I Hear Your Voice

by Young-Ha Kim

  “It’s rage. Shit, it’s fucking rage. That’s right, we’re so angry, we drive because we’re so pissed off, and what’re we angry about? About this fucked-up world. What’s the meaning of the root pok in pokju? The root’s meaning is ‘violence.’ If you’re well behaved, you’re not a biker. Only when we make a lot of noise, smash up signs, and bring traffic to a dead stop will the world notice us. Racing’s the way we let them know we’re angry. How? With fucking violence. Can’t we just talk to them? No. Why? ’Cause we’re no good with words. Because words belong to old people. They know they’ll win with words, so that’s why they keep telling us to talk to them.”

  I cautiously disagreed. “You think the world will understand us? When we’re waking them up at night, blocking the roads, and smashing everything up?”

  “I’m not trying to get them to understand. I’m trying to piss them off. The world hates us ’cause they’re fucking jealous. They’d feel comfortable if we stayed crushed—making deliveries and studying for the high school certificate exam—but here we are, ignoring traffic lights and lanes and racing wherever we like, and not going home till late. We’re riding with young girls on our backseats that old men drool over. So yeah, they wanna kill us. You think they don’t understand us? No, they get us. That’s why they hate us.”

  “You’re saying you want everyone to know we’re angry?”

  “There’s something I learned at the home. There’s a ton of kids there and few grownups. If you hit someone, one of the grownups shows up and asks, ‘Why’d you hit him?’ I used to think that was their way of communicating and caring about us. But I realized that they just ask, and later, they still punish. But the world’s punishing us anyway. Take a look at the wrecks I lead. If they’re not being punished, who is? They wake up at dawn and go to work, they’re cursed at and treated bad, get looked down on, risk their lives making deliveries whether it rains or snows, work without any days off.”

  My life epitomized what Jae was talking about. If I so much as smelled pizza, I would feel like throwing up. I went to bed exhausted every night, wondering if I should go back home and return to school. But even if I did, at most I had two years left after returning to the fenced-in area that passed itself off as a family. With my grades the chances of going to a good university were slim to start with, so returning to school meant little. But I wasn’t satisfied with my present life either. A penniless teenager was worthless and earned the same wages as an illegal worker. These kids, receiving the minimum wage, put up with the worst treatment; with no way to protest, most had no idea that they were being treated like animals.

  I said, “But society’s different from school or the orphanage ’cause the punishments never stop. You can end up an outsider forever.”

  “That’s how it usually happens,” he said. “But I’m different. I’ll be different. Just watch.”

  Jae would always look at me as if he were a teacher gazing down at a student who lacked faith. Each time his eyes met mine I had the sense that he had suddenly “discovered” me. At dawn one day after we finished speeding through the city, Jae suddenly asked me, “What’s this? You’re still here?”

  Since Jae was the boss and the kids laughed at anything he said, they laughed when he shot this my way. The number of times I had to decide whether to laugh with the others or get angry increased. If you couldn’t laugh with the others, you became the odd one out. Even so, I continued to watch Jae. I’d always believed that the word “I,” reflected in the mirror, was actually Jae. The left and the right could be reversed, but they were fundamentally the same, like Siamese twins, only older and separated.

  Once, when I was imprisoned by words, we had been one. If I thought something, Jae said it and acted it for me. Later, before I’d even formed the thought, Jae spoke and acted ahead of time for me. Even when I overcame aphonia and began speaking, our relationship stayed constant. Though we had lived apart for years, as soon as Jae returned, we reverted to our old ways. Whatever I imagined, Jae had always put it immediately into action. Leaving home and drifting, meeting Mokran and falling in love, leading the ranks of motorcycles to speed across the city, Jae had done it all. I was always the one lagging behind, watching him.

  Different. Jae had said he was different. I asked him, “What do you mean, you’re different?”

  Jae said, “An image came to me. It’s hard to describe, but it’s becoming clearer and clearer. Remember learning calligraphy in third grade, in an elective class? Do you remember our calligraphy teacher, the one with the white beard?”

  I nodded. As soon as the teacher had entered class, he had immediately done a demonstration in front of the kids. With a thick brush he made a downward stroke, continued in a precariously thin line, then arced until he gently returned, finishing the letter. The incomprehensible words resembled a painting, and the teacher’s way with the brush, a dance.

  Jae asked again, “Do you remember the bearded guy? ‘The moment your brush touches the paper, you must never hesitate or stop. You’ve got to keep to the original path you had in mind.’”

  For Jae, speed was an artistic experience. Riding the motorcycle was like taking a thick, powerful brush to the city streets, even if no one understood what he was writing.

  He said, “Imagine if I wasn’t the only one taking a brush to the streets, but that thousands, tens of thousands of others were doing it too. That’s the painting I’m seeing.”

  25

  Jae began leaving Mokran and me behind more often. She was officially his girlfriend, but because of her connection to the past, Jae saw us as having the same ambiguous, indefinable rank. And as soon as Jae began ignoring us, we both became nonexistent.

  Mokran lit a cigarette. “I don’t think Jae likes me riding.”

  “Why?”

  “You know I beat the girls up.”

  Mokran hated the girls who clamored for a ride. She wasn’t the only one—most of the girls who raced with the group on their own motorcycles felt that way. When Mokran showed up, the girls crept away. The guys who rode with Jae weren’t exactly pleased with this. I once saw Mokran have a go at one of the girls. She slapped the girl’s cheek fast and hard. The girl glared at Mokran, but she didn’t dare fight back and Mokran kept slapping until the girl looked away.

  “Why don’t you just ride with Jae?” I asked her.

  “Should I? No, I’d hate that. That’s so humiliating.”

  Her leg shook furiously as she spoke. At that time, Jae had quietly started messing around with other girls, so her nerves were shot.

  “Are all guys like that?” she asked.

  A cruise ship glided down the river, and evening strollers detoured around us. Mokran tossed the cigarette butt toward the water, and the tiny light flew through the air and disappeared. The fluorescent streetlights turned her hands blue.

  “You would know that better than I do, wouldn’t you?”

  “So you think that too, that I know guys real well.”

  “I didn’t mean it that way. I just meant I don’t really know either.”

  “Jae’s weird, but you’re pretty weird too. Why’re you in this biker gang anyway? You don’t seem the type.”

  “What type do I seem?”

  Mokran gazed directly at me. It was the first time she’d truly seen me as a human being, and I had to look away. “Anyway,” she said, “this kind of place doesn’t suit you.”

  “And?”

  “I don’t know. First, you hardly speak. And you don’t seem interested in girls, and you drive carefully. Is it ’cause you like Jae? I mean, do you love him?”

  This was her surprise assault. I hadn’t ever thought about it. Truthfully, I didn’t exactly know what the difference was. More than having feelings for Jae, I felt helplessly joined to him.

  “Does it look that way to you?” I asked.

  “Why else would you be here? You don’t seem like a groupie. You and Jae are just weird. Sometimes it’s like you’re Jae’s shadow, and other time
s it’s like Jae’s your shadow.”

  I remembered how as a kid I’d make shadows when the lights had gone out in the house, my hand becoming a wolf or a rabbit. Maybe Jae was one of the shadows I’d made.

  “Actually, one of the girls likes you. Have you noticed?”

  I had no idea.

  “So you never noticed. Her name’s Jonghui, you know, the one with freckles and big eyes.”

  I didn’t actually know the names of any of the girls she hung out with.

  “She’s into you. You really didn’t know?”

  “No.”

  “You aren’t interested?”

  “No.”

  “See. You’re weird.” She looked hard at me again.

  I nervously met her eyes for the first time. My head was numb as if I’d eaten red-bean ice flakes too quickly. I lowered my head and abruptly confessed, “Actually . . . I like you.”

  Mokran didn’t really look alarmed. As if to comfort me, she said, “You know I’m practically a whore.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  In a melancholy voice, she said, “Jae never goes far with me. Did you know that?”

  I was so surprised, I asked, “You haven’t slept with him yet?”

  Jae often shared a room with Mokran. Sometimes there were other kids with them, but it wasn’t an issue if Jae wanted it.

  She said, “No.”

  A lot of girls bragged that they had slept with Jae. I’d also seen him come out of the bathroom smoothing out his pants, with a girl following behind. There was plenty of evidence of Jae acting like the big man, so I was surprised that nothing had happened between them.

  “I’ve sucked him off, but he didn’t seem to like it so much.”

  The first time I’d seen Mokran, she’d been the woman coolly lounging in the cube. But now she was hitting rock bottom. On top of that she was dragging Jae down with her. I covered my ears with both hands. “Don’t say another word. I don’t want to hear it.”

  “You’re the first person I’ve talked to about this stuff.”

  Why? Because I was Jae’s shadow? Because I was an idiot who wouldn’t tell anyone?

  “I really don’t want to hear it. I told you, I like you.”

  “If I can’t even talk to you, I’ll be so frustrated I’ll go crazy.”

  “It’s ’cause . . . you’re important to Jae.”

  “No, it’s ’cause I’m just a dishrag, or something like that.”

  “Don’t say that. You’re really beautiful. I know you’re a good person.”

  “Liar!” she said. “I’ve been on the streets for years.”

  Mokran rested her head on my shoulder. I was thrown off as I rested my arm around hers. Our faces were so close, I could instantly smell her cheap face powder. We were so close that if I wanted to, I could have kissed her forehead. No, her lips. But I didn’t. I had absolutely no desire to. It was strange. It wasn’t because she had dragged herself down. The moment I realized that Jae had never slept with Mokran, all my feelings for her disappeared. I realized I had fallen for her because I’d believed that Jae wanted her.

  My penis had gone hard in my tight pants, but it was as if I were standing back and watching the situation. When I did nothing, Mokran swiftly slipped from my arms. As if I’d insulted her, she got on the Kawasaki and left without speaking. I was thinking about Mokran’s questions. Why was I here, and what kind of a person was I? The shadow blocking me from the world was Jae. I didn’t have any more room for Mokran.

  I started thinking of a ridiculous but fundamental solution until I convinced myself it was unavoidable. I quickly got up and paced up and down the riverside. Some drunk people staggered by, cursing confusedly at me before wobbling into the distance. I stared at the columns, bright with dazzling lights, on the bridge over the Han River.

  When had I started dreaming about Jae’s death? No, that was a cowardly question. For some time, it was clear I’d imagined, even desired, Jae’s death. I had played out his death repeatedly in great detail to myself, predicting how mournful I’d be once he was gone. Even worse, I’d imagined that I would be directly involved in his death. Meaning, I had considered murdering him.

  Murder is the most extreme form of fantasy. Once you cross that line, you can’t experience anything in the same way again. Simply imagining it is enough. Once you become obsessed with murder, you’re no longer satisfied with sports or computer games. I began watching movies and reading books involving murder. I wondered whether the idea of “living vicariously” that grownups talked about was possible. It wasn’t. Living vicariously. The expression was a lie made up by people who had never fantasized about murder.

  Why Jae, of all people? Was I jealous of him? Or was it because of Mokran? Whenever he was in the limelight, or Mokran rested her cheek on his back as if it were the softest of pillows, I felt miserable. But I remember it clearly. That seed didn’t first bud from envy; it stemmed from a curiosity about how I would feel if Jae died. The subject of my first fantasies of murder was my uncle. It was probably right after he’d slapped my mother. Then when my father and mother fought, I’d wished for my mother to die. Since my father was almost always out anyway, I thought that with my mother’s death the house would finally be quiet. I wanted a house as quiet as a coffin but our house was always noisy. Jae always wanted the opposite, but he was left behind in an abandoned redevelopment area. In this way, Jae’s and my circumstances were always at odds.

  People talk about sadness. They say that when we lose a family member or someone close to us, we’ll feel a deep sense of loss, but I’d never experienced this. And I felt shame for not knowing what this felt like. Let’s say there’s a balloon filled with water. If the balloon popped, water would explode everywhere, and if it was sadness inside that balloon, my body would be drenched with it. Only then I’d know what the smell of sadness is. But what if I popped the balloon on purpose? Would that sadness still be the same? Would something change? Would my guilt bury the sadness? Would the person who used guilt to replace sadness be a truly strong person?

  Sadness or guilt, they were both abstract, lofty emotions to me. I became confused by my desire to experience these emotions. I didn’t wait for these emotions to come naturally to me, no, I rejected that from the start. Like a bartender mixing different liquors to make a cocktail, I created the emotions myself, and I wanted to thoroughly experience what I had made according to my plan. The chaos inside me finally led to my murder fantasies. Only when I thought about murder did my anxiety and sense of defeat vanish, the way an approaching typhoon stops birds from twittering.

  26

  When Pak Seungtae’s Harley-Davidson neared the police station, growling and spitting smoke into the air, the station’s conscripted policemen saluted him. He parked the bike in a corner of the parking lot.

  “Lieutenant Pak.” One of the uniform-clad policemen approached him.

  “What is it?”

  “The chief of security would like a word with you.”

  As soon as Pak entered the room, the chief of security stopped skimming the newspaper and took off his reading glasses. He said, “Just look at your outfit.”

  It wasn’t the first time Seungtae had to hear this. The man went after Seungtae each time he saw him in his leather jacket. Everyone below the chief of police finally just let it go except for the chief of security, who kept making it an issue.

  “Who’d guess you were a government-employed policeman in those clothes?” he said. “They’d think you were part of a gang.”

  “Couldn’t it help when I’m working undercover? Like camouflage.”

  “That’s a load of bull. The biker-gang assholes in our country can’t wear these kinds of clothes.”

  “Why? Too pricey?”

  “How could Chink-food delivery boys who work through downpours wear leather in the rain? A T-shirt from Dongdaemun Market’s more fitting.”

  The chief of security twirled a pen between his fingers. “When did you make it to
lieutenant?”

  “It’s been three years, sir.”

  “You’ve got men working under you, and just look at you. Do they ever do what they’re told? I’m telling you this because I worry about you.”

  Seungtae flushed. “Is there something you needed me to do?”

  Like a school principal who had called in a troublemaker, the chief steadily glared at Seungtae without saying anything. Finally he asked, “You still on the motorcycle every night, zipping around?”

  “It’s not during work hours, so it’s not an issue, is it, sir?”

  “Why’re you wandering outside your jurisdiction? We’ve got a lone wolf in our station.”

  “But you’re aware of what I’m doing. I’m patrolling for biker gangs.”

  “On a Harley-Davidson?”

  “Yes.”

  “You in the Traffic Department?”

  “Kids are on bikes screeching all over the city center, making a mess, and the local force can’t stop them. If a local station sends out a patrol car to subdue them, they hop districts like grasshoppers. We need people exclusively responsible for pursuing and rounding them up.”

  The chief of security said, “I know. But why’re you the one cracking down on them? That’s why I’m asking, are you in Traffic or Juvie?”

  “I don’t directly bust them,” said Seungtae. “I’ve done this work for a long time so I know the kids. I go out and try to reason with them, and if that doesn’t work, I pick up a few for the local station, but you’re already aware of this.”

  “Enough. Just don’t do it anymore.”

  “If we leave the situation as it is now, it’ll become a social problem.”

  “What’s a lowly lieutenant doing in a panic about social problems and all? Are you a National Assembly rep? Those brats. They roam around for a while then just turn in come dawn. So why’re you going wild trying to chase and catch them? Those slippery rascals, they’re always out of your reach, and even if you catch them it’s only a warning or fine for them. What if someone ends up dead? How’re you going to handle the backlash? Do you really want an investigation by the human rights commission, a headquarters inquiry? You think we’re backing off like this ’cause we can’t keep up, like the American police can? If we send out a chopper, crash into them with our patrol cars, and shoot off net guns, we can get them all, why not? We’re already catching wild boars, and you have any idea how sharp they are? If trained, those animals could even do basic arithmetic. I bet the smart ones have a higher IQ than some of these bike-racing shitfaces.”