Flowers of Mold & Other Stories

by Ha Seong-nan

  Stacks of advertisements are heaped on the tables. Under the company’s mandate to not waste office supplies, the employees are forced to reuse the backs of old advertisements. The man writes the word toothpaste in big and small letters on the back of an ad. Another toothpaste commercial appears on the screen. A woman and man, both young and beautiful, dash toward each other from opposite directions. Closer and closer. When his whole page is crammed full of toothpaste, the word suddenly feels alien. It even feels like an onomatopoeic word, like ouch or tweet. On the other side of the paper is the face of a well-known actress. Her hair is wet, as if she has just stepped out of the shower, and she’s holding a glass brimming with cold beer. He doodles on her face with a marker, scrawling stringy hair like that of corn on her chin and under her nose, and covering one eye with a patch. He even colors her teeth black. If his memory serves him right, she was once voted the female celebrity with the most winning smile.

  “She’ll still be smiling, even if you pull out all her teeth.”

  It’s Chae, his colleague, who’s taken a seat next to him. He snickers at the picture. “Try selling beer with a model like that.”

  This time, he draws a scar on the actress’s cheek. He’s adding stitches to the scar when a hand snatches up the paper. Mr. Kim glances at the disfigured face of the actress and turns over the paper. On the back page, the word toothpaste is written countless times in both small and large letters; they squirm like insects. Mr. Kim taps the desk with the pointer, something he always does before delivering a statement. He has a knack for saying the right thing at the right time.

  “Thanks for the reminder. I almost forgot we’re working on a toothpaste commercial.”

  Laughter breaks out around the room, and he walks slowly back to the front, which slants downward like the bottom of a soup bowl. The take-up reel finishes winding the film and keeps turning, making a noise like a cicada. Someone gets up to turn on the light, but Mr. Kim holds up a hand. A white square hovers on the screen. Mr. Kim raises his voice.

  “That’s right, our assignment this time is toothpaste. Of course I would love to work on commercials for Volvo, Coca-Cola, or McDonald’s, since those brands practically sell themselves.” Abruptly, his tone changes and he mutters quickly, “How hard can this be? Toothpaste is toothpaste. What’s toothpaste? Something you use to brush your teeth. Do you need to use it to know what it does? No, it’s obvious. If toothpaste prevents cavities, why do you think dentists are still in business?”

  “Are you saying we should do false advertising?” calls a voice so thin it sounds ready to crawl into a hole.

  Instead of responding, Mr. Kim collapses his pointer and slips it into the inside pocket of his blazer. Mr. Kim never rambles, always opting for a concise response.

  “Have you walked down the toothpaste aisle recently? There are more than a dozen different brands alone. Fights gingivitis, cavities, plaque, bad breath, blah blah blah. They’re all the same. What you’re doing is helping consumers choose from a mountain of different brands out there. Through a tasteful, hopefully charming ad.”

  Mr. Kim had come up with a hit soju commercial twenty years ago. Many people still recall the animated commercial that began with the cha-cha-cha tune, featuring its drunk, red-nosed character. But in real life, Mr. Kim doesn’t touch a drop of alcohol. He gestures at someone in the front row. From where the man is sitting, he can only see the back of the person’s head. When Mr. Kim gestures again, a woman with long hair stands up.

  “This is the face—the new face that will bring life to this commercial! We’re targeting younger folks this time. Those between nineteen and twenty-five. For that reason, we couldn’t go with established models, since they’re probably appearing in other commercials. Even the toothpaste company wanted someone new. Now that you’ve gotten a look at the face of our product, I’m sure the juices are flowing. Miss Choi, why don’t you introduce yourself?”

  She steps forward hesitantly and stands beside Mr. Kim. The top of his half-balding head comes up to her ears. There are a few snickers around the room.

  “Nice to meet you. I’m Choi Myeong-ae.”

  Because of the dim lighting, he can see only the outline of her face. Someone sitting by the window gets up and tugs the curtain cord. As the curtain is drawn to one side, her pointed chin and tightly closed lips materialize. She has her gaze fixed on a certain spot on the floor, eyes narrowed from the sunlight. Whistles and cheers erupt from all over the room. She turns a little red. He’s seen her before. He’s sure of it.

  The staff files out through the door until only he, Mr. Kim, and Choi Myeong-ae are left. Mr. Kim opens the door to the archives room at the front and whispers to Miss Choi, gesturing here and there, while she nods occasionally. The man takes his time straightening the paper on the table and glances again at her. He’s certain he’s seen her somewhere, but he just can’t remember where. Miss Choi follows Mr. Kim to the padded door, making eye contact with the man as she walks past.

  “Have we met before?” he says, hurrying up to her. “We have, right? How did we meet again? We’ve talked before, haven’t we?”

  She takes a step back, as he keeps pressing her. “I think you’ve got me confused with someone else. We’ve never met before.”

  Mr. Kim peers into the screening room and gestures to her to come out.

  Miss Choi smiles at Mr. Kim and says, “I guess I have a common face.”

  As if it were the most natural thing to do, Mr. Kim puts his arm around her shoulders and looks between her and the man. “Tão Bom, quit fooling around and come up with a catchphrase by the end of the week. Something decent we can actually use!”

  No one on the ad design team is called by their real names, but by their nicknames, based on a word from a tagline they developed, the product name of a past hit commercial, or of one where they hadn’t hit the mark. The man went by “Tão Bom.” He’d noticed the tiny tremor in Choi Myeong-ae’s cheek when Mr. Kim had called him that. But just as suddenly as her expression had changed, she’s now back to looking prim and composed.

  “Come on, let’s go grab a bite,” Mr. Kim says.

  At his words, she moves closer to Mr. Kim and links her arm through his. They walk down the hall, the sound of her heels echoing after them. She is wearing a short black dress that hits above her knees. Buttons run down her back, all the way to her tailbone.

  “I swear there’s something funny between those two,” says Chae, who had been smoking in the hallway. He scratches his disheveled hair and gazes after Mr. Kim and Choi Myeong-ae. “All those buttons. It must be hard work doing them up on her own and then undoing them all again.”

  He half-listens to what Chae says and gropes along his foggy memory. He’s certain they’ve met before, but he just can’t remember where. He shouts after her as she draws farther away.

  “I know we’ve met before! It’ll come to me sooner or later!”

  He can’t tell if she heard him or not. They disappear around the corner.

  •

  “Someone broke the light bulb again,” the security guard says, recognizing him. “It’s the third one now.”

  The old guard is standing on a plastic stool, changing the bulb in the villa entrance.

  “By the way, did you end up finding the right person? You know, for the letter?”

  The guard is struggling to screw the bulb into the socket. He gestures to the guard to come down and climbs onto the stool himself.

  “Nope. It’s still sitting there on top of my desk. But another letter arrived two days ago. I was sorting the mail and put it aside. Let’s see. That letter should be right—”

  He rummages through all the pockets in his uniform.

  Even after the man comes down from the stool, the old guard is still searching his pockets. The man flicks the switch and the light comes on. The guard finally hands him an envelope and spits in the direction of the flowerbed.

  “Since you’ve already read the first one, I guess it�
�s okay if you read this.”

  The second letter is written on a different kind of paper that crackles like a rice cracker. When he spreads it open, characters with small bottom consonants seem to be teetering and tottering.

  “Today, I bought a dress with lots of buttons. After I’d done them all up and was about to button the last one, I discovered there was no hole to put it through. I looked in the mirror and saw the back of my dress was wrinkled around the neck. I’d put the third button in the fourth hole. So I had to undo them all and start over. As I was doing them up, I had a thought: When did the button of my life go in the wrong hole? I thought long and hard, but I have to say it was after that time. I don’t doubt it was difficult for you, too, Mr. Park. I want to go back to the very beginning, but I’ve come too far. I sound like a sappy song, don’t I? But there’s nothing moving about this. I’m sure you don’t even remember anymore. You probably chalked it up to inexperience and moved on. No one will recognize me now. I’ve changed too much. Actually, I hope no one recognizes me. There was a time I wished someone would. But that’s all in the past.”

  Whoever wrote this letter blames a person by the name of Park Seongcheol.

  “What does it say this time?”

  The old guard looks over the man’s shoulder. The smell of mint stings his nostrils.

  “Here. Why don’t you see for yourself?”

  The guard fishes out a pair of reading glasses from his front pocket. With them hanging off the end of his nose, he holds the letter at a distance and mumbles out loud. The man sits on the ledge of the flowerbed and puts a cigarette in his mouth. He finds himself thinking about Choi Myeong-ae. It’s probably because of the dress she’d been wearing.

  “Well, from my experience,” the guard says, crouching beside him. “You know the old saying, how a stone you throw without a thought will end up killing a frog?”

  The man offers the guard a cigarette, but shaking his hand, he takes out another mint candy from his pocket and unwraps it.

  “I quit three years ago. The doctor said my lungs were black, like they were covered with coal dust. You want one?”

  The guard gets to his feet awkwardly and searches his pocket for another mint.

  “No thanks. To be honest, I’ve had enough of mint.”

  Though the deadline is a week away, the man’s thoughts have not progressed beyond “the kiss.” As soon as he thinks about toothpaste, Choi Myeong-ae with her black dress crosses his mind.

  He had seen her again in the lunchroom that day. She’d been with Mr. Kim, eating by the far window. The lunchroom was self-service, so the rice and side dishes were set out in large pans on the buffet table. He wasn’t craving anything, so he simply moved down the line, and ended up scooping only a bit of rice and soup for himself. With the tray in his hands, he glanced toward the windows. There were no empty seats that looked out onto the plaza garden. He had a habit of seeking window seats, since he couldn’t bear enclosed spaces. That’s when he saw Choi Myeong-ae and Mr. Kim sitting near the spot where the dirty trays were returned. The clatter of stainless steel trays and utensils rang throughout the lunchroom. The only empty seat by the window was beside her, so the man took the seat next to her. She had been smiling brightly, but her face stiffened instantly.

  “Look at this! Tofu soybean-paste soup with braised tofu and stirfried tofu?” he prattled on. “Are we doing a tofu commercial next?”

  Choi Myeong-ae, who had been nibbling on the braised tofu, backed her chair away a little, and then said to Mr. Kim, “It seems a little salty. What do you think?”

  The man picked at his rice. Because of all the toothpaste he’d been using, he could hardly taste the seasoning. He stared at her profile, chewing on the ends of his chopsticks. She spooned up some soup, but feeling his gaze on her, she dripped a little on her skirt.

  “Miss Choi, we’ve met before, haven’t we?”

  She nodded.

  “When?” he said, facing her. “Where? It’s driving me crazy.”

  She stared directly into his eyes. “About ten days ago. In the screening room when you were late and ended up tripping and falling.”

  Mr. Kim laughed, his mouth full of food.

  “—so that’s why I’m always sucking on candy now, just like a little kid,” the old security guard said, as he finished his story.

  So lost in his thoughts about Choi Myeong-ae, the man had missed everything the guard had said.

  The guard gets to his feet and brushes dirt off his rear end. “Don’t take everything I’ve said too seriously. Just consider it as the rambling of an old man.”

  Rolling the mint in his mouth, he steps into his aluminum booth. The man will never learn why the guard is always sucking on candy. The faint strains of a pop song drift over from the amusement park.

  •

  The man is looking through a scrapbook containing all the advertisements he’d worked on over the years, both domestic and international. He’s used up four tubes of toothpaste so far. He’s tasted it, he’s even squeezed some onto his fingers and felt its texture, but still nothing. All he can think of is something that has to do with kissing. The breath that invites a kiss. Toothpaste isn’t the only reason he keeps dwelling on kissing; at this thought his face heats up.

  He has no appetite. Even soybean-paste stew smells minty to him. There were at least a dozen brands of toothpaste on the market. The key was to make theirs stand out.

  Acacia, bamboo salt, salt, anti-plaque, close-up … Thinking, he flips through each page of the scrapbook. Right then an old newspaper insert flutters to the floor. The second he bends to pick it up, he recalls the two letters that had been addressed to a man named Park Seongcheol. He had run into the security guard a few times after, but there hadn’t been a third letter. He peers down at the newspaper ad that’s on the floor until the blood rushes to his head. The insert had yellowed with age. A white insect as tiny as a dot is crawling across the top of the page.

  It’s time to rest.

  There’s a familiar picture printed on the page. It’s a painting called The Angelus by Jean-François Millet. He often saw its reproduction in barbershops or coffee shops out in the country. In a field where the sun is setting, a young farmer and his wife, who have finished their day’s work, listen to the ringing of the church bell and bow their heads in prayer. Because of cheap printing, the colors didn’t turn out, and the peace that’s conveyed in the original couldn’t be felt here.

  After all, we were both spring chickens back then. He recalls the phrase from the first letter. This advertisement had been his first project. Between the headline “It’s time to rest” and the size and price of the apartment listed at the bottom, lines from many different poems had been borrowed to compose an elegant description. When he had first come to Seoul as a senior high-school student, he had moved thirteen times, from one rental unit to the next, until he started working. Each time he packed and unpacked his things, he longed for a place where he could put down roots, a room where he could rest.

  All he knew about the apartment complex was the name of the construction company. When his ad had been chosen, he had even received a bonus. Then two years later, he’d learned through the news that the entire complex had been shoddily constructed. The residents stood in disorganized lines, staging a protest in front of the construction company building. The one leading the protest by shouting slogans kept stammering in front of the news camera. The camera captured the image of an old woman who had collapsed from exhaustion. The old woman with dark, thick skin like a turtle’s shell wailed it had been her life’s dream to own an apartment in Seoul, that everything had gone up in smoke, and burst into tears.

  Saeho Construction, shame on you for your houses of cards! We will fight until we get our money back! The camera swept over the crude signs. It was then that he saw it: Give us a place to rest! Two years had passed, but people still remembered the line from the brochure.

  Five years went by. No one blamed him, the one who
had created the advertisement. The incident fizzled out.

  Mr. Kim, who had been a junior manager back then, said to him, “It’s not your fault. Those people would have first researched the apartment’s price per square foot and the investment value. They would have inspected every inch of the showroom, and for those who care about their kids’ education, they would have checked out the schools nearby. Only after all that would they have even considered your ad.”

  Gradually the man forgot all about it.

  When he’s brushing his teeth for the fifth time, the phone rings. He picks up, his mouth full of toothpaste. All he hears is a fast dance track in the background. The caller hangs up without a word. In order to spit, he runs toward the sink and ends up stepping on a tube of toothpaste that had fallen on the floor. The foam he spits out is pink. He looks in the mirror and discovers his gums are raw and bleeding.

  •

  By the time he gets to Seoul, he’s already ten minutes late. Everything had been the same today. The Hawaiian maiden on the billboard had been smiling her smile, and the roads had been heavily congested. The man races down the steps of Seoul Station and across the underpass, and emerges from underground on the other side. His dress shirt is clinging to his back from perspiration. Someone is running behind him. Light steps catch up to him.

  “You’re late again.”

  It’s Choi Myeong-ae. With a small bow, she hurries ahead, leaping into the revolving door.

  The lobby of the building where he works was selected as the shoot location. Crew members are busy moving potted plants to one side, dragging a payphone to the middle of the lobby, and setting up the revolving door. It’s the first time a toothpaste commercial won’t show anyone brushing their teeth. In fact, there is no bathroom, no female model with her hair wrapped in a towel.

  “How can you have a toothpaste commercial without showing any toothpaste?” asks Chae with a cigarette in his mouth, as he flips through the script.