by Ha Seong-nan
Choi Myeong-ae and a male model are getting their hair and makeup done in one corner of the lobby. With her hair twisted up, she’s wearing a tailored jacket and pencil skirt that hugs her hips and thighs. The male model has on a tie. This commercial doesn’t feature a green apple or kiss. In the end, Mr. Kim’s own idea had been chosen from the many scripts. In a busy lobby where many people are coming and going, a man enters the revolving door. He sees a beautiful woman heading toward him. She gives him a radiant smile and exits through the revolving door. He goes back in the door and chases after her. Then the words: It takes a star to know a star. For only the very brightest—Supernova.
It is late afternoon when they wrap. The crew surround the two actors.
“Wow, these new models are even better than the pros out there! Miss Choi, you sure you haven’t done this before?” the director says in a loud voice.
“Hold on!” cries Choi Myeong-ae, breaking away from the crowd. “Mr. Park Seongcheol!” she calls to the man.
He glances around, but there is no one standing next to him. She smiles, walking toward him.
“Or should I say Mr. Tão Bom? Thank you for everything. Let me treat you to dinner next time.”
She joins the crew and steps into the elevator. There’s only one person who thinks his name is Park Seongcheol.
The shelf is filled with hundreds of videotapes, arranged by year. He removes one from the top shelf. In the screening room, he sticks it into the VCR. He sits close to the large screen.
On a Brazilian orange farm, golden oranges roll forward. An inspector picks one up and gives a thumbs up, declaring, “Tão bom!” A celebration breaks out. The indigenous people shout “Tão bom!” and dance and laugh under the orange trees. One in a straw hat, sporting a handlebar mustache, raises his thumb and drawls, “Tão bom!” Beside him, a maiden with long hair takes a sip of orange juice from a glass and flashes a bright smile. And then subtitles appear at the bottom: “So good.” The man quickly presses pause. That smiling maiden was Choi Myeong-ae. At the time, she had been a high-school senior, her eyes large and clear and face still plump with baby fat. The rounded tip of her nose made her look like an indigenous maiden.
This commercial was a sensation. The whole nation came to know the Portuguese phrase “tão bom.” If you walked into a bar, you were bound to hear “tão bom!” all over the room. Even a new expression—“tão tão bom”—was coined. Still, the commercial was considered a failure. People went to the supermarket and looked for Tão Bom orange juice, but there was no juice by that name. No one remembered the actual product name. Belatedly, the manufacturer released Tão Bom juice, but the product wasn’t the only thing that was passed over. It was Choi Myeong-ae. No one remembered the pretty girl with the bright smile. No agency recruited her to be their model. And so she disappeared from view.
Just as she’d said in the letter, they were both spring chickens back then. Though she had managed to book a major part in a commercial, she wasn’t able to catch the spotlight. For a young girl whose future seemed full of promise, being completely overlooked was too much to bear. He has no idea what she has done for the past five years. He has no idea how she met Mr. Kim, how she managed to become the face of a new brand of toothpaste. He can only guess how far she must have wandered to get to this point.
•
There are painters dangling from scaffolding on both sides of the billboard. The bus doesn’t budge. At the end of this road is the West Sea. Once apartment buildings started to go up on this reclamation ground, the road wasn’t able to handle the sudden increase in traffic volume. Today’s high tide was at 3:15 A.M. As he slept, the tide came in and went out. The painters whitewash the billboard with long-handled paint rollers. They pull on ropes passing over pulleys to go up and down, and kick off the billboard to maneuver slowly to the side. With each move, the whiteness spreads. What will go on the billboard now? Gripping the hand strap, he stares up at the roof. As the road became a high-traffic area, the cost to rent this advertising space increased dramatically. When the bus tilts, his face presses against the window. With one eye, he sees the large rearview mirror on the side. Inside the convex mirror is a familiar face. He squeezes past people to move closer to Choi Myeong-ae.
“I’m an Incheonite,” she says with a laugh. “I got on at Yonghyeon-dong. But aren’t you going to ask me the same thing you always ask? Aren’t you going to ask how we first met?”
She is no longer the plump-faced teenager from five years ago, but every time she smiles, the face of a high-school senior flickers like a second image in a hologram. Her nose was the reason he hadn’t recognized her. The tip, which had been somewhat bulbous, is now sharp and pointed.
“Actually, I finally remembered how we first met,” he says. He notices a slight tremor in her cheek.
“H-how?” she stammers.
“Was it a month ago? In the screening room at work. I was late that day and I tripped coming in.”
She flashes a bright, dazzling smile. He hasn’t seen her smile this way except in the juice commercial. The bus enters the freeway and starts to speed.
“When the commercial comes out and people start recognizing you, you might not be able to take the bus like this. You might miss taking the bus then. But hey, you know those billboards on the roof of a building? I bet you’ll never guess what’s actually behind them.”
Frowning a little, Choi Myeong-ae looks up at him. He finds himself glancing again at her teeth, which are as straight and white as porcelain. No matter what anyone says, he can’t think of a more perfect girl for Supernova toothpaste.
Early Beans
The foul stench came from the dumpsters. Uncollected garbage was piled like pyramids around the apartment complex. At night, rats came out to gnaw at the trash. Liquid leaked from the bags and flowed down the asphalt and hardened in chunks. To avoid getting his dress shoes dirty, the man leapt over the stains like an athlete competing in the triple jump event. Dressed in pointy shoes and a white dress shirt with the top two buttons undone and tucked into snug jeans, he looked like an amateur cowboy who had just stepped out of a Western movie. He shaded his face with one hand, and with the other, clutched a cell phone instead of a pistol. He didn’t run into a single person as he walked to the parking lot. Even the playground was deserted. The stench and the unbearable heat were to blame.
He stopped in front of a car parked neatly in its spot. The car was like a pan on high heat. He flung open the door, started the engine, and blasted on the air-conditioning. He sought some shade while he waited for the car to cool down. Heaped up on one side of the lot was all kinds of junk—everything from an old refrigerator, stereo, and mattress to even an electric rice cooker. A full-length mirror also stood among the garbage. As if it had been left out in the rain for some time, the varnish was peeling off the frame like scabs. The man went up to the mirror and gazed at his reflection. He puffed out his cheeks, stroked his chin, and opened his mouth wide to check between his teeth. He then curled back his lips and bared his teeth, braying silently like a donkey.
Fifteen minutes later, his car slipped smoothly out of the complex’s gates. The old security guard sat dozing in his booth, unable to fight off the after-lunch drowsiness. No one saw the man leave.
To get onto the main road, he had to pass through a 400-meter school zone. Children dismissed for the day began to pour out of the school gates. Street vendors who had come in time for dismissal sat on the ground, leaning against the stone wall in front of the school. The children ran across the street and swarmed around stalls filled with helium balloons, baby chicks, and sweets. They stood in the middle of the road, not bothering to move out of the way. The man’s car inched forward, only to lurch repeatedly to a stop. Suddenly, a soccer ball sailed over the stone wall, bounced off his windshield, and rolled under the car. It was followed by a tanned boy in a track suit who crawled under the car to retrieve it. Another child cut across the street to go after a chick that had escaped from his
grasp and a herd of children ran toward the ice cream store. The man honked his horn again and again. The kids didn’t budge. He stuck his head out the window and yelled. The children slowly squirmed out of the way, but as soon as his car moved forward into the small opening, other kids blocked the way, playing a game of slap-match cards in the middle of the road. They were so absorbed in their cards that they didn’t hear him shout.
Each child was like a lightning strike. With lightning, there are no warnings. There are only two ways to avoid getting electrocuted: you have to lie flat on the ground or put up a lightning rod. He drove with his foot resting on the brake pedal to ward against this human lightning, which could strike any time from the alleyways, their openings like the entrance to a maze.
By the time he finally came onto the main road, twenty minutes had passed. The man glanced in the rearview mirror. His curly hair, freshly washed and straightened with a blow dryer for half an hour, was still up the way he’d styled it, and every time he shifted gears, he caught a whiff of cologne from his underarms. A large shopping center was located three blocks away. Should he get her perfume or earrings? The rest of the afternoon would fly by as he sauntered around the mall, peering into glittering display cases that looked like jewelry boxes. It would then take half an hour to get to Athens, the cafe where they were supposed to meet. He still had enough time to think up a funny joke while he decided on her gift.
Every time they met, the woman demanded a joke. In the six months they’d been seeing each other, his stock of jokes had run dry. In the “Sparrow Series,” even the last sparrow had met its end from a hunter’s bullet and in the “Big Mouth Frog Series,” the curtain had lowered when the big mouth frog arrived at the bathhouse that was closed for the holidays. But not once had the woman laughed. She didn’t even crack a smile, just like the comedy judge on Make Me Laugh.
The man stepped on the gas. It was her birthday that day, and he needed to come up with an unforgettable joke. Just as he finally gained some speed, lightning struck again. He slammed on his brakes and watched a motorcycle weave in and out between cars and disappear up ahead. He caught the white letters stamped on the rear luggage compartment the size of a ramen box: MAN ON A BULLET.
He couldn’t let down his guard for a second. With the rise of these new “quick delivery” businesses, the road was filled with countless dangers. These motorcycles, which could pop out any second, were able to race from downtown Seoul to Incheon in a mere fifty minutes. For this reason, he could no longer speed.
The sun beat down. Heat rose from the asphalt. He needed to turn right in order to get to the shopping center. But as he turned on his blinker and sped up to change lanes, something leapt in front of his car. He wrenched the steering wheel, but he felt a thud. An instant later, a man landed on the windshield with outstretched arms. The car veered onto the sidewalk and crashed into the stone wall of a barbecue restaurant. The steering wheel slammed into his chest, causing his head to snap back. Struck by lightning at last.
The windshield was streaked with blood, saliva, and greasy prints from the man’s gloves. The door didn’t open easily because the hood had buckled in when the car crashed into the wall. After he kicked open his door, the first thing he saw was the crushed motorcycle, which had been tossed all the way to the median. Gasoline gushed from the cracked fuel tank. He noticed the writing on the luggage compartment: LIGHTNING DELIVERY. 675-1234.
The restaurant customers came running outside. They gawked at the car and the motorcycle while still chewing their food. Some had rushed out in such a hurry they didn’t even have their shoes on. He was lucky there hadn’t been anyone on the sidewalk. The cars behind had to screech to a stop to avoid running over the motorcyclist who had been thrown into the middle of the road. Drivers stepped out of their cars and stared. The rider was lying on his back. His red helmet was also emblazoned with the words LIGHTNING DELIVERY and a phone number. Someone from the crowd flipped up the plastic face shield of the rider’s helmet, revealing a youthful face. He looked to be a high school senior at most. Facial hair grew unevenly on his chin and cheeks. As soon as the sunlight hit his face, his closed eyelids flinched.
“Do you think you can move?”
Lightning nodded slowly. Blood was oozing from a deep gash on his elbow. He must have scraped it along the asphalt. The man helped the boy sit up, taking care not to move his neck. A bystander ran over and draped the boy’s other arm around his shoulders. He stood up with their help, but as soon as he tried to take a step, he moaned and sank back down to the ground. His thighs felt rigid; they were swelling rapidly under his jeans. He looked around for his motorcycle. It had been dragged from the road and was now leaning against a tree guard on the sidewalk. It was crushed so badly that its front wheel was suspended in the air.
“My bike!”
His face turned pale. An ambulance arrived. The restaurant must have made the call.
Lightning broke his left shinbone and fractured his right ankle. His arms were covered with scratches. Because of his swollen leg, the nurses were forced to cut off his jeans. His skin swelled like an inflatable tube, practically splitting open the fabric the instant it was cut. After getting an X-ray, he waited to go into surgery. He and the man were the only ones left in the hallway.
“Do you have a smoke?”
Lightning didn’t care, even though they were in a non-smoking area. He smoked the cigarette right down to the filter.
“What would have happened if I hadn’t been wearing a helmet?” he mumbled. He snickered. “Me break a leg? Imagine that. I never thought this would happen to me. I believed this kind of thing only happened to other people. But it’s been a real interesting experience. Have you ever broken your leg?”
Instead of waiting for the man to respond, he went on mumbling. “It’s strange. I can’t feel anything below my knees. My brain tells my toes to wiggle, but they don’t listen. It’s really frustrating. So how do you think my mother felt when she told me to study, but I didn’t listen?” He started to sniffle. “I miss her. I think it’d be good for everyone to go through this. Everyone should break their leg at least once.”
The man listened with one ear, glancing at the clock in the hallway.
“Don’t worry.” Lightning continued to talk while gazing blankly at a spot on the wall. “It’s not your fault. I might be stupid, but at least I’m honest.” Lightning thumped his chest and laughed again. “Let’s face it. Today’s just not our day.”
When the man went back to the scene, his car was still sitting in the middle of the sidewalk, smashed into the stone wall of Pyongyang BBQ House. Pedestrians glanced at the wreck as they stepped off the sidewalk onto the road to get around. The restaurant owner hadn’t allowed the car to be taken away until the man returned. The bumper and headlights were broken and the hood was badly dented. He tried to close the car door that had been left open, but it no longer closed. The motorcycle was still propped up against the tree guard. Just as Lightning had said, there was a thick manila envelope in the luggage compartment.
“Can I ask you for a favor? There’s a package in the back. You think you could deliver it for me? Our company’s motto is ‘Speed and reliability you can trust.’ If that package isn’t delivered today—” Lightning had drawn his thumb across his neck, as if cutting off his head. Then as he was wheeled into the operating room, he sat up and motioned the man over. “There’s a space below the recipient’s name on the package release form. He needs to sign there. Don’t forget!”
A truck towed away the car and motorcycle. There was a deep gouge in the wall where the car had rammed into it. The restaurant valet who had been standing outside led the man into the restaurant. Behind the counter, a woman in her mid-fifties was counting out some change.
“It’s true what they say—lightning strikes on a clear day. I thought we were having an earthquake!” she jabbered. “Our frightened customers tripped and fell as they rushed outside.” She covered her mouth with its half-faded lipst
ick and laughed.
She made him look closely at the wall. It was a cement façade with stones embedded in the surface. The impact, however, had cracked the cement and loosened the stones. She had roamed the riverbanks to gather these stones; everyone knew the trouble she had gone through to find the perfect pieces. She said she would calculate the cost of repair and call him the next day. As he was leaving, she called out, “You’re lucky money can take care of this, but what about my poor nerves?”
To get to Incheon, he first went to Sindorim Station. He hadn’t once used public transit since he’d gotten a car. Although he’d learned every one-way street and alley in Seoul in the seven years he’d been driving, he was completely lost underground. The station was like a maze and the subway map looked as intricate as a tangled ball of yarn. He followed the arrows to the transfer gate but soon lost track of them and had to stop. In the midst of those who seemed sure of where they were going, he noticed elderly people who were equally lost as him, or women from the countryside, looking as if it was their first time in Seoul. He would follow the orange arrows but would soon lose them and start to follow the green ones instead, winding up back at the platform where he had first gotten off the train. He found himself going in circles. There were things that weren’t marked by arrows. Sometimes, the arrows pointed straight ahead, and then changed directions abruptly. When he came across an arrow that pointed up to the ceiling, he stopped in his tracks. He had no choice but to ask someone.
He still had about two hours left. If everything had gone according to plan, he would be strolling around the air-conditioned shopping mall by now, looking for her gift. But because of a motorcycle called Lightning, his plan was slowly unraveling.
The Incheon-bound train was practically empty. The man sat alone in a three-seater, away from other people. He glanced at the few passengers scattered throughout the car. Most were dozing with books open on their laps or looking through the window at the passing scenery outside. The man studied the package in his lap. It seemed like a book or manuscript of some sort. The recipient’s address had been written with a permanent marker on a large envelope from Dolmen Publishing: Professor Byeon Yeongseok, 435 Dohwadong, Incheon. Below the name and address were the words Urgent Mail in red and in parentheses.