The Dwarf (Modern Korean Fiction)

by Cho Se-hui

  Humpback said, “Money and papers.”

  “Let me see.”

  The man realized that Squatlegs and Humpback had found everything.

  Squatlegs rummaged through the briefcase. “He’s already sold ours.”

  The man blinked.

  “Look some more.”

  “He’s got our names written down in a notebook. And some of the names are crossed out—must be the ones he sold.”

  Squatlegs looked hard at the man. The man nodded.

  “For three hundred and eighty thousand—right?”

  Again the man nodded.

  Humpback said, “Count the money.”

  Squatlegs began counting. He produced two piles of exactly two hundred thousand wŏn each.

  “Our money,” he said.

  The man nodded once more. He watched as Squatlegs passed one of the piles to his friend in the back seat.

  Squatlegs’ hands trembled. As did Humpback’s. Their hearts pounded.

  Squatlegs unbuttoned his shirt, put the money in an inside pocket, then buttoned the shirt and tidied it. Humpback put his share in the outer right-hand pocket of his shirt. His clothes had no inner pockets.

  With the money accounted for, Humpback recalled what he had to do the following day. Likewise with Squatlegs. His children were asleep in the tent.

  Squatlegs said, “Fetch me that container.” In his hand was the remaining length of electric cord.

  Humpback found the plastic container in the bean field. He watched the face of his friend. Watched it to the exclusion of everything else. Then he set off toward the village. The night was unusually quiet. Not a point of light could be seen. He couldn’t even tell where the village lay. By and by he paused and listened hard, wondering if Squatlegs was scooting along behind.

  Squatlegs ought to be curling himself up and dropping out of the car. He ought to be closing the door with a thunk, putting his hands quickly to work, and scooting out onto the ocher soil of the road now layered with darkness.

  As he walked along, Humpback thought of his own normal pace and of how fast Squatlegs could go when his hands worked quickly.

  Arriving at the village, Humpback proceeded to what remained of an out-of-the-way house and pressed down on the handle of a pump. He cupped the water in his palms and moistened his lips. He felt the outside pocket of his shirt. Squatlegs was scooting toward him, breathing hard. Humpback met him, looked into his face; it was hard to make out in the gloom.

  Squatlegs reeked of gasoline. Humpback worked the pump and washed Squatlegs’ face. Face smarting, Squatlegs closed his eyes. But the pain was nothing. He thought about the money inside his shirt and what he had to do the following day. From the far end of the dirt road flames shot up. His friend tried to rise and Squatlegs sat him back down.

  Humpback’s family certainly had restrained themselves when the men with the sledgehammers arrived. His own family hadn’t been as composed. Squatlegs didn’t like his friend jerking up like that. He himself was startled by the explosion. But presently it was over. The distant flames subsided, the boom of the explosion died out.

  Darkness, silence enveloped the two men. Humpback set out. Squatlegs followed.

  “Lots of things to buy,” said Squatlegs. “A motorbike, a pull-cart, and a popper. All you have to do is drive. Then nobody has to see me scooting around anymore.”

  Squatlegs waited for his friend’s reaction. But Humpback had nothing to say.

  “What’s up?” Squatlegs caught up with Humpback and grabbed his pantleg. “Hey, what’s up with you?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Scared?” Squatlegs asked.

  “No way,” said Humpback. “But it’s weird. I’ve never felt like this before.”

  “Then everything’s fine.”

  “No, it isn’t.”

  Squatlegs had never heard his friend speak in such calm tones.

  “I’m not going with you,” said Humpback.

  “What!”

  “I said I’m not going with you.”

  “What’s this all of a sudden? Look, tomorrow we’ll go to Samyang-dong or Kŏyŏ-dong. Lots of vacant rooms there. We get the families settled and then we go around with the popper. Once we buy the motorbike we can go anywhere. Remember the time we went to Karhyŏn-dong? All the families who turned out with stuff to pop? We had the popper working nonstop till nine o’clock. It wasn’t the popcorn they wanted. They just got to thinking about the old days and decided to bring the kids out. All we need to do is find a place like that. Every few days we’ll bring home a pile of money that’ll make the little woman’s mouth drop. So what’s on your mind?”

  “I reckon I’ll go with The Master.”

  “That tonic peddler?”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “You’re out of your mind. How much peddling you figure to do at your age?”

  “Not too many people are perfect. He’s one of them. He does that scary routine with the knife to draw a crowd, works himself to the bone peddling, and lives on the proceeds. That worm medicine he sells is the real thing. And he knows my physical condition is an added attraction.” And after a pause: “The thing that scares me is your state of mind.”

  “I get the message. Go, then. I’m not going to stop you. But remember, I didn’t kill anyone.”

  “Sooner or later, though,” Humpback said, turning back, “we have to find a solution.”

  Squatlegs heard only footsteps as darkness enveloped his friend. Before long the footsteps were gone as well. He scooted off in search of the tent where his children were sleeping. He clenched his jaws so he wouldn’t cry. But tears streamed unchecked from his eyes. Another long night—when would it end?

  The teacher rested his hands on the lectern. He spoke to the students.

  “Ask yourselves whether there exists a solid whose inner and outer parts can’t be distinguished. Imagine a solid where you can’t divide inner and outer—a Möbius-type solid. The universe—infinite, endless—we can’t seem to tell its inside from its outside. This simple Möbius strip conceals many truths. I’m confident, gentlemen, that you’ll give some thought to why I brought up the chimney story and the Möbius strip in this, your last class. It will gradually become clear to you that human knowledge is often put to extraordinarily evil uses. Soon you’ll be in college and there you will learn much more. Make absolutely sure, gentlemen, that you never compromise your knowledge for the sake of self-interest. I’ve tried to teach you according to the standard curriculum, but I’ve also tried to teach you to see things correctly. I think it’s time now for you to test yourselves on how my efforts have turned out. So how about a simple goodbye and let’s leave it at that.”

  The class monitor sprang to his feet.

  “Attention! … Salute!”

  The teacher returned the students’ bows, stepped down from the podium, and left the classroom.

  The winter sun slanted down and the classroom grew dark.

  Knifeblade

  THERE ARE THREE KNIVES in Shin-ae’s kitchen. Two are kitchen knives—one large and one small. Once a year Shin-ae calls a knife sharpener to put a new edge on the large one. A good sharpener knows knives. There are some who don’t. Those who don’t will start with the grindstone for the first sharpening. Shin-ae snatches the knife from such sharpeners and goes inside. When the ones who know knives take this one in hand their eyes open wide and they silently observe it. Knife sharpeners are struck by the sight of a good knife. They start by gently putting the blade to a fine whetstone. Sharpeners these days will say that a person could live and die a hundred times and never produce such a knife. To make this knife, they say, the blacksmith would have tempered the blade numerous times, hammered it countless times. His son would have worked the bellows. Who knows, the son might still be alive. If so, he would be a grandfather by now. And someday he will die. The smith will have long since passed on. Shin-ae’s mother-in-law, who had this knife made for her own use when the smith was alive and hammering—she t
oo has passed on. Shin-ae is forty-six. It’s no good having the large knife sharpened by an amateur. With the small one it’s all right. It’s a run-of-the-mill knife she bought several years ago. There’s not much to say about a knife like that. She bought it for a hundred and eighty wŏn from a knife peddler who was hawking his wares in the usual way by scraping the blades of two knives together. It’s a run-of-the-mill knife you can buy for a similar price just about anywhere.

  The third knife in Shin-ae’s kitchen is a fillet knife. It’s frightening to behold. Taut blade, three millimeters at the back; pointed tip; thirty-two centimeters long. It doesn’t seem like a knife made for kitchen work. The thoughts that come to mind when she takes it by the handle are truly frightening. Hyŏn-u, Shin-ae’s husband, bought it the previous spring. Why did he buy such a knife?

  She couldn’t figure it out. Shin-ae likes to compare herself and her husband to dwarfs. We’re tiny dwarfs—dwarfs.

  “Well, aren’t we?” she asked her husband, who was home from work. “Am I wrong?”

  “Well …” Her husband was reading the newspaper.

  High officials call for social reforms; no party restructuring, declares opposition head; commentary on National Security Law; UN Secretary-General calls for ROK-DPRK talks; U.S.-USSR spacecraft stage dramatic docking high above Elbe River; violent crime up 800 percent over past decade; foundation head embezzles 100 million wŏn from school; South Vietnamese refugees in U.S. demonstrate against extravagant ways of former officials; employment outlook dim despite recovery; add-ons boost budget to 1.52 trillion wŏn; new Yŏŭido National Assembly Building rests on twenty-four pillars costing 10 million wŏn each; residents of condemned dwellings in redevelopment zone lack 300,000 wŏn, give up apartment rights, seek new housing; Kunsan tearooms cite defense tax, hike cost of phone calls; “dead” man revived at graveside; armed robbery; rape; forgery; timber thieves; red pepper cut with sawdust; fishmongers add dye, pump up fish; pop song “Too Much” found indecent, banned; winning number for housing lottery; actress bares all; “For Whose Sake Chastity?” reads ad; university professor calls unfair distribution of profits an invitation to crime and consumerism. Nothing different here from yesterday’s paper. Nothing out of the ordinary in these stories. And yet people read the same newspaper day after day. Her husband was reading that newspaper.

  “Am I?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Will you please put down that paper?”

  Such is life, Shin-ae told herself yet again. Last night her husband tossed and turned, unable to sleep, till the owl in the wall clock hooted two in the morning. He leaves early in the morning. Spends twelve or thirteen hours away from home. What he does at work, what happens to him there, the anxiety, doubt, fatigue that follow him around constantly—his hopes have evaporated. From the radio in her daughter’s room across the way came the voice of a foreign singer whose face Shin-ae couldn’t picture, singing in whatever language those people spoke. Someday that girl would be thinking in a different language. Shin-ae worried about her daughter. If only their situation were a bit different. Why so much anxiety about managing their small family? Her husband was reading the newspaper as if he wished to add to the fatigue that had already accumulated. He was exasperated with himself and the life he led. He felt ill at ease in society and out of place in his times. He had studied history. He had read many books. The thoughts written down in those many books had once upon a time influenced young Hyŏn-u.

  He had wanted to talk about all he had learned from books. And then suddenly he became taciturn. He grew up. Likewise Shin-ae had once been a girl of many dreams. A bright and pretty girl. One who grew up using her mind. Hyŏn-u had said, the first time she met him, that his greatest desire was to write a good book. The two of them fell deeply in love. And so they married. They knew each other’s ideals and they held high hopes. But in the face of reality those ideals, those hopes, were of no help to them. The husband found it necessary to earn money—the thing he hated most. To earn this despised money he found it necessary to work like a dog. For his mother had fallen ill. It was her stomach. She died of stomach cancer. The mother having passed on, the father became ill. It was an illness the doctors couldn’t identify. The father suffered terrible pain. Not even morphine injections offered relief. The doctors said he would soon die from the mysterious disease. But he lived another two years, fighting the terrible pain. He died at the mental hospital where he spent his last months. The father had lived his entire life at odds with society and the times. Shin-ae was well aware that her husband was cut from the same cloth. The man whose greatest desire had been to write a good book couldn’t compose a single line. He decided he was aphasic. Although he worked with deadly determination to earn his detested money, all he had to show for it was debt. The hospital, while offering no cure for his parents, was forever demanding utterly prohibitive sums from the proceeds of that deadly determination. He was too drained to weep when his father finally passed on. As they consoled each other, husband and wife sold the Ch’ŏngjin-dong home in downtown Seoul, their home for so many years, and paid off the debts. With what remained they had bought a small house here in the outskirts of the city. The problem was the water. There wasn’t any last night, or the night before. Three nights ago, only a little came out. Shin-ae had squatted in front of the faucet in the yard, waiting for the water. And at two-thirty in the morning it had finally come on. It had trickled out, the tiniest amount, from the faucet there by the front gate, the lowest area of their lot. She had filled a bucket using a small earthenware jar and taken it into the washroom. Before she could half fill the bathtub, though, the faucet gurgled and the water stopped. At four-thirty the heavens began to brighten. Sleepless and thinking dark thoughts, she forced herself to prepare breakfast.

  Her husband didn’t put down the newspaper. He had told her that at work, in pedestrian underpasses, when viewed by indifferent passersby, when surrounded by exhaust from vehicle tailpipes, he felt driven and confused. He had said that every day without fail when he commuted on the packed buses he saw city garbage trucks leaving on their rounds several at a time. Shin-ae understands what her husband is saying. She wonders how many souls a day are loaded into those garbage trucks and then disposed of. But no one in this world talks in that manner.

  Fatigue had accumulated on her husband’s eyelids like covers on a bed. He put the newspaper aside. He looked like he was about to faint dead away.

  “You haven’t listened to a word I’ve said.”

  It seems to her now that even the members of her own family each speak a different language. What they say never gets through.

  “What in the world are you talking about?” her husband asked.

  “I’m saying we’re dwarfs!” Shin-ae said, practically shouting.

  “How come we’re dwarfs?” came her daughter’s voice from the veranda.

  Followed by the idiotic blaring of a television. The family in the house behind theirs had turned on their set. What are they, deaf? It’s so loud. Aren’t there any normal people anymore? At the same hour each night the woman of that house called her young children, and the housekeeper too before she had finished the dishes, and sat them down, and they all proceeded to sniffle. First the housekeeper weeps, then the woman weeps, and finally the children sniffle. When they aren’t crying they’re laughing. And if it’s not crying or laughing then it’s singing. “Why, Why Do You Call Me?” or else “Nothing Better” or else “Darling, You Don’t Know.”

  The children who live in that house read weekly magazines in bed. Among the articles they read is this one: “‘Sexy Sounds’ from a Car—Orgasmic Outcries and Heavy Breathing, Recorded Live.”

  The soap opera continued to blare from the TV. Two members of that family weren’t home yet: the man of the house and the eldest daughter. The man is an inspector at the tax office. What’s lacking in that family is one thing alone—a soul. There’s always plenty of everything else. Well, perhaps the “always” part isn’t quite
accurate.

  Misconduct, corruption, bureaucratic cleanup—there was a time when those words appeared almost daily in the newspaper. Only then did the family in back lower the volume on their TV. They stowed away their refrigerator, washer, piano, tape player, and other such possessions in the basement and brought out their old clothes to wear in public. The newspaper often quoted a high official as saying that any government official whose misconduct came to light would be dealt with in accordance with the law. But the misconduct of the man of the house in back must not have come to light, for he emerged unscathed. “If misconduct comes to light”—these words smacked of a very peculiar irony.

  In any event, the family in back emerged unscathed, the television soap opera continued, and the man of the house and the eldest daughter still hadn’t returned. Where could that man be at this hour, and what could he be doing? Where could the eldest daughter be, and what could she be doing?

  The eldest daughter had taken a drug. Fortunately they had found her shortly thereafter and managed to save her. A doctor arrived, put a rubber tube down her throat, and flushed out the poison. The tax inspector and his wife heaved a sigh of relief. The doctor, though, shook his head.

  “Too early. If you let her stay here, she’ll take it again.”

  “Then what should we do, Doctor?” asked the woman of the house in back. She trembled pathetically.

  “With all due respect, you should take her to a clinic.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “A clinic.”

  “Couldn’t you have her admitted to your clinic, Doctor?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t help you,” said the doctor. “You need to find an obstetrics clinic.”

  At the time, the eldest daughter was wearing a long skirt.

  That morning Shin-ae had seen her leave the house in long, loose-fitting pants that swept back and forth as she walked down the alley.

  If you go by the government pay scale, the salary of the man of the house in back is quite a bit less than that of Shin-ae’s husband. Shin-ae’s small family lives humbly on a larger salary but their large family lives extravagantly on a smaller salary. How do you explain it? We’ve heard about the good life till our ears ache, but the family in back seem to be the only ones enjoying it. No poverty there. And so Shin-ae asks herself: For goodness’ sake, which side is that family on? And which side are we on? Which side is good, and which is bad? And for goodness’ sake, can you even say there’s a good side to this world?