Everything Belongs to Us

by Yoojin Grace Wuertz

  Jisun scribbled busily on her notepaper.

  “What, that doesn’t count,” he whispered. “No one took anything off. It looked like he might change his mind.”

  “Don’t be such a baby,” she said. “He gave her the money, didn’t he? Anyway, she’s barely wearing anything to begin with.”

  The next sex scene undeniably involved the act, but it was a rape. The foreman’s son, with his hippie haircut and loutish whistling, forced himself on virginal housemaid Young Ja in a flashback just as she’d finished reading one of Changsoo’s letters from the war in Vietnam.

  Jisun’s pencil scratched on paper.

  This time he didn’t argue, even though he’d raise the point later if necessary. He wouldn’t have counted rape as a sex scene. Of course it was sex, but they had clearly meant romantic sex. Love sex. If it became the decisive point, he would fight. But heartless to wrangle over technicalities now.

  Three and four were customers.

  Five was a scene that actually involved romantic sex, between Changsoo and Young Ja in a bathhouse.

  The pen again in his thigh. “You lost,” Jisun whispered.

  “But we didn’t bet anything.” Sunam had realized this around the time Jisun started taking notes. They had entered this elaborate game with rules and points, but no penalties, no rewards. He tried to feel amused, really savor the stupidity. But instead he felt cheated, as if they’d both lost.

  “Of course we did,” she said.

  “What?”

  “If I win, you do whatever I want. If you win, I do whatever you want.”

  “Liar,” he whispered. “We never said that.”

  “It’s written right here,” she said. She tapped a line at the top of her page, which he couldn’t read in the dark. But he believed if the lights went up right now, it would be there. Not that it proved anything.

  “I won,” Jisun said as the credits rolled. She presented her sheet as if it were a winning lottery ticket.

  “You won,” he conceded. In another mood, he would have contested the rape scene, but he was tired of the charade.

  They walked out of the theater and saw the rain had stopped, at least for the moment. Stepping out from under the awning without struggling with an umbrella felt like miraculous, implausible freedom. The purest luxury not to do battle with the sky.

  “Let’s go somewhere and drink seven bottles of soju,” Jisun said. “In honor of Young Ja.”

  He burst out laughing. “You must be crazy.”

  “Don’t be such a sore loser,” she said. “I’ll take four. You can manage the others, can’t you?”

  Ignoring the implied insult, Sunam briefly considered suggesting they pick up Namin. She hated soju and would never trade precious study time to indulge one of Jisun’s whims, but it felt disloyal not to at least consider it.

  As if reading his mind, Jisun said, “We could get Namin if you want.”

  But they both knew what that would entail. Taking the bus back to the library, finding Namin, explaining the proposition, heckling her to join them, absorbing the inevitable rejection—all of it would kill the mood. They would need a drink just to remember why they had wanted to drink in the first place. But for Namin’s sake, he pretended to dwell on it. “She really needs to study,” he said.

  Jisun shrugged, as if that’s what she’d expected to hear. “Anyway, she hates soju. She wouldn’t come even if she had nothing else to do. She’d rather count lice on rats.” She laughed at his surprise. “Listen, I know everything about her. You’ve only known her, what, a few months? Namin hating soju is basic. Wait till you find out the really juicy stuff. You’d be surprised. Or maybe you wouldn’t be.” She looked askance at him. “How much do you know about her family?”

  Sunam cleared his throat. “I know enough to change the subject.”

  Jisun nodded. “Good man. Respect.”

  They walked in silence for a while, and Sunam began to wonder if he’d made a mistake. Maybe he should go back to the library, at least give Namin a chance.

  He was about to suggest they turn back when Jisun asked, “So. What is this virginal relationship you and Namin are having? Aren’t you two ever going to do it? How can you, if you never even see each other?”

  She looked so delighted with herself, Sunam didn’t bother being embarrassed. Calmly he said, “Hey, let’s worry less about me and more about you. Aren’t you interested in anyone?”

  “Not interested,” she said. “But back to you and Namin—”

  “Not interested in anyone or not interested in love?” he asked.

  “I don’t believe in love—who said anything about love? I only believe in sex.”

  “Come on.”

  “Really. Sex is direct, it’s useful. Love mucks everything up.”

  “Sounds like someone’s in love,” he said.

  She stopped in front of a dingy little bar half below street level. The people drinking inside seemed to peer up at the passersby like ghouls in the underworld. From the looks of it, they were all poor students and laborers drinking from unmarked bottles, stuff his father would be ashamed to see in his hand. “Last chance to go pick up Namin,” Jisun said. “Once we start drinking for Young Ja, we don’t stop for anyone.”

  All day it seemed she had been daring him to stop her from doing something rash, crossing some dire line. And now she stood with her hand on the door, waiting. He could almost hear himself say the expected reasonable thing; he could see them walk away, maybe see another movie, maybe go sit with Namin in the library after all.

  But life these days had felt too close, the August humidity like something personal under his skin. Before he had fully decided to do it, Sunam was already pushing past Jisun through the narrow doorway down the short, steep stairs. Even those few steps down achieved the full basement atmosphere. The damp hit his lungs like an alcoholic steam. He turned around. “After this we’re even.”

  “I’m impressed, New Guy,” she said. She hadn’t called him that since the night of the party. “But we’re not even yet. Seven bottles.”

  “But love is so bourgeois,” Jisun slurred. “It’s just ever-last-ingly stupid, Sunam. You know that, don’t you? Say you know. Tell me they haven’t gotten you too.”

  “No, no,” he agreed. “They haven’t gotten me.”

  They drank another shot, clinking their glasses sloppily. Jisun wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Liar,” she said. “You’re in deep. You don’t even know how deep you’re in.” She looked at him sadly. “My intuition is never wrong.”

  “Why do you demo types always say everything is bourgeois, anyway?” He refilled their glasses, steadying the bottle with his other hand. He found the drunker he got, the more attention he paid to his enunciation. His voice echoed, overly correct, in his ears. “What is so bourgeois about love, anyway? Love has always been around, hasn’t it? No political party can claim love or denounce it. It’s just biology…comrade.”

  Jisun threw a hand over his mouth. Her hand was cool and soft. “Shhhhhhhh,” she said loudly so that half a dozen people turned to look at her. “We must be careful, comrade,” she said. “You can’t just throw that word around in public.”

  “What word—”

  “Comrade, comrade!” Sunam grabbed her chair to keep it from upending as she collapsed in laughter. She laid her head down on the sticky table, her hair falling into a puddle of spilled booze.

  “I was in love recently, Sunam,” she said.

  “In love with an idea,” he said, feeling clever. “Yes, I know. Democracy and all that.”

  “It was more than an idea,” she said. “It was a real person, Sunam. A real man.”

  He realized she was crying. He tried to pat her shoulder, but his hand felt like a useless implement, clumsy and ill suited for the job. “Come on, don’t cry,” he said. “I’m sorry, it was just a stupid joke.”

  “I’m not crying about you, you idiot,” she said. “And why do people always tell you not to
cry when you’re crying? When you’re crying people should stand up and applaud. Bravo! they should say. Good for you, cry your heart out. They should be envious and jealous.”

  “Maybe that’s why they tell you to stop, because they’re jealous.”

  “Is that why you’re doing it?”

  He shook his head. “No….

  “So were you really in love?” he asked. He wondered what kind of guy was capable of making Jisun cry. She seemed like the kind of person who would laugh at anyone who dared reject her. “You must still love him if you’re crying.”

  “You know what he said to me?” Her voice echoed in his ear. He wondered if she was actually speaking louder or if it was just the alcohol thumping in his eardrums. “He said I wasn’t good enough for him. I know he had feelings for me. It wasn’t just me suffering over unrequited love. He loved me too. But he changed his mind. He said I embarrassed him.”

  “Someone actually said that? To your face?”

  “I’m summarizing, Sunam.” She tapped herself heavily on the forehead with an index finger, as if to say, Think, Sunam. “What he actually said was even worse,” she said. “The point is, I trusted him. I thought he was the best guy in the world. And it turns out, he thinks I’m worthless.”

  “Then he isn’t worth your time,” Sunam said gallantly, offering her another shot. “Forget about him.”

  She drank the shot and wiped her mouth.

  “If it were that easy, why would I be drinking seven sojus for Young Ja? With you, of all people?” She jabbed a finger at his shoulder, hard. It hurt more than he wanted to admit. “I know you think I’m crazy. You’re not so good at hiding your feelings.”

  “So after all that, you still love the guy?” Sunam said, to change the subject.

  “I must, since I really hate myself. That’s how you know it must be love.” She burst out laughing again. “Too serious? Don’t look so shocked. I told you love mucks things up. It’ll happen to you too and you’ll think—Jisun tried to warn me and I went ahead anyway.”

  “Have we drunk enough for Young Ja now?” he said.

  “Not even close. Two more.”

  “Five is good enough. We should stop.” He peered at his watch, but the numbers seemed to swim on his dial. “Isn’t it time to go home?”

  She grabbed his arm. Her eyes were still glistening with tears. “No! We have to get to seven, we promised. Anyway, I want to show you something. One thing. Please?”

  —

  SUNAM WATCHED THE revolving door, the gleaming brass poles reflecting chandelier light from the lobby. A sodden red carpet lined the sidewalk in front of the entrance. At the curb a black limousine idled; a uniformed driver dozed behind the wheel. The granite facade rose into the night, the name INTERCONTINENTAL glowing high above the city like another moon.

  “I’m not going in there,” he said.

  “Just follow my lead.” Before he could react, she had his wallet in her hand. She brandished it overhead. “Besides, you’ll need this to get home. Come on.”

  She pulled him through the revolving doors, across the empty lobby, and into the elevator, where she pressed PH. “Penthouse,” she said. “Top floor.”

  The elevator carried them slowly upward while he tried not to look at their reflections. Everything seemed mirrored and brass plated, giving him back their red eyes, his flushed and puffy complexion. Jisun’s skin had gone pale. Her pupils, wide and glassy, stared at the numbers changing above the doors. She looked so serious, her lips colorless. It occurred to him that he should be frightened, not of this hotel, but of her. She seemed capable of anything.

  “Isn’t anyone going to stop us?” he asked.

  The elevator let them out into a short hallway. Jisun turned the corner into a long blind hall. There was a single door at the end. Roof exit.

  The door opened easily and Jisun turned with a big smile. “I was afraid they might have locked this. It’s been a while.”

  They climbed a short flight of stairs, Jisun in the lead, swaying slightly. She flung open the heavy door and stepped out into the warm, thick air.

  Sunam walked to the high edge of the roof. The city sprawled in dark panorama below, the river to the west heavy with the recent rain. The water lay slick and black, a mirror to the sky. It was a deceptively deadly expanse, studded with low-slung bridges. He knew each bridge was packed with enough explosives to cut off invading tanks from the North.

  “Feel that,” she said, lifting her nose. “Wind.”

  His ears were full with the sudden miraculous air and the whirring of the massive roof turbines. The steady drone wiped his mind blank. He felt part of the sky, of its elements: dark and wind and height.

  When he joined her on the other side of the roof, Jisun was drinking from one of the bottles she’d smuggled up in her bag. They sat on the roof with their backs to the wall. “We used to come here on Sundays,” she said dreamily. “Kind of like our church. We would eat early at the restaurant and my father would take these meetings and leave me with one of the hotel maids. They were always so terrified of me, afraid I’d get them in trouble somehow. Or else they’d be mean as spit—like they’d love to tie me up and slap me around for a while.” She looked at him with a strange little laugh. “Don’t worry. No one ever did.

  “I found out about this place on my own. Lost the maid, got her good and worried. When they brought me down, I said, I’ll stay up here from now on. You have your meetings, I’ll have mine. Wasn’t that a funny thing to say as a kid? I was seven years old. Of course he agreed. You think he’d be worried I’d fall off or something. Or jump.

  “I used to think sometimes I would,” she said. “The only reason I didn’t was because I didn’t want people to feel sorry for him. They’d say, Oh, poor man. Losing his wife and his daughter. They would have made him some kind of bereaved saint—ha!”

  “Here, give me some of that,” he said.

  She handed him the other bottle and watched him take a long shot.

  “We’re friends, aren’t we?” she said. “We understand each other?”

  He handed back the bottle. “You don’t really want to be understood, do you? I don’t know what you really want, but not—”

  “See, you do understand.”

  She climbed on his lap, and her weight was loose and warm. “We’re doing really good for Young Ja.” She kissed him hard on the mouth, putting her hands under his shirt. Her mouth was warm and wet, her tongue so natural in his mouth, tasting like himself and the alcohol they had both drunk, but also something else, complex and bracing. He grabbed her hips and pulled her closer to him. She rocked over his groin, fitting herself to him expertly. Even through clothing, he could feel her heat. She was unbuckling his belt, undoing his pants. He began to dread what was happening, knowing he wouldn’t stop it.

  She flung off her shirt. He dimly remembered this as if it had already happened. She was wearing a white cotton bra with a bow at her cleavage. The cotton was sheer, and he could see the dark outline of her nipples. He pulled away and wiped his mouth with the heel of his hand.

  “Believe me, I want to, but…” He hesitated to say her name. With the taste of Jisun’s mouth still on his lips, and her body, her breasts warm on his hands, Sunam couldn’t bring himself to say Namin’s name. He averted his eyes. “It’s not right,” he said instead, and knew he had already betrayed her by not saying her name.

  “Not you,” Jisun said. Her face was unreadable—he might have expected her to look angry or guilty. Even if she had laughed in his face, mocking his belated loyalty, he would not have been surprised. But what he saw in her face was something else—a combustion of outrage, disbelief, and pain—that he could not adequately attribute to himself. He had not caused this; he knew instinctively it had nothing to do with him.

  “Not you,” she said again.

  “Not me what?”

  “I can’t believe you’re going to be virtuous about this,” Jisun said. Her face was stunning with bitterne
ss. “I really bring out the best in you righteous types, don’t I? He was the same way, you know. With all his feelings—but. Who does he think he’s fooling? Not me,” she said. “And you’re not fooling me either.”

  “He?” Sunam said. “Who are you talking about?”

  And suddenly he knew. It was not him, Sunam, she was thinking about, but the other guy. The one she loved so much, she hated herself.

  He groped for something else to say, something else to talk about, but Jisun, as always, was ahead of him. Her eyes were still fiery with rage, but the corners of her lips twisted down in an expression of sadness that was worse than her anger. “She won’t do this,” Jisun said. “You think she’d risk all that for you? Her big future?”

  Sunam didn’t have to ask, this time, who she was. He knew instantly, and there was nothing left to argue.

  Jisun stood up and took off her bra. She pulled off her skirt and panties. Naked, she stood over him, letting him look at her. Her body seemed wrapped with shadows, another layer of the night. Leaning back to look at her, he put his hand down on something sharp, a pebble that dug into his palm. He ached to touch her skin.

  Jisun lowered herself on top of him.

  Pride and shame. Relief and regret. It was all the same. He held on to her as if he were drowning.

  “Whenever you want me to stop, tell me,” she whispered in his ear. “I can stop whenever you want.”

  —

  AFTERWARD, THEY LAY on their backs staring at the sky, an arm’s length of roof spanned between them. Wearing just their underwear, they had piled the rest of their clothes under themselves for padding. He was grateful for the haze of alcohol dulling the discomfort of the concrete roof and the shock of what they’d done. He suspected both sensations would seem far worse in the morning.

  Sunam said, “What are we going to tell Namin?” His mouth was so dry, he could feel the bumps on his tongue. He could taste the residue of every guilty word.

  Jisun rolled over on her side so he couldn’t see her face. “You’ll tell her something.”

  “Don’t you feel anything? She’s your friend,” he said as if Namin were a stranger to him. “You told me yourself, how much you love her.”