by Young-Ha Kim
“Who are you?” she asked. “What are you doing here like this? Are you going to stay here all night?”
He said nothing.
“You keep this up and you’ll freeze to death. It doesn’t just happen in winter.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ll go elsewhere.”
“Let’s go in,” she said, just as she had a year ago. “Let’s get you warmed up and get you something to eat.”
“That’s all right, ajumma. I’m fine.”
“I’m not all right with it. Don’t protest. Come in. Quick!”
He stood up. He straightened his joints, stiff from being crouched so long, like an old umbrella being opened. She almost heard them creaking.
“I said it’s fine,” he said. “I’ve got places to go.”
He stubbornly shook his head and walked around, as if trying to regain his sense of direction.
“Why sleep here if you have somewhere to go?” she persisted. “Have you been drinking?”
“No.”
She shivered as the wind cut through the stitching of her knit cardigan.
“I’m too cold for this. Come inside, quick.”
She took his arm and tugged him toward the house. Only then, still hesitating, he limped in. She hadn’t been aware of it, but once inside she smelled the violent stench coming from him. It was as if the sewer system itself had entered the house. She heated up some frozen dumplings and served them to him with hot citron tea. He finished off the dumplings in one swallow and then emptied the wicker basket of tangerines set on the coffee table in no time. She furtively studied him while preparing more food. It felt good to watch him eat until his cheeks were stuffed, but the kid she met a year ago had been the same. This one could steal her wallet at any time and run off to wherever he had come from.
She said, “What’s your name?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“You don’t have a name?”
“Doesn’t everyone have a name?”
“So I’m asking you your name. Why, is there a reason you can’t tell me your name?”
Was he mixed up in some crime? She gently picked up the knife set on the counter and put it back in a drawer.
“I’m Jae.”
“It’s a nice name.” It could be a fake name.
“Have you warmed up?” She approached the sofa where he was sitting and examined him. He had a face that was hard to judge.
“Yes, but ajumma . . .”
“What is it? Do you want more tea?”
“I don’t want to be rude, but can I watch TV for a second?”
“There’s something on you want to watch at this time?” she said. “It’s dawn.”
“The Premier League from England. There’s going to be a match on.”
“What’s that?”
“Soccer. You don’t watch?”
“Not really. I’m hopeless at sports.”
“It’s Manchester against Arsenal. It’s a big game.”
“That’s fine, but take a shower first. Then you can watch TV.”
Jae stared into the face of the woman telling him to shower. She understood immediately what his look meant: he was looking for any hidden motives on her part. She avoided his eyes and said, “You smell terrible.”
“I don’t have anything to change into.”
“I’ve got clothes. I don’t know if they’ll fit you, but I’ll leave them beside the bathroom.”
She felt a compelling, almost instinctive desire to put Jae’s dirty clothes in the washing machine. It was as if her heart would become lighter once she saw the dirty water gurgle down the drain. But that meant the kid couldn’t leave right away. She briefly regretted telling him to shower, then shook her head and tossed Jae’s discarded clothes into the machine, took what the other kid had left a year ago from the closet, and set them by the bathroom.
Afterward Jae said, “They’re a little big for me.”
He stopped drying his hair and looked around as if he expected to see another man present. The woman pointed at the television. The sportscasters had started discussing the imminent match. Jae, whose entire body had turned pink from the hot shower, sat on the sofa. The shower had relaxed him and he smiled, ate the strawberries that she brought over, and became absorbed in the match. She suddenly felt like she was floating as she watched him—similar but different from when she overdosed on antidepressants. It felt as if someone were injecting her with a chemical happiness through the gap at the tip of her big toe. She wasn’t sure why she felt such startling happiness watching a stranger—a teenage boy—eat her food and watch a match taking place far away. These intense feelings also made her anxious. If a balloon lost all its air, gravity was sure to pull her down and hurl her back to the harsh world. Just like it had a year ago.
“Hey, kid,” she said.
Jae, who’d been lost in the match, turned when she called. “Yes?”
“You should leave now. I want you to leave.”
“What? Right now?” He looked confused. “What about my clothes?”
“What do you mean, your clothes?”
“You took them a little while ago, saying you’re going to wash them.”
She slapped her forehead. “Oh, those. I’m washing them right now.”
“Then what should I do?”
“You’re right. Stay put for now. But you’ll have to go as soon as your clothes are dry. Understand? I’m sorry, I’m really sorry.”
“It’s all right. I was thinking of doing that anyway.” His tone was polite but cold. “I would’ve left right away if you hadn’t taken my clothes.”
“Right,” she said. “I’m sorry, I forgot. But it’s nice to have clean clothes, isn’t it?”
“That’s true.”
“Keep watching the soccer match. I’ll let you know when your clothes are dry. It’ll be quick, with the dryer.”
“Okay. It’s fine if they’re not totally dry.” Jae turned back to the TV, where the players were moving behind the ball as if they were dancing.
She smoked in the backyard and strengthened her resolve to send him away as soon as his clothes dried. She wouldn’t be forced back to a life of taking antidepressants.
When she returned to the living room, the first half of the match had ended.
He asked, “Ajumma, do you live alone?”
She lied. “No.”
“Then with who?”
“Well, he just stepped out. He’ll be back soon.”
She tied back her disheveled, coarse hair with a rubber band.
“Ajumma, what do you do for a living?”
“Me? I work in publishing as a freelancer.”
“What does ‘freelancer’ mean?”
“It means I work from home.”
She pointed at the proofs on her desk, along with the highlighters and Post-its. Then she said, “You don’t have a home?”
“No.”
She didn’t push further. She made fresh coffee and sliced some bread. She chopped up vegetables, drizzled them with olive oil, and placed a cherry tomato on top. As if he were her son, Jae calmly remained on the sofa and, without tearing his eyes away from the screen, accepted the salad. It felt good, seeing him like this. He concentrated on the match until the second half ended. Manchester won. As the match ended and commercials started up, Jae began falling asleep, his body tilting to the side until he was finally curled into a ball. She got a blanket and covered him.
She had assumed he was asleep when he whispered, “Thank you.”
She went quietly to her room and read the manuscript she needed to send to the magazine by the end of the day. Normally she meticulously checked manuscripts two or three times, but not this time. She hastily tidied it up, and though there were several hours left until the deadline, she submitted it. Then she restlessly moved back and forth from her room to the living room, and stole glances at Jae. She lowered the curtains so the sunlight wouldn’t disturb his sleep and she ignored the radio that she
always kept on while she worked.
He didn’t wake up until late afternoon. The house was blanketed with a heavy sleep. She had also returned to her room and lay down, immediately falling into her own deep, dream-filled nap. It was a dark dream. A girl approaches some cops that normally find her charming. When they see her white bloodstained clothes, they sense that something terrible has happened to her, but the girl is unable to speak. At the hospital they take her to, the doctor makes her open her mouth and examines her. It’s probably to collect evidence. In the dream world, it seems like a perfectly natural act. Finally the cops receive word of the criminal’s identity, so they don their heavy armor and go to find the suspect. The criminal turns out to be a fellow cop wearing the exact same armored outfit. They arrest him and drag him away like a dog. Mid-interrogation, the criminal suddenly rejects his fellow cops’ questions, shoots upright, and fiercely erases the charge ‘rape’ written on the wall. He shouts, “I told you this isn’t a rape case—it was assault!”
She opened her eyes. Jae was burrowing into her arms. Through the fog of sleepiness, she found herself pulling him up by his armpits. His body smelled of shampoo and soap. This calmed her a little, but when she felt his warm breath against her chin she realized that this scene wasn’t a dream. Shocked, she shoved him away from her. It was too late. Jae skillfully fondled and caressed her. She kicked fiercely. As the alarm clock fell off the bedside table, the battery popped out.
Jae leaned into her ear and whispered, “Ajumma, I’m sorry. All you need to do is stay still. I’ll do the rest.”
I’ll do the rest. Her body went limp at these words coming from a teenage boy young enough to still have his baby fat. Ethics are like an embankment. They protect you to a certain extent from an awakening, but when they collapse a flood follows. When she closed her eyes, she still faintly saw the teenage girl from her dream. The girl who desired revenge but couldn’t speak. When she opened her eyes, she saw the boy flush with anticipation. It didn’t immediately feel sinful, but she sensed that one corner of the life she had led was collapsing. She wasn’t necessarily unhappy about it. She was about to let herself go when a critical voice exploded from inside her: “Some experiences are better left alone.”
It wasn’t a moral cry for an unconditional ban on sex with minors. This censor inside her resembled a judge at a religious trial more than a philosopher who had internalized a universal code of ethics. This judge was always taking issue with her pleasure-seeking. This judge was always the first to be critical of her when she started smoking, drinking, and realized that rubbing her crotch against the corner of her desk made her feel good. This judge also sounded like her mother. Whatever happens is your fault, the scolding voice said. If you had behaved from the start, if you had controlled your filthy desires, nothing like this would have happened. The stubborn detective who always had to find evidence from your past. The invisible torturer who exists without a physical presence and wouldn’t let you sleep. The wily temptress who says that you could never escape this questioning until you die.
She grabbed her crotch, punched Jae in the chin, and screamed, “Stop! I told you stop! Stop, just stop!”
Jae halted. “I thought you’d like it.”
“What kind of kid are you?”
He didn’t respond. She pushed him off her. A hot stiffness passed across her thigh, but she pretended not to notice.
She adjusted her disheveled clothes. “It’s all my fault.”
“No, it’s my fault.”
“No, it’s not that. I shouldn’t have let you in from the start.”
“I’m sorry.”
“When a man and woman are in bed . . .” She stayed on the bed as she spoke. “They share this shameful moment. Do you hear what I’m saying?”
Her breath was still ragged.
“I think I get it.”
“No, you don’t. It didn’t look like you did. You’re supposed to do it with someone who’s ready to share that shameful moment with you. It’s no different from masturbation if you don’t have that.”
“I just wanted to stay here.”
She said, “What are you talking about?”
He said, “I thought I had to do something for you if I stayed.”
“That ‘something’ was this?”
“Yes.”
“You, you’ve had experience.”
Jae grinned in response.
The smile made her break out in goosebumps. She said coldly, “Go to the bathroom and take care of your business there. That’ll clear your head.”
“I’m fine now, really.”
“Then straighten your clothes. Someone’s coming.”
“No one’s going to come.”
“How do you know?”
“I just know. It doesn’t feel like you’re really waiting for someone.”
She wasn’t lying when she said someone was coming, but she wasn’t actually waiting for anyone either. Sometimes something else arrives instead of what we think we’re waiting for, and is actually what we had truly wanted. Like this boy.
“You’re an odd one. You don’t feel like a kid, but you don’t feel grown-up either.”
“Really?”
They stayed quiet for a while. One of them sat at the head and the other at the foot of the bed. She said as casually as she could, “Actually, I’m sick.”
“Where?”
“Here,” she said as if she were talking about spraining her ankle, and pointed at her breast.
“What’s wrong?”
“They say it’s cancer.”
“Cancer?”
When she used the word “cancer,” it sounded as if she were handling a heavy bowling ball, but when Jae said it, it sounded like the name of a tropical fruit he had seen for the first time. She sensed a distinct difference in the weight of the words. It was probably an obscure, distant word to him, a planet in the galaxy. But it exists in my body, she thought. I can feel it, the lump of ominous cells settling in.
“Then what do you have to do?”
“They might have to remove it.”
Jae moved forward on his knees toward her. She didn’t stop him. He said, “This one?”
He pushed away her shirt collar with his long white fingers and held her breast in his hands. He looked as if he were mourning the imminent loss of a beloved object, and she felt comforted.
“Yes, that’s the one.”
“I see.”
Jae gazed up at her, asking for permission. She nodded. He lowered his head and sucked at her nipple.
“Do as you please,” she said. “It’s not mine anymore.”
“Then whose is it?”
“The hospital’s. The minute they declared that there was a lump inside, it became theirs. My body’s no longer mine.”
“Then it’s mine now.”
“Fine, it’s yours. Take it.”
He took a deep breath as if he were a scuba diver entering the ocean, and sucked on her nipple again. It was quiet. It was as if the woman were soaking in a warm bath instead of becoming tight with sexual tension.
“When did you know,” he said, “that it was cancer?”
“Two days ago.”
“That’s recent. You must have been shocked.”
She thought about it. Had she been shocked? It was true that she hadn’t thought of anything else all day long. “Yes, I was.”
“But what exactly is cancer?”
“You don’t know what cancer is?”
“Not exactly.”
“Cancer’s the uncontrollable growth of cells. Most cells know when it’s their time to die, but not cancer cells. They just keep growing.”
“It sounds like their energy—no, their will to live —is amazing. I make it sound like a computer game character.”
“That’s right. Cancer has a great will to live, but people die because of its terrifying will.”
“Will you die too?”
“Everyone dies someday.”
Ja
e shut his eyes tightly as if he were casting a spell on the disease, and began sucking on her nipple again. She looked down at the crown of his head where his hair bristled upward and cried a little. Were they tears of repentance, or of self-pity? As she was thinking about this, her nipple hardened. She pushed Jae off.