by T'aejun Yi
“Four hundred and eighty won.”
“Since you took it out for your father, you’ll have to spend it on your father, all right?”
“Of course.”
“Uh um, well.… He always wanted an undershirt. You need to buy him a good woolen one and a set of real silk burial clothes to wear on top. Do you have an ancestral gravesite? Somewhere to bury him?”
“No, of course not.”
“Then buy a large, top quality plot in the public cemetery.… You’d better have a nice funeral, because if you do a shabby job, I won’t put up with it. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
Only then did she open her handbag and wipe her tear-strewn face.
An’s so-called funeral service took place in his daughter’s studio.
Major Sŏ and Pak Hŭiwan drank rather a lot before they arrived. Pak had deposited something at the pawnbroker’s in order to bring two won as a funeral gift, but when Sŏ saw this, he said, “There’s plenty of money for the funeral, so don’t you give that woman anything.”
And they had gone to a bar for a couple of drinks.
A fair number of well-dressed mourners had gathered at the studio. There were even a couple of people in full ceremonial dress. They had not known the deceased, but appeared to have shown up to see An Kyŏnghwa the dancer. Some were even trying to staunch their tears with sobs, perhaps because they understood the dead man’s sorrow or were simply affected by the atmosphere. With suitably tearful eyes, An Kyŏnghwa walked up to the coffin, dressed in some new Western-style mourning clothes made of plain black silk. She lit an incense stick and bowed. More than twenty people followed after her and bowed before the coffin one by one. Some were even chatting as they did so.
When the incense had almost ceased burning, Major Sŏ cleared his throat as if to speak and stepped forward, his face flushed bright red. He took a whole handful of incense and set light to it so that jet-black smoke rose up into the air. He blew on the flames to extinguish them, and then he stroked his beard and bowed. And then he cleared his throat once more and spoke his final words to the dead man.
“This is me, Major Sŏ, remember? Umm.… You’re really going in style, in real style … you’re better off dead, if you were still alive, would you be able to live in such style? There’s no need to worry about fixing your glasses anymore.… Anyway …”
Pak stood up and pushed Sŏ aside, saying, “He’s drunk, you know.”
Pak felt frustrated too. He lit an incense stick and stood for a while, knowing that he would feel better if he could only say something, but instead he burst into tears and walked away.
Sŏ and Pak had planned to go on to the cemetery, but they did not like any of the people there, and so they went back to a bar instead.
—Early Spring of the Year of the Fire Ox
First published in 1937; translated from Kamagui:
Yi T’aejun tanp’yŏnjip (Hansŏng tosŏ, 1937)
THE FROZEN RIVER P’AE
There’s not so much as a single bird perched upstairs, where two solitary and faded signs read “Most Beautiful Scenery, Floating Blue Pavilion.” Hyŏn gazes up at the pavilion from where he strolls down below without climbing the bank, as if afraid that stepping into such tranquility would be to tear a painting.
Here and there the simple honesty of Yi culture flows out warmly from the thickly dented but still sturdy columns, from the ornamental carving at the top of those columns, and from the decorations on the eaves, which seem almost to have been thrown into place.
By contrast, the Taedong River seems all too cold. Even from the distance of the Floating Blue Pavilion it looks transparent, as if made from glass rather than water. He watches the gentle swaying of the green trapa leaves on the water and thinks he might even detect the breathing of a loach were it to lie flat between the pebbles. The water flows, but makes no sound. It passes through the Waterworks Bridge and around the Clear Stream Wall, and then it spreads out far and wide, like an enormous roll of silk, and the sky and the water are dyed equally red by the sunset as they disappear together into a distant rose bed. From the Ripe Light Pavilion onward, the black dots of paddleboats and flat boats are scattered here and there, none of them appearing to move. A sense of eternity surrounds the hills that dot the endless Taedong Plain.
Hyŏn tosses his cigarette away and adjusts the buttons of his chŏgori jacket. The autumn leaves have yet to turn, but his hands have grown cold without him knowing.
Why does nature in Korea look so desolate?
He recalls the lonely scenes in Puyŏ at the White Horse River and the Falling Flowers Rock.
More than ten years had passed since Hyŏn was last in Pyongyang. Whenever he set one of his stories in the city, he would resolve to visit again for some sketching before beginning to write, but in the end he had not made the journey even once. It was not so much his stories that demanded a visit, but a couple of friends who would write to him from time to time, urging him to come and see them. They were old school friends: Kim the businessman, who was also a city assemblyman, and Pak, a high school teacher of Korean and classical Chinese. But Hyŏn had not once taken the initiative from their letters. Pak’s most recent letter had moved Hyŏn more than others, however, even though it did not request that he visit.
You can probably guess that my classes have been cut in half. At least I can take things easy. But now there are signs that they want to switch me from full time to an hourly basis. Given my subject I can’t imagine that they will maintain my remaining hours for much longer either. When everything is gone, I’ll wash my hands of them for good, but until then I’m just hanging in there.1
After reading about the situation, Hyŏn felt a sudden urge to meet with Pak. He didn’t have anything in particular to say, but he wanted to hold his hand just the once, and so he’d sent a telegram and set off immediately.
Pak showed up at the station looking a mess: he hadn’t shaved for a long time and his frequent, almost habitual, scornful laughter was new to Hyŏn. It seemed that Pak was not only hanging in there at the school where he worked, but also in an age that no longer deemed him necessary. Hyŏn could see himself and his work in Pak’s attitude, and wanted to cry with frustration.
They walked into the waiting room after finally releasing each other’s hands. There was so much to say, but neither could find the words to begin. Hyŏn stood up again at once and said, “I’d like to walk by myself for a while.”
He agreed to meet up with Pak again in the evening, together with Kim, at a restaurant by the Taedong River called The Best House in the East. Then he set off for Peony Peak alone.
On the way he glanced out the car window at the city streets. Row after row of new buildings passed by, none of which he could remember from before. One huge redbrick building was particularly impressive, crouching like some enormous grave on the corner of a main street but apparently neither a factory nor a prison. The driver told him it was the police station.
Hyŏn was perplexed to see no sign of the headscarves that women had once worn here. When he asked the driver about this, the reply revealed rather more self-satisfaction than explanation.
“Yes, good riddance, isn’t it? Now Pyongyang is a match for Seoul.”
Hyŏn had rather liked the headscarves the Pyongyang women used to wear. Simple but seemingly alive, almost like white butterflies but with ribbons resting naturally upon them like rose blossoms, they displayed a special kind of beauty that was something only those Pyongyang ladies could own along with their brightly accented speech. That he could not even witness such beauty in what was supposed to be its hometown reinforced the melancholic sense of ruin that Pyongyang impressed upon him.
Hyŏn thought he might walk up to the Ŭlmil Lookout, but when he discovered soldiers there, apparently guarding the airstrip with lances poking out of their guns, he came back down to the river. He hailed an empty pleasure boat that happened to be passing. He wanted to go upstream to Chuam Mountain and back, but was
told that was forbidden due to the proximity of the airstrip. Finally he settled on floating down the river to The Best House in the East—no rowing—and climbed on board.
By the time he had drifted like a leaf on the water, all trace of the sunset had disappeared, and the river was dark when he reached the restaurant.
The Best House in the East had been built upon a rock protruding out over the river. As the boat pulled up to the back entrance and he stepped up into the nighttime pavilion, awash in music, the scene was enough to rouse expectation even in Hyŏn with his gloomy state of mind.
He made a promise to himself, “I won’t refuse a drink tonight, even though I can’t handle alcohol! I’ll do my best to cheer up Pak!”
Pak had already arrived with Kim and settled into place with two kisaeng. Hyŏn’s spirits were lifted even more by the sight of Kim’s plump, clean-shaven cheeks and the soft skirts the kisaeng wore.
“Hey you, why didn’t you shave like Kim here?”
“What and make all the girls go wild for me!”
Pak smiled.
“So, how are things lately for our Mr. Kim, honorable member of the City Assembly?”
“Now then, we haven’t seen each other all this time and you start with this mocking hiyakashi?”2
“You haven’t changed one bit! When was the last time, wasn’t it in Seoul the year before last?”
“That’s right, I think … I know, I was on the way back from a tour of cities in the metropole …”
“So, I heard that you made a bit of money on some land in the west of the city, or was it the east?”
“Now then! What kind of a gentleman talks about money like that?”
“Why not? We have to feed ourselves.”
“Feed ourselves, well, let’s see who can eat the most tonight shall we, you or I?”
“Does that mean I’m a bystander at the Kyŏngsŏng-Pyongyang derby?”
“And we’ll be the cheerleaders.”
The kisaeng interjected alongside Pak.
“These provincial kisaeng are funny, aren’t they?”
“Funny? But isn’t this the capital of kisaeng? There must be something special in the vital forces of the land!”
One of the kisaeng smiled brightly, while the other was more coy. As Hyŏn looked at the smiling one he suddenly recalled another kisaeng.
“Hey you two?”
“What?”
“Was that twelve years ago already? Do you remember, when I was here and we went to Nŭngna Island and had that fish rice porridge?”
“My word, has it really been that long?”
“What was the name of that kisaeng back then? Either of you two remember?”
“Oh, I remember her!”
Kim had been leant back askew against the wall, but now he sat up in surprise and clapped his hands.
“That’s who I should have asked for from the start!”
“No, but is she still around?”
“Yes, she’s alive and kicking.”
“And she’s still working as a kisaeng?”
“Of course.”
“Oh right!”
Pak slapped his thigh, as if he too had just remembered.
When Hyŏn had come down to visit that time the three of them had gone to Nŭngna Island to eat fish rice porridge. One of the kisaeng had been especially fond of Hyŏn, who was a literary type already back then and had written a poem for this Yŏngwŏl on her handkerchief. They had even had their photograph taken, just the two of them with the Floating Blue Pavilion in the background.
“But she must be getting on a bit if she’s still working as a kisaeng, no? I do remember her, but I can’t remember her name.”
“How about one of you two go fetch her?”
“Who is it?” the kisaeng asked.
“Oh, now what’s her name?”
“I don’t remember either …”
Just as Pak was saying this, the boy appeared.
“The kisaeng … who’s been here the longest, and who’s the oldest?”
The boy had to give this some thought before replying.
“Would that be Kwanok? Or maybe Yŏngwŏl?”
“Oh! It’s Yŏngwŏl … Yŏngwŏl. Give her a call.”
Hyŏn’s spirits rose still higher. The table was brought in. Wine cups were passed around.
“So have you learnt to drink yet?”
Pak asked Hyŏn, passing him a cup.
“Goodness … I didn’t realize you could study drinking, where on earth …”
“You poor bastard! But I guess you guys have to be writing day and night, so there’s no excuse for drinking parties! Today is on me …”
“By the way …”
Kim continued, as he held out a cup for Hyŏn.
“You should think about changing direction now too.”
“What do you mean, changing direction?”
“Who’s that? You know, that man who went to Tokyo to write?”
“I know.”
“Now he had foresight!” Kim spoke with admiration.
“You bastard, take this cup. I don’t want to hear about it.”
Hyŏn quickly downed the cup Kim had offered him and returned the favor.
By the time Yŏngwŏl arrived they were all so drunk that Pak’s eyelids were drooping. She was wearing a white chŏgori jacket and jade-green skirt and her hair was parted slightly to one side, neither dyed nor curled like the other more fashionable kisaeng. She sat down softly by the sliding door and looked around the table. Kim and Pak said nothing, but kept their eyes on Yŏngwŏl and Hyŏn to see what would happen. Yŏngwŏl’s eyes passed quietly over Hyŏn, before skipping Pak and coming to rest on Kim with a gentle smile,
“Sir, it’s been a long time.”
“Hah! Your eyes must be failing you! It’s not me you should be pleased to see.”
“But a kisaeng does not greet the guest she’s truly pleased to see.”
And her eyes quickly passed over Pak once more to settle on Hyŏn.
“You are truly a great kisaeng! Quick with the repartee, eh …”
With that Kim held out his cup and Yŏngwŏl swiftly moved to the head of the table, where she picked up the wine bottle.
In her eyes there lingered a suggestion that laughter belonged firmly in her past; dark shadows clung to her eyelids, while her sunken cheeks and rough, parched lips revealed the deep traces left behind by the passing years.
“You … don’t know me?” Hyŏn asked, as he stubbed out his cigarette.
“Please have a drink, sir.”
When her eyes met those of Hyŏn, who held out his cup, Yŏngwŏl blushed and failed to notice the cup had overflowed.
“It looks as if you too have been exhausted by life?”
“Then we’re just like everyone else. When did you arrive?”
Yŏngwŏl did not refuse the cup that Hyŏn had first emptied and then refilled to offer her.
“You wore a headscarf that looked like a white butterfly back then …”
“Oh, I wish I could be wearing that now.”
“And you spoke with such a crisp and clear Pyongyang accent …”
“These days guests prefer it when we talk as if we’re from Seoul.”
“Worthless sons of … what do you think, Pak? How come there’s not a headscarf to be seen in Pyongyang?”
“That’s a question to ask of our Mr. Kim, the city assemblyman. It’s these administrators who banned the scarves.”
“Really, good grief!”
“Who knows what those jerks are …”
“Jerks, it’s you who’s the jerk … so what if those damn headscarves look pretty, do you two have any idea how much money was spent on those headscarves and ribbons each year in the city of Pyongyang alone?”
Kim sat up straight, adopting a more dignified manner.
“So, what if it was a million won? What do you bastards know about the value of culture …”
“That’s what I mean, you writing types k
now nothing about the real world.”
“What interfering bastards … why pick on Korean women? Just because they’re trying to look nice? Why shouldn’t women be allowed to look a little pretty?”
“But think of the money …”
“Hah! So they work themselves to death at home, bring up the kids, take care of men like us … and it’s too much if they want to buy a ribbon once a year? Come on, do you know how much men spend on drinks and cigarettes? Reforming lifestyles, indeed … so that means cutting down on money spent on headscarves and ribbons? Administrators like you, you’re just penny-pinchers! Picking on those who …”
“Damn you, you need to change your tune! You bastard, don’t you know how important alcohol is out there in the real world?”
“I know. But is alcohol all we need? Don’t we need our own unique culture too? You’re just pigs … you wouldn’t recognize a pearl if you saw one … huh …”
“Hito o baka ni suru na, don’t take me for an idiot, you jerk.”
“I can take you for an idiot if you are one …”
“Nani?”
“Nani … what the fucking hell is that? Just because you’re buying the drinks doesn’t mean I can’t say what I want. You make me so angry …“
Hyŏn belched.
“That’s all you’ve had, and you two are already drunk.”
Pak put down his toothpick and offered Hyŏn another cup. Kim quietly pretended to be picking at the snacks.
Yŏngwŏl had made her living this way for long enough to be sensitive to her guests’ moods, and now she called the boy and asked him to bring in a changgu drum. Picking up the drumsticks calmly with one hand, she banged twice on the rim of the drum with the other hand and began to sing.
“Oh yes, here we go.… Playing my zither on a moonlit night …”
Hyŏn stared at the raised veins on Yŏngwŏl’s neck and undid the buttons of his jacket. With trembling hands, he tried beating on the table. But no melody came to him.
“Heh, heng, heh, heya ha, ora, dent it, the mortar …” Kim sang in reply, and Hyŏn seethed with anger once more. At times like this it would be such a relief to be able to sing a bit. The other two kisaeng sit quietly and watch Yŏngwŏl’s lips. When she’s finished, Pak says, “Well done.”