by Han Yujoo
“It’s still July 6. It is a little past 11 p.m. I haven’t felt well all day. I felt as sick as a dog. I took maybe three naps, every two hours. The dream I had during my last nap was so vivid that I confused it with reality. I was lying in bed. My cellular phone and A Writer’s Diary were lying next to the bed. Blanket. The feel of the crisp sheet. An alarm on my phone went off. I couldn’t tell whether or not I was dreaming. I tried to turn the alarm off, but I couldn’t reach the phone. My hand kept grasping the air in front of the phone. After that in my dream, I opened the refrigerator and discovered a carton of Minute Maid orange juice that was overflowing. The stickiness of the juice. I thought about filing a complaint against the Coca-Cola Company. And then I woke up. It felt like I had lost a part of my brain. This reminded me of a scene from The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat. A woman who could only eat half a pie. The pie that could not become a zero.”
This is fun. This has dates, you say. This is very funny.
You begin reading again.
“When it’s time to write in my journal again after not having written in it for a long time, I face this kind of problem: There are too many words that I should say, perhaps too many that should be written, and so I just jot down a few nearly useless fragments and then give up. I want to write slowly, I want to write as slowly as possible. A few more lines about The Impossible Fairy Tale: The Child killed Mia. From the very beginning, Mia’s death was planned—it’s there in my notes. I followed that plot and murdered Mia step by step, meticulously, logically. So perhaps the Child was not the one who killed Mia. (And the Child—she will come and find me—will read this journal.) A kind of guilt dogged me when I was writing the scene where Mia is killed. It felt strange that I had no choice but to assign the logic of cause and effect to a murder. As I write this, I have no choice but to recall the (fictional) fact that the Child had added a few sentences to the other journals. The Child may have to write some fatal sentences even in this journal, imitating my handwriting.”
You stop reading and gaze up at me. I don’t look away. Your face is expressionless.
You already knew everything, you say. You knew everything.
I don’t answer.
You even knew I was going to come and find you. You knew more than I did. How is that possible? you ask.
I was reading this before you even woke up. You sure wrote down a lot of things. You had a list of all the things I wanted and even my name was there. Even the sentence about how the way to force pain aside was to create greater pain. Some of the handwriting was hard to make out. You have bad handwriting, too. No trace must be left—you wrote this sentence over and over. But why? You don’t need to worry about that. No, you’ve actually left too many traces. I saw that you’ve written three books. Are you so smart, so brilliant, that you had to write as many as three books? Those are plenty of traces. You can say they’re traces that will still remain after they’ve overpowered you. Scary, fearful, sickening, terrifying, hideous, frightful, chilly. You wrote down these adjectives. These were probably meant for me. And below were these adjectives: premature, immature, unripe, young, delicate, childish. These were probably meant not for me but someone else. I’m sure of it. You couldn’t find more words? You should have been able to find at least a hundred words, easily.
You close your eyes and move your lips.
She doesn’t exist. She never did, even from the beginning. Just like her name, she became a lost child. Because she never existed from the beginning, you have to start over and write the whole thing again. From the beginning. The whole thing. Again. I don’t care how you knew that I was going to come and find you. You just got confused. You just got confused and thought you were expecting me as soon as you saw me. Just as you say, memories are dazed and forgetfulness blazed. No, did you say that memories blazed and forgetfulness is dazed? Who cares? It’s all the same.
You spread open the journal that was once mine but now belongs to no one. And you continue reading. I don’t say anything. I simply don’t say anything. Even if I had something to say, I wouldn’t be able to say it.
“In order to write something good, you need a dissenter. You also need a dictator, pain, and some cruel people. You need a collapsing world and a dying world. A dog-eat-dog world. I would rather be dominated than dominate. If there are no survivors, no one is left to bear witness.”
You take your time reading the last sentence. If there are no survivors, no one is left to bear witness. Each syllable rings out clearly. There’s something you don’t know. I already knew that you were going to read my journal, that at the very end you were going to read the sentence “If there are no survivors, no one is left to bear witness.” But I don’t say anything. I must not say anything. Even if I had something to say, I shouldn’t say it. I simply stay silent. You look at me.
36
I hear you open the front door. I hear the scrape of metal against metal. You close the door behind you and head down the stairs. The woman who had been sweeping the stairs glances at your unfamiliar face, as though making a point of seeing you for the first time. You bow your head and go past her. When you reach the first floor and open the lobby door, everything is white with snow. Your eyes resemble the eyes of a fish. But since rain has turned to snow, you will surely slip. Your eyes reflect nothing, reveal nothing. Your eyes capture neither background nor foreground. Neither lucky nor unlucky, you are luckless.
You begin to walk. If anything is different now, it’s that you’re no longer pressed for time. You have plenty of time. To be honest, there is an absurd amount of time. For you, I could forever delay the end of this story. The story’s crystallization. So that you wouldn’t get buried in the story, so that you would go on in the story, forever. The alley stretches ahead. You don’t know where to go. But the path you take is always the right one, because you’ll arrive at your desired destination no matter what. People don’t pass by. Cats don’t pass by. It doesn’t snow. Every person and object has disappeared; only the backdrop remains. You walk. A fence appears, and then a stone wall. Houses about the same height, and various shops. A bicycle shop, the flower bed in front of a private academy, a wallpaper and linoleum store, and a hardware store. You look around. You’ve been here before. Yesterday, perhaps several years ago, perhaps in another life you can’t remember. Characters enter the scene. A woman holding a plastic bag walks by. The ends of a bunch of leeks poke out of the bag. A woman with a kerchief wrapped around her head walks by. Squeezed tightly under her arm is a bulging wallet. She straightens the kerchief that keeps falling forward. The smell of hair permanent wafts from her. Children around the age of six or seven pass by. In a loud voice, they greet someone off in the distance. Male students dressed in middle school uniforms pass by on bicycles. They’re talking about video games or something on television. For a moment, you observe this ordinary landscape. You have witnessed such a scene before. Yesterday, perhaps several years ago, perhaps in another life you don’t remember. It begins to rain. But soon it stops. The sun comes out. When you look at your surroundings once again, the snow has melted. There is not even a trace of snow. You suddenly feel warm. You’re wearing my coat, which is much too big on you. A woman gives you a strange look as she passes by. You unbutton the coat. The warm spring wind blows. Behind you in the flower bed, royal azaleas burst into bloom all at once. Red and white flowers are in full bloom. You take off your coat and drape it over your arm. You don’t look back. No one is watching you. You know where you must go. But you hesitate for a moment.
You falter.
You stand still.
You don’t move.
You move.
With the coat tucked under your arm, you enter the apartment complex. Was it Building 101, or 105, or 103, or 109? You can’t recall which flower bed you hurled the key into. Probably not 101. You look up at the rooftop of 101, located near the complex entrance. Was it still there? You once read that a cat has nine lives. In a book of fairy tales. But you’ve never owned a b
ook of fairy tales. You don’t call the cat. You may be right: You may not have lured the kitten, you may not have killed the kitten that never existed in the first place. It is now 2013. Fifteen years have passed since then. It is more than enough time for the cat that died or didn’t die to have rotted away. As soon as you pass Building 101, you step onto the brick sidewalk that connects the apartment buildings. The royal azaleas are rapidly losing their petals. Red and white petals fall to the ground. On each branch of the taller trees hang light-green leaves. The light green turns a darker green. The trees begin to cast shadows. You slip out of the shadows and approach the flower bed.
New green sprouts are emerging from the flower bed. When you pace before it, the lilac bushes burst into bloom all at once. A small, exquisite purple shadow undulates on your face. You put down the coat and rummage through the pockets. You find a coin. You don’t look around. Those who might have peered suspiciously at you have already disappeared and are nowhere to be found. You step into the flower bed. You manage to find the spot where you hurled the key one Thursday in 1998. There still isn’t a single blemish on the large balcony window. There is no stain, mark, scratch, or scar. You pace the flower bed in front of the balcony, below the clear glass that tautly reflects the spring sunlight. Dandelions and pansies are in bloom. The flowers are getting trampled under your running shoes, but when you lift your feet, they spring back to life. As though they had never died, as though they would never die. The key’s not there. The drain swallowed it up. But you already knew it wouldn’t be there. The drowsy spring air burrows into you. You’re dizzy. You feel vertigo. Someone is standing behind you. Startled, you look back.
It’s Kim Injung. He, too, steps into the flower bed. He mimics your movements. He tramples the flowers. He kicks aside the grass thicket and the base of the lilac bushes. You look at him. When his eyes meet yours, he smiles stupidly. You back away. You stupid retard, I told you to quit following me, you mutter. But you’re surprised. Kim Injung didn’t follow you. He was there from the beginning. Key, key, key, he mutters. He draws closer. You step back and a branch scratches your cheek. It hurts. You rub your cheek. But there is no blood. Does it hurt? Does it hurt? he asks you, wearing an innocent expression.
You tug Kim Injung’s hand. How long have you been following me? But you don’t ask that. Kim Injung hasn’t grown at all. He’s wearing the same jacket and running shoes from fifteen years ago. The small mole that had been on the left side of his neck is exactly the same. Does it hurt? Kim Injung whispers. Ordinary people are walking past an ordinary scene. An ordinary afternoon, the ordinary sunlight, an ordinary time. The smell of lilacs grows stronger. The spring day is passing. Does it hurt? Kim Injung murmurs. Avoiding his eyes, you don’t nod. I’ll blow on it for you, he tells you. You clench the coin inside your pocket. Come to my house, I’ll blow on it for you. You stretch out your hand and stroke his cheek. Kim Injung’s cheek is cold and warm. It’s cold enough to terrify and warm enough to make tears spring up. The moment when no one falls into the flower bed passes. The azaleas and forsythia fade, the royal azaleas fade, the lilacs fade, the pansies fade, the dandelions fade, and the moss rose fades. After that, all the flowers on earth come into bloom at once. Your face becomes mottled red, green, yellow, and white. They’re the shadows of flowers. Kim Injung extends his hand and strokes your cheek. You recall that you didn’t finish teaching Kim Injung the alphabet. Giyeok, do you remember? you ask him. He nods. Gieok, niun, digu, riul. Kim Injung lists the consonants incorrectly with pride. Now I know all the way to the end, I can even write my name. You nod. Mium, bium, sium, ium, jium, chium, kium, tium, pium, hium, he says. That’s not right, you say. Kim Injung looks suspicious. It’s not mium. It’s mieum. It’s not jium, it’s jieut. It’s not chium, it’s chieut. Kim Injung’s eyes grow moist. You stretch out your hand and wipe the tears from his eyes. His tears are cold and warm. You take the coin out of your pocket. When you open your hand, it’s not a coin. It’s a key. The key you had lost is in your palm. It’s a key, a key, Kim Injung whispers. You grip it for a moment and then hurl it toward the balcony window as you close your eyes.
You don’t hear anything. Not the sound of glass shattering, not the sound of metal grazing the glass, not the onomatopoeic sound ca-clang, not the sound of the key falling in the grass thicket. You open your eyes. The large balcony window is reflecting transparent sunlight as though nothing had happened. Nothing is happening. Nothing happened. Someone strokes your cheek. It’s Kim Injung. You turn to face him. But there is no Kim Injung. No one is there.
You stand in front of the flower bed for a long time. The four seasons pass. But no one passes by. It rains. It snows. The wind blows and clouds pass by. A heavy rain falls and a light breeze blows. It grows misty and the sun shines. You feel neither warmth nor cold. All the world’s seasons penetrate you. Frost forms on your cheeks but soon melts and trickles down. And when the last drop of water has evaporated, pedestrians pass by once again. A man with his suit jacket slung over his shoulder walks by. A little girl with a bob goes by on a bicycle. A cat hides in the grass thicket. The woman who had come outside with a dog tugs on the taut leash. A car starts noisily. A woman with wet permed hair walks by. Someone drops a grocery bag. The eggs break. A man passes by, his bag stuffed with flyers. A security guard straightens the sign in a flower bed. A fruit truck drives by. A few peaches fall off the back of the truck. Children with identical piano academy bags walk by. In one corner of the parking lot, two children draw on the asphalt with chalk. A man in shorts with a baseball cap jammed on his head passes by, smoking a cigarette. A woman who crosses his path plugs her nose with an exaggerated gesture. One of her high heels gets stuck in a crack in the pavement. She struggles to remove her heel. Someone sneezes. Pollen flies. A man passes by with a trash bag. In front of the recycling bin are pieces from a broken lightbulb. Cursing, a security guard rakes up the glass shards with his feet. Ordinary people passing through an ordinary scene. You become part of the scene and pick up the coat you had removed earlier. From where you stand, you can’t see Building 101 or Building 109. Unfamiliar faces pass by. To them, you are merely a pedestrian. Where should I go? you wonder. Anywhere is good. You think about Kim Injung. I should have taught him the vowels. I should have taught him how to put in the final letters. But Kim Injung will reappear someday. He’ll once again write something in his notebook, he’ll get the spelling wrong, he’ll struggle to write his own name, and below that he’ll write your name. Then you’ll take an eraser and erase the wrong letters and tell him to try again, you’ll tell him to try again and again, until he can finally get the spelling right. You’ll see the consonant kieuk and no longer think of a knife, and even when you see the small mole on the left of Kim Injung’s neck, you’ll no longer think of a knife. And like a child who has never once experienced animosity or murderous desire, you’ll look at him with affection, and until the moment his brother or mother returns, you’ll show him the same letters, again and again. In Kim Injung’s notebook are unfinished letters, and with those letters perhaps we could guess at your name. Could we know your name? What will you be called?
I don’t say your name. I don’t call you. I don’t ask you for your name, and you don’t ask me for yours. Therefore, it’s impossible to call you by name. And perhaps that impossibility is the only possible thing in this story. You don’t look back at me. I watch you from behind. You begin walking again. The midday sun is beating down. Your shadow grows short. And so I won’t have to step on your shadow. I follow you.
37
Both everywhere and nowhere, the place that I used as the setting is an ordinary residential area in a city outside Seoul, about two hundred kilometers from here. But the physical distance has now been pulverized. You wander this place that is both everywhere and nowhere. No one pays you any attention. The pedestrians are faithful to the roles they’ve been assigned. They pass through the scene. Once they slip from the scene, no one pays them any attention. Even if we want
ed to, we can’t. They simply can’t be seen anymore. You bump into some of the pedestrians and even make eye contact, but they soon forget you and you also forget them. You must pass two apartment buildings. You may run into Park Jihye or Cho Yeonjeong, perhaps Park Yeongwu or Jung Yongjun. But they won’t remember you. You look like you’re twelve, and you also look like you’re twenty. According to simple arithmetic, you’re probably twenty-seven years old now, but no one would be able to guess that. Twelve years old and twenty years old, somewhere in between those two ages, time was torn and crumpled, repeatedly, until it finally disappeared. You rummage through your pockets. Instead of a coin, you feel a hair tie. You take it out and loop it around your thumb and index finger, stretching it. It’s still elastic. You tie up your hair with it. The spring sun is warm. Sweat begins to form on your exposed neck. You walk along the pavement that connects the two apartment buildings. Two children are digging up a corner of a flower bed. Beside them on the dirt is a small cardboard box. Really? one child asks the other. You don’t think anyone will notice if we bury it here? They don’t see you. You shouldn’t use a cardboard box, you say. It will rot so quickly that there won’t be any trace left. What are you burying? Whatever it is, you need to put it in a tin box. But the children don’t even look in your direction. They are engrossed in digging up the soil with their trowels. We’ll dig it up next year, one of the children says. Promise you won’t dig it up before then, the other one says. You walk away from them. When you look back, the children are gone. All you see is a patch that looks as though it has been dug up and hastily covered. You go back and gather branches and leaves and cover the patch that is raised like a burial mound. And you begin walking again. Your arm that holds the coat hangs down. My coat isn’t just big on you, it’s also heavy. You fold the coat neatly and place it on top of one of the rocks that encircle a flower bed. You don’t worry about losing it. Although a coat placed in the middle of the road in springtime is conspicuous, no one but you will be able to see it. You round the corner of the massive building. Only then does the low-rise shopping arcade come into view. A piano academy and private math institute occupy the second floor, and on the first floor are a supermarket, import grocery store, stationery store, produce market, snack shop, fried chicken shop, real estate agent office, and video rental store. People go in and out of shops purposefully. You watch them for a long time and then walk toward the neighborhood map.