pieces of brick sting my flesh. I close my brick eyes and try to go back to my brick sleep.

  And dreams where no one comes to visit me pass by. Sleep recedes. When I wake in the afternoon, your area is tidy. Your blanket has been neatly folded four times. Leaning against the blanket, you’re peering at something. A notebook. The worn cover looks familiar. It’s my journal. You glance at me. You pay no attention to my anger. You calmly turn a page. I walk toward you. You don’t close the book.

  “Nothing is clear. And nothing is unclear, for that matter. Only expressions, no, only sentences exist. I know that clear sentences can’t exist, but I don’t know why I cling to them with such obsession.”

  You’re mumbling. I can’t hear what you’re saying. I’m stunned. You begin reading again.

  “There are many books and there are many more good books. Adding one more book to the pile of books—that burial mound—is utterly meaningless.”

  I snatch at the notebook. But you quickly hide it behind your back. I swipe at the air. You resume reading.

  “Your name must rigidly designate you even from heaven and hell. Kripke. Refer to rigid designation.”

  I look down at you blankly. Your face is set in a sneer. You flip through the pages at random. You begin reading again.

  “The dog swimming in the Han River. The upper Han River. Submerge the Child or submerge the dog? Disappearance. Wet feet. Or footless, like ghosts that wander the earth. Atonement.”

  You snicker. I have never once imagined you laughing out loud. I hid my journals in the safest places around the apartment. In places even I could not find, places only the dust could touch. One of these journals is in your hands right now. You stop laughing and begin speaking again.

  You think I’m like a dog, don’t you?

  I look at you. But not in the way I would look at a dog.

  In heaven or hell, I’ll always be a dog to you, you say.

  I say nothing.

  It was your plan to have me atone for the sins I didn’t even commit. I once heard the phrase “to die a dog’s death.” I probably heard it from you. Sometime, somewhere.

  You face me. Your expression isn’t like a dog’s. You begin reading again.

  “Before going to class, I spend ten minutes writing in my journal. Every day, I am delaying the sentences that I must write today until tomorrow. There are over five pages of notes. But the sentences do not yet exhibit any strength. How about The Impossible Fairy Tale for the title of the book—a novel? It’s just as good, or perhaps better, than the title I had originally considered—Under the Aspect of Eternity. The only thing is, I’ve already used it before. It would be good to reread Virginia Woolf’s diary this week. Will I end up throwing away this notebook? Will I end up tearing out a few pages and saving them separately? I want to keep a better (as in blameless?) journal. It’s not that I want to leave behind a journal. Refer to Marcel Mauss’s The Gift.”

  There’s something I want to ask, you say. Why do you never write down the date?

  I don’t answer. You begin reading again.

  “I was confused and thought it was Saturday when it was actually Friday. The day before yesterday, I went along the bank of the Han River in a wheelchair, and yesterday, I was struck by the wind while on the rooftop of a building. I put on the clothes that I wore the day before yesterday and put on the shoes I wore yesterday. I found several word pairs but forgot them. Memories blazed and forgetfulness is dazed. Tomorrow I’ll say that I’ll quit smoking and the day after tomorrow I’ll forget all about it. Tomorrow I’ll write something short and at the end of the year I’ll write something long. Today I’ll buy a book and I won’t read it. Knees and breeze. Suit of armor and suit of mourning. The dream from this early morning—someone asked about Ophelia and Hamlet in class. I said let’s continue after a short break.”

  It’s a nice dream, you say. Wouldn’t it be nice if this were a dream too?

  I don’t answer. You continue reading.

  “Read Maurice Blanchot’s Death Sentence again. Words that should be said scatter and words that shouldn’t be said petrify. What should I write? In my case, it’s clear what I must write. But I’m dog-tired. Returning from daily life to existence. Returning from existence to life. Returning from life to death. Delaying d
eath. I’ll probably live a long life. (The previous sentence is similar to the title of a certain novel.) I’ve always thought you must write while you can, whatever it is, but you must find the time to not write. Empty the mind if possible. Inhabiting a state just before the moment of exhaustion. And delaying exhaustion. Because one day we’ll all be exhausted, we’ll all be dog-tired. ‘… there is a time for learning, a time for being ignorant, a time for understanding, and a time for forgetting.’ These are not the words of Blanchot’s narrator.

  “It is unquestionably July 6. I read Virginia Woolf’s diary. I steal a few sentences. Starting tomorrow, I will begin to write in my notebook. Under the Aspect of Eternity. This title is a phrase Wittgenstein borrowed from Spinoza, which I stole again. I feel compelled to finish today’s (this hour’s) journal entry before the song on the radio is over. The song is ending. The song has ended. The song ends with the word eternity.